The Venus and the Viscount by Scarlett Scott

Chapter 2

“You will make a beautiful Flora, my darling girl.”

“Flora.” Charity frowned at her reflection in the looking glass. “Are you certain, Auntie Louise? I was hoping to be something more dashing this evening. Something like…”

“Venus?” Auntie Louise asked, raising a brow as her sky-blue gaze connected with Charity’s in the mirror.

She had accompanied Charity to Fangfoss Manor for the house party just as she always accompanied Charity everywhere. Mama and Papa were forever far too busy with Charity’s older siblings and their own friends to have a care for her. But that was fine as far as Charity was concerned. She had always felt much closer to Auntie Louise than to Mama or her sister. Besides, Auntie Louise was far more fun.

Except for her insistence that Charity attend the masque as the Roman goddess Flora this evening.

Charity sighed. “You have heard the rumor as well?”

“Dearest, I have threatened bodily harm to anyone who carries it on,” Auntie Louise reassured her. “But in answer to your question, darling, yes, I have heard the rumor just as I suspect all London has by now. One can never trust a Richards, and I do hope you have learned your lesson.”

Hmm.

Fancy that—Auntie Louise taking her to task. For all Charity’s life, her aunt had been an omnipresent figure. Guiding, coaching, encouraging. Never judging. Always praising. The judging had been Mama and Papa’s tasks. At least, so it had seemed. When one possessed siblings who were never at fault and who did their duty and made excellent matches with ease, all without ever once bringing shame upon the family, well, how could a lady with a mind and spirit of her own ever possibly compete?

She could not. That was why Charity was so relieved Mama had relented in her august rule in the wake of becoming a grandmother—thanks to Fiona and Alfred in the same year—and devoting herself to her grandchildren instead of fussing over Charity’s every flaw.

“Peter was an excellent chum when he was in leading strings and I in short skirts,” she offered to Auntie Louise in defense of her dear friend who was responsible for the Venus painting and ensuing scandal. “However, I concede that I should never have agreed to sit for the portrait.”

“Sitting for the portrait was never the problem, dearest, and you know it,” Auntie Louise said as she fussed with a tendril of hair which had fallen from Charity’s coiffure. Once more, her gaze sought Charity’s in the looking glass. “It was the manner in which Mr. Richards portrayed you.”

Mr. Richards.How formal. He had always been nothing other than Peter to Charity. But then, she and Peter had always been friends. Rather in the fashion of brother and sister, even if they were nearly of an age.

Charity frowned at her beloved aunt in the looking glass. “I do not think Peter was portraying me. He is no different than a brother to me, and I most certainly have never disrobed before him.”

“And yet, the undeniable likeness was enough to cause tongues to wag,” Auntie Louise pointed out, her tone calm and precise, if a bit grim. “He should have known better than to invite such unwelcome speculation. A few changes to your countenance, and the resemblance would have been much more easily dismissed.”

Again, Auntie Louise was correct in her assessment. Yet, Peter had been as young and naïve as Charity had been. She could not blame him for the damage his painting had caused to her reputation, especially considering what the painting had done for his hopes as an artist. Peter was exceptionally talented and Venus at Her Bath had managed to achieve tremendous attention, albeit years after it had originally been painted.

Unfortunately, that attention had led to scrutiny and scandal for Charity. But never mind that. Setting society on its ear—or on its rump—had proved an excellent diversion for her on numerous occasions in the past. Charity did not mind. Her mother, however, did. But this was the first time Auntie Louise had mentioned the gossip.

She sighed yet again. “I suppose you are right, and that Flora is the wiser goddess to portray this evening.”

Her aunt beamed. “Excellent. You are lovely as always, my dearest girl. Now do let me add some silk blossoms to your hair.”

Charity held still as her aunt added the flowers, completing her toilette. Thank heavens for Auntie Louise. She always knew what to do when it came to…well, everything.

* * *

Wilty.

Neville had never met a more infuriating woman than Lady Charity Mannerless. That much was certain. And worse, she had suddenly sent him back to the uneasy youth he had once been, the man who uttered inane sallies to calm his fraying nerves.

Yes, he was aware that not everyone was as amused by bad puns as he was. No, he did not think he had impressed her one whit. Not that he had tried.

He did not like her, deuce it.

Fortunately, he had not seen her since that awkward interview, and he intended to do his damnedest to avoid her for the remainder of the house party. It was Friday, which meant another round of Lady Fangfoss’s dubiously entitled Mandatory Fun was in order. This time, a masked costume ball instead of the more simplistic country dances their host and hostess had offered thus far during the house party. In general, the notion of hiding his identity was displeasing to him. And the idea of wearing a ridiculous costume of sorts? Even more deplorable.

How was he to woo Miss Pennypacker if he was pretending to be someone else?

Wilty.

And who did Lady Charity think she was? The audacity of the woman. She was astounding. Maddening!

He stared at his reflection in the looking glass with a dispassionate eye. He supposed he made a passable enough William Shakespeare. His clothing might have appeared as if from a bygone century. Still, the bit of hair affixed to his upper lip was driving him to distraction.

“The false mustache is a bit…excessive, do you not think, Anderson?” he asked his valet.

Anderson had been involved in the theater for years before decamping to become a valet. He had an excellent eye for everything that Neville did not, which was what made them a well-suited pair. If not for Anderson, Neville would likely be wandering about in ill-fitting trousers and unbecoming coats worn inside out. The man carried around a valise of supplies, rendering him capable of outfitting Neville for any occasion.

And apparently, those supplies included mustaches.

The monstrosity was tickling Neville’s upper lip.

And it was brown, where his hair was blond. Wholly unbelievable, but he supposed it did not matter when the entire notion of a masked costume ball was, in itself, utterly silly. Not in an amusing way, either.

“The mustache is necessary,” his valet countered smoothly. “William Shakespeare possessed a most unique one.”

“Did he not also have a beard?” Neville asked before thinking better of the query.

“You are right, my lord.” Anderson sifted through the contents of his valise once more before extracting an object that resembled nothing so much as a rodent and holding it aloft with a pleased cry. “Here is my beard. I do believe this one is from when I played King Lear.”

Neville should have held his tongue.

He eyed the thing dubiously. “I will not wear that on my face in addition to the mustache. It shall have to be one or the other.”

“Oh no, my lord,” Anderson assured him blithely, “it must be both, or the effect will be ruined.”

“You were about to send me to the ball wearing only the creature on my upper lip,” he pointed out. “Surely that will suffice.”

Anderson was already smearing some manner of glue upon the sad-looking beard. “Now that you have alerted me to my error, I cannot, in good conscience, send you on your way without the complete beard and mustache, sir.”

His valet held the beard nearer, and the scent of the glue invaded Neville’s nostrils, making him cough. His distraction provided sufficient opportunity for Anderson to adhere the beard to his face.

“Curse you, Anderson,” he muttered. “I ought to give you the sack.”

“You never would dare, my lord,” Anderson said calmly. “You do recall your deplorable manner of dress before my arrival, do you not? I shall never forget seeing you with the inner seams of your coat visible. To say nothing of the trousers which looked as if they had been the castoffs of a much shorter gentleman.”

“Yes,” he agreed grimly, hardly wishing for a catalog of his appalling state of dress before his valet had taken his wardrobe in hand.

“You were dreadfully slovenly,” his valet added, quite unnecessarily. “I have seen better outfitted beggars in the streets.”

“That is quite enough, Anderson. I am aware of my lack of acumen in relation to dress.”

Yes, it was true that he had been wearing ill-fitting trousers and coats which had been cheaply made, and that his waistcoats had resembled a dowager’s curtains, as his valet had once informed him. However, Neville had neither the time nor the interest for such trivialities. That was why a gentleman such as himself hired an Anderson, after all.

And absorbed the man’s eccentricities and thinly veiled insults.

But then, Anderson was interesting. Neville prized people who were capable of holding his attention. So few did. Which was why it was of the greatest import that he spend as much time as possible with Miss Melanie Pennypacker this evening. All the better to determine for certain that she would suit his purposes.

Anderson had a final, demeaning piece of tomfoolery to add to his costume.

The mask.

Once it was in place, Neville resisted the urge to laugh at his reflection. Mostly because it was difficult to breathe thanks to the mustache and the mask, and his chin itched horridly.

“I am being smothered,” he declared.

“You look splendid, my lord,” Anderson said, looking at him in the fashion of Frankenstein gazing upon The Creature.

With a suffering sigh, Neville thanked his valet and left for the evening’s festivities.

Wilty.

Even as he entered the mix of masked and costumed revelers assembled beneath the blazing heat of the Fangfoss Manor chandeliers, the name followed him. A reminder. He accepted a champagne and drank it down in an instant, which was quite unlike himself.

Curse Lady Charity Mannerless. He must not think of her now. There were a number of golden-haired ladies in attendance, their hair glinting beneath the lights. At least if he had to suffer through the nonsense of masks, he still could rely upon the color of a lady’s hair to steer him into safer waters and avoid Lady Charity.

Instead, he would seek out dark-haired ladies.

Miss Pennypacker’s hair was brunette, was it not? Yes, it was brown. He was certain it was. Or was it jet-black? Mahogany? Chestnut?

Damnation!What if it was red?

Hmm.How distressing to realize he had not paid enough attention to the lady he intended to wed to note her hair color. But then, her hair only signified in that seeking out a hair color that was decidedly not belonging to Lady Charity was his course of action for the evening. And perhaps that was most troubling—and telling—of all.

“Wilty,” he muttered to himself, the demeaning sobriquet which had been nettling him ever since its utterance earlier in the day continuing its campaign of irritation.

Did she fancy herself amusing? Certainly, he was not attracted to her, in spite of her beauty. She was scandalous and rude and bold and everything he did not want in a wife.

She was terrible. Full stop.

“I beg your pardon?” asked a voice at his side.

He turned to find the Duke of Cashingham, without mask or costume. The fellow had made no secret of his intention to search for a bride from the bevvy of ladies in attendance at the house party, for he was in search of a mother for his young son. However, he was also deuced cool, and by Neville’s standards, that meant His Grace was a veritable iceberg.

“I did not say anything,” he lied, casting a searching glance in the duke’s direction.

Yes, he spoke to himself. But Neville was quite happy with his idiosyncrasies. He knew he was different from his peers. But he did not give a damn.

Long ago, he had accepted himself.

Everyone else would have to as well, or simply avoid him. Cashingham was not a familiar. However, he seemed a reasonable enough sort. Like Neville, the duke possessed rules. He seemed to be a man grounded in logic rather than emotion.

“Perhaps you were unaware,” the duke countered, “but you did indeed speak. It sounded as if you said Wilty.”

And further damnation, it was as if Lady Charity was before him with her taunts. So what if he had been speaking to himself? And if he had been echoing a certain golden-haired siren’s irritating diminutive for him?

“Why is a Christmas pudding like the Atlantic Ocean?” he asked the duke, and then could have kicked himself in the arse for yet another slip.

This was all the fault of Lady Charity Mannerless, he had no doubt. All he had to do was think of the woman, and he was stammering puns like the awkward unsociable man he had once been.

Cashingham stared at him sternly. “The two are nothing alike.”

“Because it is full of currants,” Neville found himself explaining.

Cashingham did not quirk a smile.

“The ocean has currents, and Christmas pudding has currants,” he elaborated.

And still, not a hint of mirth from the man at his side.

“I dare say I am in need of some refreshment,” the duke said abruptly. “If you will excuse me, Wilton?”

Neville was meant to be Shakespeare.

He frowned. “My costume. Was it that easy to decipher my identity in spite of my efforts to the contrary, then?”

“Of course it was,” Cashingham answered without faltering. “That mustache is askew, old chap.”

“At least I wore a costume,” he grumbled in response.

Small comfort. Hardly a victory. The blasted mustache had been askew from the moment his valet had placed it. The deuced thing was crooked.

The duke inclined his head. “As you wish. Costumes are not for me, I have no shame in owning.”

This response further confounded Neville. Did the duke suppose costumes were for him? This entire bloody exercise was a nonsensical experimentation proving just how much costumes were not for anyone. It led to mistaken identity.

But before he could offer additional questions, Cashingham was gone, leaving Neville alone on the periphery of the ball, the same position where he so oft found himself. From his vantage point, he watched what appeared to be a couple garbed in Roman togas circling the chamber in animated discussion with everyone they passed, gesturing to various elements of the garments as if eager to explain the significance of various details.

How tiresome this affair was. Nary a hint of Miss Pennypacker anywhere that he could see. Perhaps Cashingham had been right to seek refreshment. A glass of something strong enough to ease the knots inside his stomach and quell the ache beginning in his head would be just the thing. Moreover, mayhap it would distract him from the cursed itching caused by the twin creatures upon his face. To say nothing of the mask.

Why was it so despicably warm in the ballroom this evening? No doubt it was down to the blazing chandeliers and the crush of revelers. Yes, a drink was what he required, Neville decided, before fleeing the ballroom in favor of one of the anterooms.

In his agitation, however, he managed to find himself on the terrace, which led to the gardens instead of the chamber dedicated to the quenching of the guests’ collective thirsts.

Just as well, he decided. The night air was cool, and the quiet was welcome, as was the solitude. He walked deeper into the shadows.

“There you are, my lord!”

The low, feminine voice had Neville turning to discover a lady dressed in a flowing gown covered in silk flowers by the light of the moon. Her hair was unbound and flowing down her back, and he could not discern the color, but he did not think it golden.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I am ready for the kiss you promised me earlier,” the lady—who he supposed was dressed as Flora, the goddess of flowers and spring—prompted, taking his arm and leading him deeper into the darkness.

Ah, yes! Here was the danger he feared. Masks and darkness and false mustaches invariably led to this moment. Mistaken identity. He had most certainly not promised anyone a kiss. He was here to court a lady, not to seduce. But then, at least he was not making sallies.

Small relief.

“I do believe you have mistaken me for another, madam,” he said as the feminine hand on his arm tugged him along.

He followed, fool that he was, not wishing to be rude. She was smaller than he by far, and he could have stood stubbornly on the terrace, refusing to budge. Why had he not?

“Silly man! Have you already forgotten?”

Deeper into the shadows they went, farther away from the safety of the ballroom and the light of the chandeliers. They were venturing into dangerous territory indeed, and Neville had to have a care about his reputation. Miss Pennypacker’s conditions for marriage would most certainly not include her prospective husband disappearing into the darkness with another lady. And the lady in question was decidedly not Miss Pennypacker, for her accent was crisp and perfect, nary a hint of the American.

“I have not forgotten,” he managed to say, his rising alarm rendering his tongue sluggish. “Madam, I am most certainly not the gentleman who promised you a kiss. I have not promised anyone a kiss.”

His wayward Flora had tugged him into the gardens where the moon shone high above, gilding the world with silver light. She pivoted to face him, face upturned but obscured by her mask. All he could see was glittering eyes and a decidedly tempting set of lips.

Lips that smiled.

These are not Miss Pennypacker’s lips, he cautioned himself sternly. He ought not to long for the sensation of this wicked mouth beneath his. Whoever Flora was, she believed him to be another. And he was not the sort of man who dallied with ladies.

Yet…

“Do stop protesting and kiss me,” she ordered him.

Perhaps it was the sorcery of the moonlight. Perhaps it was the creamy curves of her breasts, so divinely put on display by the daring cut of her gown. Or that sinful, smiling mouth of hers. A saucy baggage, this Flora. Rather reminiscent of—no! He would not think of Lady Charity Mannerless now.

Whatever the reason, Neville could not say. But nonetheless, in the next moment, his head dipped, and he pressed his lips to hers.

* * *

Wilty was kissing her.

For a heartbeat, Charity remained perfectly still in her shock. She had not believed he would do so. She had imagined him incapable of being goaded into taking such a rash action as kissing a masked lady in the moonlit gardens. But he had.

Nor had she expected to enjoy the feeling of his mouth on hers.

But she did.

Smooth and warm and demanding.

Surprisingly skilled.

Fancy that, Viscount Wilton, a skilled kisser. Polite, but skilled nonetheless. His mouth remained closed, moving over hers with gentle coaxing. There was something about the way his lower lip fit into the seam of hers that was…marvelous. There was no other way to describe it.

Her hands went to his shoulders. They were broad and firm beneath his evening coat. But there was an odd sensation tickling her upper lip. Another sensation whispering against her chin. The false mustache and beard he had been wearing, she realized. How silly he had looked from across the ballroom, the mustache comically askew.

A giggle rose in her throat before she could stifle it as she thought about the mustache. Not the thing to do when being thoroughly kissed by a gentleman, she knew. Men did possess such sensitive feelings pertaining to such matters as their carnal prowess.

He ended the kiss as abruptly as he had begun it, but he did not withdraw. Instead, his hands settled on her waist. His face remained near, the heat of his breath skating over her mouth.

“You laugh,” he observed.

She bit her lip to stifle another wave of giggles that threatened to flee her. “Your mustache, my lord. I am afraid it teased my upper lip.”

“Cursed thing,” he muttered. “Of all the times for Anderson to decide I ought to dress as William Shakespeare.”

“Anderson?”

“My valet.”

His costume had not been Wilton’s idea then. That made sense. There was also something utterly endearing about the notion the staid viscount had taken direction from his manservant.

But no! What was this? First she had enjoyed Wilton’s kiss. Now, an inexplicable warmth was invading her heart. She had lured him into the moonlight for a kiss on a dare from her dear friend Raina. Not because she had wanted to kiss him. Not because she had believed she would enjoy it.

The moonlight shone on that mouth of his, making it look sinful and sending a wicked bolt of desire straight through her. Charity had kissed her share of gentlemen. She knew a good kiss from a bad. But she had never pressed her lips to another man’s and felt such an inexplicable thrill.

She wanted that mouth on hers again.

“Perhaps you ought to remove it,” she blurted. “The mustache, that is.”

“I would, but I fear taking a portion of my philtrum along with it.”

That sounded painful. Just what had his valet used to affix the mustache?

“Then perhaps you should just kiss me again,” she found herself suggesting.

What? Do not invite another kiss. This man is the boring killjoy of the house party. You do not even like him, Charity.

“You liked the kiss?”

Very much so, to her irritation.

“Yes.”

“Do you wish for another?”

Perhaps this had been a bad idea. Yes, it definitely had.

“Why ask so many questions when we could be kissing?” she grumbled.

“Why indeed?”

His voice was low. Almost a growl. And the deepness of that rich baritone made a frisson of new longing trill down her spine.

Charity did not have time to contemplate her unwanted reaction to him, however, because in the next breath, his mouth was on hers once more. Her mind knew she was not meant to be enjoying this kiss, that it came from the proper viscount, and if there was anything she disliked, it was a man who was proper.

However, her body had a mind of its own.

Her arms wound around his neck, and the rest of her moved nearer, pressing her breasts into his chest, absorbing the solid strength of his masculine frame. His lips feathered over hers in the lightest of kisses, leaving hers tingling and wanting more.

“Better?” he asked.

Yes and no. What was happening to her?

Instead of answering with words, she tugged his head back down to hers. The kiss deepened. And then the most delightful thing happened. Wilton’s tongue slipped inside her mouth. He tasted faintly of champagne. Delicious. The musk of his scent invaded her senses next. Shaving soap and man.

He sucked on her upper lip. There was no urge to giggle any longer. Instead, there was the urge to align her body more fully to his. To feel those lips on her skin.

As if he had heard her body’s inner request, the viscount pulled his mouth from hers to plant a teasing line of kisses along her jaw, all the way to her ear. His breath was hot, his breathing gratifyingly ragged.

Good.

So was hers.

More than she cared to admit.

And her heart? Why, it was galloping fast and furious. She had never been so affected before. Which was preposterous. Perhaps she was soused. Too much champagne. Yes, surely that must be the reason why, instead of putting an end to this madness she had begun, she tipped her head back. Why a low moan of pleasure fled her as his knowing lips found the particularly sensitive skin of her throat.

The trail of kisses he made to her collarbone had her aflame.

Her fingers slid into his hair. It was thicker than it looked, soft and luxurious as silk. His mouth traveled lower, to the top of her left breast. Lightly, he delivered kisses there. He did not attempt to paw at her as some men had. Instead, his gentle, teasing seduction had her on the edge. Her nipples were hard and aching within her corset.

Once more, as if he sensed her need, he kissed lower, until his lips were separated from the peak of her breast by the mere few barriers of cloth and boning. A keening cry tore from her. She was desperate for more. Charity arched her back, presenting herself to him, completely forgetting this was Viscount Wilton seducing her. Forgetting that she had once been in control of the moment and now she was hopelessly, helplessly lost.

Wilton kissed her other breast, his hands learning the curve of her waist to maddening effect. He touched her with a reverence that heightened her yearning. Touched her as if she were the goddess she had transformed herself into for the purpose of this costume ball. Touched her as if—

The sounds of voices reached them, propelled on a breeze.

Wilton froze, lips grazing the top of her breast, the heat of his breath bathing her flesh for a heartbeat before he disengaged. He released her and stepped away, the reminder that they were not alone apparently enough to restore his sense of propriety. If only it had been enough for Charity. She wanted more.

Which made no sense. She did not like Viscount Wilton, regardless of how undeniably handsome he was and how wonderfully well he kissed…

“I do beg your pardon,” he said stiffly. “I…forgot myself. That never should have happened.”

He was not wrong in his assessment. And neither should she have liked it so much.

“Nonsense,” she forced herself to say, pinning a smile to her kiss-swollen lips lest he could see her in the moonlight. “That is what masques are made for, is it not?”

If only she felt as breezily dismissive as she sounded. In truth, Charity was shaken by her reaction to him. Shaken to her core by his kisses and his touch.

“But I do not know your name,” he said.

He had not recognized her, then. How lowering for her vanity. Gentlemen always knew who she was, if not because of her reputation, then because of her appearance.

Not Viscount Wilton, however.

“Flora,” she told him, for that was who she was this evening, although her pride was rather bruised that he had not known it was she. “Thank you for the kisses, Mr. Shakespeare. If you will excuse me, I must return to the masque.”

Without waiting for his response, she slipped past him, seeking the lights and sounds of the ballroom. Trying to quell the disappointment and confusion roiling within.