The Venus and the Viscount by Scarlett Scott

Chapter 8

Neville had come to Fangfoss Manor in the hopes of securing his future viscountess. Indeed, his every action over the opening course of the house party had been with that intent in mind.

He had dined. He had danced and made small talk. He had played charades and the piano and he had done his due diligence in trying to choose a bride who would most suit his expectations. A bride who was calm and quiet and polite and who would not make demands of him. One who was perfectly agreeable to his need for solitude, order, and reason.

One who was nothing at all like Lady Charity Manners.

And then, in one moment of raw passion unlike anything he had ever experienced, he had tossed every good intention and action he had committed to flame. To roaring, burning, passionate, decadent flame.

He would say he had nary a regret, but as he faced Lady Louise Manners, he could not deny that he did have some. That he was not asking for Charity’s hand in the proper order, and that he could not come to her aunt with a clean conscience.

Instead, it was the next morning following breakfast, and the bacon and eggs he had unenthusiastically consumed earlier were cramping his ordinarily indefatigable gut in knots. His had always been a hearty constitution, but he had certainly never had to endure an awkward interview with the maiden aunt of a lady he had thoroughly debauched before.

Because he did not make a habit of debauching ladies.

Just the one.

Damnation.

His ears went hot and he shifted in his chair.

“Is something amiss, Lord Wilton?” Lady Louise asked, her sharp gaze landing on his in searching fashion. “You asked for a word with me, and yet you have scarcely spoken.”

“Er, no.” He paused, reminding himself that he had practiced his speech for the span of an entire hour earlier that morning. “Forgive me my silence. I am merely attempting to summon the proper words.”

The perfect words, he meant. Or words by which he might ask for her niece’s hand without revealing what he had done the day before. Sparing them all the embarrassment was, he thought, a wise course.

He had made love to Charity the day before, nearly fully clothed and in the midst of the day at a country house party. By God, he had still been wearing his shoes. He did not do that sort of thing. And yet he had. He had taken Charity’s virginity. Or rather, she had offered it to him and he had selfishly seized it. Afterward, she had told him he must not worry and that what had happened would be their secret.

He had tried to argue, but she had been having none of it. He had not seen her since. Following their lovemaking, he had found himself disheveled and sated, wandering the halls of Fangfoss Manor, wondering what the devil he was going to do next.

Love was a strange and unpredictable beast.

But then, he supposed, so was a man.

He had certainly surprised himself with his actions the day before. And there was no doubt that Lady Charity Manners was the last woman with whom he had ever expected himself to fall in love. She did not fit any of his previously decided upon criteria.

“I do hope you have sought me out because of Lady Charity,” Lady Louise said then, breaking through his rampant thoughts.

He blinked. Was he transparent? Or had she seen him leave Charity’s chamber yesterday? Had Charity told her what had happened? That hardly seemed likely, but now his mind was flooded with troubling possibilities.

“I am,” he began, and then faltered.

Blast.

He swallowed, trying to summon the soliloquy he and Anderson had decided upon during his morning ablutions. But then he remembered that Anderson had also been the man responsible for the deuced disagreeable rash upon his upper lip and chin on account of that infernal beard and mustache glue.

Perhaps not a fellow whose judgment ought to be trusted after all.

“You are?” Lady Louise prompted, giving him a bright, encouraging smile.

How like Charity she was, he thought. The same golden hair and bright-blue eyes. One could easily discern the familial resemblance between them. Still, he was having a difficult time finding the proper words.

Do not tell her you ruined her niece, he warned himself.

Neville wished he had been prescient enough to ring for a tray of tea. Sadly, he had not been. This was his sole reason for attending this cursed house party, was it not? And yet, nothing about his aims in coming here had gone according to plan.

“I am in love with Lady Charity,” he said, surprising even himself with the confession.

It was the truth, impossible though it seemed. Still, he had not meant to reveal the depth of his emotions to Charity’s aunt before he had shared it with the lady herself. How graceless he had been, losing himself in her body and then slipping from her chamber without a declaration.

“Of course you are.” Lady Louise beamed, looking pleased and not a bit surprised at his revelation.

“Of course I am?”

“I could see it in your eyes when you looked at her,” Charity’s aunt explained, her smile gentling, turning affectionate. “From the moment the two of you were introduced, I knew you were a match that was destined to be.”

She had? Was the woman a soothsayer? A sorceress?

He frowned. “You did?”

How, when even he had not known?

“The two of you remind me of myself and my Philip,” Lady Louise explained softly. “You do recall the tale I told you in the maze, do you not?”

Her lost love. Yes, he recalled.

“You were opposites, I believe you said.”

“Yes,” she said. “Much like you and Charity. I was free-spirited and quite a hoyden in my day. You would not know it to look at me now, but I dare say I spent the first few weeks of my acquaintance with Philip utterly horrifying him. He was a quiet man, and I was too bold and garrulous for him. Or so he thought.”

Neville shifted in his seat once more, feeling as if he were privy to information which was not rightfully his to claim.

“I am sorry to bring back unpleasant memories, my lady,” he offered.

“Hardly unpleasant.” Lady Louise blinked, her eyes glittering with unshed tears. “Quite happy, actually. Philip would have been well pleased with you for our Charity.”

Neville’s mind grappled with the words she had just spoken. First, he wondered why a deceased would-be uncle should be so concerned over Charity’s future. And then, quite a few things dawned on his overwhelmed mind at once.

OurCharity, Lady Louise had said.

The resemblance between Charity and Lady Louise.

The similarity in spirit between the two ladies, at least according to Charity’s aunt.

The interest Lady Louise had taken in him and in Charity’s affairs.

“Our Charity?” he repeated. “I beg your pardon, madam, but are you saying what I think you are saying?”

Lady Louise’s smile took on a mournful quality. “And what is it that you think I am saying, my dear?”

Was he wrong? Suggesting the suspicion which had risen in his mind seemed terribly insulting to utter. Moreover, it was hardly his business. Even should Charity agree to become his wife, he was beyond the point of caring about propriety. Why he had ever been so concerned before was apparent to him now.

He had never been in love.

The question he wished to ask her remained lodged in his throat.

“Have you shared your feelings with Charity?” Lady Louise asked, perhaps taking pity on him and guiding their dialogue in a different, safer direction.

He shifted once more. “Not precisely.”

“I understand.” Charity’s aunt leaned forward, patting the top of his right hand, which he realized was gripping the arm of his chair so tightly, his knuckles stood in relief. “She has persuaded herself she will neither fall in love nor marry.”

This was news, and most unwelcome, to Neville.

“She has?”

Lady Louise winced. “Oh dear. I can see that I have spoken out of turn. Just how new is your understanding with her?”

Understanding? He had none. That was the bloody reason for this meeting. He was beginning to suspect Charity’s kindly Aunt Louise was mad.

But then, mayhap he was the mad one. How else to explain the situation in which he found himself currently embroiled? There seemed no other rationalization.

“I was seeking your approval first, madam,” he told Lady Louise stiffly. “As you are her chaperone and I wished to proceed properly…”

He allowed his words to trail away then, for what a despicable lie he had just uttered. There was nothing at all proper about the manner in which he had proceeded. Imagine telling Lady Louise that he had spent inside her niece. That even now, his child could be growing in Charity’s womb.

The notion of a child did not disturb him in the slightest. Rather, it filled Neville with a curious warmth in his chest and an incipient pang of…longing? Hope? He could not be sure, and now was hardly the time to investigate his feelings.

“Oh,” Lady Louise said then, a wealth of feeling behind that lone word. “I see.”

Blast.That hardly sounded promising.

He sighed. “What is it you are not telling me, my lady?”

“Nothing,” she said quickly.

Too quickly.

And then she added, “Charity is quite headstrong. I was hoping that if you wished an audience with me, it meant that she had already reached the decision on her own.”

No, he had requested the audience because he had quite despicably—and deliciously—compromised her niece the day before. But Neville was not entirely a fool, and he kept that bit to himself.

“Forgive me, if you please,” he said, struggling for the proper words. “This is the first time I have ever asked a lady to marry me. I would have read a book about it before going about the task, but there was none to be found in the Fangfoss library.”

“A book?” Lady Louise chuckled. “You are teasing me, Lord Wilton.”

He met her gaze, unflinching. He liked to be prepared. Research was important. Being unprepared…well, it led to mistakes and errors and loss. He had lived his life with caution for all his years.

“You are not,” Charity’s aunt observed, flushing. “Now it is I who must beg your forgiveness, my lord. I did not mean insult. I thought it a jest.”

He was an odd man, and he knew it.

“Think nothing of it, Lady Louise,” he hastened to reassure her. “All I hope from you is your approval, and perhaps some advice.”

“Advice?”

“For persuading Lady Charity of the wisdom of accepting my proposal,” he elaborated.

Lady Louise sent him a reassuring smile that was so remarkably similar to Charity’s that he had to blink.

“Be yourself, my lord,” she advised. “And tell her you love her. That ought to be an excellent start.”

Sage counsel.

“I have your approval then, my lady?” he asked.

“Any man who loves my Charity and makes her happy has my approval,” Lady Louise said.

And while her words brought him comfort and reassurance, they also raised more questions.

He tucked those queries into his heart, saving them for later examination.

* * *

“Charity!”

Raina’s voice permeated the fog inhabiting Charity’s mind as a shuttlecock landed neatly in the lawn at her side.

Too late.

“Oh dear,” Charity murmured. “Forgive me.”

“Ye missed it again,” Raina groused.

Charity excelled at the game, her inner competitive streak pleased to take the reins. But today, her heart was not in it. Because today, she was filled with knowledge. Carnal knowledge. At last. And also because she was tingling between her thighs and, well, everywhere. And because she could not seem to cease thinking about Neville.

“Perhaps we should concede defeat,” she suggested.

“We are trouncing you!” Clementine called gleefully from the other side of the court.

“Utterly annihilating you,” Melanie, who was her partner, added.

“Clementine and Melanie willnae let us hear the end of it if they win,” Raina grumbled.

“I know.” Charity sighed. “Forgive me, dear friend. I am…distracted.”

Raina bent to retrieve the shuttlecock and then frowned at Charity. “Distracted? I’d say ye arenae even here at all. We’ve scored nary a point, and every time the shuttlecock nears ye, ye stare into the air and let it fall.”

She winced. “I am a terrible badminton partner.”

“Aye, but ye are a good friend. Is there something weighing on yer heart and mind?”

“What are you two chattering about?” Clementine demanded. “We shall be here all afternoon if you keep tarrying.”

The four of them had gathered to play that afternoon, with Angeline and Olive being otherwise occupied. Charity had slept late, breakfasted frightfully near to luncheon, and finally dragged herself into the sunshine—rare since the last week or so had produced so much endless rain—and agreed to a game of badminton. She had supposed the game would distract her from the inconvenient feelings which had been plaguing her ever since Neville had visited her chamber the day before.

But the feelings remained, nagging and persistent and unwanted as ever.

“Something is wrong with Charity,” Raina called to their friends.

“Nothing is wrong with me,” Charity denied.

Although, in truth, something was.

However, she most certainly was not in love with Neville. She refused to think it.

Despite her protestation, Clementine and Melanie skirted the net and joined them on Charity and Raina’s side of the court.

“Are you feeling ill?” Melanie asked, frowning.

“You do look pale,” Clementine observed, her gaze roaming over Charity. “What is that mark on your throat, dearest? Is it a rash?”

Mark on her throat?

“Where?” she asked, wishing she were near a mirror.

Raina’s eye narrowed as she surveyed Charity’s neck. “It doesnae look like an ordinary rash.”

Melanie crowded closer, making Charity feel like an exhibit at a traveling menagerie. “Perhaps she has been stung by a bee, like Clementine.”

Charity wanted to laugh at the sally, but three pairs of eyes were examining her, and she was suddenly frantic to know what the mark/rash/bee sting they were all carrying on about looked like.

“Was it here when we began playing badminton?” she asked weakly. “Perhaps it is hives. Sunshine makes me itch.”

“It does?” Clementine asked, sounding dubious. “Would it be remiss of me to remind you of the recent occasion upon which you took me to task over a similar mark on my own neck? What was it that you said? Oh, yes. 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?”

That was what Charity had taunted her friend with, verbatim. And drat Clementine for recalling it.

“I do believe a man’s whiskers caused those marks,” Raina said, her tone matter-of-fact.

“Definitely not hives,” Melanie declared with a sniff.

Friends.Why did they always seem to be so dratted omniscient?

Charity gripped her racquet tightly and forced an amused chuckle. “The three of you are so silly. Of course sunshine gives me hives. It always has done.”

“I think I would remember that about you,” Clementine said.

“I dinnae ken anyone who gets hives from sunshine,” Raina added.

“Raina is correct. Those marks do appear to have been caused by a man’s whiskers,” Melanie concurred.

Charity would have asked Melanie what rendered her such an expert in the field of men’s whiskers, but she was too busy drowning in a sea of mortification. Oh, what was the use in continued prevarication? They had caught her.

And if Neville had indeed left redness on her throat, she would need to return to her chamber at once to apply some pearl powder in an effort to hide the evidence of her sins. Charity glanced around to make certain none of their fellow houseguests were nearby. Fortunately, the badminton court was set up in a far corner of the Fangfoss Manor lawns, and most of the other guests were distracted by tennis, archery, and riding on account of the good weather. There was no one else about.

“Neville came to my chamber yesterday,” she admitted on a rush.

Her confession was met with a chorus of confused Nevilles.

Oh dear.She had rather given herself away, had she not?

“Lord Wilton,” she elaborated, sure her face was aflame.

“First you gave him a pet name, and now you are calling him Neville?” Clementine demanded.

“Must you belabor the point, Tiny?” she groused.

“Olive was right,” Melanie crowed.

“Ye are in love with Lord Wilton.”

She frowned at Raina. “I am not in love with him.”

“Is that so? Just what was it the two of ye were doing in yer chamber?” her friend countered, raising a copper-colored brow. “And if ye try to tell me ye were reciting Biblical verses, I’ll box yer ears.”

“I cannot believe it,” Clementine exclaimed. “Lord Wilton has compromised you.”

“Not so staid after all, is he?” Melanie asked slyly.

Of course her friend would have to remind her of that conversation.

“He did not compromise me,” she denied. “No one knows he was in my chamber.”

Except for her friends.

“Except for us,” Raina pointed out as if she had read Charity’s thoughts.

“But you know your secret is safe with us, darling,” Clementine said, patting her arm.

“Everyone knows it only matters if you are caught,” Melanie agreed.

“Fortunately, I was not caught.” She forced a bright smile, trying not to think about the way Neville had brought her body to life. Ignoring the yearning for him that had not dimmed, much to her dismay, in the wake of their shared passion, but had instead grown exponentially.

“Why are you so Friday-faced then?” Clementine asked.

“It isnae like ye to lose at badminton,” said Raina.

“Well, Clementine and I do make an excellent team,” Melanie offered to Raina, shrugging.

“Nonsense! We would have won if Charity hadnae stood there like a tree, pining over Wilton,” Raina argued.

“That was a clever pun,” Charity said.

Three sets of eyes swung to her.

“Standing there, pining like a tree. A pine tree,” she explained. “Quite humorous.”

“Since when do you think puns are funny?” Clementine demanded.

Since Neville had made her laugh with them.

She liked his nervous jokes. She liked him.

The realization she had been doing her utmost to avoid ever since she had risen that morning hit her with the force of a boulder barreling down a mountainside.

She did not just like Neville.

She loved him.

“Do you know who else seems to be amused by such things?” Melanie asked. “Viscount Wilton. He told me the most dreadful joke about a fishing rod when we made small talk at the pond.”

Charity wondered what it would have been and then decided she would ask him.

No! What was she thinking? There would be no asking. No more time alone with him. She may be in love with him, but that was irrelevant. She had no intention of marrying him. Heavens, Neville had not asked her to marry him anyway. In the aftermath of their passion, he had withdrawn, righted his clothing, kissed her forehead, and disappeared.

She frowned.

Had he taken advantage of her? Impossible! Her silly joke telling, ridiculously handsome, golden-haired, wonderfully adept kisser Neville was not a cad or a rake. Was he?

What if he had believed all the rumors surrounding her? What if he thought she was the sort of lady with whom he could dally with ease? What if he still intended to find a proper betrothed with one of the other ladies in attendance?

Her heart gave a pang.

“Charity?” Melanie’s voice broke through her tumultuous thoughts. “What is the matter now? Are you displeased that Wilton told me one of his terrible sallies?”

“Yes.” She blinked. “No. Oh! I have no notion. I have never felt this way…”

“Are ye going to swoon?” Raina asked, looking unimpressed at the prospect.

“I know how you feel,” Clementine said softly before Charity could answer. “You do not want to admit the strength of your emotions because you are stubborn.”

True.

Charity pursed her lips just the same, feeling as obstinate as her friend had suggested she was. And defiant. Why hadn’t Neville asked her to marry him last night? It was not as if she wanted to marry anyone. Quite the opposite, of course. But that did not mean he should not have asked.

He should have asked!

“I am not stubborn,” she denied.

Her proclamation was met by the sound of all three of her friends attempting to stifle their laugher. And poorly, at that. They were doing a terrible job of it, in fact.

“Of course not.” Melanie coughed.

“Not at all,” Clementine agreed in exaggerated fashion.

“Ye are the least stubborn lady I ken,” Raina added, pressing a hand to her heart and sounding distinctly mocking.

Charity pinned her friends with a narrowed gaze. “Friends!”

Clementine patted her arm again. “Well, is that not what friends do? We see each other as we truly are, with all our faults and scars and scandals.”

“And we love each other anyway,” Melanie added.

“No one kens that better than I,” finished Raina.

Charity sighed. “Of course I love you all as sisters, and Olive and Angeline as well, wherever they may be at the moment.”

“We shan’t wonder where they are off to just now,” Clementine advised.

“Best not to ask,” Melanie agreed.

“If ye dinnae ask, ye cannae receive an answer ye wouldnae like.” Raina winked.

Was that why Neville had not asked her to marry him yesterday? Had he been fearful she would refuse him? Hmm. Perhaps Raina was correct in her assertions, in more ways than one.

“Do you want to tell us everything that happened between yourself and Wilton, or would you have us guess?” Clementine asked softly.

All the resistance within Charity crumpled. “It is what you would guess.”

“Wilton?” Melanie asked, sounding skeptical. “Truly?”

“Truly,” Charity confirmed, her cheeks flushing.

“Was it terrible, then?” Raina asked, frowning.

“Quite the opposite,” she admitted. “It was wonderful.”

Indeed, the word wonderful was pitifully inefficient as a descriptor. A paltry means of describing an experience that had been beyond anything she had ever imagined it could be.

“If it was wonderful and you are in love with his lordship, then why are you so distressed?” Melanie asked in her candid, pragmatic way.

Excellent question. But then, Melanie knew what she wanted from life. She would open her own department store, and it would thrive with Melanie’s business acumen and single-minded devotion. Someone as shrewd as Melanie would never allow something as foolish as love or a man to interfere in her future. Charity, however, had no plans for herself beyond her trip to the Continent with Auntie Louise. True, she had intended to remain. To never return to England.

But now she wondered at the wisdom of such a plan. What would she do? Where would she live? In a hotel forever? Surely Mama and Papa would require her to return.

“I am distressed,” she managed at last, attempting to answer Melanie’s question, “because I have no intention of marrying. And even if I did wish to marry Neville, he did not ask me.”

“I do believe he may be about to ask you now,” Clementine said quietly, casting a meaningful look over Charity’s shoulder.

Awareness crept up her spine.

It was him.

She knew it instinctively.

“He is approaching us, then?” she asked her friend.

“He is here,” said a voice at her back.

Strong, mellifluous, beloved.

Neville had found her.