The Viscount’s Vendetta by Kathy L. Wheeler
One
L
ady Felicity Moore, the Duke of Oxford’s only child, hated Christmas. She had no use for holly, good cheer, pristine snow, or yule logs on the fire. This year would be worse than most. Papa was considering marriage to one young widow by the name of Maeve Pendleton, Lady Alymer.
As if Felicity needed a mother at the ripe age of ten and nine. Especially one who was but five years her senior.
“Hello, daughter.” Papa’s voice boomed through the dining hall as if she were still in her bedchamber two floors up. His was a grand voice. She could imagine him addressing his cronies in Parliament. It was an image that usually made her proud.
Tonight? Not so much. There was but a week until the dreaded Christmastide.
“Hello, Papa. You’re late. Mrs. Tollen has already served the first course.”
He waved a hand. “Ah, well.” He settled in his chair while his wine was poured. “I have news for you, m’dear.”
Not encouraging. Felicity did not care for surprises any more than she did the upcoming holiday. “News? What sort of news?”
“I’ve decided to host a Christmas dinner.”
“Papa, what are you thinking?” Felicity’s stomach roiled, her appetite already a short memory—not an unusual occurrence for her at this time of year—and she shoved her plate away.
“Calm down, Felicity. We shall have the dinner a week prior. You shall still have Christmas day to mope about.”
Mrs. Tollen set a plate of roasted pheasant before him.
The smell nauseated her. She felt as if she were dangling out over the open sea with nothing to cling to. “Why?” she whispered. “Why now? You know how I feel about this time of year.”
His expression softened. “It’s time, poppet,” he said gently. “I can’t very well allow my prospective bride to think we don’t celebrate Our Christ Lord’s birth, can I?”
A sigh of resignation deflated her lungs. “I suppose not. Who do you plan on inviting?”
“Lady Alymer, of course. She’s close friends with Kimptons and Brockways.” He listed off others, but Felicity tuned him out. When Papa decided on a course of action, plans took off like a runaway carriage with no one manning the reins.
“You will attend, Noah.”
The earl of Lexum, Noah Taylor, did his best to block out his aunt’s latest demand. Only, it had never worked before, and it didn’t now.
“Your father—”
“Fine!” Exasperation roared through him. She never failed to bring up what his late father would do. He’d been dead for twenty years along with a mother he’d never known.
“Excellent. Lady Winnifred Gorman will be in attendance as well. She will make the perfect wife for you.”
Noah did his damnedest to suppress a flinch. He wasn’t certain at his success. “She’s a mindless silly girl, Aunt Evie. I’m not marrying her.” Noah lifted his teacup to his lips and paused, watching as his aunt, in all her countess hauteur, move before him with her hands on her hips, left foot tapping fervently against the wood beneath her.
She wanted something else. He recognized the calculating glint in her eye. A family trait.
Impatience surged through him. There would be no peace until she had her say. “What?”
Lady Parther’s hands moved from her hips to clasp softly before her. Another tactic he recognized. She lifted her chin. “As you know, I am in charge of the Foundling Home and Orphans Charity project. Donations have fallen off considerably in the last few years, since Lady Oxford’s death in fact.” Her jaw firmed. “I require Lady Felicity’s assistance.”
That was a surprise. Noah narrowed his gaze on her. Nothing in her demeanor changed. “I thought you didn’t care for Lady Felicity.”
“It’s not Felicity I abhor—it’s her arrogant father who’s destined to drive me mad. Unfortunately, Oxford’s name will lend a great deal to my cause.”
Noah lowered his cup and stretched out his legs. “I see. And, how am I supposed to work this magic for you?”
“Talk to Lady Felicity.”
Lady Felicity was one of the simple wallflowers he was compelled to steer away from at all costs. “She’s shy, Aunt. From my recollections of Lady Felicity, she never talks to anyone but her father.” Debutantes. He shuddered.
“Exactly why it will not kill you to do my bidding.” In a graceful glide, Lady Parther moved and lowered onto the settee across from him. “But you are a skilled conversationalist. With the opposite sex in particular, if the rumors are true.”
Surely she couldn’t mean the women with whom he routinely found company. His latest being Delfina Benedetti, a busty and superb mezzo soprano on tour from Italy. Of course, the company had just moved on. To Russia, he believed.
He let the silence grow, refusing to ask exactly what she meant.
Her huff of frustration spilled out. “All right. You win. I propose an arrangement—”
“This, I have got to hear.”
The calculating glint returned. “If you bring Lady Felicity on board with my charity home project, I shall resist pressing you into marriage with Lady Winnifred.”
Noah crossed his arms over his chest, and his legs at the ankles, and considered her proposition, an image of Lady Felicity floating through his mind. His last memory was of her standing next to her proud father at a ball Oxford himself had hosted a few weeks ago. She wore the required debutante white that had washed out her smooth, translucent complexion. She had flaxen hair though, if asked, he couldn’t say the color of her eyes.
Felicity was known for doing whatever her egotistical father put upon her. She was quiet and biddable. Handling her would be a breeze. He almost laughed—a threat she was not.
He considered his aunt’s appeal from every angle. She could be quite manipulative. Yet, nothing overt stood out from her ridiculous mandate he could construe as suspicious.
“All right, Aunt Evie. I accept your proposal.”
Wish to read more of Lady Felicity’s Feud with Christmas
