The Venus and the Viscount by Scarlett Scott

Epilogue

“What do you think of it, my love?” Neville asked from behind Charity as he slid his arms around her waist and drew her against him.

Charity melted into her husband’s beloved, familiar form, surveying the vibrant oil painting in its gilt frame. Venus at Her Bath had been hung in a place of honor in Neville’s chamber following his purchase of the artwork. A golden-haired goddess stared back at her, all creamy skin and bountiful hips and breasts. Charity did not fool herself that she possessed a fraction of the loveliness the Venus possessed, despite her husband’s firm avowal that she was far more beautiful than the picture.

“I think it is fortunate indeed that you have chosen to hang it here instead of in the drawing room where my mother would see it,” she said.

The word mother still felt a bit strange on her lips in relation to the woman she had spent her entire life knowing as Auntie Louise. But in the weeks following the revelation, Charity had come to understand her mother’s choice. Unwed and carrying the child of the man she loved, her options had not been plentiful. She had hidden her condition and given birth to Charity in secret, and then her brother, the Earl of Sandrington, had taken Charity into his home and raised her as his own daughter. Thus, her mother had been able to remain a part of Charity’s life, and Charity had not suffered the stigma of illegitimate birth.

Her mother had explained that she had always intended to tell Charity the truth, but that as the years had gone on, she had feared the revelation would cause a divide between them. Unexpectedly falling in love with Neville had taught Charity that life was unpredictable. Forgiveness had come easily, and following her wedding and honeymoon, Charity’s mother had come to visit them at his country seat in Wiltshire.

“Hanging it in the drawing room would be terribly improper,” Neville said, nuzzling her neck. “And we both know that I am a seriously staid killjoy who would never do something like that.”

Charity winced at the reminder of her unkind words and former opinion of him. “You do realize I knew you were listening that day.”

He chuckled and kissed the sensitive hollow behind her ear. “You did not.”

“I did,” she protested, rubbing her cheek along his hair in the fashion of a cat. “I saw you slipping into the alcove when we entered, and perhaps it was wrong of me, but I did enjoy haranguing you while you listened.”

“Minx.” There was no heat in his voice. Nothing but the deep, mellifluous rasp of desire. His hands slid over her night rail, cupping her breasts through the thin fabric.

Her nipples were instantly hard.

“You like it when I am wicked,” she said, breathless as he kissed a path of fire to the junction of her neck and shoulder and lingered there, making her knees go weak.

His thumbs rubbed over the peaks of her breasts in slow, knowing swirls. “I do indeed.”

“I will admit that it was wrong of me to tease you so mercilessly.” Her head fell against his shoulder as he plucked at her nipples.

“It was,” he agreed. “And now that I know the truth at last, I am afraid you must do penance for your sins.”

“How?”

He released her and spun her to face him, a glint in his emerald gaze she recognized all too well. “Take off your night rail and get on the bed, and you shall see.”

Oh.Desire pooled between her thighs. She liked when Neville was growly and commanding in the bed chamber. It did strange things to her insides. She grasped two fistfuls of her gown and tossed it over her head, leaving it to pool on the Axminster somewhere behind her. His heated stare swept over her appreciatively as she wasted no time in obliging him by draping herself on his bed.

He shed his dressing gown and then joined her, his hands stroking up her calves and parting her legs. His grin was pure, molten sensuality as his golden head lowered and he rained kisses along her bare skin.

“I have a feeling I am going to like this penance,” she murmured, the pulsing in her sex turning into raw, achy need as his mouth traveled nearer to her center.

“So am I, love.” He blew a stream of hot air over her exposed flesh, teasing her further.

She wriggled, already desperate for him. They had been married two months, and each passing day only served to heighten their bond, both in the bedchamber and beyond.

“Please, Neville.”

“Tell me what you want.” He kissed each of her inner thighs.

“I want your mouth on me,” she said.

His caresses moved over her hips, and then his hand found hers, their fingers twining together. “With pleasure, darling.”

His tongue flicked over her pearl, and she nearly jolted from her skin. Charity could not contain her moan of approval. He lapped at her, knowing how to prolong her pleasure and take her to the edge. Just when she was certain she could not sustain more torture, he sucked.

Her body bowed from the bed, seeking more.

And he gave her more. With his other hand, he hooked her hips over his shoulders, angling her so that his face was buried between her thighs. He feasted on her as if she were the most decadent dessert, his tongue delving deep into her channel, then slicking along her seam to toy with her pearl.

Her climax was upon her in an instant. Pleasure rocked through her, bliss radiating from her wet core as his eager tongue dipped in and out, devouring her. Their fingers tightened and held as the ferocity of her orgasm ebbed.

He rose to claim her, bringing their bodies together. In one thrust, he was fully seated, filling her. The closeness was exquisite. She held him tight and found his lips, the taste of herself on his tongue. How she loved this man.

Together, they discovered their rhythm, bodies straining, seeking. His cock glided in and out, sinking deep. Their fingers remained laced as he made love to her, and when he left her lips to suck a nipple into his mouth, she reached her pinnacle, clamping on him hard as white-hot desire roared through her, stronger and even more intense than the crisis which had preceded it. On a growl, he pumped into her, and then the familiar wet warmth of his seed flooded her, prolonging the pleasure.

In the aftermath of their spent passion, they laid in each other’s arms, hearts still beating fast.

Charity broke the silence first, reminded, now that her mind was functioning properly once more, of the news she had to tell him. “Neville?”

“Yes, my love?”

“What game does a lady’s bustle resemble?”

“Hmm.” His hand stroked the sensitive skin of her inner arm. “Backgammon?”

“Yes.” She took a deep breath. “What do you call a man whose wife is with child?”

“A father.” His hand stilled and he raised his head, his gaze searching hers. “Charity?”

She took his hand in hers and pressed them both to her belly’s gentle swell. “We are going to have a baby, Neville.”

“Oh my love,” he said, his countenance a mixture of awe and love so profound that she had to blink to clear away the furious rush of tears. “I could not ask for more.”

“Nor could I,” she said.

Then, the Venus kissed her viscount once more.

* * *

Dear Reader,

Thank you for reading The Venus and the Viscount! I hope you adored Neville and Charity as much as I do. More Fangfoss Manor house party fun is on its way to you! (And if you’ve started with this book, do be sure to find the entire series here. Each book is stand-alone, and you don’t want to miss them!) Next up is Melanie Pennypacker and Frank Crymble’s story in The Buccaneer and the Bastard.

A few notes on this book—the painting Venus at Her Bath is a product of my imagination, as is Charity’s friend, Peter Richards. Charity’s cold cream, Lady Perfect’s, first appeared in my book Lady Wicked, and the book she is reading, Confessions of a Sinful Earl, first appeared in my book Lady Ruthless. Speaking of which, have you read my Notorious Ladies of London series? They’re packed with strong heroines, swoon-worthy heroes, steamy heat, and sweeping emotion, and you can find the series list here.

Do read on for a sneak peek at what’s to come in The Buccaneer and the Bastard!

* * *

Melanie Pennypacker was notthe sort of woman to let a little something like the standards and protocol of society or the traditions of the aristocracy stand in her way. She was an American, after all, and the daughter of a proud and industrious father. For years, she’d managed to navigate the sometimes choppy waters of British high society more or less on her own, positioning herself perfectly to achieve her one goal.

And that goal was not to marry a nobleman, as everyone assumed it was.

“Melanie? Dear Melanie, I know that you are nearby,” Miss Julia, her former teacher and hostess of the house party at Fangfoss Manor called out as she swept down the hall outside of the parlor where Melanie had concealed herself as soon as she received the letter from her godfather, John Wannamaker. “I could have sworn I saw you just a moment ago, dear,” Miss Julia called again.

Melanie swore under her breath in a decidedly unladylike fashion and squeezed behind a curio filled with Roman artifacts as Miss Julia poked her head into the room.

“Melanie?” Miss Julia scanned the room. “I do wish you would be more agreeable with the lovely young men I’ve picked out for you. Why, Lord Milford was just saying that he found your exotic, American mannerisms quite refreshing. Did you hear that, dear?”

Melanie held her breath in the silence that followed. She waited, perfectly still, until Miss Julia stepped back into the hall, continuing her search.

“Melanie, are you in here?” Miss Julia’s voice was quieter and her footsteps farther away.

Still, Melanie waited until she was certain Miss Julia—she truly needed to remember to call the woman Lady Fangfoss now—was no longer nearby before slipping out of her hiding space. She could do with an undisturbed spot far away from the guests at the house party where she could read her letter from Uncle John in peace.

There was only one place that she could think of on short notice where the likes of Lady Fangfoss or the men she’d invited to the party to parade in front of her, or even her dear, beloved friends would never look for her, and that was the secluded terrace on the roof at the end of one of the hallways in the attic where the servants had their rooms.

Being careful not to draw any notice as she scurried along the halls, Melanie set off for the roof at once. It was the middle of the afternoon and Lady Fangfoss had most of the houseguests involved in a treasure hunt of some sort in the hedge maze, so Melanie was able to make it all the way up to the top of the house without being stopped. She’d discovered the terrace completely by accident shortly after her arrival, when she’d gone exploring in the house. Not only was it quiet and separated from the hustle and bustle of the rest of the house, it had a magnificent view of the Yorkshire countryside.

As soon as she reached the fresh air and solitude of the terrace, Melanie tore open the letter from her godfather. Uncle John was one of the most successful merchants in all of Philadelphia, and the department store he’d built was a place of wonder and an inspiration for Melanie. Under her godfather’s tutelage, without him even knowing he was teaching her, Melanie had learned everything she needed to know about opening and operating a new-style department store. Her entire reason for journeying across the Atlantic and attending finishing school in London was to establish herself so that she could open a store of her own there.

The letter from her godfather, however, did not contain what she’d hoped it would.

After a greeting and news of his family, the letter read, “While I am excessively proud of your ambition, my dear, commerce simply isn’t something that a young woman of your status does. I have no doubt at all that you are capable, but business is a man’s game. Women simply do not have the mental capacity for it. You would do best to stick to your original plans for England and find yourself a strong, wise, and ambitious husband. I’m certain England is filled with young men who would complement your headstrong and determined nature. Trust me, my dear, marriage is the solution for you.”

Melanie lowered her arms with a frustrated huff and stared out at the horizon. Marriage, marriage, marriage. That was all anyone thought she was capable of. But Melanie knew better. Yes, it was unusual for a woman to go into business, but it was not unheard of. More and more, women were taking their lives into their own hands instead of relying on marriage to—

Melanie gasped as inspiration hit her. Perhaps Uncle John was right after all. Perhaps marriage was the solution to her problems. Uncle John had suggested she find a man whose ambitions were a compliment to her own. He hadn’t said she should give up her dreams for a husband, though. Perhaps the solution to all of her problems was staring her right in the face. She didn’t need to find a husband to take care of her and pamper her and give her a title and social position, she needed a husband to go into business with her.

And Melanie knew just who that husband could be….

Want more? Get The Buccaneer and the Bastard now!

* * *

I’m also thrilledto announce a brand new series! Read on for a sneak peek at The Detective Duke, Book One in my Unexpected Lords series…

The Detective Duke

Unexpected Lords

Book One

He was never meant to be a duke. She was always destined to be a duchess…

Grit, determination, and a will of steel have propelled Hudson Stone through life. No case he faced as Chief Inspector at Scotland Yard went unsolved. But nothing could have prepared the implacable investigator for inheriting a dukedom. Even more maddening than his ducal obligations is Lady Elysande Collingwood, the previous Duke of Wycombe’s betrothed. Worst of all, the debts Hudson has been bequeathed along with the title mean he needs to marry an heiress to save his estates from ruin, and the cheerful, dazzling Lady Elysande is the only one he knows.

Elysande was aware the last Duke of Wycombe was marrying her for her immense dowry, and she has no doubt his grim successor wishes to wed her for the same reason. But she has motives of her own for accepting the new duke’s offer. Never mind that he is harsh and unsmiling, with a reputation for ruthlessness. Their marriage of convenience suits her perfectly fine.

However, there is absolutely nothing convenient about the feelings she begins to develop for the forbidding man she married. When the shadows of Hudson’s past emerge, bringing them closer together, desire sparks. But with a dangerous villain on his heels, Hudson can’t afford to get too close to anyone. Too bad his icy heart has other ideas…

* * *

Chapter One

Late summer, 1886

Buckinghamshire, England

Undoubtedly,most men would have been elated by the unexpected and wholly unlikely inheritance of a dukedom.

Hudson Stone, formerly Chief Inspector at Scotland Yard, turned ninth Duke of Wycombe, was not one of them.

Feeling grim, he stared at the ledgers and correspondence spread across the desk, the numbers and letters and dire implications of which had long since begun to blur and lose their appeal. Hell. They had never held any appeal at all, if he were honest. He had not wanted to become a duke. All his life, he had wanted to solve crimes. He had dedicated himself to being the best damned detective possible.

And then the eighth Duke of Wycombe, a hale, hearty, and distant cousin he had not known he possessed had taken a tumble from his horse.

“Pray tell me, if you please, in plain speech, how bloody fucked I am, Saunders,” Hudson told the young steward facing him.

At his admittedly impolite request, the steward winced. “I do beg your pardon, Your Grace.”

“I beg yours,” he growled. Apparently, dukes did not use oaths, at least not in the presence of their hapless stewards. “Please cease referring to me as Your Grace. I prefer Stone. Wycombe if you must.”

Saunders extracted a handkerchief from his pocket and used it to mop his sweating brow. “Wycombe, then.”

“Do I make you nervous, Saunders?” he asked, curious.

The man averted his gaze. “Of course not.”

He was lying, Hudson thought. He had conducted enough interviews with criminals to detect when a man was not being honest. Evading a man’s stare was a clear indication of guilt.

“Hmm,” he gave a noncommittal hum. “Does the entire roof need to be replaced on this monstrosity?”

“There is significant leakage in the eastern wing, and the—”

“A simple yes or no answer shall suffice,” he interrupted, consulting his pocket watch.

“Yes,” said Saunders, wiping his brow once more.

The last Duke of Wycombe had passed away in spring. But the line of succession had been, apparently, rather murky thanks to old family rifts between the sixth Duke of Wycombe and his son, Hudson’s grandfather. Hudson had carried on with his life, solving a very important case earlier that summer. Ultimately, no amount of praying he would not be deemed next in line had saved him, and he had been forced to leave his post and settle his life in London before arriving in Buckinghamshire to a dilapidated estate, countless debts, and severely depleted coffers.

But there was another matter facing him, one which was due to arrive in one quarter hour, that displeased him more than becoming the ninth Duke of Wycombe had. And that was no easy feat.

Hudson flicked his pocket watch closed and returned it to his waistcoat. “Have you any estimates on the replacement?”

Red stained the younger man’s cheekbones. “His Grace had not made attempts. I believe he was awaiting his nuptials.”

Ah, yes. There it was. The eighth Duke of Wycombe had been betrothed to Lady Elysande Collingwood, whose fat dowry would have been the savior of the entire affair. But the poor fool had broken his neck before doing so. Of course, Hudson had yet to make the acquaintance of the lady in question. It was entirely possible that breaking one’s neck was a preferable alternative to marrying her.

“Undoubtedly, the former duke was anticipating the coin his marriage would bring,” he said.

Saunders cleared his throat. “I did not question the former duke concerning his decision. However, Brinton Manor is not profitable and has not been in years.”

And none of the most recent dukes had done a damn thing about it. Not the eighth duke, and nor his father before him.

Now, it would appear Hudson was tasked with being the sacrificial lamb. Best to prepare himself.

“If you will excuse me, Saunders, I have an engagement.”

“Of course, Your Gr—ahem, Wycombe. Sir.”

Hudson sighed as he took his leave. He was accustomed to intimidating others. Doing so was his job. Strike that. It had been his job. Christ, he had loved every moment of being a part of Scotland Yard.

In the hall beyond the study, he was greeted by a harried-looking housekeeper who informed him that his guest was early. Lady Elysande was accompanied by her mother, the Countess of Leydon, and her sister Lady Isolde. They were awaiting him in the golden salon which connected to the gardens.

Despite its lofty name, the golden salon was hardly palatial. And the Brinton Manor gardens were thoroughly overgrown and in desperate need of a head gardener, who had apparently been sacked on account of his expense some time ago. But none of that was what troubled Hudson the most.

He hadn’t the slightest inkling what he was meant to do with guests. His grandfather’s lineage may have been aristocratic and born in the purple, but Hudson had cut his teeth in the ugly heart of London, and he had spent his time as an investigator in the seamiest parts of the East End, rising through the ranks.

“What shall I do with them, Mrs. Grey?” he asked the housekeeper.

“What shall you do with what, Your Grace?” she asked, looking as perplexed as she sounded.

Not another Your Grace.

He allowed himself the luxury of grinding his molars for a moment before responding. “The guests, Mrs. Grey. I confess I am not accustomed to hosting a countess and her daughters.”

Hell, he was not accustomed to hosting anyone. He preferred solitude. His bachelor residence in London had not been large enough in size to host a damned mouse, even if he had wished it. Which he most certainly had not, and hardly because he fervently loathed rodents. Rather, quiet and peace and order soothed him. People did not.

“You will take tea with them of course, Your Grace,” said his housekeeper now.

“Of course,” he agreed solemnly.

And then what?

Perhaps his confusion showed in his countenance, for Mrs. Grey added, “And then perhaps a turn about the gardens.”

“The gardens resemble nothing so much as an overgrown thicket,” he pointed out.

“There is yet a gravel path, Your Grace,” his housekeeper countered.

So he supposed there was. He inclined his head. “Thank you, Mrs. Grey.”

He was meant to thank her, was he not? Curse it, he had no notion of how he was supposed to conduct himself. He was in Hades. It was certain.

He turned on his heel and began striding toward the golden salon.

“The salon is in the opposite direction, Your Grace,” Mrs. Grey called helpfully after him.

He stopped, taking a moment to look around.

“So it is.” He spun on his heel. “Thank you, madam.”

Even neglected and in severe disrepair, Brinton Manor was damned massive. He still had yet to grow accustomed to the location of its nearly two hundred chambers. Nettled, Hudson stalked to the golden salon. He was so lost in his thoughts that he simply bolted over the threshold unannounced and stood there, watching the countess and her two daughters engaged in low, heated conversation. The countess was a handsome brunette dressed in lavender silk while one of her daughters possessed dark hair and the other light.

He swore he detected something that sounded remarkably like he cannot be as bad as rumor suggests before he cleared his throat, bringing attention to his presence in his own fashion.

All three faces turned toward his, and he found himself falling into a pair of warm brown eyes. Striking eyes. Eyes which met and held his gaze.

“Your Grace!” exclaimed the elder woman, drawing his stare back to her as she dipped into a flustered curtsy.

The ladies flanking her followed suit.

He held still for a moment, then bowed. A ducal bow? He thought not. Rather, his was the abbreviated bow of a man who was busy and possessed precious spare time for trifling matters such as social calls. However, he had to remember that he was no longer Chief Inspector Stone.

The reminder felt like a death itself.

His death. Or at least, the death of the man he had been.

“My lady,” he said. “Lady Elysande, Lady Isolde.”

Lady Elysande, he presumed, was the one dressed in gray half mourning to honor her betrothed. Six months. Long enough, one supposed. If true, the intriguing gaze belonged to her. The other sister was dressed in pink, her gown bedecked with at least a dozen silk roses. Beside the subdued dress of her sister, Lady Isolde appeared frivolous.

“We are very pleased to make your acquaintance at last,” the countess said, smiling.

He wondered if she referred to his absence at the funeral, necessary since he had not been aware of the previous duke and most certainly not his death. But never mind any of that. There was a tension in the air. The countess and her daughters had paid this call not because they wished to exchange polite pleasantries amongst neighbors from nearby estates. Rather, they had done so for a reason.

A very good one.

The last Duke of Wycombe had died before Lady Elysande had become his bride. Now, she had arrived to betroth herself to the next duke.

“Will you take tea?” he asked abruptly.

“We would be delighted,” said the countess smoothly.

Mrs. Grey, for all that her continued wages were not assured, was diligent. A tea tray appeared and tea was served. Hudson found himself ringed by three aristocratic females, arse on the edge of his seat, pretending to swill a beverage that was loathsome to him. Give him coffee—or whisky—any day instead.

A stilted conversation ensued during which he was sure he said the wrong thing at least half a dozen times. The countess steered the conversation for her daughters. Lady Isolde was quiet. Lady Elysande studied him from beneath lowered lashes, lips pursed. They were pretty, those lips, but he did not like noticing. This entire affair left a bitter taste in his mouth that had nothing to do with the tea and everything to do with finding himself forced into marriage.

At long last, the countess suggested he take Lady Elysande on a brief stroll through the gardens. Lady Leydon would, naturally, remain behind with Lady Isolde, watching from the windows for propriety’s sake.

Propriety.

What a bloody lark that was.

As if he were an automaton, Hudson rose, offering Lady Elysande his arm. Together, they left the stilted atmosphere of the shabby golden salon in favor of the late-summer sun and the overgrown gardens of Brinton Manor. They walked in silence until they reached a fountain which was not currently functional and stopped. Saunders had mentioned something about broken pipes, but then, nearly everything at Brinton Manor seemed to require replacing or fixing.

In the absence of their shoes crunching on the gravel walk, the silence was almost deafening. Nothing but the call of birds. A breeze brought her scent to him, and it was pleasant. Lily of the valley, he thought.

“The fountain does not work,” he announced.

What the devil was he meant to do? Chief Inspector Hudson Stone did not squire ladies about in gardens. He did not press his suit or attempt to woo.

But he supposed the Duke of Wycombe would.

Pity he was now the latter instead of the former.

“It is a beautiful fountain,” Lady Elysande said, the most words she had strung together at once since tea had begun.

Her voice was pleasing. She seemed cordial enough. How to broach the topic of an unwanted marriage which was necessary to save this crumbling pile and all its people from penury?

“It would undoubtedly be better if it contained water,” he observed.

“But there is no water, and it is beautiful as it is. Why fret over the water’s absence?”

He cast a glance in her direction, studying her profile. Everything about Lady Elysande was faultless. Almost too perfect. Her voice was well-modulated and sweet. Her gown was demure, her figure delightfully curved in all the right places. Her face was undeniably lovely.

He did not like her.

Hudson turned back to the fountain. “That is not pragmatic of you, Lady Elysande. One must fret over water where there should be some and things that are broken which require repair or replacing.”

“Forgive me, Your Grace. I did not intend to vex you.” She turned toward him with a sunny smile pinned to the lips he had grudgingly admired over tea.

She was impeccably pleasant. He felt like an ogre in comparison. Her continued politeness and cheer nettled. Best to get this business done. He hardly had the time to tarry in the ruined gardens.

“I need to marry,” he told her abruptly.

She did not appear surprised. “Of course, Your Grace.”

What was this nonsense with the forms of address? He disliked it immensely.

“You were betrothed to the former Duke of Wycombe.”

“Yes.”

“Have you an understanding with anyone else?”

She was still smiling, her beauty taking on an ethereal quality.

This, too, annoyed him.

“I do not, Your Grace,” Lady Elysande said.

Good enough, he supposed, tamping down his resentment. “Would you object if I spoke to your father?”

The smile deepened, and she was even prettier now. He had the vague impression her previous smiles had been false and that this one alone was real.

“That would be wonderful, Your Grace.”

Wonderfulwas not how he would describe the prospect of such an interview. An ill feeling settled in his stomach. He had to do this, he reminded himself. He had no choice.

“Shall we return to your mother and sister?” he asked, flicking another glance toward the empty fountain, a symbol of why he had proposed marriage to a lady he had only just met.

“Of course,” she obligingly agreed.

But then, everything about Lady Elysande was so bloody obliging. Fortunately, he had no intention of having a real marriage with her. When they were wed, they could happily carry on with their separate lives.

He escorted her back to the golden salon in grim silence.

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