Viscount Vagabond (Regency Noblemen 1)

“Then why did you take a fit?”

“I did not take a fit. If I gave way for a moment that was because I was shocked. Possibly I overreacted.”

“All the same, I’ve compromised you,” he reminded. “Besides everything else, I just kissed you i

n a public park.”

“Good heavens, you can’t be serious. Surely you do not go about proposing marriage to every woman you kiss. In your case that would most assuredly lead to bigamy.”

Catherine stared off into the distance, her spine ramrod straight and her chin high.

“I think you must be drunk,” she continued. “Yes, I’m sure you are. It was your vices that entangled you in my difficulties in the first place, and though I am grateful you were there to rescue me I cannot but regret the reasons you were there. Just now, vice has nearly led you into a grievous error which you would have cause to regret all the rest of your days. Later, when you are sober, I hope you will consider the matter and learn from the experience. For the present, I wish you would take me home.”

“There now,” said Lynnette. “Didn’t I tell you it was him?” Her companion appeared not to hear her. He was sulking. Lord Browdie might not care where he found his entertainment, but he had rather keep that entertainment out of public view—unless, of course, the female at his side was in great demand among Society’s gentlemen and one might lord it over the competition.

Whatever degree of popularity Lynnette had achieved at Granny Grendle’s, she was scarcely in the morning with the Wilson sisters. She ought, therefore, to know her place and be content to abide quietly, awaiting her protector’s pleasure in the modest house he’d rented for her. But no, she must be wheedling and whining at a fellow the livelong day for “a breath of fresh air.” Wasn’t any fresh air in London. And now Miss Prim and Proper and her uppity viscount had seen him in company with a common harlot.

“Didn’t I tell you it was him?” she prodded.

“Him, who?” was the peevish response.

“The one that took the new girl off.” Lynnette went on to describe the highly entertaining scene she’d unabashedly watched from the top of the stairs.

“That’s how I got this dress,” she said. “I saw the old witch take it from the box and made her give it me.” Lynnette neglected to add that the dress was the compensation she’d demanded for having turned such a promising customer over to a mere beginner. Lynnette had deeply and loudly resented having to entertain an ugly, drunken sailor instead of a drunken Adonis.

“Fifty quid?” Lord Browdie repeated as she concluded her story. “You meant to say the fool paid fifty quid for a scrawny country servant?”

“I never got more than a glimpse of her, but she looked all skin and bones to me. Anyhow, it was thirty for her and twenty for her things—only they never did get all her things, as I said. Then the poor man is back two days later looking for her. The ignorant thing must have run off, thinking she could do better. Some girls have no common sense at all, I declare. A viscount you said he was?” Lynnette shook her head in regret, and perhaps not all of that emotion was reserved for the poor rustic who’d tossed away a golden opportunity.

The news that Granny Grendle had so easily cozened the aggravating viscount restored Lord Browdie to good humour. When he had a moment to himself he’d turn the matter over and see what could be made of it. Rand gulled by an old bawd and then the gal bolts after all. Oh, that was rich, it was.

Had Miss Pelliston been privy to the exchange between Lord Browdie and his light o’love, she would have had the unalloyed satisfaction of knowing she had acted aright in rejecting Lord Rand’s offer. She had not heard that conversation, however, and was consequently most uneasy on two counts. One, whatever assurances she’d offered the viscount, she was certain that painted face was familiar; therefore Catherine was sure Lord Browdie knew her secret. Second, she did not believe he’d keep the tale to himself. He might not want to alienate her papa or Lord Andover and he might not want to be killed in a duel, but Lord Browdie was first and foremost a drunkard, and a loud, indiscreet, talkative one.

She could expect the rumour mills to begin grinding any day now, and after a short while they would grind her reputation to dust. Her poor unsuspecting cousin and his wife—they had no idea the scandal in store.

The worst was that she couldn’t warn them. Of course Lord Andover would believe in her innocence. All the same, he’d make Lord Rand marry her. Even the viscount, for all his wild ways and impatience with convention, believed that was the only solution.

Catherine trudged slowly up the stairs to her bedchamber, followed by a prattling Molly, who could not say enough about Lord Rand’s elegant carriage, prime cattle, and altogether stunning personal appearance. She declared that Miss Pelliston was the most fortunate woman in creation, having been honoured by a drive with the most splendid man in all of Christendom—and heathendom besides.

“Really, Miss, I always said as he was the handsomest man,” she raved, “only that was in a rough sort of way, you know. I do think he never cared much how he looked. But, oh, when I seen the carriage come up and him sitting there like the prince in the fairy tale like the sun itself was only shining to shine on him—”

Catherine cut short this venture into the realms of poesy with the information that she was very tired and wanted a nap if she was to survive tonight’s festivities in honour of Miss Gravistock’s birthday.

Molly subsided. That is to say she left off talking and commenced to sighing. However, this evidence of the state of her feelings had only to be endured a quarter hour, at the end of which time she left her mistress to her “nap”—if one could call the torments of the damned a nap.

Catherine lay her head upon her pillow and immediately that head grew feverish.

He had kissed her. As kisses go, it was not much of a kiss, but Catherine knew little of how kisses went, as she’d told him. She now wished to learn no more. What had she told him? Flattered? She touched her lips then jerked her fingers away. Her whole face burned, and in her mind, where there ought to be sober reason, there was only the chaos of jolting thoughts and alien, edgy sensations.

It was only a kiss, she told herself, and only the most fleeting contact at that—but somehow the sky had changed, and that was not how it should be, not with him. Good Lord, not with him.

In novels, heroines got kissed, but by the heroes they would marry, which made it acceptable, if not technically proper. This was not the same, and not acceptable for her. And she had liked it, which made no sense.

Had she not met him in a brothel? Hadn’t he been utterly castaway at the time? Hadn’t she heard Lord Andover’s ironic sympathy for the gentlemen at White’s with whom Lord Rand regularly gambled? Hadn’t she heard as well from several others how Lord Rand had tried to start a brawl on the very steps of that club?

Besides, he was overbearing and hasty, just like Papa. Why, the viscount even affected the speech of common ruffians, full of oaths and bad grammar. That was hardly the stuff of which heroes were made.

Yet despite the ill she knew of him, she’d pushed him away only because she’d been so startled—and immediately she’d wished she hadn’t made it stop.

Who was the Catherine who’d thrilled at the muscular strength of his arms, who even now lay shuddering as she remembered the soft, moist touch of his mouth, so light— only an instant—yet somehow hinting a warm promise that made her want... oh, more. There was the clean masculine scent of him, his face so close as his dark lashes veiled the deep blue of his eyes, the warmth of his hands on her back... only that. It was not so much. What had it done to her—and why him?

If she were a true lady, she would have recoiled at his polluted touch. She hadn’t, and the reason was obvious: she’d inherited her papa’s depravity.

Why not? She had inherited his temper. The only difference between them was that she took the trouble—and it was a deal of trouble—to keep hers in check. Now there was yet another demon to restrain... and a rakehell had released it.

Lord Rand had rather a knack, didn’t he, of drawing out the worst in her. Good heavens—she’d even sat there blithely chattering away about wanting to murder her father and practically boasting about her scheme to run away.

Catherine turned angrily

onto her stomach and buried her hot face in the pillow.

The man was dangerous. He seemed reassuring even as he was turning the world upside down. He was already making a shambles of her neat system of values. What would he do, given the opportunity, to her morals? What would he do if he knew how easily he conjured up those demons? He could turn her into a monster of passion—like Papa—wild, angry, driven. Lord—marry him! She’d as soon plunge into a tidal wave. Never. Her reputation was precious, but so was her sanity. If the reputation needed saving, she must save it herself.

In his own way, Lord Rand was as troubled as Miss Pelliston. The fact that he’d kissed her filled him with every species of astonishment. The fact that he’d liked kissing her filled him with horror. The fact that he’d proposed to her was so utterly bizarre that he could think of no expression suitable to characterise it.

He was not, however, given to prolonged introspection. He’d taken leave of his senses, which was not at all unusual, and had behaved rashly, which was even less unusual. That was all the explanation he needed.

Regardless what had driven him to commit this afternoon’s atrocities, they’d pointed out, just as Miss Pelliston had noted, that he had become entangled in her affairs. If he wanted to make progress with the blonde Juno, he’d better get himself unentangled very soon. The way to do that was to eliminate Miss Pelliston’s problem.

Lord Browdie, possessed of information certain to make the blond viscount the laughingstock of the clubs, lost no time in relaying this news to his friend, Sir Reggie. The baronet’s reaction was not what he’d hoped for.

“Oh, yes,” said Reggie. “Heard about that from one of those fellows—Jos, I think it was. Imagine. Him and Cholly both no match for Rand—and them twice his weight and him foxed in the bargain. Broke Cholly’s nose, you know.”