The Impoverished Viscount Read online

  “Hardly. Race meetings are not suitable for ladies, as you must know. The company is remarkably low.”

  “I suppose it is even more hopeless to ask to watch a mill. Oh, to be a boy!” She sighed. “Is his lovemaking as exciting as one would expect from a libertine of his experience?”

  “Miss Bekins is right. You are an impudent young lady.” Harriet prayed that she had not blushed. “Surely you know the limitations placed on couples, even those who are betrothed. And you must have been taught what constitutes proper conversation. I cannot picture your parents hiring an inept governess.”

  “Sorry, but you must know his reputation.”

  “Of course.” It must be worse than she had imagined. Was he another Lord Heflin?

  “Then you can hardly act shocked when I speak of it.” Her eyes sparkled. “He is the most romantic of men. They say he has loved most of society’s ladies, even those who proclaim him a scoundrel. No one ever terminates a liaison with him. His charm is legendary, as is his prow—” She broke off as it finally dawned that one did not repeat such stories to the betrothed of the gentleman in question. “You are right. I need to review acceptable topics of conversation. And now I must go, or Bekins will assign some dreary lesson as punishment.”

  “Which you will greatly deserve,” said Harriet, fighting down a laugh. She watched Edith scurry back to the house. The girl was at least as much a hoyden as she herself. The book had indeed been a gothic novel.

  But her face snapped into a frown as she reviewed Edith’s disclosures. So the incident with Lady Willingford had not been an isolated case, or even one born of country boredom. Rathbone was a libertine and scoundrel who had probably seduced half of London. No wonder he was so certain of his attraction. And no wonder his grandmother disapproved of his activities. Edith might find him romantically heroic, but in truth he led a sordid life.

  Shaking her head, she headed for breakfast. She must warn Beatrice that they had another rake on their hands.

  * * * *

  Charles was enjoying a hearty breakfast. He had slept like the dead after one last round of illness, awakening in good spirits and feeling like a new man. But that lasted only until Harriet arrived. He grimaced as his eyes beheld yet another shapeless gown, this one in the unbecoming lavender that made her look like an invalid. He sneezed.

  “Haven’t you anything decent to wear?” he murmured as he seated her at the table. He instantly regretted the words. How could he have forgotten the constantly hovering servants?

  “You knew what I looked like when you proposed,” she said crossly. “And you know my circumstances. I haven’t the means for a new wardrobe. Which would you prefer? Ignoring mourning to wear my own gowns, or observing mourning with makeovers of Mother’s old dresses?”

  “Surely you have something better. Grandmother will wish to see you again today.”

  “Don’t turn toplofty on me now, Charles,” she commanded, fire flaring in her eyes. “You’ve always claimed that my lack of a dowry made no difference, and that my looks were acceptable. You know very well you’ve never seen me in anything but mourning. Am I to suppose you were lying? You act ashamed of me.”

  Fury washed over him. As soon as the footman slipped a plate in front of her, Charles signaled him to leave.

  “Watch your tongue,” he hissed once the door was closed. “The servants will repeat everything you say to my grandmother.”

  “Then she will know that we are a normal couple who occasionally have spats,” she said, raking him with a supercilious glare. “Radiating sweetness and light all the time is unreal. I am a young lady who is sensitive about my looks and my lack of money. Accepting the hand of a handsome lord must increase my own sense of inadequacy. You, on the other hand, are a haughty prig who had better think of a reason why you would overlook all your natural instincts to wed so dowdy a miss. And the reason had better be good. If you truly loved me, you would never embarrass me in front of the servants by criticizing my dress.”

  His fingers clutched air, and his arms shook with the effort not to strangle her. “You must be a cit,” he growled at last. “No lady would ever act thus.”

  “My background is irrelevant,” she countered, her own eyes flashing. “Either you call off the charade right now, or you start treating me like a prospective bride. One thing I am not is biddable. I’ll be no man’s chattel, even in pretense.”

  “Jade!” he snapped, thrusting his plate so violently aside that it tipped over his coffee cup.

  New anger over his clumsiness sent him storming from the room. Infuriating infant! How dare she criticize a man who was so far above her? The ten years difference in age alone should have prompted her to follow his lead, to say nothing of the vast gulf that separated them in position, in looks, in experience. She must be a cit. Nothing else could explain her brash manner.

  Yet she had lived in the country, so she was more likely an impoverished squire’s daughter. Not that such a background explained her haughty manner. One would think her standing to be higher than his.

  * * * *

  Harriet stared into her tea, a frown wrinkling her forehead. The message had been necessary, though he might have listened better had she delivered it in a less confrontational manner. What would he do now?

  With luck, he would admit that his behavior was counterproductive if he meant to make this farce believable. Or he might call it off and toss her out of his grandmother’s house.

  She prayed that reflection would cool his temper.

  The thought made her grimace. Despite her abhorrence of the deceit upon which they’d embarked, she recognized a selfish desire to continue it. Lanyard Manor was amazingly comfortable, and the food was both abundant and delicious. Her previous life had produced nothing even close, despite that she was higher up the social scale than Lord Rathbone and much higher than Lord Lanyard. It would seem that she was just as devious as he. The thought of abandoning this refuge was unacceptable.

  Polishing off two plates of breakfast, she returned to her room to discuss the latest developments with Beatrice.

  * * * *

  Lady Lanyard pushed her breakfast tray aside and regarded the stiff footman who was standing just inside the door.

  “Yes, James?” she prompted.

  “They had quite a row at breakfast, milady,” he reported. “He complained of her gown, and she set him down right smartly.” He repeated the gist of the discussion. “Then he signaled me to leave. I couldn’t hear what they said after that, but he slammed out of the room in a proper taking not five minutes later.”

  “Thank you, James. You may return to your duties.”

  She frowned for some time after the servant had gone. Whoever the girl was, she was not spineless. Few ladies dared deliver setdowns to charming gentlemen. She had rarely known a young girl to do so. And Harriet was frugal. That maid, Betsy, had served her for years and described some of Harriet’s life, including tales of how she had run their estate for the past four years in the face of a weak father and a dissolute brother. Even this argument over clothing revealed a thrifty character.

  Lady Lanyard did not for a moment believe that her profligate grandson was in love with the chit. The girl was not his style. Nor did she know how he had talked her into either a betrothal or the pretense of one. The fear that Harriet might be a victim of seduction did not tally with the way the girl had put Charles in his place. Starry-eyed adoration was alien to Miss Sharpe’s character.

  Lady Lanyard’s inclination upon their arrival had been to cut the boy off without a penny. Now she was not so sure.

  * * * *

  A hard ride to the sea and back calmed Charles’s nerves. By midmorning he admitted that his conduct had been unacceptable. Regardless of her background, he dishonored himself by so public a humiliation. She was right. As a guest in his grandmother’s house and his supposed betrothed, she deserved better.

  He must ignore his personal repugnance if they were to have any hope of carrying off
this masquerade. And he must never lose sight of the ultimate goal – without the inheritance, he would be chained to his estate forever. There would be no more Seasons in town, no more excursions to races or mills, no more opportunities to satisfy his hunger in the beds of London’s loveliest matrons. And he could hardly blame Harriet for putting him in this position. He had initiated their bargain, insisting that she help him and ridiculing her objections. But it was only for a fortnight.

  Heaving a sigh of resignation, he sent word to meet him at the stable so he could show her around the estate. They must stage a public reconciliation to counter their fight. And he was feeling worse again. Nothing had gone right since he’d met her.

  Charles reined in after a hard gallop across the fields. Harriet’s habit was another horrendous creation. The brown velvet was worn bare with use and nearly splitting its seams. Her figure was even more off-putting than he had feared. And she again wore that concealing bonnet.

  But she had not exaggerated her skill. He had taken her at her word, mounting her on a spirited bay mare that would give a fine ride to an excellent horsewoman but toss anyone else.

  Harriet proved equal to the challenge, displaying a neck-or-nothing skill unhindered by the sidesaddle, taking high walls in stride, and rapidly developing rapport with her mount. For the first time since they’d met, he felt in charity with her.

  “You ride beautifully, Harriet,” he complimented her now, leading them out of earshot of the groom.

  “It has been one of my few pleasures,” she admitted.

  They walked in silence for several minutes until the horses were cooled enough to halt. He helped her down and led her to the top of a rise from which they could see the Channel.

  “Gorgeous,” she breathed.

  The day was sunny and clear, only the faintest hint of haze showing in the distance. Several fishing boats bobbed about, some already returning to port from a night’s work. On the horizon, a ship of the line surged westward, the sight less menacing now that the war with France was finally over.

  “You like it?” he asked idly, dabbing at his nose with a handkerchief. He feared he was catching a chill from driving an open curricle so long through a torrential downpour.

  “Of course. The sea is even more majestic than I expected. I could drink in the view for hours.” She climbed onto a low boulder, as if the added height might improve the already spectacular scene. What it did was bring her head level with his.

  He cringed at the desire that suddenly erupted. It had been too long since his last liaison. He must find an excuse to ride into Bridport. But with the groom as an audience, he could at least snatch a kiss. He loosened her bonnet and bent his lips to hers.

  Harriet stiffened. “What do you think you are doing?” she hissed.

  “The groom is watching,” he reminded her, sliding an arm around her shoulders.

  If anything, she became stiffer. “That’s enough of a show, my lord.” Though she was whispering, anger and determination rang through the words. “There is no need for vulgar displays.”

  “Kissing one’s betrothed can hardly be called vulgar.”

  “I might have known,” she sighed, turning her head away to retie her bonnet. “Gentlemen are all alike. You are no better than Lord Heflin.”

  Shock snapped his face into a scowl that he barely remembered to turn away from the groom. “I refuse to occupy the same sentence as that reprobate," he spat, the force of his anger ruined when he sneezed.

  “Why? You’ve a similar reputation.”

  “To paraphrase your breakfast comment, my background is none of your business, though you may rest easy. I’ve never enjoyed schoolgirls, and I draw the line at seducing innocents. But how did you become acquainted with him?”

  “He visited our neighborhood,” she murmured, relaxing though his arm still circled her shoulders. Her face turned away as she watched a pair of gulls swooping over the sea.

  “Did he accost you?”

  “He tried, but I managed to escape. After that, I made sure I was never alone.”

  “You escaped him?” Disbelief was obvious. His arm tightened. “How?”

  She giggled. "With a rather unladylike maneuver of the knee, accompanied by stabbing him with a pair of scissors.”

  “My God!” exploded Charles, overwhelmed by laughter that turned into choking coughs. “What I would have given to see that! The man is insufferable.”

  “He is indeed. But be warned, my lord. I will not tolerate your attentions, either. I am no man’s toy.”

  Humor faded from his eyes, and he sighed. “I would never dream of inflicting unwanted attentions. But you must recall that we are supposed to be betrothed. I cannot ignore you. As you pointed out at breakfast – and I apologize, for you were right – we must carry out this scheme to the best of our abilities. If I am to convince people that we are in love, I must take every opportunity to touch you, and that includes the occasional stolen kiss.”

  “You need not do that in public. It will be sufficient if we slip away once in a while. What happens in private is between you and me alone. And since you dislike me, and I abhor arrogant fools, what happens in private will be a necessary counting of the minutes until we can thankfully return to company.”

  He grimaced, but offered no further argument. And why would he wish to argue, anyway? Harriet Sharpe was not attractive. She was barely sixteen, without a figure, and with minimal experience of life. He was hardly so desperate that he would consider raiding the nursery for a companion. He had no need to kiss her.

  They remounted the horses.

  Whatever charitable feelings her riding skills had raised rapidly disappeared. On dismounting in the stableyard she exchanged a comment with the groom that set them both laughing. Or rather, Billy laughed. Harriet brayed. Like a mule.

  Even worse was their return to the house. He shook his head. She did not walk. She strode. There was little difference between her and his groom. She might have learned table manners, but she exhibited none of the graces one expected of a lady. She did have a fine seat, though.

  * * * *

  Lady Lanyard requested Miss Sharpe’s company that afternoon. Despite her initial trepidation, Harriet soon relaxed under her ladyship’s charm.

  “My mother died in an accident when I was ten,” Harriet replied to a question. “After that, I had little formal training. We lacked the means to pay for a governess, though a neighbor did invite me to study with her daughters for a year. Thus I am untutored in the ways of society, but Charles will teach me what I need to know.”

  The neighbor was Lady Willingford, the memory of whom made Harriet shudder. She had spent much of that year caught in an impossible tangle. Lady Willingford ostensibly accompanied her home each day, and Melissa was expected to support that story. But in truth, her ladyship was carrying on with another neighbor at the time. The catechisms Lord Willingford routinely conducted left Melissa with a permanent abhorrence of deceit. Yet here she was. Again.

  “Perhaps it would be better to engage a companion who can help you feel more at home,” suggested the dowager, pulling Harriet’s thoughts back to the discussion.

  “I will look into that, but I am not sure that Grandmama can afford it. She is elderly and has little income.”

  “I will speak to Charles on the matter. Even if he were to pay the lady’s salary, it would be so small an irregularity that it would hardly count. And the benefits are obvious. But why are you not remaining with your brother?”

  “He is weak and has acquired all manner of dissipated friends. It is unsafe to remain at home without protection, but my brother’s funds do not extend to providing me with a chaperon. Now that Aunt Bea is returning to her own home, I must make other arrangements. Grandmama is the best choice. And I will not be much of a burden on her. I have been running my family’s house since my fourteenth year, so I can assist her.”

  “How did Charles come to know you?” Lady Lanyard asked.

  Harriet repeate
d the tale yet again. Was her ladyship growing forgetful? But those wintry eyes showed too much intelligence to accept that premise. Perhaps she was looking for inconsistencies. Suspicion of this all-too-fortuitous betrothal had to be expected.

  “Excuse me for mentioning it, Harriet, but I have trouble believing that Charles is attracted to you. You are so different from his usual tastes.”

  “You are not alone. I too cannot believe he loves me as he claims,” she admitted candidly. “It can’t only be my horsemanship, or even my appreciation of art. Who would predict that so handsome and sophisticated a gentleman could offer for someone as dowdy and homely as myself? I hardly look a day over fourteen and despair of any change.”

  “As to that, do not give up hope,” chuckled Lady Lanyard unexpectedly. “I was also late growing up. When you begin to develop, you will be amazed at the speed with which you catch up to the other girls. I’ll show you what I mean. Bring me the painting from the bottom drawer of my escritoire.”

  Puzzled, Harriet complied, retrieving a foot-square canvas of a family grouping.

  “That is the Earl of Watts, Lady Watts, and his four children,” commented Lady Lanyard. “I am here.” She pointed to the smallest child, a girl of about thirteen. The tight lacing and wide skirts fashionable at the time in no way hid that straight, girlish figure.

  “Your sister and brothers are considerably older,” Harriet ventured, wondering if intervening siblings had been lost in infancy. The next youngest appeared to be at least twenty.

  “Actually, we are all two years apart. I was eighteen when this was painted. It is not a period I am proud of, which is why this picture has never hung on display. It was done on the occasion of my betrothal. My appearance was largely responsible for the marriage my father arranged with my first husband, a wealthy manufacturer who was hoping a young bride might provide him with the family his first wife had failed to produce. Don’t misunderstand,” she continued as Harriet gasped. “Despite the forty-year gulf in our ages, Thomas was a good man, and we became close friends. But my father despaired of me, deciding I would never cut the sort of dash in society that was expected of Lady Abigail. By the time he discovered his error, it was too late. You must have Charles show you the gallery. It contains a painting of me that you will like, done when I was nineteen, just after my marriage.”