The Viscount Who Loved Me ~ Excerpt

Excerpt

Chapter One

The topic of rakes has, of course, been previously discussed in this column, and This Author has come to the conclusion that there are rakes, and there are Rakes.

Anthony Bridgerton is a Rake.

A rake (lower-class) is youthful and immature. He flaunts his exploits, behaves with utmost idiocy, and thinks himself dangerous to women.

He doesn’t flaunt his exploits because he doesn’t need to. He knows he will be whispered about by men and women alike, and in fact, he’s rather they didn’t whisper about him at all. He knows who he is and what he has done; further recountings are, to him, redundant.

He doesn’t behave like an idiot for the simple reason that he isn’t an idiot (moreso than must be expected among all members of the male gender). He has little patience for the foibles of society, and quite frankly, most of the time This Author cannot say she blames him.

And if that doesn’t describe Viscount Bridgeton – surely this season’s most eligible bachelor – to perfection, This Author shall retire Her quill immediately. The only questions is : Will 1814 be the season he finally succumbs to the exquisite bliss of matrimony?

This Author Thinks …..

Not.

LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 20 APRIL 1814

“Please don’t tell me,” Kate Sheffield said to the room at large, “that she is writing about Viscount Bridgerton again.”

Her half-sister Edwina, younger by almost four years, looked up from behind the single-sheet newspaper. “How could you tell?”

“You’re giggling like a madwoman.”

Edwina giggled, shaking the blue damask sofa on which they both sat.

“See?” Kate said, giving her a little poke in the arm. “You always giggle when she writes about some reprehensible rogue.” But Kate grinned. There was little she liked better than teasing her sister. In a good-natured manner, of course.

Mary Sheffield, Edwina’s mother, and Kate’s stepmother for nearly eighteen years, glanced up from her embroidery and pushed her spectacles farther up the bridge of her nose. “What are you two laughing about?”

“Kate’s in a snit because Lady Whistledown is writing about that rakish viscount again,” Edwina explained.

“I’m not in a snit,” Kate said, even though no one was listening.

“Bridgerton?” Mary asked absently.

Edwina nodded.”Yes”

“She always writes about him.”

“I think she just likes writing about rakes,” Edwina commented.

“Of course she likes writing about rakes,” Kate retorted. “If she wrote about boring people, no one would buy her newspaper.”

“That’s not true,” Edwina replies. “Just last week she wrote about us, and heaven knows we’re not the most interesting people in London.”

Kate smiled at her sister’s naïveté. Kate and Mary might not be the most interesting people in London, but Edwina, with her buttery-colored hair and startlingly pale blue eyes, had already been names the Incomparable of 1814. Kate, on the other hand, with her plain brown hair and eyes, was unusually referred to as “the Incomparable’s older sister.”

She supposed there were worse monikers. At least no one had yet begun to call her “the Incomparable’s spinster sister.” Which was a great closer to the truth than any of the Sheffields cared to admit. At twenty (nearly twenty-one, if one was going to be scrupulously honest about it), Kate was a bit long in the tooth to be enjoying her first season in London.

But there hadn't really been any other choice. The Sheffields hadn't been wealthy even when Kate's father had been alive, and since he'd passed on five years earlier, they'd been forced to economize even further. They certainly weren't ready for the poorhouse, but they had to mind every penny and watch every pound.

With their straitened finances, the Sheffields could manage the funds for only one trip to London. Renting a house --and a carriage-- and hiring the bare minimum of servants for the season cost money. More money than they could afford to spend twice. As it was, they'd had to save for five solid years to be able to afford this trip to London. And if the girls weren't successful on the Marriage Mart... Well, no one was going to clap them into debtor's prison, but they would have to look forward to a quiet life of genteel poverty at some charmingly small cottage in Somerset.
And so the two girls were forced to make their debuts in the same year. It had been decided that the most logical time would be when Edwina was just seventeen and Kate almost twenty-one. Mary would have liked to have waited until Edwina was eighteen, and a bit more mature, but that would have made Kate nearly twenty-two, and heavens, but who would have married her then?

Kate smiled wryly. She hadn't even wanted a season. She'd known from the outset that she wasn't the sort who would capture the attention of the ton. She wasn't pretty enough to overcome her lack of dowry, and she'd never learned to simper and mince and walk delicately, and do all those things other girls seemed to know how to do in the cradle. Even Edwina, who didn't have a devious bone in her body, somehow knew how to stand and walk and sigh so that men came to blows just for the honor of helping her cross the street.

Kate, on the other hand, always stood with her shoulders straight and tall, couldn't sit still if her life depended upon it, and walked as if she were in a race--and why not, she always wondered, if one was going somewhere, what could possibly be the point in not getting there quickly?
As for her current season in London, she didn't even like the city very much. Oh, she was having a good enough time, and she'd met quite a few nice people, but a London season seemed a horrible waste of money to a girl who would have been perfectly content to remain in the country and find some sensible man to marry there.

But Mary would have none of that. "When I married your father," she'd said, "I vowed to love you and bring you up with all the care and affection I'd give to a child of my own blood."
Kate had managed to get in a single, "But--" before Mary carried on with, "I have a responsibility to your poor mother, God rest her soul, and part of that responsibility is to see you married off happily and securely."

"I could be happy and secure in the country," Kate had replied.

Mary had countered, "There are more men from which to choose in London."

After which Edwina had joined in, insisting that she would be utterly miserable without her, and since Kate never could bear to see her sister unhappy, her fate had been sealed.

And so here she was -- sitting in a somewhat faded drawing room in a rented house in a section of London that was almost fashionable, and...

She looked about mischievously.

...and she was about to snatch a newspaper from her sister's grasp.

"Kate!" Edwina squealed, her eyes bugging out at the tiny triangle of newsprint that remained between her right thumb and forefinger. "I wasn't done yet!"

"You've been reading it forever," Kate said with a cheeky grin. "Besides, I want to see what she has to say about Viscount Bridgerton today."

Edwina's eyes, which were usually compared to peaceful Scottish lochs, glinted devilishly. "You're awfully interested in the viscount, Kate. Is there something you're not telling us?"

"Don't be silly. I don't even know the man. And if I did, I would probably run in the opposite direction. He is exactly the sort of man the two of us should avoid at all costs. He could probably seduce an iceberg."

"Kate!" Mary exclaimed.

Kate grimaced. She'd forgotten her stepmother was listening. "Well, it's true," she added. "I've heard he's had more mistresses than I've had birthdays."

Mary looked at her for a few seconds, as if trying to decide whether or not she wanted to respond, and then finally she said, "Not that this is an appropriate topic for your ears, but many men have."

"Oh." Kate flushed. There was little less appealing than being decisively contradicted while one was trying to make a grand point. "Well, then, he's had twice as many. Whatever the case, he's far more promiscuous than most men, and not the sort Edwina ought to allow to court her."

"You are enjoying a season as well," Mary reminded her.

Kate shot Mary the most sarcastic of glances. They all knew that if the viscount chose to court a Sheffield, it would not be Kate.

"I don't think there is anything in there that's going to alter your opinion," Edwina said with a shrug as she leaned toward Kate to get a better view of the newspaper. "She doesn't say very much about him, actually. It's more of a treatise on the topic of rakes."

Kate's eyes swept over the typeset words. "Hmmph," she said, her favorite expression of disdain. "I'll wager she's correct. He probably won't come up to scratch this year."

"You always think Lady Whistledown is correct," Mary murmured with a smile.

"She usually is," Kate replied. "You must admit, for a gossip columnist, she displays remarkable good sense. She has certainly been correct in her assessment of all the people I have met thus far in London."

"You should make your own judgments, Kate," Mary said lightly. "It is beneath you to base your opinions upon a gossip column."

Kate knew her stepmother was right, but she didn't want to admit it, and so she just let out another "hmmph," and turned back to the paper in her hands.

Whistledown was, without a doubt, the most interesting reading material in all London. Kate wasn't entirely certain when the gossip column had begun --sometime the previous year, she'd heard-- but one thing was certain. Whoever Lady Whistledown was (and no one really knew who she was) she was a well-connected member of the ton. She had to be. No interloper could ever uncover all the gossip she printed in her columns every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.

Lady Whistledown always had all the latest on-dits, and unlike other columnists, she wasn't hesitant about using people's full names. Having decided last week, for example, that Kate didn't look good in yellow, she wrote, clear as day: "The color yellow makes the dark-haired Miss Katharine Sheffield look like a singed daffodil."

Kate hadn't minded the insult. She'd heard it said on more than one occasion that one could not consider oneself "arrived" until one had been insulted by Lady Whistledown. Even Edwina, who was a huge social success by anyone's measure, had been jealous that Kate had been singled out for an insult.

And even though Kate didn't particularly want to be in London for a season, she figured that if she had to participate in the social whirl, she might as well not be a complete and utter failure. If getting insulted in a gossip column was to be her only sign of success, well, then, so be it. Kate would take her triumphs where she may.

Now when Penelope Featherington bragged about being likened to an overripe citrus fruit in her tangerine satin, Kate could wave her arm and sigh with great drama, "Yes, well, I am a singed daffodil."

"Someday," Mary announced out of the blue, giving her spectacles yet another push with her index finger, "someone is going to discover that woman's true identity, and then she's going to be in trouble."

Edwina looked at her mother with interest. "Do you really think someone will ferret her out? She has managed to keep her secret for over a year now."

"Nothing that big can stay a secret forever," Mary replied. She jabbed her embroidery with her needle, pulling a long strand of yellow thread through the fabric. "Mark my words. It's all going to come out sooner or later, and when it does, a scandal the likes of which you have never seen is going to erupt all over town."

"Well, if I knew who she was," Kate announced, flipping the single-sheet newspaper over to page two, "I'd probably make her my best friend. She's fiendishly entertaining. And no matter what anyone says, she's almost always right."

Just then, Newton, Kate's somewhat overweight corgi, trotted into the room.

"Isn't that dog supposed to stay outside?" Mary asked. Then she yelped, "Kate!" as the dog angled over to her feet and panted as if waiting for a kiss.

"Newton, come here this minute," Kate ordered.

The dog gazed longingly at Mary, then waddled over to Kate, hopped up onto the sofa, and laid his front paws across her lap.

"He's covering you with fur," Edwina said.

Kate shrugged as she stroked his thick, caramel-colored coat. "I don't mind."

Edwina sighed, but she reached out and gave Newton a quick pat, anyway. "What else does she say?" she asked, leaning forward with interest. "I never did get to see page two."

Kate smiled at her sister's sarcasm. "Not much. A little something about the Duke and Duchess of Hastings, who apparently arrived in town earlier this week, a list of the food at Lady Danbury's ball, which she proclaimed 'surprisingly delicious,' and a rather unfortunate description of Mrs. Featherington's gown Monday last."

Edwina frowned. "She does seem to pick on the Featheringtons quite a bit."

"And no wonder," Mary said, setting down her embroidery as she stood up. "That woman wouldn't know how to pick out a dress color for her girls if a rainbow wrapped itself right around her neck."

"Mother!" Edwina exclaimed.

Kate clapped a hand over her mouth, trying not to laugh. Mary rarely made such opinionated pronouncements, but when she did, they were always marvelous.

"Well, it's true. She keeps dressing her youngest in tangerine. Anyone can see that poor girl needs a blue or a mint green."

"You dressed me in yellow," Kate reminded her.

"And I'm sorry I did. That will teach me to listen to a shopgirl. I should never have doubted my own judgment. We'll simply have to have that one cut down for Edwina."

Since Edwina was a full head shorter than Kate, and several shades more delicate, this would not be a problem.

"When you do," Kate said, turning to her sister, "make sure you eliminate the ruffle on the sleeve. It's dreadfully distracting. And it itches. I had half a mind to rip it off right there at the Ashbourne ball."

Mary rolled her eyes. "I am both surprised and thankful that you saw fit to restrain yourself."
"I am surprised but not thankful," Edwina said with a mischievous smile. "Just think of the fun Lady Whistledown would have had with that."

"Ah yes," Kate said, returning her grin. "I can see it now. 'The singed daffodil rips off her petals. More details to follow.' "

"I am going upstairs," Mary announced, shaking her head at her daughters' antics. "Do try not to forget that we have a party to attend this evening. You girls may want to get a bit of rest before we go out. It's sure to be another late night for us."

Kate and Edwina nodded and murmured promises to that effect as Mary gathered her embroidery and left the room. As soon as she was gone, Edwina turned to Kate and asked, "Have you decided what you're going to wear tonight?"

"The green gauze, I think. I should wear white, I know, but I fear it does not suit me."

"If you don't wear white," Edwina said loyally, "then neither shall I. I shall wear my blue muslin."

Kate nodded her approval as she glanced back at the newspaper in her hand, trying to balance Newton, who had flipped over onto his back and was angling to have his belly rubbed. "Just last week Mr. Berbrooke said you are an angel in blue. On account of it matching your eyes so well."
Edwina blinked in surprise. "Mr. Berbrooke said that? To you?"

Kate looked back up. "Of course. All of your swain try to pass on their compliments through me."
"They do? Whyever?"

Kate smiled slowly and indulgently. "Well, now, Edwina, it might have something to do with the time you announced to the entire audience at the Smythe-Smith musicale that you could never marry without your sister's approval."

Edwina's cheeks turned just the slightest bit pink. "It wasn't the entire audience," she mumbled.
"It might as well have been. The news traveled faster than fire on rooftops. I wasn't even in the room at the time and it only took two minutes for me to hear about it."

Edwina crossed her arms and let out a "hmmph" that made her sound rather like her older sister. "Well, it's true, and I don't care who knows it. I know I'm expected to make a grand and brilliant match, but I don't have to marry someone who will ill-treat me. Anyone with the fortitude to actually impress you would have to be up to snuff."

"Am I so difficult to impress, then?"

The two sisters looked at each other, then answered in unison, "Yes."

But as Kate laughed along with Edwina, a niggling sense of guilt rose within her. All three Sheffields knew that it would be Edwina who would snag a nobleman or marry into a fortune. It would be Edwina who would ensure that her family would not have to live out their lives in genteel poverty. Edwina was a beauty, while Kate was...

Kate was Kate.

Kate didn't mind. Edwina's beauty was simply a fact of life. There were certain truths Kate had long since come to accept. Kate would never learn to waltz without trying to take the lead; she'd always be afraid of electrical storms, no matter how often she told herself she was being silly; and no matter what she wore, no matter how she dressed her hair or pinched her cheeks, she'd never be as pretty as Edwina.

Besides, Kate wasn't certain that she'd like all the attention Edwina received. Nor, she was coming to realize, would she relish the responsibility of having to marry well to provide for her mother and sister.

"Edwina," Kate said softly, her eyes growing serious, "you don't have to marry anyone you don't like. You know that."

Edwina nodded, suddenly looking as if she might cry.

"If you decide there isn't a single gentleman in London who is good enough for you, then so be it. We shall simply go back to Somerset and enjoy our own company. There's no one I like better, anyway."

"Nor I," Edwina whispered.

"And if you do find a man who sweeps you off your feet, then Mary and I shall be delighted. You should not worry about leaving us, either. We shall get on fine with each other for company."

"You might find someone to marry as well," Edwina pointed out.

Kate felt her lips twist into a small smile. "I might," she allowed, knowing that it probably wasn't true. She didn't want to remain a spinster her entire life, but she doubted she would find a husband here in London. "Perhaps one of your lovesick suitors will turn to me once he realizes you are unattainable," she teased.

Edwina swatted her with a pillow. "Don't be silly."

"But I'm not!" Kate protested. And she wasn't. Quite frankly, this seemed to her the most likely avenue by which she might actually find a husband in town.

"Do you know what sort of man I'd like to marry?" Edwina asked, her eyes turning dreamy.

Kate shook her head.

"A scholar."

"A scholar?"

"A scholar," Edwina said firmly.

Kate cleared her throat. "I'm not certain you'll find many of those in town for the season."

"I know." Edwina let out a little sigh. "But the truth is --and you know this even if I am not supposed to let on in public-- I'm really rather bookish. I'd much rather spend my day in a library than gadding about in Hyde Park. I think I should enjoy life with man who enjoyed scholarly pursuits as well."

"Right. Hmmm..." Kate's mind worked frantically. Edwina wasn't likely to find a scholar back in Somerset either. "You know, Edwina, it might be difficult to find you a true scholar outside the university towns. You might have to settle for a man who likes to read and learn as you do."

"That would be all right," Edwina said happily. "I'd be quite content with an amateur scholar."

Kate breathed a sigh of relief. Surely they could find someone in London who liked to read.

"And do you know what," Edwina added. "You truly cannot tell a book by its cover. All sorts of people are amateur scholars. Why even that Viscount Bridgerton Lady Whistledown keeps talking about might be a scholar at heart."

"Bite your tongue, Edwina. You are not to have anything to do with Viscount Bridgerton. Everyone knows he is the worst sort of rake. In fact, he's the worst rake, period. In all London. In the entire country!"

"I know, I was just using him as an example. Besides, he's not likely to choose a bride this year, anyway. Lady Whistledown said so, and you yourself said that she is almost always right."

Kate patted her sister on the arm. "Don't worry. We will find you a suitable husband. But not-- not not not not not Viscount Bridgerton!"

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

At that very moment, the subject of their discussion was relaxing at White's with two of his three younger brothers, enjoying a late afternoon drink.

Anthony Bridgerton leaned back in his leather chair, regarded his scotch with a thoughtful expression as he swirled it about, and then announced, "I'm thinking about getting married."

Benedict Bridgerton, who had been indulging in a habit his mother detested --tipping his chair drunkenly on the back two legs-- fell over.

Colin Bridgerton started to choke.

Luckily for Colin, Benedict regained his seat with enough time to smack him soundly on the back, sending a green olive sailing across the table.

It narrowly missed Anthony's ear.

Anthony let the indignity pass without comment. He was all too aware that his sudden declaration had come as a bit of a surprise.

Well, perhaps more than a bit. "Complete," "total," and "utter" were words that came to mind.
Anthony knew that he did not fit the image of a man who had settling down on his mind. He'd spent the last decade as the worst sort of rake, taking pleasure where he may. For as he well knew, life was short and certainly meant to be enjoyed. Oh, he'd had a certain code of honor. He never dallied with well-bred young women. Anyone who might have any right to demand marriage was strictly off-limits.

With four younger sisters of his own, Anthony had a healthy degree of respect for the good reputations of gently-bred women. He'd already nearly fought a duel for one of his sisters, all over a slight to her honor. And as for the other three... He freely admitted that he broke out in a cold sweat at the mere thought of their getting involved with a man who bore a reputation like his.

No, he certainly wasn't about to despoil some other gentleman's younger sister.

But as for the other sort of women-- the widows and actresses who knew what they wanted and what they were getting into-- he'd enjoyed their company and enjoyed it well. Since the day he left Oxford and headed west to London, he'd not been without a mistress.

Sometimes, he thought wryly, he'd not been without two.

He'd ridden in nearly every horse race society had to offer, he'd boxed at Gentleman Jackson's, and he'd won more card games than he could count. (He'd lost a few, too, but he disregarded those.) He'd spent the decade of his twenties in a mindful pursuit of pleasure, tempered only by his overwhelming sense of responsibility to his family.

Edmund Bridgerton's death had been both sudden and unexpected; he'd not had a chance to make any final requests of his eldest son before he perished. But if he had, Anthony was certain that he would have asked him to care for his mother and siblings with same diligence and affection Edmund had displayed.

And so in between Anthony's rounds of parties and horseraces, he'd sent his brothers to Eton and Oxford, gone to a mind-numbing number of piano recitals given by his sisters (no easy feat; three out of four of them were tone deaf), and kept a close and watchful eye on the family finances. With seven brothers and sisters, he saw it as his duty to make sure there was enough money to secure all of their futures.

As he grew closer to thirty, he'd realized that he was spending more and more time tending to his heritage and family and less and less in his old pursuit of decadence and pleasure. And he'd realized that he liked it that way. He still kept a mistress, but never more than one at a time, and he discovered that he no longer felt the need to enter every horse race or stay late at a party, just to win that last hand of cards.

His reputation, of course, stayed with him. He didn't mind that, actually. There were certain benefits to being thought England's most reprehensible rake. He was nearly universally feared, for example.

That was always a good thing.

But now it was time for marriage. He ought to settle down, have a son. He had a title to pass on, after all. He did feel a rather sharp twinge of regret --and perhaps a touch of guilt as well-- over the fact that it was unlikely that he'd live to see his son into adulthood. But what could he do? He was the firstborn Bridgerton of a firstborn Bridgerton of a firstborn Bridgerton eight times over. He had a dynastic responsibility to be fruitful and multiply.

Besides, he took some comfort in knowing that he'd leave three able and caring brothers behind. They'd see to it that his son was brought up with the love and honor that every Bridgerton enjoyed. His sisters would coddle the boy, and his mother might spoil him...

Anthony actually smiled a bit as he thought of his large and often boisterous family. His son would not need a father to be well-loved. And whatever children he sired-- well, they probably wouldn't remember him after he was gone. They'd be young, unformed. It had not escaped Anthony's notice that of all the Bridgerton children, he, the eldest, was the one most deeply affected by their father's death.

Anthony downed another sip of his scotch and straightened his shoulders, pushing such unpleasant ruminations from his mind. He needed to focus on the matter at hand, namely, the pursuit of a wife.

Being a discerning and somewhat organized man, he'd made a mental list of requirements for the position. First, she ought to be reasonably attractive. She needn't be a raving beauty (although that would be nice), but if he was going to have to bed her, he figured a bit of attraction ought to make the job more pleasant.

Second, she couldn't be stupid. This, Anthony mused, might be the most difficult of his requirements to fill. He was not universally impressed by the mental prowess of London debutantes. The last time he'd made the mistake of engaging a young chit fresh out of the schoolroom in conversation, she'd been unable to discuss anything other than food (she'd had a plate of strawberries in her hand at the time) and the weather (and she hadn't even gotten that right; when Anthony had asked if she thought the weather was going to turn inclement, she'd replied, "I'm sure I don't know. I've never been to Clement.")

He might be able to avoid conversation with a wife who was less than brilliant, but he did not want stupid children.

Third--and this was the most important--she couldn't be anyone with whom he might actually fall in love.

Under no circumstances would this rule be broken.

He wasn't a complete cynic; he knew that true love existed. Anyone who'd ever been in the same room with his parents knew that true love existed.

But love was a complication he wished to avoid. He had no desire for his life to be visited by that particular miracle.

And since Anthony was used to getting what he wanted, he had no doubt that he would find an attractive, intelligent woman with whom he would never fall in love. And what was the problem with that? Chances were he wouldn't have found the love of his life even if he had been looking for her. Most men didn't.

"Good God, Anthony, what has you frowning so? Not that olive. I saw it clearly and it didn't even touch you."

Benedict's voice broke him out of his reverie, and Anthony blinked a few times before answering, "Nothing. Nothing at all."

He hadn't, of course, shared his thoughts about his own mortality with anyone else, even his brothers. It was not the sort of thing one wanted to advertise. Hell, if someone had come up to him and said the same thing, he probably would have laughed him right out the door.

But no one else could understand the depth of the bond he'd felt with his father. And no one could possibly understand the way Anthony felt it in his bones, how he simply knew that he could not live longer than his father had done. Edmund had been everything to him. He'd always aspired to be as great a man as his father, knowing that that was unlikely, yet trying all the same. To actually achieve more than Edmund had --in any way-- that was nothing short of impossible.

Anthony's father was, quite simply, the greatest man he'd ever known, possibly the greatest man who'd ever lived. To think that he might be more than that seemed conceited in the extreme.

Something had happened to him the night his father had died, when he'd remained in his parents' bedroom with the body, just sitting there for hours, watching his father and trying desperately to remember every moment they'd shared. It would be so easy to forget the little things-- how Edmund would squeeze Anthony's upper arm when he needed encouragement. Or how he could recite from memory Balthazar's entire "Sigh No More," song from Much Ado About Nothing, not because he thought it particularly meaningful but just because he liked it.

And when Anthony finally emerged from the room, the first streaks of dawn pinking the sky, he somehow knew that his days were numbered, and numbered in the same way Edmund's had been.

"Spit it out," Benedict said, breaking into his thoughts once again. "I won't offer you a penny for your thoughts, since I know they can't possibly be worth that much, but what are you thinking about?"

Anthony suddenly sat up straighter, determined to force his attention back to the matter at hand. After all, he had a bride to choose, and that was surely serious business. "Who is considered the diamond of this season?" he asked.

His brothers paused for a moment to think on this, and then Colin said, "Edwina Sheffield. Surely you've seen her. Rather petite, with blond hair and blue eyes. You can usually spot her by the sheeplike crowd of lovesick suitors following her about."

Anthony ignored his brother's attempts at sarcastic humor. "Has she a brain?"

Colin blinked, as if the question of a woman with a brain was one that had never occurred to him. "Yes, I rather think she does. I once heard her discussing mythology with Middlethorpe, and it sounded as if she had the right of it."

"Good," Anthony said, letting his glass of scotch hit the table with a thunk. "Then I'll marry her."
Copyright © 2000 by Julia Cotler Pottinger

Affair by Amanda Quick

Excerpt
Chapter One
London, three years later

“You leave me no opinion but to be blunt, Mr. St Ives. Unfortunately, the truth is the matter is that you are not what I had in mind in the way of a man-of affairs.” Charlotte Arkendale clasped her hands together on top of the wide mahogany desk and regarded Baxter with a critical eye. “I am sorry for the waste of your time.”

The interview was not going well. Baxter adjusted the gold-framed eyeglasses on the bridge of his nose and silently vowed that he would not give in to the impulse to grind his back teeth.

“Forgive me, Miss Arkendale, but I was under the impression that you wished to employ a person who appeared completely innocuous and uninteresting.”

“Quite true.”

“I believe year exact description of the ideal candidate for the position was, and I quote, a person who is a bland as a potato pudding.”

Charlotte blinked wide, disconcertingly intelligent, green eyes. “ You do not comprehend me properly, sir.”

“I rarely make mistakes, Miss Arkendale. I am nothing if not precise, methodical, and deliberately in my ways. Mistakes are made by those who are impulsive or inclined toward excessive passion. I assure you, I am not of that temperament.”

“I could not agree with you more on the risks of passionate nature,” she said quickly. “Indeed, that is one of the problems –“

“Allow me to read to you precisely what you wrote in your letter to your recently retired man-of-affairs.”

“There is no need. I am perfectly aware of what I wrote to Mr. Marcle.”

Baxter ignored her. He reached into the inside pocket of his slightly rumpled coat and removed the letter he had stored there. He had read the damn thing so many times that he almost had memorized, but he made a show of glancing down at the flamboyant handwriting.

“ ‘As you know, Mr. Marcle, I require a man-of-affairs to take your place. He must be a person who presents an ordinary, unassuming appearance. I want a man who can go about his business unnoticed; a gentleman with whom I can meet frequently without attracting undue attention or comment.

“ ‘In addition to the customary duties of a man-of-affairs, duties which you have fulfilled, so very admirably during the past five years, sir, I must ask that the gentleman whom you recommend possess certain other skills.

“ ‘ I shall not trouble you with the details of situation in which I find myself. Suffice it to say that due to recent events I am in need of a stout, keenly alerted individual who can be depended upon to protect my person. In short, I wish to employ a bodyguard as well as man-of-affairs.

“ ‘Expense, as always, must be a consideration. Therefore, rather than undertake the cost of engaging two men to fill two posts, I have concluded that it will prove more economical to employ one man who can carry the responsibilities of both positions-‘ “

“Yes, yes, I recall my own words quite clearly,” Charlotte interrupted testily. “But that is not the point.”

Baxter doggedly continued :

“ ‘I therefore request that you send me a respectable gentleman who meets the above requirements and who presents an appearance that is as bland as a potato pudding.’”

“I fail to see why you must repeat aloud everything on the page, Mr. St Ives.”

Baxter pressed on :

“ ‘ He must be endowed with a high degree of intelligence as I shall require him to make the usual delicate inquiries for me. But in his capacity as a bodyguard, he must also be skilled in the use of a pistol in case events take a nasty turn. Above all, Mr. Marcle, as you well know, he must be discreet.’ “

“ Enough, Mr. St. Ives.” Charlotte picked up a small volume bound in red leather and slapped in smartly against the desktop to get his attention.

Baxter glanced up from the letter. “I believe I meet most of your requirements, Miss Arkendale.”

“I am certain that you do meet a few of them.” She favored him with a frosty smile. “Mr. Marcle would never have recommended you to me if that were not the case. Unfortunately, there is one very important qualification that you lack.”

Baxter deliberately refolded the letter and slipped it back inside his coat. “Time is of the essence, according to Marcle.”

“Quite correct.” An anxious expression came and went in her brilliant eyes. “I need someone to fill the post immediately.”

“Then perhaps you should not be too choosy, Miss Arkendale.”

She flushed. “But the thing is, Mr. St. Ives, I wish to employ a man who meets all of my requirements, not just some of them.”

“I must insist that I do meet all of them, Miss Arkendale.” He paused. “Or very nearly all. I am intelligent, alert, and amazingly discreet. I confess that I have little interest in pistols. I find them to be generally inaccurate and unreliable.”

“Ah-ha.” She brightened at that news. “There you are. Another requirement that you do not meet, sir.”

“But I have some skill in chemistry.”

“Chemistry?” She frowned. “What good will that do?”

“One never knows, Miss Arkendale. Occasionally I find it quite useful.”

“I see. Well, that is all very interesting, of course. Unfortunately, I have no need of a chemist.’

“You insisted upon a man who would draw little attention. A staid, unremarkable man-of-affairs.”

“Yes. But-“

“Allow me to tell you that I am often described in those very terms. Bland as a potato pudding in every way.”

Irritation begin to simmer in Charlotte’s eyes. She leaped to her feet and stalked around the corner of her desk. “I find that extremely difficult to believe, sir.”

“I cannot imagine why.” Baxter removed his spectacles as he began to pace the small study. “Even my own aunt informs me that I am capable of inducing a state of acute boredom in anyone within a radius of twenty paces in less than ten minutes. Miss Arkendale, I can assure you that I not look dull, I am dull.”

“Perhaps weak eyesight runs in your family, sir. I recommend that your aunt obtain a pair of eyeglasses such as those that you wear.”

“My aunt would not be dead if a pair of spectacles.” Baxter reflected briefly on the outrageously stylish Rosalind, Lady Trengloss, as he polished the lenses of his eyeglasses. “She wears hers only when she knows herself to be entirely alone. I doubt that her maid has seen her in them.”

“Which only confirms my suspicion that she has not taken a close look at you in some time, sir. Perhaps not since you were a babe in arms.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Charlotte spun around to face him. “Mr. St. Ives, the matter of eyesight bears very much on the point I am attempting to make here.”

Baxter replaced his spectacles with cautious deliberation. He definitely losing the thread of the conversation. Not a good sign. He forced himself to study Charlotte with his customary analytical detachment.

She bore little resemblance to most of the ladies of his acquaintance. In truth, the longer he was in her presence, the more Baxter was convinced that she was entirely unique.

To his amazement, he found himself reluctantly fascinated in spite of what he knew about her. She was somewhat older that he had expected. Five-and-twenty, he had learned in passing.

Expression came and went across her face with the rapidity of a chemical reaction in a flask positioned over an intense flame. Strong brows and long lashes framed her eyes. An assertive nose, high cheekbones, and an eloquent mount conveyed spirited determination and an indomitable will.

In other words, Baxter thought, this is one bloody-minded female.

Her glossy auburn hair was parted in the centre above a high, intelligent forehead. The tresses were drawn up in a neat knot and arranged so that a few corkscrew curls bounced around her temples.

In the midst of a Season that featured a plethora of low-cut bodices and gossamer fabrics designed to reveal a maximum amount of the female form, Charlotte wore a surprisingly modest gown. It was fashioned of yellow muslin, high-waisted and trimmed with long sleeves and a white ruff. A pair of yellow kid slippers peeked out from beneath the severely restrained flounce that decorated the hem. He could not help but notice that she had very pretty feet. Nicely shaped with dainty ankles.

Appalled at the direction of his thoughts, Baxter looked away. “Forgive me, Miss Arkendale, but I seem to have missed your point.”

“You will simply not do as my man-of-affairs.”

“Because I wear spectacles?” He frowned. “I would have thought that they rather enhanced the impression of potato-pudding blandness.”

“Your spectacles are not the problem.” She sounded thoroughly exasperated now.

“I thought you just said they were the problem.”

“Haven’t you been listening?” I begin to believe that you are deliberately misunderstanding me, sir. I repeat, you are not qualified for the post.”

“I am perfectly suited to it. May I remind you that your own man-of-affairs has recommended me for this position?”

Charlotte dismissed that with a wave of her hand. “Mr. Marcle is no longer my man-of-affairs. He is even now on his way to a cottage in Devon.”

“I believe he did say something to the effect that he felt he had earned a long and peaceful retirement. I gained the impression that you were a somewhat demanding employer. Miss Arkendale.”

She stiffened. “I beg your pardon?”

“Never mind. Marcle’s retirement is not the issue. What is of importance here is that you called upon him one last time and gave him instructions to find his replacement. He has selected me to take over his responsibilities.”

“I make the final decision in this matter and I say that you will not do, sir.”

“I assure you that Marcle thought me eminently qualified for the post. He was pleased to write the letter of recommendation that I showed to you.”

The silver-haired, dapper John Marcle had been in the midst of packing up his household when he had received his last instructions from his soon-to-be former employer. Baxter’s timing had been perfect. Or so he had thought until he tried to persuade the dubious Marcle that he wished to apply for the position.

Rather than relief at the prospect of solving his last “Arkendale problem,” as he termed it, the conscientious Marcle had felt compelled to discourage Baxter from the outset.

“Miss Arkendale is, ah, somewhat unusual,” Marcle said as he toyed with his pen. “Are you quite certain you wish to apply for the post?”

“Quite certain,” Baxter said.

Marcle peered at him from beneath a solid line of thick, white brows. “Forgive me, sir, but I do not comprehend precisely why you wish to engage yourself to Miss Arkendale in this capacity.”

“The usual reasons. I’m in need of employment.”

“Yes, yes, I understand. But there must be other positions available.”

Baxter decided to embroider his story a bit. He assumed what he hoped was a confidential air. “We both know how mundane most such posts are. Instructions to solicitors and various agents. Arrangements for the buying and selling properties. Banking matters. All very uninspiring.”

“After five years as Miss Arkendale’s man-of-affairs, I can assure you that there is much to be said for the routine and the uninspiring.”

“I am eager for something a bit different,” Baxter said earnestly. “This post sounds as if it will be somewhat out of the ordinary. Indeed, I sense that it will offer me a certain challenge.”

“Challenge?” Marcle closed his eyes. “I doubt that you know the meaning of the word yet, sir.”

“I have been told that I am in a rut. It has been suggested that I add an element of excitement to my life, sir. I am hoping that this post will afford me the opportunity to do that.”

Marcle’s eyes snapped open in alarm. “You say you seek excitement?”

“ Indeed, sir. A man of my nature gets very little of that commodity in the normal course of events.” Baxter hoped he was not overdoing it. “I have always lived a quiet life.”

And what was more, he much preferred his peaceful existence, he thought glumly. This damnable mission that his aunt had begged him to undertake was an unwelcome interruption in his placid routine.

The only reason he had allowed himself to be talked into it was because he knew Rosalind well. She has a flair for the dramatic – her greatest regret was that she had never gone on the stage – but she was not given to foolish fancies and feverish imaginings.

Rosalind was genuinely concerned about the circumstances surrounding the murder of her friend, Drusilla Heskett. The authorities had declared that the woman had been shot by a housebreaker. Rosalind suspected that the killer was none other than Charlotte Arkendale.

Baxter had agreed to look into situation on his aunt’s behalf.
A discreet inquiry had turned up the information that the mysterious Miss Arkendale happened to be in need of a new man-of-affairs. Baxter had seized the opportunity to apply for the post.

He reasoned that if he could talk his way into the position he would ideally situated to conduct his investigation. With any luck he would resolve the matter in short order and be able to return to the calm refuge of his laboratory.

Marcle exhaled heavily. “It’s true that working for Miss Arkendale can sometimes produce an element of excitement, but I am not altogether certain it is the type of adventure you would enjoy, Mr. St. Ives.”

“I shall be the judge of that.”

“Believe me, sir, if it’s excitement you crave, you would do better to take yourself off to a gaming hell.”

“I don’t enjoy games for chance.”

Marcle grimaced. “ assure you, a lively hell would be infinitely less maddening than embroiling yourself in Miss Arkendale’s affairs.”

Baxter had not considered the possibility that Charlotte Arkendale was a candidate for Bedlam. “You believe her to be mad?”

“How many ladies of your acquaintance require a man-of-affairs who can also undertake the duties of a bodyguard, sir?”

An excellent question, Baxter thought ruefully. The entire matter sounded more bizarre by the moment. “Nevertheless, I wish to apply for the post. It is obvious why she needs a new man-of-affairs. You are retiring, after all, she must replace you. But perhaps you would be good enough to explain why Miss Arkendale is in need of a bodyguard?”

“How the devil should I know the answer to that?” Marcle tossed aside his pen. “Miss Arkendale is a most peculiar female. I have served as her man-of-affairs since the death of her stepfather, Lord Winterbourne. I can assure you, these past five years have been the longer years of my life.

Baxter eyed him curiously. “If you disliked your post, why did you continue in it?”

Marcle sighed. “She pays extraordinarily well.”

“I see.”

“But I must confess that whatever I received a letter of instruction from her, I trembled in my shoes. I never knew what strange demand she would make next. And that was before he took a notion to add the duties of a bodyguard to the post.”

“What sort of demands does she make in the normal course of affairs”

“Marcle groaned. “She has send me to make inquiries of the oddest people. I have gone haring off to the North in order to obtain information on a certain gentleman. I and brothels on her behalf. I have inquired into the financial affairs of any number of men who would be shocked to learn of her interest.”

“Odd, indeed.”

“And most unladylike. Upon my oath, sir if she did not pay so handsomely, I would have quit my position after the first month of service. But at least I was never required to act as a bodyguard. I am grateful for that much.”

“You have no notion of why she feels herself to be in danger?”

“None whatsoever.” Marcle’s chair squeaked as he leaned back in it. “Miss Arkendale has not seen fit to confide in me on that score. In truth, there is a great deal Miss Arkendale has never seen fit to confide in me. I am extremely vague about the actual source of her income, for example.”

Baxter was very good at controlling his expressions. A bastard, even one who was the by-blow of a wealthy earl, learned the skill early on it life. The talent served him well at that moment. He managed to convey only casual interest in Marcle’s last statement.

“I was under the impression that Miss Arkendale’s mother, lady Winterbourne, had a substantial income from her first marriage,” Baxter said carefully. “I assumed the inheritance was passed on to Miss Arkendale and her sister.”

Marcle’s brows rose. “That is what Miss Charlotte would have you believe. But I can tell you that Winterbourne squandered nearly every penny of the Arkendale inheritance before he had the grace to get himself murdered by a footpad five years ago.”

Baxter removed his spectacles and began to polish them with his handkerchief. “Just what do you suspect in the real source of Miss Arkendale’s money?”

Marcle examined his nails. “I will be truthful, sir. Although I have assisted in the investment and management of her income for five years, to this day I have no notion of where the money originates. I recommend that if you take this post, you follow my example. Sometimes it’s best not to know all of the facts.”

Baxter slowly replaced his eyeglasses. “Fascinating, I expect some distant relative died and left an inheritance that has made up for the one that Winterbourne frittered away.”

“I do not believe that to be the case,” Marcle said slowly. “I succumbed to curiousity a couple of years ago and made some discreet inquiries. There was no such wealthy Arkendale relative. I fear the source of her funds is simply one more peculiar mystery surrounding Miss Arkendale.”

It was no mystery at all if Rosalind was correct in her conclusions, Baxter thought. The lady was a blackmailer.

A distinct tapping sound brought his thoughts back to the present. He glanced at Charlotte, who had come to a halt near the fireplace. She was drumming her fingers on the marble mantel.

“I do not see how Marcle could possibly have imagined you to be qualified for this post,” she said.

Baxter had had enough of arguing the point. “It is not as if there are a great many men about who can meet your absurd requirements, Miss Arkendale.”

She glowered. “But surely Mr. Marcle can find me a gentleman who is more suited to the position that yourself.”

“Have you forgotten? Marcle is halfway to Devon. Would you mind telling me precisely what it is about me that is so suitable?”

“Other than your lack of skill with a pistol?” she asked much too sweetly.

“Yes, other than that failing.”

“You force me to be rude, sir. The problem is your appearance.”

“What the devil is wrong with my appearance?” No one could be more unprepossessing than myself.”

Charlotte scowled. “Do not feed me that Banbury tale. You most certainly are not a potato pudding. Just the opposite, in fact.”

He stared at her. “I beg your pardon?”

“You must know very well, sir, that your spectacles are a poor disguise.”

“Disguise?” He wondered if he had got the wrong address and the wrong Charlotte Arkendale. Perhaps he had got the wrong town. “What in the name of devil do you believe me to be concealing?”

“Surely you are not suffering from the illusion that those spectacles mask your true nature.”

“My true nature?”Baxter lost his grip on his patience. “Bloody hell, just what am I, if not innocuous and unprepossessing?”

She spread her hands wide. “You have to look of a man of strong passions who has mastered his temperament with even stronger powers of self-control.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Her eyes narrowed with grim determination. “Such a man cannot hope to go about unnoticed. You are bound to attract attention when you conduct business on my behalf. I cannot have that in my man-of-affairs. I require someone who can disappear into a crowd. Someone whose face no one recalls very clearly. Don’t you understand, sir? You give the appearance of being rather, well, to be quite blunt, dangerous.”

Baxter was bereft of words.

Charlotte clasped her hands behind her back and resumed her pacing. “It is quite obvious you will never be able to pass for a dull, ordinary man-of-affairs. Therefore, you must see that you would not do at all for my purposes.”

Baxter realized his mouth was hanging open. He managed to get it closed. He had been called many things, bastard, ill-mannered, and a great bore being among the more common epithets. But no one had ever labeled him a man of strong passion. No one had ever claimed that he looked dangerous.

He was a man of science. He prided himself on his detached, unemotional approach to problems, people, and situations. It was a trait he had honed to perfection years ago when he discovered that, as the bastard son of the Earl of Esherton and the notorious Emma, Lady Sultenham, he would be forever excluded from his rightful heritage.

He had been a subject of speculation and gossip since the day he was born. He had learned early to seek refuge amid his books and scientific apparatus.

Although some women initially found the notion of an affair with the bastard son of an earl somewhat exiting, especially when they learned that he was a very wealthy bastard son, the sentiment did not last long. The weak flames generated in the course of his infrequent liaisons burned for only a very short time before sputtering out.

His affairs had become even shorter in duration since his return from Italy three years ago. The acid burns on his back and shoulders had healed but he was marked for life.

Women reacted to the raw, ugly scars with shock and disgust. Baxter did not entirely blame them. He had never been handsome and the acid lacerations had done nothing to improve his looks. Fortunately, his face had been spared. He was, however, fed up with the inconvenience of having to make certain that the candles were snuffed and the fire banked before he for undressed and climbed into bed with a lady.

On the last such occasion, some six months ago, he had nearly brained himself on the bedpost when he had tripped over his own boot in the inky darkness of the widow’s unlit bedchamber. The incident had put a distinct damper on the reminder of the evening.

For the most part, he sought his satisfactions and pleasures in his laboratory. There, surrounded by his gleaming beakers, flasks, retorts, and blowpipes, he could avoid the empty conversations and frivolous pursuits of the Polite World. It was a world he had never enjoyed. A world that did not begin to comprehend him. A world that he found excruciatingly superficial and insipid. A world in which he had never felt at home.

Baxter schooled his thoughts and forced himself to reason swiftly. Charlotte had plainly dismissed him as a possible man-of-affairs. A new approach was required if he was convince her to employ him.

“Miss Arkendale, there seems to be some discrepancy between your view of my nature and the views of virtually everyone else in the world. May I suggest we resolve the matter by conducting an experiment?”

She went very still. “What sort of experiment?”

I recommend that you summon the members of your household and ask them for their opinions. If the consensus is that I can successfully go about my duties unnoticed and unremarked, you will employ me. If they concur with your views, I shall take my leave and look elsewhere for a post.”

She hesitated, clearly dubious. Then she gave a quick decisive nod. “Very well, sir. That seems quite logical. We shall conduct the experiment at once. I shall summon my sister and housekeeper. They are both extremely observant.”

She reached for the velvet bell pull that hung beside the fireplace and gave it a strong tug.

“You agree my word on it, sir.” She smiled with ill-concealed triumph. “We shall settle the matter at once.”

Footsteps sounded in the hall. Baxter adjusted his eyeglasses and sat back in his chair to await the outcome of the experiment.

He was certain that he could safely predict the results. He knew his strong points better than anyone else. No one could top him when it came to appearing as bland and uninteresting as a potato pudding.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Twenty minutes late, Baxter went down the steps of the Arkendale town house with a sense of quiet exultation. He noted that the crisp March breeze, which had been decided chilly an hour earlier, now felt fresh and invigorating.

There was nothing quite like a properly conducted scientific experiment to settle things, he thought as he hailed a passing hackney. It had not been easy but he had finally secured his new post. As he had anticipated, Charlotte Arkendale was the only person in the small household, indeed very likely the only person in the world of London, who would ever notice him in a crowd.

He was not sure what her peculiar notions concerning his nature said about her except that they definitely verified John Marcle’s opinion. Charlotte was a very unique sort of female.

Not at all what one would expect in the way of a blackmailer and murderess, Baxter thought.

Copyright © 1997 by Jane A. Krentz