How to Catch a Wild Viscount

"Now this is a thrilling development," Portia sang. "I knew it. What an enchanting twist this will make for my novel. The heroine is in love with the werestag."

  "No, the heroine is not." Fingers pressed to her temples and eyes squeezed shut, Cecily took a deep breath and began again. "Forgive me. But I tell you with perfect candor, I am not in love with a werestag. I'm just feeling . . . a bit out of sorts. Perhaps I've a headache coming on." She extended a hand to Denny. "Will you walk with me? I feel better when you're near."

  "But of course." He tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow, and then addressed Luke. "Why don't you lead the others on ahead? The path leads directly to the cottage. It's not as though you could become lost. Cecily and I will catch up."

  Luke nodded. He turned and marched forward, a sense of hopelessness hollowing out his chest. He knew exactly what conversation would take place between Cecily and Denny on the way to the cottage. Well. That was that. When they returned to Swinford Manor this evening, he'd instruct his valet to pack up his things. Perhaps Luke would even ride out tonight. He could bring himself to let her go, but he'd be damned if he'd sit around and toast the happy couple's betrothal.

  To that, he would drink alone. In copious amounts.

  "Very well," said Portia thoughtfully. "Perhaps the heroine is not in love with the werestag. It makes a much better story if the beast is in love with her. So close, and yet so far from his beloved. Doomed to watch her from afar, never to hold her again. How tragically romantic."

  "How patently ridiculous," Brooke replied.

  Luke strode briskly ahead, leaving them to their quarrel. He would not have admitted it, but he rather agreed with them both.

  She would tell him, Cecily bargained with herself, once they reached that small boulder. Or perhaps the little patch of ferns. Failing that, she would most certainly break the news before they passed that gnarled birch tree.

  Denny kept pace with her easily, as he always did. Their silence was companionable, as it always was. All the while, Cecily kept up this internal bartering, staving off the inevitable just one more minute . . . and then again one minute more.

  At last she halted at a rotted, mossy stump. "I cannot marry you," she told the clump of toadstools flourishing at its base. "I'm so terribly sorry. I should have told you years ago, but--"

  "For God's sake, Cecily." His soft laugh startled her, and she lifted her gaze. "You can't do this, not yet. How can a lady refuse a man, when he hasn't even proposed? I won't stand for it."

  "It's not right, Denny. I've known for some time now that we wouldn't . . . that I couldn't . . ."

  He shushed her gently, placing his hands on her shoulders. "The truth is, we know nothing of what could be or would be. We've been delaying this conversation for years now, haven't we? I've been waiting for . . . Well, I hardly know what I've been waiting for. Something indefinable, I suppose. And you've been waiting for Luke."

  Her breath caught. Denny knew? Oh, dear. Perhaps she shouldn't be so surprised. They'd grown up together. He'd known her longer than anyone.

  "Yes, of course I knew," he said, as if reading her thoughts. "Why do you think I invited you both here, to my home? I wanted to know how matters stood between you."

  "And how do they stand?" she asked, hoping he would understand her better than she knew herself.

  He sighed. "I know he has some strange hold on your heart. But I believe you'd be happier marrying me."

  Cecily shook her head in disbelief. If she didn't know better, she would think him working in concert with Luke. Their arguments were one and the same.

  "But, Denny . . ." She prayed these words would not hurt his pride overmuch. "But we don't love one another, not in that way."

  "Perhaps not. But you've been in love with Luke for four years now. Has it made you happy?"

  She had no answer to that.

  "And I'll admit, bachelorhood is losing its charms for me." Gently, he folded her hands in his. "I know there is no grand passion between us, Cecily. But there is genuine caring. Honesty. Respect. Lasting unions have been built on foundations far weaker than these. And in time, perhaps some deeper attachment would grow. We don't know what could happen, if only we gave it a chance."

  He brought her hands to his lips and kissed them warmly--first the knuckles, then each sensitive palm--before pressing them to either side of his face and holding them there. The sweetness in the gesture surprised her, as did the fond regard in his eyes.

  This was Denny's face she held in her hands. Dear, familiar, uncomplicated Denny, with the dimple on his right cheek and the tiny pockmark on the other. She'd known this face since her childhood. Could she learn to see to him in a new light, as a husband? She did want children and companionship and a happy home--all the things Luke refused to offer her.

  She sighed. "I don't know what to say."

  "That's all right. I'm not asking you to say yes, not right now. Just . . . don't say no quite yet?"

  He smiled then, that crooked, endearing Denny smile. And he kissed her, still holding her hands pressed against his face.

  It was sweet. He tasted of tea and peppermint, and his lips felt soft and warm. Denny's kiss was mild, tender. Comforting and comfortable. And it was wretchedly unfair to him, that even as he claimed her lips, her heart remained divided. She couldn't stop comparing this kiss to Luke's.

  It just wasn't the same.

  "Do you hear something?" Portia asked, after they'd been walking some time.

  "No," said Brooke.

  "Wait!" Portia signaled the men to halt, then put a finger to her lips for silence.

  Luke shifted his feet impatiently, anxious to move on. If they stood here too long, Cecily and Denny might catch them.

  "There," Portia said, cupping one hand around her ear. "Do you hear it? That rustling sound, like dry leaves."

  "Dry leaves, in a forest," Brooke replied. "Imagine."

  Luke forged ahead, and the pair followed, bickering in agitated whispers. The cottage couldn't be much farther. Perhaps he could simply barricade the two of them in it and leave. The sooner these two shared a bed, the sooner everyone else could get some peace.

  "Wait!" she called again.

  Luke pivoted on his heel. "What now?"

  "Look at these marks." Portia pointed to a narrow stripe of depressions in the soil. "Why, they look like deer tracks."

  Brooke rubbed his eyes. "Deer tracks, in a forest. Imagine."

  "But we don't know they belong to a deer! They could belong to him." With a self-conscious hunch of her shoulders, she lowered her voice to a murmur. "You know, the werestag."

  "Why are you whispering? Afraid the mandeer might overhear you?" Brooke gave a caustic laugh. "My dear Mrs. Yardley, your fancies grow more amusing by the moment. What on earth would lead you to believe these simple deer tracks are the marks of a vicious werestag?"

  "I am not your 'dear Mrs. Yardley'. And how do you know these tracks do not belong to him?"

  In a clear expression of annoyance, Brooke held up his hands. "Very well. I give up."

  "I don't," she replied, her eyes narrowing. "That is the difference between us." Lifting her skirts, Portia made a quarter turn and stomped directly off into the woods.

  "Just where do you think you're going?"

  "I'm following the tracks, of course. That's the only way to learn the truth."

  As Portia's dark cloak disappeared into the trees, Luke started after her. A wave of dread swamped his progress. "Mrs. Yardley, wait," he called. "It's unsafe to go walking off the path. At least let me--"

  A metallic snap cut him off.

  Followed by a piercing scream.

  Luke and Brooke charged through the foliage. They found Portia lying sprawled in leaves and moss, her face gone utterly white.

  "My . . . " She gulped for air. "Help me. I don't know what's happened to my foot."

  With shaking fingers, she drew her skirts up to the ankles. The steel jaws of a trap held her left boot clenched in their deadly bite
.

  "Bloody hell." Brooke sank to his knees at her side. "Don't worry, Portia. We'll have it off straightaway." He reached for the trap.

  "Wait," Luke said. "Don't--"

  Another tortured scream from Portia.

  "Touch it," he finished weakly.

  "What's happened?" Cecily and Denny joined them, linked arm in arm as they pushed through the brush.

  "She's stepped in a trap," Luke replied, not risking a glance at Cecily's face. "A small one, fortunately, but it has quite a grip on her foot. We'll have to pry it off." He scouted around him for a suitable branch, pausing only long enough to catch Denny's eye. "Find me two sturdy poles, about six feet in length. I can release her from the trap, but we'll need a pallet to carry her home."

  Denny nodded, and with a murmured word to Cecily, began searching the environs for saplings.

  "It hurts," Portia moaned. "It hurts so much. I must be dying."

  "Of course you aren't." Folding her skirts, Cecily settled at her friend's side. Luke could feel her blue eyes on him as he selected a thick branch and stripped it of twigs.

  Having removed his coat, Brooke folded it and propped it beneath Portia's head, for a pillow. "You can't die," he told her, crouching at her other side. "Who would argue with me then?"

  "Anyone with sense," she said tartly. But when Brooke took her hand, Portia allowed him to keep it. "Don't you aggravating know-all's have some sort of debating society?"

  "Yes, but none of the members have your amusing imagination. Nor such lovely hair." He stroked an ebony lock from her pale, sweating brow.

  Luke pushed her skirts to the knee and took a firm grip on his branch. "Mrs. Yardley, this is going to hurt."

  Portia whimpered.

  Brooke kept stroking her hair, murmuring, "Be brave, darling. Scream all you like. Break every bone in my hand, if you must. I won't leave your side."

  Cecily moved toward Luke. "How can I help?"

  "You can't."

  "I can," she insisted. "Just tell me what to do. Shall I help you pry?"

  "No," he replied tersely. Damn it, he didn't want to expose Cecily to this, but an extra pair of hands would be useful. "Just . . . hold her. Keep her ankle steady, even if she bucks."

  She nodded. "Portia, I'm going to hold your leg now." Her delicate fingers closed around her friend's ankle and calf, in grips so tight her knuckles blanched. "I'm ready."

  He bent his head and threaded the branch between the jaws of the trap. Despite his attempt not to jostle Portia's leg, he could not help but brush it. Her low moan of pain was met with more murmured assurances from Brooke.

  Luke looked to Cecily, anxious to gauge her reaction.

  "Go ahead," she said calmly, still gripping Portia's leg. "Just do it."

  Luke braced his boot and levered the branch with all his strength. Pain ripped through his forearm, and Portia released a bloodcurdling scream that surely belonged in one of her gothic novels. But Cecily held her friend's leg stoically, using all her weight to keep it still.

  Within a few seconds, Luke had pried the jaws apart. "Now," he commanded in a grunt, and Cecily understood him. She pulled her friend's boot up and out of the trap, a half second before the branch splintered and the metal spikes snapped on air.

  "We'll need to assess her wound," Cecily said, unlacing her friend's boot while Luke stood panting for breath. She had Portia's boot and shredded stocking removed within seconds.

  Together they knelt over her wounded foot.

  "These don't look deep," Luke said, observing the two puncture wounds on Portia's pale foot. "And only a scratch below."

  "Thank heaven for sensible shoes." Cecily flashed him a little smile.

  A sweet pang of affection caught him in the chest. She was handling this so well, soothing everyone--Luke included--with her serene competence and dry humor. Where had she learned how to cope with scenes like this? Certainly not in finishing school.

  Desperate to distract himself before he lost sight of any goal but kissing her, Luke returned his gaze to the wound. After studying it a few moments more, he said, "It'll need to be cleansed thoroughly. But we'd best bind it for now, until we can get her back to the Manor. Cecy, give me your--"

  "Stocking?" A wide ribbon of ivory flannel dangled before his eyes.

  He looked up, startled. Her expression was all innocence.

  "I was going to say handkerchief," he lied, taking the garment from her. "But this will do."

  As Cecily jammed her bare foot back into her boot, Luke looped the stocking over Portia's foot and ankle repeatedly, binding her wounds tight.

  Denny returned, two serviceable poles in hand. Luke stripped off his own coat and threaded a pole through either sleeve before buttoning it down the middle. He did the same with Brooke's coat, coming from the poles' opposite end. The result was a makeshift conveyance that would bear Portia's weight easily.

  Brooke fussed over the wounded lady as they transferred her to the pallet, going so far as to plant a kiss on her brow to praise her bravery.

  "What a kiss," Portia complained. "As if I were a child."

  Brooke cupped her face in his hands and kissed her thoroughly. He released her only when Portia's faint growl of protest melted to a pleased sigh. "There, was that better?"

  "Quite." Portia's cheeks pinked.

  "All right, then. Now be a good little girl, and lie still."

  She swatted at him feebly as he and Denny lifted the pallet--Brooke carrying the end at Portia's head, and Denny lifting her feet.

  Cecily went to Denny's side. "I . . . I must rest a moment, but Portia needs a doctor's attention. Please go ahead with her. Luke will see me home." She popped up on her tiptoes to reward Denny's nod of agreement with a light kiss to his cheek.

  As if he were a child, Luke thought pettily.

  And then somehow, they were alone.

  "Will you walk with me?" she asked, suddenly standing at his elbow.

  He silently offered his arm, but she shook her head, reaching for his hand instead.

  Fingers laced in that intimate, innocent clasp favored by children and lovers alike, they covered the short distance back to the path.

  "Not that way," she said, when he turned to follow the others. "Let's continue on to the cottage. We've come this far, and I may as well retrieve my stocking. I seem to find myself missing another."

  "As you wish."

  They walked on, their linked hands dangling and swinging between them. And it all felt so easy, so comfortable--as if they were on one of their leisurely strolls that summer four years past.

  Of course, they had conversed during those walks. Talked of everything and nothing, in the way courting couples do. When had he lost his ability to make simple conversation? Surely Luke could find it within himself to say something.

  "You are remarkable," he blurted out, because it was the only thought in his head. "The way you responded to Portia's injury, without fear or hesitation . . . I didn't know you had it in you."

  "What, bravery? I didn't always know I had it in me, either. But I do." She gave him a pointed look. "I'd imagine we've each discovered new sides of ourselves in the past four years."

  All too true. But the discoveries Luke had made, he would never share with her. Shrugging defensively, he deflected her silent question. "You used to bolt at the sight of a spider."

  "Oh, I still hate spiders. But injuries do not frighten me. When a lady spends a year tending invalid soldiers, she sees sights far worse than Portia's wound."

  Luke stopped in his tracks, pulling her to a halt as well. "You spent a year nursing invalid soldiers?"

  She nodded. "At the Royal Hospital in Chelsea."

  "But . . ." He struggled to bend his mind around the idea. "But they don't allow random gentlewomen to nurse invalid soldiers. Do they?"

  "Well . . ." She shrugged and resumed walking. "I never precisely asked permission. You see, over a year ago there was a tragic case. A wounded soldier was found wandering near Ardennes.
Evidently he was the sole survivor of his regiment. But he'd sustained a severe blow to the head, and he had no memory of who he was, or his home or family or anything before the battle. The papers printed articles about the 'Lost Hero of Montmirail'. He was the talk of London, and Portia was desperate to go visit him. She had this vain hope that he might be Yardley--she'd just received notice of his death in France, you see, and wanted to believe there'd been some mistake. And I . . ." Slowing, she looked up at Luke. "I wanted to be sure he wasn't you."

  A lump formed in his throat.

  "But of course he wasn't you," she went on, "nor Yardley. While we were waiting to see him, I found myself talking with another man. A naval officer, wounded in a Danish gunboat attack. He called me in from the corridor, then apologized when he saw my face. He'd mistaken me for his sister."

  Cecily sniffed and continued, "Well, I felt terrible for disappointing him, so I stayed with him for an hour or so, just talking. Mostly listening. And then the next day, I came back, and sat with him again. He introduced me to a fellow patient, this one a lieutenant in the cavalry. I don't recall deciding to make it a habit. Day after day, I just kept returning to the hospital. For the first month or so, I did no more than I had the first day--I would simply sit at a patient's bedside and listen. Perhaps read aloud, if he liked. But then, sometimes it was impossible not to notice that their wounds needed tending, bandages needed replacing, and so forth. So I did those small things too."

  Luke could only stare at her. Yes, it was true. Cecily had changed. Her youthful sweetness and generosity had not disappeared, but added to them now were a woman's serenity and confidence. One could see it in the tilt of her chin, the efficient grace of her movements. And the way the light glowed through the curling wisps of hair at her brow . . . She'd always been a pretty girl, but he'd never thought her so beautiful as he did this very moment.

  "Remarkable," he murmured. Clearing his throat, he added, "You didn't find it tedious, listening to all those ragged soldiers rattle on? It didn't repulse you, tending the wounds of complete strangers?"

  "Not at all," she answered lightly, squeezing his hand. "I just pretended they were you."

  God. She was killing him.

  "Well then," he said in a tone of false nonchalance, "I'm certain every last one of them fell hopelessly in love with you. How many proposals have you rejected in the past four years? A hundred or more, I'm sure."