The Viscount Always Knocks Twice by Grace Callaway
Chapter Two
Richard Murray, Viscount Carlisle, jolted awake. Angry voices sounded… some fracas in the street. As Cheapside’s thoroughfare was just a few blocks away, such disturbances were not unusual, but it didn’t make them any less annoying. Richard stared through the dimness at a crack in the ceiling, his mood darkening further when he realized that he sported, at present, a raging morning cockstand.
With an aggrieved sigh, he sat up. The bedclothes slipped down his bare torso, bunching at his waist and catching on his erection. Shoving his hands through his hair, he raised his knees, resting his elbows there and willing the insistent throbbing of his groin to subside.
“Insolent little baggage,” he muttered. “This is all her fault.”
He had no doubt that Miss Violet Kent was responsible for the state of his mind and body. Regarding the former, what man wouldn’t be furious at being assaulted—pushed into a bloody fountain and by a mere chit at that? Under normal circumstances, her little tap wouldn’t have budged him, but she’d taken him by surprise and then he’d slipped in that goddamned puddle…
Embarrassment scalded his gut. In all honesty, the fact that a close encounter with a female had resulted in him emerging a fool should come as no surprise. In his dictionary, women were synonymous with trouble. Miss Lucinda Belton and Lady Audrey Keane had taught him that lesson long ago. In fact, they’d schooled him so well that he’d avoided entanglements with respectable ladies altogether.
Whenever he required female companionship, he purchased it. A simple exchange and one in which both parties left satisfied. In bed, he dealt with women just fine.
Outside of bed, however, they were a damned nuisance. All he’d wanted was for Violet Kent to leave his brother alone: was that too much to ask? Instead, she’d made him the laughingstock of the party.
Well, he’d refused to give the ton the blood they wanted, the satisfaction of seeing his humiliation. He’d exited the gilded arena as if he weren’t dripping with champagne. As if his bloody boots weren’t squishing with every step. He’d walked out of there as if nothing had been out of the ordinary, and he’d managed that by focusing on varied and creative ways of retribution.
Bending Violet Kent over his knee, for instance.
Unfortunately, that led to his second—and persistently throbbing—problem.
He ought to have let her get doused by the fountain, he thought savagely. That would have served the little romp right. But, oh no, he’d had to obey his instinct to pull her out of harm’s way. The resulting jolt of lust had been his own damned fault.
He chalked it up to animal urges. What red-blooded man wouldn’t respond to the wriggling of a pertly rounded derriere against his groin? It was only primal instinct that had caused the lurid image to blaze in his head: of bending Miss Kent over the nearest surface, tossing up her cheerful yellow skirts, spreading her sleek thighs and…
He glanced down; to his disgust, his shaft now tented the sheet.
Just bloody perfect.
Throwing off the bedcovers, he stalked over to the table holding the basin and ewer, grimacing as his aroused flesh bobbed heavily with every step. He splashed icy water onto his face and, gripping the edges of the rickety washstand, waited for the room’s drafty chill to cool his blood. Although there was a more appealing way of discharging the problem, he refused to yield to the primitive impulse.
Self-discipline and rationality were his ruling principles. From experience, he’d learned to distrust his emotional reactions when it came to the opposite sex and relied instead on his intellect to guide his decisions. Despite his body’s inexplicable reaction to Miss Kent, he told himself he had only one objective pertaining to the chit: to keep her out of his brother’s life.
The thought of Wickham smothered the remnants of his arousal. Knots tightened in Richard’s gut as he yanked on a tattered robe. His younger brother knew nothing of restraint and was infinitely susceptible to the dangers of the opposite sex. And Wick was up to his ears in hot water already.
For Wick was in debt—and this time, Richard hadn’t the coin to pay it off. Wick’s only hope of staying afloat was marrying an heiress. To that end, Richard had spent no small effort in securing a lifeboat for his brother. He’d paved the way with Alfred Turbett, a wealthy merchant. All Wick had to do was take that last step and propose to the man’s daughter.
Which Wick wouldn’t do if he remained mesmerized by Violet Kent.
Richard was intimately acquainted with Miss Kent’s type, all right. She was a shallow flirt who waltzed her way through life with no care for consequences. She thrived on male attention, gave no damn about anything but herself and her own pleasure. The brazen minx would have Wick wrapped around her little finger—and then, when her fun was done, she’d toss him away like last season’s slippers.
Over my dead body, Richard thought fiercely.
He rang for Bartlett; the valet was one of the few servants he retained in this small house he rented. Reduced circumstances had made such economies necessary. He was not a man to live beyond his means; if only he could say the same of his brother.
He had just sat down for breakfast in the small and shabby parlor when Wickham sauntered in. The latter was still dressed in last evening’s clothing—typical, seeing as the young rakehell never went to bed before dawn. Also typical was the fact that despite whatever debauchery Wick had been engaged in, he still managed to emerge looking like a Greek god.
Shadows accented Wick’s long-lashed hazel eyes, the hollows beneath his sculpted cheekbones. His golden brown curls were fashionably rumpled. Their mama had been a famous beauty in her day, and Wick took after her in looks and temperament—the opposite of Richard, who resembled their father and all the viscounts before him.
A stroll through the family gallery showed a line of dark, swarthy men with the hulking bodies of peasants and the glowering disposition of Hephaestus. Unfortunately, like that humble god of the smithy, they were also attracted to their natural opposites—dazzling, vibrant Aphrodites—which had led to a family legacy of disastrous unions.
Staid and vivacious never made for a good match.
“No need to get up on my account, old boy,” Wick said. “Thought I’d stop by and join you for a spot of breakfast. Though I had the devil’s time getting here. Don’t know what you were thinking leasing this hellhole.”
“It’s Cheapside, not the Ninth Circle—” A pungent odor tickled Richard’s nostrils, and he sneezed. Twice. “Holy hell, what is that smell?”
“What smell?”
Eyes watering, Richard said, “The noxious odor that suggests you rolled in a field of lily of the valley before diving into a vat of musk.”
Wick sniffed at his jacket. “Ah, that. Must have rubbed off on me. It’s French,” he added in lofty tones, “and expensive.”
Seeing the smudges of rouge on his brother’s collar, Richard said dourly, “Are you referring to the perfume or the tart who wore it?”
“Both,” Wick said with a smirk.
Given the strain between him and Wick of late, Richard refrained from pointing out that costly trollops, French or not, were well beyond Wick’s means. A lecture on fiscal responsibility would only alienate his brother further. Besides, he remained wary of his brother’s purpose in calling.
Wick left before the mishap, he told himself. It’s possible that he doesn’t know what happened.
Going to the sideboard, Wick let out an aggrieved sigh. “Kippers and eggs again? How’re such meager offerings supposed to fuel a fellow for the day?”
“If you don’t like it, don’t eat it.” Richard forked up eggs.
Setting down a plate piled high, Wick took an adjacent seat at the table. “So you don’t look any worse for the wear.”
Damnation.He decided to bluff his way through. “And why should I?”
Wick gave him an innocent look. “Because of the splash you made last night?”
Heat crawled up Richard’s jaw. “It was an accident.”
“Accidentally got tap-hackled, did you?”
“I wasn’t drunk.”
“Then how the bloody hell did you take a tumble into a fountain?” his sibling chortled.
Devil take Violet Kent. Richard’s face burned. Yet he couldn’t reveal the truth of what had happened. First of all, he’d slit his own throat before admitting that he’d been downed by a female—and a slip of a miss at that. Second, his sense of honor precluded him from incriminating a lady, which was precisely why he’d instructed her to flee the scene of the crime.
Beneath his seething anger, he also felt an uneasy flicker of… guilt. In a way, he supposed he owed it to her to protect her reputation after the gossip he’d inadvertently started about her. He regretted that his private conversation with his friend Blackwood had been overheard and circulated by the wags. His worry over Wickham had prompted him to speak brashly, causing Miss Kent unintentional harm.
Her face rose in his imagination: the high, creamy slope of her cheeks and her tip-tilted eyes, which were the rich, tawny shade of his favorite whiskey. Her bee-stung mouth was too generous for her face, the bottom lip particularly full. A retroussé nose added to her air of feminine mischief and merriment.
In and of themselves, her features were not beautiful, but together they exuded an undeniable appeal, a vividness that made it difficult for one to look away. She wasn’t Aphrodite, but Aglaea, one of the Three Graces, the embodiment of glowing good health and vitality. Grudgingly, Richard had to admit that Violet Kent’s attractions went beyond skin deep, stirring a dangerous, primal response in him. And if her charms were not lost on him—a sensible, level-headed man—then what untold peril did she pose to his hapless brother?
“Never mind the bloody fountain,” Richard said abruptly. “There are more important matters to discuss. How did things go with Miss Turbett last eve?”
In a blink, Wick’s merriment turned to sullenness. Richard bit back a sigh. He ought to be used to his brother’s lightning shifts in mood by now, but somehow he wasn’t. Somehow in his mind Wickham was still the tow-headed boy who’d followed him everywhere and took his word as gospel. The younger brother who’d worshipped him—and whom he’d protected in turn.
But ever since their papa’s death six years ago, things had changed. Wickham had transformed from a fun-loving lad to a wild and reckless rake. The worst of it was that any advice or solutions Richard had given had only made Wick surly and resentful… until all possibility of rational discourse was gone.
Thus, Richard had resorted to leveraging the last means available to him. He’d threatened to cut off Wick’s quarterly stipend—and only source of income—if Wick didn’t take gainful steps toward discharging his debt of ten thousand pounds. Owed to a moneylender, for God’s sake.
Richard’s temples throbbed. If only he hadn’t been preoccupied by the financial quagmire left by their father, he could have kept a better eye on Wick. Stopped the whelp from frittering away an astronomical sum and jeopardizing his future in the process—
“I danced with Miss Turbett once. She had all the charm of a dead fish,” Wick said, his chin lifting belligerently, “and the conversation of one, too.”
“It’s not her charm or conversation you’re after: it’s her twenty thousand pounds. Devil take it, you agreed to this.” Richard’s jaw clenched in frustration. “I met with Turbett and cleared your path to courting his daughter. You should count yourself fortunate that he’s willing to take you on for the connection to our family. Miss Turbett’s fortune is your only hope for salvation.”
“I don’t want to marry that antidote of a female, and you can’t make me.”
“By Jove, stop acting like a child.” Richard’s grip on his temper slipped. “Don’t you comprehend the danger you’re in? Your moneylender isn’t some merchant who will wait patiently at the tradesmen’s entrance to get paid. Garrity is a cutthroat: if you don’t make good on your debt, you’ll be parting with more than your good name. He’ll take his pound of flesh—literally.”
Wick paled but recovered quickly.
“This is all your fault,” he shot back, angrily swiping jam onto his bread. “If you’d gone into the canal venture with me, we’d both be rich as Croesus. I could pay off my debts, and the family estate wouldn’t be teetering on the brink of ruin. But you refused, and I hadn’t the coin to go at it alone. Therefore, you brought this situation upon our heads.” He pointed his knife at Richard, the initials of his gold signet ring flashing with accusation. “And Mama agrees with me.”
Of course she does.Guilt churned, which only heightened Richard’s frustration. He’d done the best he could, yet he knew full well that their mother hadn’t forgiven him for putting limits on her expenditures. She’d made her displeasure quite clear in her scathing correspondence.
Your papa would turn over in his grave if he knew how you were treating me. He’d never forgive you… and neither will I. I can only regret giving birth to such an ungrateful child.
As was her wont, Mama had glossed over the truth: Papa had paupered himself and the estate trying to keep her in her accustomed style, and, in the end, the stress of it had killed him. He’d died, face-down in a ledger book, his heart collapsing from the weight of his debts.
And he’d left Richard to clean up the mess.
Over the past year, Richard had sold his own personal possessions, including his hunting lodge and stables to clear the debts. With severe budgetary measures and estate reform, he was managing, just barely, to keep the family seat afloat. He’d had no choice but to curtail his mama’s spending—not that she’d listened to his explanations. Her preference was to shoot the messenger.
“The accord between you and Mama doesn’t make either of you right,” Richard said wearily. “I couldn’t risk the estate on a canal scheme, and you know it. My man of business and I researched the proposition thoroughly. The chance of such a venture yielding profits was extremely low.”
“But this one did. And because you didn’t listen to me, I’m bloody doomed! Why should I have to marry some nitwit because you didn’t do the right thing?” Wick’s high cheekbones reddened. “Why am I the one who must suffer in all of this?”
Richard could scarce credit his brother’s twisted reasoning. Nor the fact that Wick believed that he was the only one to face unpleasant consequences. Richard had dismantled his stables, the breeding program he’d spent years building. All that remained, that he could not bring himself to auction off at Tattersall’s with the rest, was his personal mount Aiolos.
He was not a sentimental man, but he hadn’t been able to part with the Thoroughbred. Guilt panged. Now the old boy was trapped in stables as dilapidated as Richard’s own lodgings, their exhilarating gallops through the countryside curtailed to sedate trots in Hyde Park.
“Your debt is your own failing—not mine,” Richard said quietly. “You had choices other than marriage. Years ago, I offered to purchase you a commission or set you up in a respectable profession.” With Wick’s easy charm, good looks, and ready wit, he could have been anything he wanted. “But you refused.”
“Can you honestly see me marching to the drum? Or preaching some sermon or mucking about in the courts? I’m a gentleman.”
“You’ll be a dead gentleman if you don’t pay Garrity off soon. And this time, brother,” Richard said flatly, “I cannot help you.”
Wick said nothing, his expression mulish, yet his hand trembled as he reached for his teacup. Fear stiffened his normally indolent posture. Richard pressed his advantage home.
“There’s still time to remedy the situation. Turbett and his daughter will be at a house party in Hertfordshire two weeks hence. He’s secured us invitations as well. He’s willing to give you a final chance to come up to scratch.”
“Secured us invitations?” Sarcasm dripped from Wick’s words. “He’s in trade, for Christ’s sake. I sincerely doubt we’d aspire to attend an event thrown by one of his mercantile cronies.”
“Nonetheless, we will be going.” As much as Richard detested house parties, he would go to secure Wickham’s future. And, he thought with resignation, to deal with his own. He might have staved off disaster, but the estate would need more income to ensure its long-term health.
“The host of the party, Billings, is a wealthy banker. He has a daughter,” he said.
Wick’s expression lost its surly cast, and for an instant, he resembled the younger brother Richard had always known.
“Never say you are considering matrimony?” Wick’s brows shot toward his hairline. “You, whose portrait currently appears next to the word ‘bachelorhood’ in the dictionary? You, who once said you’d rather clean all the stables in the kingdom than be leg-shackled to a female?”
After the fiascoes with Miss Belton and Lady Keane, Richard had sworn off respectable females. That business had taken place years ago, however. He was no longer a greenling who expected a lady to want to marry him for any reason other than his title. Marriage for him would be a bloodless exchange: her money for his status. He’d lead by example and teach Wick that courtship could be a pragmatic endeavor free of sentimental complications.
“One does what one needs must,” he said severely.
“God’s blood, I do believe you are serious,” Wick breathed.
“I am. So you see, brother, we’re in this together.”
Wickham shrugged, but at least he offered no further argument. Richard took the other’s acquiescence as a good sign, and it renewed his resolve to see Wick settled. He would personally deal with any obstacles to his sibling’s future contentment—which meant that a certain troublesome miss had better stay out of his way.
