Viscount Vagabond (Regency Noblemen 1)

A light breeze rose then and a faint scent wafted to his nostrils. Violets... and there were no flowers in this park. There was that strange stirring, a dull ache, somewhere in his chest. Resolutely he turned to gaze straight ahead. The horses’ tails restored him to objectivity.

“Consistent or not, I’m not a drunkard,’’ he snapped. “Not yet, anyhow. But I think you’ll drive me to it, Miss Pelliston. I can’t open my mouth without being accused of being half-seas over. Is that some sort of hobbyhorse of yours, ma’am?”

He stole another glance in spite of himself, and his heart smote him. He had forgotten about her father. Now the wet brightness of her eyes told him he’d struck a painful spot. He felt like a brute—a great, clumsy lummox.

“Oh, drat.” His instincts told him to take her in his arms and comfort her. What remained of his rational mind told him to keep his hands to himself, no matter how they itched to touch her. The two inner voices had a violent argument, and the rational mind won out. He apologised.

He told her he was out of sorts because he’d failed regarding the dress, had made such a mess of the business, in fact, that Lord Browdie’s mistress was now confidently expecting to become his.

This is not the sort of talk to which a gentleman normally treats an innocent young miss. Miss Pelliston should have been insulted. She ought, at least, have pointed out the impropriety of the subject.

Like other ladies, she knew that gentlemen kept mistresses and that in the Beau Monde this was considered in light of a duty. Other women would feign ignorance of such matters. In Catherine’s case, pretence was not only impossible, but absurd—after all, the man had found her in a brothel.

This was how she justified her reaction. She did not include in that justification the conspiratorial thrill she’d experienced as the viscount told his adventures. She did not even consider the relief she’d felt upon learning that the unfortunate female was not Lord Rand’s mistress yet.

Catherine did admit—not only to herself, but aloud— that she was touched by his efforts, ill-considered though they’d been, on her behalf.

“All the same,” she added, “it wasn’t necessary. Lord Browdie thinks it was some other woman you paid fifty pounds for. He was so tickled that you’d paid so much only to be cheated of the girl’s belongings that I wonder he hasn’t told all the world about it. What was most provoking was that, in between chortling with glee about your being made of fool of, he was lecturing me on the dangers of your company.”

Perhaps Lord Rand was beginning to understand how very dangerous certain company could be. Perhaps he’d begun to wish someone had warned him away weeks ago. He said nothing, however, only smiled rather bleakly.

“So there is no need to worry about the dress,” Catherine went on, thinking the man was not yet convinced. “I should have realised that. Lord Browdie is not the kind of man who’d notice what a woman wore. I’m sure he never noticed any of my frocks—any more than Papa ever did.”

Lord Rand’s smile grew a tad more bleak. Perhaps it had occurred to him that he could, if asked, provide an accurate list of every garment he’d ever seen Miss Pelliston in, from the moment he’d seen her wrapped in a blanket.

He said, “Then we’ve been making mountains out of molehills—is that it? Thinking everyone sees Banquo’s ghost, so to speak.”

Catherine looked puzzled.

“Macbeth, Miss Pelliston. Shakespeare and his confounded ghosts.”

“I know—only—”

“—only you thought I didn’t. I suppose, besides considering me a drunkard, you also believe I’m illiterate.”

“No. I’m only surprised at your not pretending to be illiterate.”

A grim foreboding began to overtake him. “Let’s keep that a secret, shall we? I never meant to let on. Your happy news took me by surprise and I’m afraid I let my guard down.”

“Why have it up in the first place, My Lord? Why pretend to be less than you are?”

“Don’t want to raise expectations, don’t you know,” he answered with a fine display of insouciance. “People would start expecting me to be erudite all the time, and it’s confounded tiring. It’s hard enough just behaving myself without adding intellectual responsibility to the lot.”

“You’re a very strange man, My Lord.”

“‘Mad, bad, and dangerous to know.’ That’s what Caro Lamb said about Byron—or so Louisa tells me. Still, the foolish creature got to know him anyhow, and look where that led.”

Miss Pelliston’s colour deepened about six shades, which must have brought her companion some enjoyment, because he grinned as he gave the horses leave to start.

Catherine was no more pleased with the smug grin than she was with the thinly veiled threat. He was warning her off, was he? Did the conceited brute think she was pursuing him?

“You forget,” she began as soon as she’d crushed down an incipient urge to do him violence, “that Lady Caroline is also accounted mad. She became entangled with Lord Byron because she was not thinking rationally. A sensible woman would certainly keep away from dangerous men.”

“Would she? But you don’t keep away from me, though my character failings, according to you, are legion.”

“I do try to keep away,” she snapped, “but you are always there.”

“May I remind, you that if I hadn’t always been there, you’d be languishing in a whorehouse now, or getting run down by carriages, or working your fingers to the bone in a dressmaker’s shop.”

“Then you may derive comfort from the fact, My Lord, that I am no longer in any sort of danger, and you need waste no more of your valuable time with heroic rescues. You are at liberty to do exactly as you like. If you have accidentally got into the habit of rescuing helpless women, perhaps you should set about rescuing the one who now has my dress. I daresay that sort of activity is more in keeping with your tastes.”

“Miss Pelliston, that last smacks of jealousy.”

r /> “Oh!” she cried, stamping her foot and thus alarming the horses. “What a coxcomb you are!”

“And what a devil of a temper you have. I suppose you’d like to strike me,” he said with the most infuriating grin. “No, on second thought, I recall that strangling is more to your tastes. Maybe you’d like to fasten those ladylike white fingers about my throat and choke me? Be warned that there’s a deal of linen in the way. Punching me on the nose would be more efficient, though more untidy. In either case, my cravat would suffer and Blackwood would never forgive you.”

“You are insufferable,” she muttered, clenching and unclenching her fists. “How I wish I were a man.”

“I’m so glad you’re not. Manly rage couldn’t be nearly as entertaining as the present spectacle. You look like an outraged kitten. I shall have to call you ‘Cat’ from now on.”

“I never gave you leave—”

“I never wait for leave, Miss Pelliston... Pettigrew... Pennyman... Catherine... Cat. What a lot of names you have, just like a common criminal.”

With a mighty effort, Catherine controlled herself. She would have liked nothing better than to choke the breath out of him and hated him for knowing it and teasing her with it. She folded her hands in her lap.

“I see,” she said with a reasonable appearance of calm, “that you are bent on provoking me. I suppose that is the most productive activity you can think of.”

“No. Kissing you would be much more productive in that way. Unfortunately, being a mere male and driven by baser instincts, I’m afraid I’d provoke myself even more. Therefore I shall not kiss you, Cat, however much you beg me.”

Catherine stifled a gasp and turned her gaze towards the trees shading the Queen’s Walk. Their leaves stirred in the light breeze, and above them the sky was changing from blue to grey. Her heart was stirring too, more agitated than the gently swaying branches—but that was only because she was so incensed. Of course he didn’t mean to kiss her. He wanted to outrage her, and she was playing into his hands. Catherine decided she’d given Lord Rand enough entertainment for one morning.