The Venus and the Viscount by Scarlett Scott

Chapter 5

The amusements Lady Fangfoss had planned for the day after his meeting in the library with Lady Charity did not leave Neville particularly enthused. Instead, following an early breakfast—early because he had been unable to sleep for the second night in a row—he departed the manor house for a walk. He did not manage to get far when he realized his error in judgment. The recent rains which had been pelting the countryside had rendered the walking paths little more than muck that threatened to steal his damned boots with each step.

He was heading in the direction of the Roman ruins excavation site in an effort to occupy his mind. Perhaps the search for an errant, left-behind artifact would prove a proper diversion. But distraction ever since those most unwise kisses with Lady Charity in the library—and the equally unwise embrace at the masque ball—had been impossible.

Not just impossible.

Bloodyimpossible.

As bloody impossible as navigating this cursed mud.

With an irritated sigh, he turned away from his attempt at visiting the Roman excavations. No sense in losing his boots. He had already lost his mind. Instead, he turned in the direction of the extensive Fangfoss Manor gardens. Mayhap a turn in the maze—or two, or three hundred—would cure him of what ailed him, all whilst the gravel installed on the path ensured he would not forfeit a boot to the Yorkshire landscape.

He was feeling damned tired.

And despicably randy.

And terribly irritated.

And disappointed in himself.

Neville clenched his jaw as he found the entrance to the maze and slipped within. He was ordinarily a man of reason and ration. He made decisions calmly, meticulously. He had chosen to come to this house party that he might obtain a wife. In his journal, he had crafted a careful list of all the qualities his future viscountess ought to possess.

None of those attributes were vexing, desirable to a fault, bold, hoydenish, scandalous…

Damn! Ballocks! Cock!

Neville was not a man who used oaths or crudity lightly. Not even in his own mind. But this disastrous state of affairs—the desire for Lady Charity Mannerless which threatened to tear him apart—was cause for epithets. It was also cause for stern admonishments by the somewhat cloud-obscured light of day. He had lost his head with her. Lost control with her.

But he was serious about finding a wife. And Lady Charity was not the viscountess he had planned to secure. He wanted a lady who was calm. A lady who was polite. A lady who did not cause scandals.

By God, a lady who had not posed for a nude painting of Venus. He found himself wondering if the breasts he had only been able to enjoy through the barriers of fabric and corset were indeed as generous as the breasts on the Richards painting at the Grosvenor Gallery. Were her nipples the same shade of apricot as the picture? When he had imagined them last night while he was alone in his bed with a raging cockstand, desperate to find release, he had fancied they were pink.

The same tempting, perfect pink as Lady Charity’s beautiful lips.

Why the devil was he thinking of Lady Charity’s nipples? Or her lips? The color of either scarcely mattered, he admonished himself. She was not for him. And nor was he for her. Not any more than Miss Melanie Pennypacker was suited to him. Or, it increasingly appeared, any of the other ladies in attendance at this house party.

Of course, he had never felt a modicum of what he felt for Lady Charity for another lady. He could admit as much to himself now, here, in this moment of solitude. He turned left in the maze, then right, left, right, and so forth he went. The boxwood hedges were immaculately groomed. A man could easily get lost in this maze.

But then, he supposed that was rather the intent.

And in so losing himself, perhaps he might ultimately find himself?

Neville scarcely knew any longer. All he did know was that the clouds overhead, whilst gray, did not appear particularly ominous this morning.

As he turned another corner in the maze, he nearly collided with another early-morning riser. He stopped short of charging into the unfortunate lady, who he recognized instantly as Lady Louise Manners, Charity’s maiden aunt and her chaperone for the house party. Even if he had not already been acquainted with her, the undeniable resemblance Charity bore to her aunt would have given the familial connection away.

He offered a formal bow. “Lady Louise. Please do forgive me for being so graceless that I almost knocked you over. I imagined myself alone in the maze this morning.”

The older woman smiled at him. “You are forgiven, of course, Lord Wilton. I am pleased to see you, and I assure you that I am not so old and infirm that I would have toppled over had we collided.”

Damn.Had he made a muck of the conversation? He was not sure why it mattered, but the urge to make Lady Louise like him was sudden and strong. He could not shake it.

He felt awkward, which was rather an ordinary occurrence for him in social situations. Unless he was kissing Lady Charity, that was. But no, mustn’t think of that now, old chap.

“Why is a gooseberry tart like a bad sixpence?” he blurted.

Lady Louise quirked a brow. “I am afraid I do not know, my lord.”

“Because it is not currant,” Neville finished his joke. Truly! This was the second currant joke he had told since his terrible affliction had returned. He hastened to change the subject. “I did not mean to suggest you were either old or infirm, my lady. I must apologize for my lack of eloquence as well.”

“I was teasing you, my lord.” Lady Louise’s eyes, the same vibrant shade as her niece’s, sparkled with wit and amusement. “Surely you have been teased before?”

Yes. By none other than Lady Charity Manners.

“On an occasion or two,” he admitted, finding himself smiling back at her easy manner. Although they had chatted politely on an occasion or two, they had exchanged pleasantries. The weather, which forever seemed to be rain, et cetera.

“Tell me, Lord Wilton, why are you wandering about the maze so early this morning?” she asked.

“I was thinking,” he admitted.

“That sounds dreadfully serious.”

“It is.” He paused. “Er, it was.”

“Does that mean you are no longer thinking now? Have you decided upon your course?”

He raised a brow at Charity’s aunt. “Why should you think I was settling on a course?”

“You have the look of a gentleman making a large decision, as if the very weight of the world is heavy upon your shoulders, my lord.” The smile she gave him now was small, almost sympathetic.

Maternal.

His own mother had died when Neville had been a young lad. His only memories of her were the scent of her perfume and hiding in her skirts when his father was in the nursery. She had been a comforting presence in his life. Gone far too soon, but not forgotten.

Never forgotten.

“I suppose I do have a large weight upon my shoulders, my lady,” he acknowledged, something about the elder woman making him feel at ease. “I have been searching for a bride during this house party, and I have yet to meet with any luck.”

“A bride!” The corners of her eyes crinkled. “How exciting, Lord Wilton. I am certain the right lady for the role is here at Fangfoss Manor. All you need to do is be patient.”

He flashed her a rueful grin. “Patience has never been one of my virtues.”

He preferred his life to be orderly. For what he wished to happen to occur when he wished it. Which was one of the reasons he had chosen to attend the country house party—it had been an easy means of limiting the social whirl while securing himself a wife. But several weeks into his quest, and every candidate he had been considering had proven wrong.

The only woman he longed for was most wrong of all, but he could hardly say that to her aunt. Or to anyone. Secrets were so named and so kept for a reason.

“Have you considered my niece, Lord Wilton?” Lady Louise asked, her expression turning sly. “Do not think I have failed to notice the time you have spent conversing.”

His mind instantly flitted to the last bit of conversing he had done with Lady Charity. More kisses than words had been exchanged. His ears went hot and he hoped Lady Louise could not detect his guilt on his countenance.

“Lady Charity is…” He paused, struggling to describe the maddening woman.

Desirable.

Tempting.

Scandalous and boisterous and opinionated.

Not the sort of lady I want as my wife.

“She has a wild streak,” Lady Louise finished for him, offering a look of understanding. “I fear she inherited it from me. I was quite the hoyden when I was Lady Charity’s age.”

It was difficult to believe the august, impeccably groomed woman before him had ever been a hoyden. “I was going to say she is lovely,” he lied smoothly.

Lady Louise laughed. “Oh, Lord Wilton, you need not attempt to fool me with politeness. I perfectly understand that Lady Charity can be daunting in her way, especially for a quiet gentleman such as yourself. But sometimes our opposites make for the best spouses.”

He wondered how she knew, given that she had never married herself, but was too polite to ask. “Of course, my lady.”

“There was a gentleman I intended to marry when I was a young woman,” Charity’s aunt said, as if reading Neville’s mind. “We were opposites in every way, but we were desperately in love. It seemed so very wrong, and yet, for us, it was right.”

Right.

Yes, that made sense. It was part of the emotion he struggled with whenever he kissed Charity. The rightness of it stole his breath each time, made his heart pound hard and fast. But his mind knew it was wrong.

What if it is not wrong?

For the first time, he permitted himself the luxury of wondering. Of questioning.

“What happened?” he asked Lady Louise, then realized he was prying. “Forgive me. It is hardly my business.”

Lady Louise’s countenance turned sad. “He died before we could marry. But he left me with something very important, and I shall always be grateful for that.”

He did not press her for further information. To do so would be terribly rude after her revelations.

“I am sorry, Lady Louise.”

“Do not be.” She smiled again, but her eyes glistened with an undeniable sheen of tears. “Everything works out in life as it should. Do think on my words, Lord Wilton. If you will excuse me, I shall carry on with my walk.”

Neville watched Lady Louise Manners glide past him, disappearing into the maze. Her words and her story haunted him with each step he took.

* * *

It was raining.

Yet again.

Charity glared at the window and the murky landscape beyond, trying to ignore the man seated at her side and the audience awaiting their performance. The morning had begun with promise, the sun high overhead. But following breakfast, dark clouds had rolled in. The afternoon’s entertainments, which had all been out of doors, had been canceled. No archery. No tennis. No croquet. No walks to the river. Certainly no bicycles.

And oh how Charity had longed to ride one of the bicycles she had seen in the Fangfoss Manor stables.

But no. Instead, Miss Julia—Lady Fangfoss, Charity corrected herself—had chosen musical entertainment. And the first pairing she had settled upon had been, much to Charity’s dismay, herself and Viscount Wilton.

Wilton played the piano beautifully. Of course he would. The opening strains of I Dreamt I Dwelt in Marble Halls filled the silence of the room. She tried not to admire the way his long fingers played over the keys. Or to admire the breadth of his shoulders. Or the sight of his golden head bowed as he consulted the musical sheet before him. Certainly not his profile, the strong slash of his chin, the blade of his nose.

Curse the man, why was he handsome from the side? It was positively diabolical.

His gaze flicked up, meeting hers for a moment, as he continued playing the introductory notes. Heat flared through her as those green orbs burned into hers. Heat and something else.

She almost missed her cue to begin singing.

But then, forcing herself to look away from him and the company both—for Charity disliked watching the expressions of others whilst she sang, though she knew she possessed a pleasant enough voice—she began to sing. The song was, ironically enough, one of her favorites, from the Balfe opera The Bohemian Girl.

“I dreamt I dwelt in marble halls, with vassals and serfs at my side. And of all who assembled within those walls, that I was the hope and the pride…” The song went on, and for a reason she could not define, when she rose to the crescendo, her gaze found its way back to his. “That you loved me, you loved me still the same…”

He gave her a smile then. A small smile. A very Wilton smile. A smile she felt directly in her heart.

What was happening to her?

Charity forced her attention back to the song, eyes snapping to the window and the rain once more as she sang of a noble suitor coming forth to claim her hand. Still, there was something changing, shifting inside her. The song and the lyrics and the haunting melody twisted around her heart like ivy vines. The warm regard of Viscount Wilton seared her like a brand.

His playing and her singing worked undeniably well together. He kept the time and his proficiency had her soaring to the final notes. “But I also dreamt which charmed me most, that you loved me still the same…”

Inevitably, their gazes met as she sang the last verses.

The room was silent for a moment following the completion of their song. Silent and heavy. Still, Charity could not seem to wrest her gaze from Wilton’s. And then, their audience applauded. Charity hoped no one else had sensed the current running between herself and the viscount. Foolish current. Ridiculous current.

And what would she do about it, anyway? The man was excellent at kissing, but aside from that, he was dreadful. Was he not?

Lady Fangfoss stepped in, announcing the next pairing, Dorset and Clementine. Charity attempted to shake herself from the sudden spell the viscount had cast upon her and returned to her seat. Thankfully, Wilton’s chair was on the opposite end of the music room. But that did not stop her from being occasionally tempted to sneak a glance in his direction as the remainder of the pairings entertained the company.

By the time the musical entertainments were at an end, Charity was nearly out of her skin with the need to escape and find some time alone. She excused herself from Auntie Louise with the weak excuse that she intended to nap before dinner. Whilst the day was dreary enough to require a nap, there was no chance of slumber.

Charity did not bother to return to her chamber. Auntie Louise, bless her, did not accompany her on the trip, and her trust enabled Charity to disappear as she wished. Nothing extraordinary about the arrangement. Auntie Louise allowed Charity her freedom whenever she played chaperone, and Charity had always taken great advantage of it.

She had no notion of where she was going. All she did know was that her feet were taking her far from Lord Wilton and his unwanted temptation. Charity clearly needed some time to be alone, calm herself, and forget all about her inconvenient attraction to the viscount.

“Charity, there you are,” Melanie called to her as she passed through the great hall.

“Do wait,” Raina called.

Drat!She ought to have known her friends would see through her ploy and catch her. Auntie Louise never did.

On a sigh, Charity stopped and turned back to find her two friends hastening after her. “Why are you following me?”

“Ye said ye had an aching head,” Raina answered first. “We were concerned.”

But Melanie’s look was knowing, her grin smug. “Also, we know the expression on your face before you run.”

Running? Was that what they thought she was doing?

Well, to be fair, I suppose I was running. Running from Wilton and those unexpected feelings.

She frowned. “I do not run.”

“What would ye call it then?” Raina asked. “Fleeing? Retreating? As I always say, Olive is our wordsmith. I dinnae ken a better way to describe it.”

“Skedaddling,” Melanie offered proudly.

Charity blinked. “Your American heritage is making itself known again, dear. What in heaven’s name does that word mean?”

“Running,” Melanie and Raina offered in unison.

“Friends,” Charity muttered before noting the rest of her finishing school chums approaching as well, Clementine in their lead.

“Wait for us!” Lady Angeline called as she, Clementine, and Olive approached. “What were we discussing?”

“I hope it was the fire sparking between Charity and Wilton,” Olive said, flashing Charity a teasing grin.

She scowled. “Is there not some sort of Roman roof component you ought to be digging about in the dirt for at this very moment?”

“Now, Charity,” Clementine chastised. “Do sheathe your claws.”

Perhaps she was being a curmudgeon, Charity allowed as she huffed a sigh and recalled their surroundings. “We are standing in the midst of the great hall, and this is no place for a private conversation. Perhaps we should find somewhere more discreet to chat.”

“I know just the room,” Clementine said quickly.

“And how would ye know which chamber is best for privacy and discretion, hmm?” Raina asked, turning her raised brow and questioning expression upon their other friend.

Pink tinted Clementine’s cheekbones. “No reason. I happened upon it by accident the other day, and the sunshine shone in the windows in the most delightful fashion. I thought to myself that it would be an ideal room for conducting a conversation with my friends.”

“That sounds as believable as my aching head, Tiny,” Charity could not resist pointing out. “You were likely up to mischief with Dorset. But do lead us to the chamber in question. Perhaps I might use it with a handsome footman.”

“Charity!” Raina scolded, sounding shocked.

“Have you seen the footmen?” Melanie asked, her tone skeptical.

“Hush,” Angeline ordered, sotto voce, “lest one of them overhears us!”

“All the more reason to get ourselves into Tiny’s favorite room to disappear into with Dorset,” Charity could not resist teasing.

Laughing as they had not since the days of Twittingham Academy, they hastened to a small salon, which was tucked away in a corner near the conservatory and out of the ordinary range of guests coming and going. Charity settled herself in a cushioned window seat, with the rest of her friends ensconcing themselves in a variety of chairs and divans.

Silence descended.

Charity took it upon herself to end it.

“Well? What is so important the five of you have dragged me to this salon when I was desperately in need of a nap to soothe my aching head?” she demanded.

“Do not expect us to believe you have a headache,” Olive said. “We are more than familiar with that excuse from finishing school days.”

Charity pinned her dear friend with a narrowed stare. “I did no such thing.”

“You did,” Melanie countered.

“Ye were quite adept at escaping obligations,” Raina allowed.

“I was not,” Charity denied. “Tiny, Angeline, tell them they are wrong.”

But Clementine and Angeline gave her telling looks.

“Perhaps I did use it as an excuse to avoid a few unwanted tasks,” she allowed.

“There was the time ye didnae want to recite poetry,” Raina reminded her.

“Sonnets are silly,” she said.

“And the time you had forgotten how to conjugate French verbs,” Tiny added.

“Je ne française pas,” she defended herself.

“I do believe it ought to be je ne suis pas française, dearest,” Olive corrected gently.

Trust the scholar amongst them to know the proper form. Charity supposed that when she was in France with Auntie Louise, she would have the opportunity to refresh her memory.

Why did the thought of traveling abroad with her aunt seem suddenly less enthralling? Why did the notion of all the adventures they would have together make her wonder instead what she would be missing if she left England behind? She refused to believe it had anything to do with an irritating, proper viscount.

“Do you remember when Miss Julia wanted us to paint watercolors of a bouquet of hollyhocks?” Melanie asked. “You pretended you could not stop sneezing and then feigned a headache.”

So what if she had?

Charity crossed her arms over her chest, taking in her friends in a sweeping glare. “Have you decided to assemble merely that you might take me to task over things that happened five years ago in finishing school?”

“Of course not,” Angeline said brightly. “We are here to point out that you have a history of running from anything that makes you uncomfortable.”

Her spine went stiff. “I do not.”

Did she?

“Ye are planning to flee to the Continent with Auntie Louise, are ye no’?” Raina asked.

“Flee is a strong word,” she objected. “I am planning a trip to take me far away from society and my parents and siblings and all the whispers about me and that cursed painting of Peter’s. Of course, I do intend to stay there…”

Her words trailed off as the implications of it sank into her.

“Running,” Tiny concluded triumphantly.

“Just as you ran from the music room just now,” Melanie added.

Charity would have said she had not been fleeing the music room, but there was little point in prevarication. Her friends were correct, it would seem. And not for the first time, either, drat them.

“There is something between you and Wilton, is there not?” Clementine asked.

Of course there was, curse the man.

“Attraction,” she admitted, flushing. How vexing! “That is all there is. Nothing more. The man is proficient at kissing. But that is hardly enough to recommend him for anything other than a dalliance.”

“Dinnae join him in a dalliance unless ye are certain ye can accept possible consequences,” Raina advised.

Charity winced. “Of course. Forgive me for being so flippant.”

“We saw the way the two of you looked at each other during your performance,” Melanie said. “I will own that I have never heard a lovelier rendition of I Dreamt I Dwelt in Marble Halls.”

“You made a well-matched pair.” Angel sent her a tentative smile. “Both of you golden-haired, the viscount’s excellent skills on the piano a perfect complement to your lovely singing voice.”

“Musical talents are all we complement each other in, I assure you,” Charity said grimly. “I find him overbearing and proper, and he thinks me scandalous and flighty.”

“But ye enjoy his kisses.”

She pinned her lovely redhaired friend with another glare. “I have enjoyed other kisses before his.”

None ever as wonderful as his, however. What was it about the man?

Clementine raised a brow. “Better kisses?”

Charity sighed, refusing to answer the question.

“Do you remember what you told me about life being like a river, Charity?” Olive chimed in.

Of course she recalled the ardent soliloquy she had delivered to her friend concerning Mr. Phineas Prince. “I remember my dreadful analogy, yes. But that was different, Olive. You were then—and are now—hopelessly in love with your Phineas. I was merely trying to help you along.”

Olive stared back at her, the gaze behind her spectacles knowing.

So knowing, Charity had to look away.

“I am not in love with Lord Killjoy!” she defended hotly.

But as she made the declaration, some unwanted emotion crept along, making her feel guilty for deriding the viscount. He was not as terrible as she had originally supposed, it was true. Strange how preconceived notions could be dispelled by merely spending time in the presence of the man she had judged. And sharing kisses with him. That, too.

“You are not in love with him in the same way you were not running from the music room just now?” Melanie asked.

“The same way you never avoided anything that troubled you or made you uncomfortable?” Angeline added.

“The same way ye arenae fleeing to the Continent to avoid all those nasty rumors about ye and the Venus painting?”

Charity rose from her window seat perch, filled with a swelling storm of emotion. To say nothing of the realizations she was making about herself. About Lord Wilton. About the way she felt for him.

About everything, it seemed.

In a daze, Charity’s feet began moving toward the door to the salon. Her friends could call it what they wished. Yes, perhaps she was running. But she needed time to herself more than ever now. Time to think about these new revelations.

“Charity?” Clementine’s worried voice followed her.

“Where are ye going?” Raina asked.

“I need some time for reflection,” she said, turning back to see five pairs of eyes watching her, five sets of beloved faces marked with concern. “I am not running. I promise I am not. But you have all given me a great deal to think about, and I believe it would be best if I thought about those things. Alone.”

Angeline frowned. “Have we hurt your feelings? I do so hope not.”

“We were only trying to help,” Melanie offered.

“You have not,” she reassured sweet Angeline. “And Melanie, of course I know you are trying to help. You are. Helping me, that is. But I need to figure this out on my own, I think.”

“Do not forget what you told me,” Olive called just before Charity slipped over the threshold. “Love is worth fighting for.”

Love? Ha!

She was not in love with Viscount Wilton!

But another troubling feeling within her persisted as she escaped to her chamber.

What if she was?

There was no hope for it. She was going to have to spend the next few days keeping her distance from Wilton. Charity had a suspicion she was going to be feigning a great deal of headaches…