The Venus and the Viscount by Scarlett Scott

Chapter 4

Viscount Wilton was going to leave her standing here alone in the library, clutching the pot of the cold cream her lady’s maid used for various means, including cleansing and soothing irritated skin. The rose and orange water never failed to leave Charity feeling refreshed and smelling lovely, and she had no doubt it would have done wonders for his poor chin and upper lip.

Lady Perfect’s Cold Cream, which had been developed by Lady Shelbourne and had begun by selling in America, had become all the rage in London. Charity was eternally grateful her enterprising lady’s maid had managed to secure her several pots of the scarce cream, which was not easy to be had on account of its popularity.

And she had been willing to share it.

With an undeserving, handsome killjoy of a viscount whose kisses were nothing short of deliciously sinful.

Thankfully, she was alone, none of her fellow guests or friends to witness her folly. She had chosen the time of their meeting with care, just when the house party would be retiring to prepare for dinner. No chance of any interruptions, one would hope. It would not do to be caught alone with any gentleman at this house party, and most especially not Viscount Wilton. Her dear friend Clementine may have found herself in a compromising position with her betrothed the Marquess of Dorset, but Charity had absolutely no intention of allowing herself to be forced into marriage.

She had plans. Plans which decidedly did not include finding herself cozened into an unwanted, untenable society union with a dreadfully dull lord.

He did not seem so dull when his tongue was in my mouth.

Wretched thought! She was made of sterner stuff.

She paced the length of the library once more, attempting to distract herself by enjoying the view over the Fangfoss Manor park, visible through the windows. Not only was there no chance of interruptions, but there also appeared to be no chance of Lord Wilton arriving to accept her offer either.

Oh, why had she chosen to offer this olive branch? Two hours—and counting—later, removed from his magnetism and the joy that had overcome her at knowing the man who had kissed her senseless had recognized her and was not attempting to marry her dear friend, and she could not arrive at a suitable answer to her own question. It had been foolishness. The summer sun. Her bruised pride.

Because I wanted to see him again, preferably alone.

No!Strike that. Wilton was not for her, regardless of how wonderfully he kissed. No man was for her. Nor was marriage. She had many adventures with Auntie Louise awaiting her.

“You seem agitated.”

The low voice behind her had Charity wheeling about with a squeak in her throat. She pressed a hand to her madly thumping heart.

Wilton had come.

His hat was gone, leaving the golden waves of his hair available for her admiration. He moved with an easy grace that belied his height and his occasional tendency toward pomposity as well. Yet there remained something so intriguingly guarded about him. She wished she would not find him so curiously compelling.

“I was growing tired of waiting,” she told him, hoping he had not heard the squeak she had emitted.

“You sounded rather like a mouse just now. I do not suppose you were loud enough to bring the entire household upon us, but your fright was deuced inconvenient.”

Well, then. So much for that hope.

“You gave me a start.”

His brow rose in haughty fashion. “You asked me to meet you here. Had you forgotten?”

“Of course not.” Truly, the man was utterly vexing. “I was merely distracted and you took me by surprise.” She held up the pot of cold cream. “Why should I be carrying this about otherwise?”

He eyed Lady Perfect’s with a grim stare. “You promise there is nothing nefarious in that concoction of yours?”

She moved toward him, nettled that he believed her a candidate for such a childish prank. “Do you truly suppose I would dye your face?”

He met her halfway, until they were standing in the center of the library together, near enough to touch and yet enough distance between them to remain respectable lest they suffer an interruption.

Wilton gave her an assessing glance, his green gaze remarkably vivid even in the shadows of the cavernous space. “I cannot be certain when it comes to you, Lady Charity.”

That made two of them. She was not certain what she was doing here and now, in this room, alone with him.

“I promise I have no intention of harming your face.” She unscrewed the lid on the pot of cold cream and extended it for his perusal. “Would you care to examine it before I apply it?”

He leaned forward, giving it a sniff. “It smells innocuous enough.”

She would have laughed at the silliness of the moment had an intense, searing need not bolted through her. A yearning to feel that wicked mouth of his on hers once more. What was the matter with her? Surely there was nothing irresistible about one proper viscount. Nothing at all.

“I have already assured you it is perfectly safe,” she bit out, her irritation with herself making the words emerge sharper than she had intended.

His poor chin—an excellent chin, she grudgingly acknowledged, with a divot in the center and a strong jaw—was quite irritated. Perhaps it had been exacerbated by the shave his valet had presumably given him that morning. Charity found herself struck by the odd and unwanted urge to run her fingertips along his face. Would she feel the prickle of golden whiskers, or would his skin be smooth from the razor’s edge?

“I shall try it, I suppose,” he said, sounding reluctant, his smile wry. “The rash does rather itch.”

Her gaze went to his upper lip, the well-defined philtrum marred by redness as well. She had to admit, she preferred him without his Shakespearean mustache. Then her eyes traveled to his mouth. Inevitably, she thought once more about those sinful kisses.

I must cease thinking about his lips.

She dipped her fingers into the cream to distract herself. Silky coolness greeted her as she scooped out a small amount. “Here you are, then.”

Another step forward. She smoothed the cream over his chin. The slightest prick of his whiskers met her touch, answering her question. And something else happened too when she rubbed the cream gently over the affected area, working it into his skin. Heat skipped from her fingers past her wrist, up her elbow. An answering warmth pooled in her belly. The air turned heavy.

Their gazes met and held.

“Why did the corset-maker never go anywhere?” he asked.

Strangely, his sudden query did nothing to vanquish the headiness of the moment.

“I do not know,” she admitted.

“She preferred to stay at home.”

A bubble of laughter escaped her. “That was rather clever.”

“All my jokes are clever.” His teasing tone belied the bombastic nature of his words.

Curse him, why was he so handsome?

“How does that feel?” she forced herself to ask, hating the sudden husky quality of her voice.

“Quite…pleasant.”

Did he not feel what she felt, this wild magnetism drawing her to him? She moved to his upper lip next, trying to tamp down the rising tide of need. Every part of her was aflame, but she had no wish to allow him to know the effect he had upon her. Still, as she applied a bit more Lady Perfect’s to the rash where his mustache had been, she found herself tracing the upper line of his lips. It was quite fine.

He surprised her by taking her wrist in a gentle hold and pressing a kiss to the palm of her hand.

They both froze. He seemed as taken aback by his action as she.

Hastily, he guided her hand away from his mouth and released her, clearing his throat. “Thank you, Lady Charity.”

Did he truly mean to pretend that kiss had not just happened? Her palm felt as if it had received a brand. She had felt the subtle brush of his lips over her bare skin between her thighs. And there it remained in a pulsing ache.

She desired Viscount Wilton.

What in heaven’s name was she to do with this knowledge?

“You are quite welcome,” she said, screwing the lid atop the pot of Lady Perfect’s before extending it to him. “You may have this if you would like. My lady’s maid brought a spare along for the trip.”

Why am I giving him my cold cream?

Why do I burn to kiss him again?

Wilton accepted her offering, his fingers brushing hers as he took the pot from her and slipped it inside a pocket in his coat. “I appreciate your generosity, my lady. Now, if I recall correctly, you owe me something.”

Irritating man. The rash on his chin and upper lip and the sheen of cold cream should have detracted from his allure, and yet they did not.

It was her turn to raise a brow. “What do I owe you?”

“Your confirmation that you are Flora. Our bargain was that I would allow you to use your sorcery upon me, and in exchange, you would admit the truth.”

He was not wrong, curse him.

“You owe me an answer as well,” she pointed out.

“That was hardly an even exchange. An answer from me and your potion in exchange for one concession from you.” He shook his head. “Allowing you to smear cream on my chin ought to suffice.”

“You cannot change a bargain after it has been struck.”

“Tell me you are Flora.”

“Tell me why you are so fixed upon finding a bride.” Why was she curious, anyway? It hardly mattered.

And yet, she wanted to know.

“Tell me.” He stepped closer.

Scarcely any space between them now.

“You first.” She was entering dangerous territory, and she knew it.

He was going to kiss her.

She sensed the change, the spark. She had time to move. To step away. To gather her wits and flee the library.

Instead, she settled her hands on his shoulders and turned her face up to his. He cupped her cheek and lowered his head. Their lips collided, the viscount taking care to keep from smearing the cold cream on her mouth as they kissed. It was sweet and not nearly as carnal as those kisses in the gardens. She wanted more.

While every instinct within urged her to end this nonsense, her body was not listening to reason. She hungered for this man in a way that took her by surprise. Charity rose on her toes to press her lips more firmly to his and used her tongue to trace the seam.

On a growl, he opened to her, deepening the kiss. The scent of orange and rose mingled with musky man, and this, too, heightened her awareness of him. More sparks. More warmth. More blistering, unfettered longing.

What was it about him?

I do not like this man, she reminded herself yet again.

And yet, it did not matter. Nothing did matter but more of his lips on hers. More kisses.

Abruptly, he raised his head, his gaze searing hers. “Tell me you are Flora.”

This could be a fun game. “Who is Flora?”

He kissed her again.

She kissed him back. This time, her fingers swept down his shoulders, over the hardness of his chest. Inside his coat, her hands found the soft fabric of his waistcoat and the hard, unyielding planes of his body.

It was as if they were propelled back in time to the moonlit gardens. Desire replaced all else. Never mind they were in the library, at a country house party attended by countless other guests, that these kisses by the light of day were far more dangerous than the kisses they had shared the night before. She was lost. Caught up in him. Her mind was a jumble of words and pleas that did not make it to her busy lips.

Yes. More. Never stop.

As if he heard her, Wilton kissed her harder, deeper. Those lips moved over hers with such tender finesse just as they had in the gardens. Kissed her breathless, senseless, until her knees threatened to give out. She clutched at his waist beneath his coat, holding him tight. He was a lean man, and the heat of him was almost scalding.

Why had she never touched a man thus before? Learning all the ways his body was different from hers was invigorating. Delicious. Wicked.

Wrong.

But she was not going to stop.

And neither was he.

Wilton trailed kisses along her jaw. Down her throat. The graze of his teeth against her sensitive flesh had a moan spilling from her.

“Tell me,” he whispered.

And still, she wanted to withhold the truth. To prolong the moment. To prolong the madness of his kisses and this spell he somehow cast over her.

“No.”

“Curse you.” He kissed to the hollow at the base of her throat, his tongue flicking against her skin.

Liquid desire drenched her core. This made no sense, her reaction to him. Yet somehow, it made all the sense in the world. She had never been the sort of person who did things in the ordinary way. She flouted convention. She ignored the rules. She kissed gentlemen. She posed for paintings. She laughed and danced and sang and did not fit into the mold which had been cast for her. Of course she would also find herself helplessly drawn to the least likely man at the country house party.

The man who had overheard her deriding him to Melanie in the picture gallery.

The man who nervously delivered puns.

The man who was proper and boring and stern.

He cupped her breast through the bodice of her gown.

Oh! He is most certainly not being proper or boring now…

A giggle stole through her wild thoughts. A young, impish giggle she recognized all too well. Wilton heard it too, for he stiffened beneath her touch.

Ewan, that scamp!

Charity and the viscount hastily disengaged in time to see the towheaded lad running across the Axminster, laughing as he went. Of all the interlopers to have witnessed their scandalous interlude, at least the young, mischievous lad was the most harmless. He would neither know enough to tell anyone what he had witnessed nor summon outrage and demand Charity and Wilton marry.

“Ewan, what are you doing in the library?” she asked, exasperated and doing her best to pretend she had not just been caught in a passionate embrace with the man at her side.

Of course, no answer was forthcoming. Instead, Ewan snatched up a pillow on one of the chairs before racing from the library.

When he had disappeared into the hall beyond, Charity sighed with relief and turned to Wilton, who was watching her with a guarded expression.

“That was badly done of me, Lady Charity. I beg your forgiveness.”

It was not his apology she wanted, and Charity had to tamp down a surge of disappointment at his reaction. As he had done last night, he kissed her with such delicious passion, only to withdraw and return to his icy, proper shell.

Was there more to the viscount than the face he presented to the world? But then, if there was, why should she care? After her stay at Fangfoss Manor, she and Auntie Louise were on to the Continent and all the freedom it entailed. She had no intention of returning to England. Charity’s parents, who doted upon their heir and her elder sister, would scarcely miss her. Mama and Papa already considered her a lost cause. And with two children who had done their duties and married well, producing the required progeny, what need had they of the prodigal daughter, anyway?

“Lady Charity?” the viscount prodded now, tearing her from her thoughts.

“You are forgiven, of course,” she said. “I daresay I was as complicit as you. Ewan will not carry a tale, however. You need not fear word of our indecorousness will spread.”

Wilton said nothing to that, merely stroked his jaw as if contemplating something before breaking his silence at last. “What do you suppose the lad is doing with his spoils?”

No one knew, but since the house party’s beginning several weeks ago, the lad had been running wild over the household, filching personal items from the guests and various Fangfoss Manor bric-a-brac. The rascal had stolen Olive’s spectacles, and everyone knew Olive could scarcely see without them. Thankfully, she had possessed a second pair.

“I have no notion,” Charity said, doing her best to tamp down her frustration that after the kisses they had just shared, Wilton was more concerned with Ewan’s thefts than the desire sparking between them.

“I suppose it hardly signifies. I merely find it curious, the lad scampering about, causing havoc, no one seeming to know whom he belongs to.”

They knew. But it was a closely guarded secret amongst the friends.

The need to flee the library and the viscount’s maddening presence both trumped everything else in that moment. She had to escape, clutching the remaining shreds of pride she yet possessed. For while her kisses with Wilton had been the most moving she had ever experienced, he acted as if he were scarcely affected. It had taken him nearly an entire day to realize she was the woman he had kissed in the gardens.

She shrugged, hoping her sangfroid had not entirely deserted her. “I must dress for dinner. The hour grows late, and we have already tarried here for far too long. If you will excuse me, my lord?”

And how was that for a dignified exit? Charity swept past him. She had not gone far when his low words trailed after her.

“Thank you for the cream, Flora. It is not every day a goddess shares her potions with me.”

She did not look back, and neither did she stop. But curse the man, she was smiling and that strange, buoyant sensation had returned to her belly as she left the library and him behind.

A goddess, was she?

Quellesurprise. Wilty could kiss, and he could charm.