The Venus and the Viscount by Scarlett Scott

Chapter 1

Fangfoss Manor, Yorkshire

Neville Astley, Viscount Wilton, had never, in all his years, stooped so low as to eavesdrop upon a lady. Or, as in this instance, upon ladies. Although, to be fair, one could hardly consider Lady Charity Manners a lady in the true sense, her honorific aside.

Still, his excuse for doing so now was as humiliating as the words he was currently overhearing.

“You cannot be considering Lord Wilton, Mel. He may be wealthy, but he is a terrible bore.”

There was a pause as Miss Melanie Pennypacker appeared to consider Lady Charity’s words. “He seems pleasant enough.”

Thank you, Miss Pennypacker. I knew you were a lady of worth.

“If one considers a killjoy pleasant,” returned Lady Charity, who, contrary to her surname, did not possess any manners at all.

A killjoy? How dare she? He was an excellent companion. He knew an inordinate number of puns. Terrible ones, it was true, and he had overcome his habit of blurting them nervously with great effort. He had not uttered a single joke since his arrival at this house party, much to his credit.

“It hardly matters if the man is a spoilsport, as long as he will agree to my conditions,” Miss Pennypacker said.

She had conditions for marriage? A lady after his own heart, should he believe in anything as inconvenient as tender emotions. Which Neville most assuredly did not. Life was far better lived when governed by order, ration, and intellect. All the more reason to be secure in his selection of the American heiress defending him as his future bride.

If only he could get himself out of this alcove without being seen. Admittedly, it had been foolish to dip into the curtained area, where a bust of Venus and some eighteenth-century tapestry was on display, when the door to the gallery had opened. But he had been seeking solitude and quiet. Gatherings as large as the house party at Fangfoss Manor invariably left him ill at ease, with a need to escape. He preferred to be alone. He had imagined that whomever it was who entered would be on his way soon enough.

But he’d had no notion the interlopers in the gallery would be none other than the lady he hoped to make his viscountess and her very irritating, exceedingly scandalous, altogether-lacking-in-ladylike-polish friend. It was a pity Lady Charity’s loveliness had been wasted upon her. No gentleman worth a ha’penny would ever want such an ill-mannered wife.

She was loud. She was bold. She was vexing. She was beautiful. Everything about her was too much. Her lips were too large, her laughter too husky, her hair too blonde.

He shuddered. Miss Pennypacker, on the other hand, more than made up for what her friend lacked. She was intelligent, equally lovely, and more importantly, she was not a wayward, indecent, outrageous minx.

“Lord Wilton is so seriously staid,” Lady Charity was continuing her unprecedented denunciation of his character. “I very much doubt he would consider your conditions, let alone accept. Likely, he would swoon at the suggestion. You know how men of his sort are.”

On second thought, should he be concerned about her conditions? Just what were they? And how were men of his sort?

He ground his molars until his jaw ached. He was of half a mind to burst forth from his hiding place and denounce her. However, doing so would require him to admit that he had been hiding behind the curtain, listening to their every word. It would also require him to indulge in a tedious conversation with a woman whom he very much did not like.

No, Neville would remain where he was, admiring his host’s newly acquired tapestry, which was an admirably skilled depiction of…

Good God.

Surely that was not two nymphs cavorting with a satyr in the background?

He inhaled in shocked horror as recognition dawned. For it was indeed.

“Did you hear that?” Miss Pennypacker asked.

“Hear what?” Lady Charity returned.

He held his breath as the sounds of their footsteps neared his hiding place. It seemed a despicable fate that he should be discovered ogling a vulgar tapestry by none other than Lady Charity Manners. And as she was in the midst of insulting him, no less.

The footsteps drew nearer still, then stopped.

He awaited his fate, wondering what the devil he would say if the curtains were drawn back to reveal him.

“I think the sound came from the alcove,” said Miss Pennypacker.

Oh sweet Christ, no.

He truly had no wish for this to be his first impression upon the lady he had selected as his future viscountess. Skulking in the shadows, listening to her conversation with her friend like some sort of villain. Nor had he wished for his antisocial tendencies to so readily become apparent. Time, curse it. He had wanted time. The ladies of his past acquaintance had all been horrified by his lack of desire to maintain the societal whirl, beyond his duty in the House of Lords.

“Where Lord Fangfoss keeps his naughty tapestries, you mean?” Lady Charity was saying, her voice enthused.

He was flushing. Cheeks and ears hot, as if he were the same nervous lad who had spent years hiding from society and burying himself in books. It had been his father’s passing several years ago which had prompted Neville to seek the company of others. And thank heavens he had done so, for attempting to win a lady’s hand if he were still the same shy, pun-spouting man he had once been would have proven impossible.

No indeed, he had come a long way since then. Why, he had not offered a dreadful pun in mixed company in recent memory.

And just how did Lady Charity Manners know there were naughty tapestries hidden within this curtain alcove? His eyes narrowed. But his disapproval had to halt, because Miss Pennypacker and Lady Charity had also stopped, just beyond the drawn draperies.

“Naughty tapestries? Whatever do you mean, Charity?” asked Miss Pennypacker, sounding intrigued.

Intrigued? No! It could not be. Clearly, she was suffering from aligning herself in friendship with Lady Charity Mannerless.

He bit his lip to suppress an unacceptable chortle of laughter. But it was an excellent play on Lady Charity’s name. Pity he had not thought of it sooner, and pity there was no one else about with whom he might share it. But then, he was accustomed to solitude and entertaining himself. It was what he preferred.

Truly, the fates must have been having a laugh at her expense when she had been christened Lady Charity Manners.

“There is a tapestry with a woman on her knees with a… Well, she is investigating an appendage with her… Oh, never mind. I think I have found the source of your noise! Look there, it is little Ewan.”

“Ewan? Oh dear.” Miss Pennypacker sounded stern. “What is he thieving now?”

In a louder voice Lady Charity called, “Ewan, lad, you must not take the portrait of the fourth Earl of Fangfoss. Do put it down. Ewan! Oh dear, Mel. He is racing away with it. I did not think him strong enough to carry the thing.”

“His mother will not be pleased,” Miss Pennypacker observed. “I had better rush after him and see if I can catch him before he absconds with it entirely.”

“Oh yes, do. I will likely only trip on my hems, and if I fall, I shall start a scandal.”

“Never say you are not wearing drawers,” Miss Pennypacker hissed.

No drawers? Egad. He was horrified.

But another portion of his anatomy was intrigued.

Despicably so. For a moment, his mind was filled with terrible, wonderful imagery. Creamy thighs, perfectly formed calves, voluptuous breasts. Neville was not fond of society, but the rumor that Lady Charity had posed for a painting depicting a partially nude Venus at her bath had reached even him. He had seen the picture on display at the Grosvenor Gallery, and now that he had made the lady’s acquaintance directly, he could admit the resemblance was strong.

“You know I do not prefer to wear them during the summer months,” Lady Charity was blithely informing her friend. “But never mind that, Mel. If you do not go now, you shall never catch young Ewan. Make haste!”

“Very well.” Miss Pennypacker sighed, the sound long-suffering. “But next time the little scamp is caught thieving something in our midst, it will be your turn to give chase!”

The rustling of fabric and the unmistakable flurry of footsteps followed her pronouncement.

Neville waited, still as a kitchen mouse attempting to evade the scullery maid. Unfortunately, there was nothing mouse-like in his reaction to Miss Pennypacker’s sotto voce pronouncement about Lady Charity’s lack of drawers. His trousers remained snug. Horribly snug. The ancient tapestry before him depicting a woman investigating an appendage, as Lady Charity had called it, did not aid him one whit.

All was quiet on the other side of the curtains.

Thank heavens they had gone.

The heavy velvet fabric drew back suddenly.

There stood none other than Lady Charity Manners beneath the alcove’s archway.

And she was smiling, sky-blue eyes sparkling with merriment.

“There you are, Lord Wilty!” she declared, sounding victorious. “I knew you were hiding here.”

Something within him seized, and the old nervousness he had thought himself long cured of inexplicably returned.

* * *

Charity knewshe should not be having so much fun at Lord Wilton’s expense. The viscount’s shoulders went as stiff as if they had been hewn of marble, and his forbidding jawline tightened. His gaze, a vibrant green she could not help but to find intriguing, settled on a point over her shoulder. And his high cheekbones were darkened by what appeared to be a flush.

He was a handsome man. But he was also, as she had warned her dear friend Melanie, fully aware the viscount was hiding within the alcove, a bore, a killjoy, and a staid lump. He was wonderfully attractive, and yet he was cool as ice and interesting as a bowl of porridge.

“Lord Wilton,” he corrected her, some of that ice in evidence as it lent a sharp edge to his voice.

She noted his emphasis on the latter half of his name. The sobriquet she had created for him, much like the one she had invented for her dear friend Clementine, amused her.

“Yes,” she said now, “of course it is Wilton. But Wilty seems so much more appropriate. I take joy in crafting clever sobriquets for my friends, you see.”

If possible, he stiffened further. “Wilty is not clever, and we are not friends, Lady Charity. At best, we are brief acquaintances brought together by the advent of this house party.”

She pursed her lips, considering him. Why did the man refuse to meet her gaze? It was a curious habit she had taken note of before, which seemed to be exacerbated by discomfiture.

“And also brought together by the advent of your eavesdropping upon myself and Miss Pennypacker while we were engaged in what we imagined a private discussion,” she pointed out.

His ears went red. How utterly adorable.

Hmm.

She did not wish to find the boring Lord Wilty adorable. Indeed, she did not wish to find him anything at all. All she truly wanted was to watch him squirm for a few moments in return for the manner in which he had lingered without announcing himself in the alcove.

That had been badly done of him.

“What part of England has the most dogs?” he asked her abruptly.

His question, so sudden and unexpected and seemingly unrelated to the moment, took her aback. “Kent?” she guessed.

“Bark-shire,” he told her.

Oh dear.The viscount was telling a dreadful joke. What a strange response to having been caught eavesdropping. Worst of all, she had almost laughed.

“As in Berkshire,” he elaborated, apparently taking her silence for a lack of understanding. “But Bark-shire. It is a pun.”

“A terrible one,” she said.

He winced. “It is indeed regrettable.”

“What is regrettable, my lord? Your attempt at a joke, the sobriquet I have chosen for you, or the fact that you were listening to my tête-à-tête with Miss Pennypacker, wholly uninvited?”

She ought to let the man go, she knew. But from the moment she had arrived at Fangfoss Manor for the house party being thrown by her former finishing school headmistress, she had found herself both fascinated by Viscount Wilton and repelled by him.

Fascinated because there was something about him which set him apart from not just the other gentlemen in attendance, but from other men she had known. He did not appear interested in her in any fashion. He had not flirted with her, danced with her, or admired her beauty. He had not attempted to hold a conversation beyond polite observations.

Rain in less than an hour, he had predicted, looking at the horizon on one of their walks.

And later, on another walk when they had spied a poor orange kitten floating downstream in the River Derwent, I cannot swim.

That had been after she had entreated the viscount to leap in to save the poor creature. In the end, the Marquess of Dorset had done so and had emerged the hero of the house party as a result.

“The eavesdropping,” Wilton said now, meeting her gaze at last. “It was not my intention.”

The shock of his eyes on hers made a strange, new sense of awareness creep over her. They were not merely green, she realized, but unusually flecked with hints of gray. Coupled with his golden hair, the result was arresting.

“Why did you not announce yourself then,” she forced herself to continue, “having realized Miss Pennypacker and myself imagined ourselves alone?”

“I was embarrassed,” he admitted.

Oh.

She had not expected him to capitulate so easily, or to offer up such a confession.

What a confusing man he was.

She had to jerk her gaze from his, for the connection of their stares was performing strange feats upon her, sending warmth and a heaviness sliding low in her belly. Down her wandering eyes went, traveling over the crisp whiteness of his shirt, taking in the pleasant breadth of his chest, the muted gray of his waistcoat, the country tweed trousers, the cut of which was surprisingly snug. She had not supposed the viscount to be the sort of man who would concern himself with his tailor…

And then her gaze settled upon another portion of him entirely. The distinct ridge of his manhood. She had pilfered enough bawdy books and pictures, had befriended enough wicked men to know what that impressive protrusion signified. Viscount Wilton was randy. There had also been the books dear Auntie Louise had been kind enough to loan her…

Charity had seen any number of depictions of the male organ, but she had most certainly never seen any—either in engraving, painting, sketch, or sculpture—which could compare to Lord Wilton.

It was more than apparent that Lord Wilty was a misnomer. There was nothing at all wilted about that portion of his anatomy.

She would tell her friends, but she was quite certain they would be scandalized. A bubble of laughter threatened to burst forth. She stifled it with a great deal of effort.

He cleared his throat, shifting his stance. “Lady Charity.”

Heavens.He had caught her staring at his…anatomy.

She blinked, wresting her gaze from his trousers back to his eyes. “Yes, Wilty?”

His frown was ferocious. “Wilton.”

Did he truly imagine she was going to ever refer to him as Wilton again? There was no need to, when calling him Wilty elicited such grim disapproval from him. Oh, why had she not thought of the diminutive earlier in the house party? She had missed a number of excellent opportunities.

“Yes, my lord?” She sent him a smile.

“What is a horse’s favorite interjection?” His voice sounded strained.

Not another joke.

Very well, she supposed she could play along. Charity turned his query about in her mind but could think of nothing that suited. “I am afraid I do not know.”

“Hey.” His flush deepened. “I beg your pardon for eavesdropping, Lady Charity. In truth, I am interested in courting Miss Pennypacker, and I did not wish for my future betrothed to find me enclosed in an alcove with indecorous tapestries.”

Indecorous.

How proper he was. The devilish urge to increase his discomposure rose. Mayhap he would deliver another awful sally.

“Do you mean the tapestry in which—”

“That is quite enough, Lady Charity,” he interrupted, sounding as grim as he looked.

It did not escape her that he had revealed an interest in Melanie. And while Mel was one of her five dearest finishing school friends, the poor man had no inkling that all Mel wished to do was find a partner for her business venture rather than a husband.

Well, who was Charity to tell him? Let him find out on his own when Melanie delivered a resounding refusal to his proposal of marriage. She had a feeling the viscount would run into rather a great deal of trouble attempting to persuade any lady to marry him. His physical beauty could not sufficiently diminish his sanctimonious personality. But again, let that be his problem.

“I see no need to act so prudish in nature,” she told him with a feigned huff. “After all, you were the one examining it.”

And apparently, he had liked it.

“I was not looking at the tapestry,” he denied. “I was seeking a moment of solitude.”

“At a country house party?” Heavens, he was worse than she had previously thought. “You do realize the purpose of such an affair is to surround one’s self with others, do you not?”

“I understood the purpose of this affair was to find a wife,” he said stiffly. “That is why I have come, Lady Charity.”

“Of course you have.” She sent him a commiserating smile. The man was so deadly dull to converse with. She had lost interest in baiting him. She could have a better conversation with a rock in the gardens, she was sure. “Well, I most certainly wish you the best in your endeavors, Wilty. A word of advice, if I may? Do refrain from eavesdropping upon the ladies in attendance in future.”

“Wilton,” he corrected.

Charity waggled her fingers at him. “Au revoir, Wilty.”

Leaving him sputtering, she turned and departed the gallery.