The Venus and the Viscount by Scarlett Scott

Chapter 3

The next day dawned disturbingly bright and filled with sun. Charity was on a walk about Fangfoss Manor’s pond with her finishing school chums Lady Clementine Hammond, Lady Angeline O’Shea, Miss Olive L’arbre, Miss Melanie Pennypacker, and Lady Raina Prince. The six of them had bonded during their stay at the Twittingham Academy. The friendships they had forged had lasted years, even if not every lesson they had learned within those hallowed walls had managed similar duration.

But despite loving every moment of being reunited with her friends, Charity found herself feeling rather vexed this afternoon. Listening to Angeline, Olive, and Clementine chatter on about the love matches they had made during the course of the house party contributed to her general malaise.

“Truly,” she grumbled at Angeline. “No one cares about Lord Rothbury’s jaw. Do cease prattling on about it.”

Beneath the shade of her hat, her friend’s frown was apparent. “Well, I suppose you cannot fault me for admiring my betrothed.”

“That was unkind of you,” Clementine added, giving Charity a gentle nudge with her elbow.

Guilt skewered her. “Do forgive me. I am merely feeling rather at sixes and sevens today.”

“Maybe you would prefer if we were discussing something truly intriguing,” suggested Olive. “The Roman sphaera—”

“Oh dear heavens, not more Roman nonsense,” Charity interrupted. “You know I love you, but archaeology is the cure for insomnia.”

“That was also unkind,” Clementine added.

“You have a mark on your neck, Tiny,” she pointed out, feeling uncharitable. “The next time you and Dorset are sneaking about in each other’s chambers, you should be certain he makes his claim known in a place that is covered by your gown. Have I taught you nothing?”

Clementine’s cheeks went pink at the mention of her betrothed, the Marquess of Dorset. “How do you know we are sneaking about?”

Olive hummed. “It is not a secret.”

“You and your Mr. Prince are hardly better,” Charity could not resist observing.

“And a fine mood ye are in,” Raina interrupted, her Scottish brogue more pronounced than usual. “I ken ye are flustered after Lord Wilton kissed ye last night at the ball, but surely his kisses werenae that terrible?”

She scowled at Raina, who was the only one of her friends who knew thus far on account of the dare. “They were not terrible at all, and that is part of the problem.”

“You kissed the viscount?” Melanie asked, gawking at her. “I thought you said he was a bore and a killjoy.”

“I did, and he is,” she growled. “That is quite enough of this conversation, if you please.”

“Oh no,” Clementine crowed, the matchmaker in her likely brought to life by the sudden turn in subject. “Do not think you can be surly with your friends and then refuse to give us more details when we discover you have been kissing Viscount Wilton.”

“Do lower your voice, Tiny!” she snapped, nettled anew.

Clementine cast a frantic glance around them to make certain none of their fellow houseguests were nearby. They had rounded a bend, which gave way to an unobstructed view of the pond. And there, on the opposite bank stood the familiar form of one Viscount Wilton. He was fishing, flanked by two other gentlemen.

Curse her rotten luck. As if he had been produced from the wild imaginings of her mind, there he was.

“We require details,” Angeline said brightly, ever the ray of sunshine in their coterie.

“Yes,” Melanie agreed. “Beginning with when you kissed Lord Wilton at the ball last night.”

Drat her friends.

“Please do stop using the words kiss and Wilton in the same sentence,” she protested grimly.

“Why?” Clementine asked, her bright-blue eyes flashing with mischief beneath the massive brim of her hat. “Do you not like talking about kissing Lord Wilton?”

Her cheeks went hot.

“No,” she said, feeling quite disagreeable. “I do not.”

“But you have kissed any number of gentlemen in the past,” Melanie observed.

“Probably hundreds,” Clementine teased.

“Hardly hundreds,” she grumbled.

But definitely at least a dozen.

And none of them had made her feel the way Viscount Wilton had.

Not that it mattered. Wilton was a bore. And a killjoy. And the other dreadful things she had said about him as well. He was a…a…prig!

A prig whose kisses she could not seem to stop reliving. Blast the man!

“You know I was not intending to pay you insult,” Clementine offered. “I was attempting to make you laugh.”

“I believe what Clementine is trying to say is that ye havenae been this unsettled over a man’s kisses since, well, ever,” Raina added.

How good of her friends to take note.

Charity huffed a sigh of irritation. “If you must know, it is because he did not recognize me.”

There. She had admitted it. Her vanity had been affected.

“Ah,” Olive said. “And everyone always recognizes Lady Charity Manners.”

Well, they ordinarily did. Whether it was amongst society, at a country house party, or even in a painting. Oh, why had she allowed Peter to paint her as Venus? She wished she could recall.

But her past foibles were just that—past. Still, when her friend phrased it thus, Charity could not help but to feel as if she was vainer than she had realized.

She cleared her throat. “I suppose my pride was wounded. We spoke. We kissed. And then he told me he did not know my name.”

“What did you tell him your name was?”

“Flora,” she admitted.

“So Wilton kissed you, you enjoyed it, and he has no notion you are the lady he kissed,” Melanie said, consolidating all Charity’s woes into one tidy sentence.

“Yes,” she agreed, feeling miserable. “That is the sum of my predicament.”

They were nearly upon the gentlemen now. In proximity enough that their voices were in danger of carrying and their conversation being heard.

“And you expected him to recognize you despite your mask?” Olive probed, ever the rational one of them.

That was a point. It had also been dark. However, she had spoken to him on more than one occasion at this cursed house party. How had he not recalled her voice? Mayhap it was ridiculous of her, but Charity was decidedly unfamiliar with longing for a gentleman. Gentlemen were always longing for her. True, not all had been gentlemen, but that was another matter entirely…

“I ken ye arenae accustomed to gentlemen not fawning all over ye,” Raina said softly, as if reading Charity’s thoughts, “but since ye dinnae care for the viscount, it hardly matters whether or not he kens ye are the one he kissed.”

“Do hush,” she chastised her flame-haired friend. “If Wilty discovers I am the one he kissed last night, I shall be mortified.”

“Wilty?” Angeline asked with a knowing grin before being distracted by the fishermen they approached. “Oh heavens, it is Rafe. I do so love the breadth of his shoulders.”

The last was uttered with a lovelorn sigh.

What rot. At least, unlike half her friends who had been assembled at Lady Fangfoss’s house party, Charity was in no danger of falling in love and making a fool of herself over a man. She, Melanie, and Raina clearly were the only ones of the bunch who had retained their wits about them.

“You invented a sobriquet for him?” Clementine persisted, apparently not as easily distracted by the appearance of Dorset as Angeline was of her betrothed.

Thankfully, Charity was saved from having to answer her friend’s question by Rothbury calling out a welcoming hullo to Angeline, who went rushing to his side. Charity and the rest of the chums followed in Angeline’s wake.

When Viscount Wilton’s gaze met hers from beneath the brim of his hat, she could not deny the spark that ignited into a ravaging flame.

* * *

Neville suppresseda sigh as the nibble on his line disappeared before he could land his catch and at the unexpected arrival of some fellow houseguests. Of the feminine variety. The group of ladies, including Miss Melanie Pennypacker, abruptly encroached upon the previously blissful quiet of his fishing expedition with Rothbury and Dorset, chasing Neville’s peace along with his fish.

He supposed this meant he ought to be social. Seize another chance to speak with Miss Pennypacker and ascertain whether or not she might prove amenable to a proposal. They had danced once at the previous evening’s masque ball by pure coincidence when he had chosen a lady with dark hair as his partner. Her American accent had given her away.

Their quadrille had passed pleasantly enough, but he had not been presented with much opportunity to press his suit. Strangely, although he had previously been quite keen on the prospect of Miss Pennypacker as his bride, he felt remarkably less enthused both during last night’s dance and now.

He could think of no other reason save one for that sea change.

Flora.

Since last night, Neville had been able to think of precious little other than the goddess who had lured him into the shadows of the garden and goaded him into kissing her beneath the moonlight. And kissing her. And kissing her.

He would have liked to have done far more than kiss her.

Best not to think of that now. Not in the midst of the afternoon when he had a fishing pole in hand and was surrounded by a gaggle of ladies who were giggling as if they possessed a shared secret. Likely, they did. Neville was sure he was not the only man who possessed a rampant curiosity about just what it was ladies discussed when they were alone.

Hats?

Dresses?

The books they read?

He truly had no notion. Perhaps knowing the answer would have aided him in his quest of acquiring a suitable bride. One who was most definitely not the sort of lady to mistake him for a different man in the gardens and almost bring him to his knees with her sensual awareness.

No, Flora was not for him. Which meant he truly needed to cease staring at the pond’s sun-bedecked surface and converse with the rest of the company. Specifically, Miss Melanie Pennypacker.

Unfortunately, it was the disagreeable Lady Charity Mannerless who caught his attention first instead of her friend. There was no denying Lady Charity was beautiful. Their gazes clashed, and a shock of something primeval washed over him.

Desire and awareness mixed with something else.

No, surely not.

He was imagining Flora now, looking for her everywhere. Just because Lady Charity’s bosom was bountiful and she appeared to be of similar height did not mean she had been Flora. He would have known, by God.

Would he not have?

Her full lips tightened and she glanced away, severing the connection. He reminded himself of the necessity of interviewing Miss Pennypacker and pulled in his line, before setting his rod aside and joining the assembled group.

Lady Raina, Lady Charity, and Miss Olive L’arbre were chatting away. Dorset and Lady Clementine were engaged in deep conversation, and Lady Angeline and Rothbury were grinning at each other like a pair of fools. Well, surely that was what the simplistic concept of love did to one.

But fortunately, Miss Pennypacker was on the fringe of the group, enabling Neville to edge nearer for a tête-à-tête.

“Miss Pennypacker,” he greeted her. “How pleased I am to see you this afternoon.”

She was lovely and a delight to speak with, her mind excellent. What the devil was wrong with him? He could only blame his lack of enthusiasm upon one thing. Er, one woman.

Flora.

Curse her.

Miss Pennypacker offered him a pleasant smile. “Lord Wilton. I am pleased to see you as well.”

They stared at each other in awkward silence for a moment, Neville attempting to remind himself of all the reasons why the American heiress would prove an excellent viscountess.

He cleared his throat. “The day is warm.”

What a bloody nonsensical thing to say. Was this how he wooed a woman? Once more, he thought of those wicked kisses he had shared with his mystery lady the evening before. His gaze lowered to Miss Pennypacker’s lips for a brief moment. It was a perfectly acceptable mouth, but he felt nothing when he looked at it. No urge to feel it beneath his. No overwhelming bolt of lust. Just…nothing.

“It is indeed a warm day,” Miss Pennypacker said agreeably.

Silence reigned for another interminable space of time. It could have been thirty seconds or five minutes. All he knew was that it was painful.

“An excellent day for fishing,” he forced out.

“Have you caught a fish yet?” she asked.

“No.”

“I see.”

“What is a fishing rod’s favorite dance?” he found himself asking.

Miss Pennypacker’s brow furrowed. “I beg your pardon?”

“A reel,” he answered for her, then suppressed a groan.

What the devil was he doing? He had believed himself long beyond these old agitations.

More silence reigned, punctuated by snippets of the nearby conversations reaching him and the singing of birds. Someone said something about Amenhotep’s scepter and Aberdeen Jones, and then everyone laughed.

“I understand you have conditions,” he said, and then could have kicked himself in the arse when he realized he was not meant to have overheard her conversation with Lady Charity. “I was wondering if I might meet them. Your requirements, that is.”

No, that was not any better, was it? Neville felt as if he had swallowed a bug. Had Lady Charity told Miss Pennypacker about his unintentional eavesdropping? And if so, would Miss Pennypacker believe it had been unintentional?

Miss Pennypacker’s smile grew. “I had no notion you were interested in business, Lord Wilton!”

Business? That seemed a rather cold, impersonal manner of describing a marriage, even for him.

“Recently, it has come to mind as a duty I ought to pay additional consideration.” He would have winced at the dour manner in which he described the matrimonial state himself, but the damned glue Anderson had used on the mustache and beard had irritated his skin, rendering facial expressions of any sort deuced uncomfortable at the moment.

“Of course it is!” Miss Pennypacker said, her countenance becoming suddenly animated. “However, I must disagree that diligence in business matters is a duty. With the proper mindset, business can be a joy. Department stores are the way of the future, and there has never been a better time than now to invest in building one’s own.”

Business matters?

Department stores?

Neville blinked. “Of course.”

What the devil was Miss Pennypacker nattering on about? Had she mistaken him, or had he mistaken her?

“How refreshing it is to speak with a gentleman who is not afraid of a woman desirous of owning her own business,” Miss Pennypacker was saying. “It is that precise lack of respect which has me seeking a male partner to aid me in my quest of opening a department store in London.”

And then realization hit him, rather in the fashion of not just a branch falling upon his head, but an entire tree.

Hehad misunderstood her. From the moment their paths had first crossed at this house party, he had been considering her as a potential candidate for his wife. Meanwhile, she had been considering him as a potential candidate for business.

“Your conditions are in relation to the man whom you would take on as a business partner, Miss Pennypacker?”

“Why yes, of course. I apologize if it seems harsh, but I do possess expectations.”

How interested she seemed in the conversation now. How vibrant and alive. Pity he did not produce a similar reaction in her. But then, after meeting the elusive Flora in the gardens, it was painfully clear to him that he wanted at least a glimmer of passion in his marriage. Perhaps not the wild conflagration which had overwhelmed him last night, but something more than polite interest.

Best to disabuse Miss Pennypacker of the idea that he was as devoted to the idea of opening a department store as she was. The truth was anything but.

“While I find your goal and enthusiasm both admirable,” he told her, “unfortunately, I do not believe myself to be the man you seek.”

“You are not?” Miss Pennypacker appeared crestfallen.

Yes, her interest had been in his potential as an investor, not as a suitor. That was rather damaging for the pride. Not that he had much of it.

“No,” he said gently, alarmed by the rising tide of relief within him.

Miss Pennypacker was not the woman for him, and that much was clear. However, the wanton Flora he had cavorted with in the gardens was decidedly not the woman for him either. What manner of lady went about kissing in the moonlight? Allowing a gentleman to kiss her breasts?

Those breasts had been magnificent. He ought to have given in to his instinctive urge and pulled down her bodice so they sprang free. However, now was not the moment to be thinking such base and crude thoughts.

What a despicable beast he was, thinking of Flora’s breasts when in the company of Miss Pennypacker.

“Pity,” said the lady at his side. “I did have hopes to find an investor before this house party is at an end, and the likelihood of securing one wanes with each passing day. I suppose you were speaking of something else entirely, then, my lord, and I misunderstood. My requirements, you said. What was it you meant?”

Marriage.

But he could hardly say so now.

“Your requirements for a good book,” he invented.

“Lady Charity loves to read,” Miss Pennypacker said. “You ought to speak with her about it.”

Lady Charity Mannerless? No, thank you. He would sooner lick the scum from the bottom of the pond than suffer her presence for a minute.

He was about to say so in less insulting terms when Miss Pennypacker disappeared, hastening across the grass to Lady Charity whose arm she clutched before hauling her back to where Neville stood at the pond’s edge.

“Here you are!” Miss Pennypacker announced, grinning. “Lord Wilton was just telling me he wishes to speak about what constitutes a good book. Oh dear, it looks as if Lady Raina requires my aid with her hat. If you will excuse me?”

Miss Pennypacker did not wait for either Neville or Lady Charity to respond before fleeing and leaving the two of them standing awkwardly together. Lady Charity did not appear any more pleased to be in his presence than he was in hers.

“Lady Charity,” he acknowledged stiffly.

“Wilty.”

His jaw clenched. “Wilton.”

“You wished to discuss books?” she asked, ignoring his correction of her insulting sobriquet.

“What never asks questions but requires many answers?” he asked her instead.

Her lips pursed. “I hardly know the answer, my lord.”

“A door-knocker,” he elaborated, but he was not thinking about his joke now.

A strange moment of recognition hit him. That voice, husky and mellifluous. That mouth, so full, the Cupid’s bow pronounced in a unique fashion. A slight breeze blew, and a scent reached him. A familiar scent. Orange and rose.

By God, it could not be. Lady Charity Mannerless was not his Flora.

Was she?

His gaze dipped to her bosom, hidden beneath her demure promenade gown, and he had to admit that the swell was familiar as well.

“Flora.” The name fled him, the answer to a prayer and a curse all in one. “It was you.”

Her lips—lips he had felt soft and satiny and warm beneath his, lips he had thought about nearly ceaselessly since the night before—tightened into a thin line. “I have no notion what you are speaking of, sir. What is that redness on your chin?”

His hand went to the rash left by Anderson’s cursed theater concoction. How indelicate of her to note it. “My skin is irritated thanks to the method my valet employed to attach my false beard and mustache for the masque.”

“Does it itch?”

He frowned at her. “It is none of your concern.”

“I have a cream which might aid you,” she said with an indelicate shrug.

“You are attempting to distract me,” he countered, not believing her offer of a potential medicinal aid in the slightest. “Admit it, Lady Charity.”

Her eyes went wide. Brilliant blue fringed with thick, golden lashes. He had not been able to discern their color in the moonlight, but they dazzled him now as they had on previous occasions.

More so, perhaps.

His heart thumped hard.

She was Flora.

“Admit what, my lord?” she asked, feigning confusion.

And quite prettily too. The most ridiculous urge struck him. He wanted to kiss her, here and now, before the others. Without a care for propriety or who might be watching.

“Admit that you are Flora,” he elaborated, “and that you are trying—quite poorly, I might add—to divert me from my course.”

“Who is Flora?”

“The woman who all but begged me to kiss her last night.”

The woman I spent a good deal of time fantasizing about whilst taking myself in hand.

Words he could never say aloud.

Yes indeed, he was a true beast. He ought to be ashamed, but Neville was not certain if his discovery that Flora was Lady Charity made his base lust less or more appalling.

She pressed a hand to her heart, drawing his attention back to her bosom once more. “My lord, I would never do something so bold. I am afraid you must have me confused with another.”

He stepped nearer to her, forgetting in his need to make her admit the truth that they had an audience nearby. “I kissed you.”

And he wanted to kiss her again. Which was absolute recklessness on his part. Lady Charity was not any wiser a choice of bride than Flora had been. He did not want a wife who was bold and wild and dared gentlemen to kiss her in the moonlit gardens.

Did he?

Yes, whispered a voice within.

No, countered his mind quite sternly.

Her lips parted, and she gazed up at him much as she had the night before. “You did not.”

“I did,” he repeated. “And you liked it.”

He had liked it as well.

He had more than liked it.

This was a problem. Lady Charity was a problem.

Neville severely disliked problems.

The air between them became charged, as if live electrical wires had been dropped into their midst. They stared at each other, gazes locked, in a stalemate.

“I have no idea what you are speaking of,” said those bewitching lips.

“Why are you lying?” he bit out, needing to know.

Was she toying with him? Had this been her plan? Had she known it was him on the terrace last night, and if she had, why taunt him into kissing her only to pretend as if she had no recollection of their fiery exchange the next day?

Questions without answers. Neville did not like those either.

“You seem distressed.” The corners of her mouth twitched, as if she made an effort to suppress her smile. “Is it your rash which has you at sixes and sevens? You never did say whether it is the sort of irritation which stings or itches.”

There was not a shred of doubt remaining within him that she was enjoying this.

He pinned her with a narrowed stare. “You are the source of my distress, Lady Charity.”

Also the inconvenient lust rising once more. How could he find her so simultaneously infuriating and desirable?

“You were speaking with Miss Pennypacker for quite some time,” she said, skirting around his statement. “Did you declare your undying devotion to her and beg to make her your viscountess?”

Did he detect a note of jealousy in her tone?

Interesting.

Perhaps the reason for her evasion of his questions was that she feared he had just become betrothed to her friend.

He could set her mind at ease on that score. “No. I have discovered that Miss Pennypacker’s interests lie primarily in seeking a business partner to invest in a factory.”

“A department store,” Lady Charity corrected.

As if it signified.

“A department store,” he agreed, unable to resist dipping his head for just a moment, bringing his mouth perilously nearer to hers before retreating.

“Hmm,” was all Lady Charity said to that, a noncommittal hum. She was silent for a moment, then tilted her head, regarding him in a considering fashion. “Do you still intend to try to dissuade her from her course?”

“Of course not. I admire a lady who knows her mind.”

She gave him another hmm, her eyes narrowing.

She was such a vexing woman. Why had he ever kissed her?

He gritted his teeth. “Words, if you please, Lady Charity.”

“You do not want to marry Miss Pennypacker?”

“I will find another bride who finds the match agreeable.”

“Why are you so determined to marry?”

Suddenly she was curious? Two could play at her game.

“I will tell you when you admit you are Flora,” he countered, feeling immensely pleased with himself.

He was not certain why it was suddenly so important to him that she admit the truth about those kisses. Like his reaction to her, or the sky above, it simply was.

“And I shall tell you if you allow me to apply some of my cream to your rash,” she said, surprising him.

“For all I know, your cream is actually some sort of dye and it will turn my lip and chin a frightful shade of blue.”

She grinned, revealing a dimple in her right cheek. “How diabolical of you, Wilty. I promise that I will not dye your face. How is that for reassurance?”

Wilty.

Vexing minx.

God, she was beautiful.

Not for you, he reminded himself. She is not for you.

“As reassuring as a lifelong thief promising he will not touch the family silver.”

“Are you comparing me to a thief?” she demanded, sounding insulted.

A thief of his mind and all his ration and reason, yes. Absolutely.

“No, I was merely using the analogy to carefully illustrate my point, Lady Charity.”

“Meet me in the library in two hours,” she ordered him. “I shall bring my cream.”

“I will do nothing of the sort,” he denied, even as his foolish pulse leapt at the notion of seeing her again so soon.

And of possibly being alone.

All the more reason to avoid such a catastrophe altogether.

“Two hours, Wilty.” She waggled her fingers just as she had done that day in the picture gallery. “Do not be tardy.”