The Dangerous Viscount (2 page)

“Your family lives here?”

“Yes, at Wallop Hall.”

“An old house?”

“Very old.”

“I’m interested in antiquities.”

Without being shockingly rude, there wasn’t much else Diana could do. “In that case, you’d better come with me. If you have a taste for the Gothic, or perhaps the poetry of Sir Walter Scott, you’ll probably like Wallop Hall. My father, Mr. Montrose, will be
glad to point out the parts that go back to the Middle Ages.”

It wasn’t the end of the world. Since Iverley was obviously an eccentric, he should fit in perfectly with the Montrose family.

S
ebastian followed Lady Fanshawe up a drive lined with ancient oaks and wondered if he’d lost his mind. Two constant principles guided his life: avoid all women, at all costs; and eschew meaningless social discourse with chance acquaintances. So why was he going to call on a family he didn’t know and had no reason to believe he’d find congenial? Worse still in the company of a person who was, definitely and without question, female.

From his vantage a couple of yards behind, he had a splendid view of Lady Fanshawe’s figure. She sat on her horse with perfect posture, showing off a fine high bosom and slender waist. But not her legs. He’d never been interested in a woman’s legs before, or in any part of her except in a general, theoretical way that he had no difficulty dismissing. Now he couldn’t stop thinking about them. That little tease of calf and knee had him thinking about ankles and thighs too. The complete legs, both of them, not in rationed sections but in their glorious entirety. Clad in pink silk.

Not that there was the least chance of his seeing them, so what on earth was he doing here? Conversely,
if there was any chance—or danger—of seeing Lady Fanshawe’s legs, common sense demanded he turn around and gallop off in the opposite direction, never stopping until he reached the haven of his bachelor household in London.

“Lady Fanshawe,” he heard himself say. “Is your husband planning to join you at Mandeville?”

Where the hell did that come from?
He didn’t give a damn about her husband’s whereabouts. Or hers for that matter. He’d be much happier if she wasn’t here, happier still if he wasn’t. But ever since he’d caught sight of her in the stable court he seemed to have lost control over his movements and his powers of speech.

She turned her head at his question and his heart performed a jig in his chest. He’d already observed, in a dispassionate, almost scientific way, that she had blue eyes fringed in thick lashes that matched shining, dark brown hair. Nothing to get excited about. They were just features on a face. Agreeable ones—well, beautiful if you were being honest and Sebastian prided himself on his honesty—but nonetheless just eyes. Everyone had them, along with forehead and chin, nose, lips, and so forth. It was quite illogical that the sight of her cheek, plump and curved and the color of rich cream, should do strange things to his sense of balance.

“Sir Tobias Fanshawe died nearly two years ago,” she said.

He made some kind of noise in lieu of a more appropriate response. He feared she’d start weeping. Weeping, he had some idea, was what widows did when their late spouses were mentioned.

Lady Fanshawe, however, remained dry-eyed and showed no appreciable grief, or even agitation. She continued their progress at a slow trot that displayed her seat to advantage, until coming to an abrupt halt. “Min!” she cried.

“Di!” The response came from a girl perched on a stile, reading a book. She closed the volume and waved. Lady Fanshawe descended nimbly from her horse and met the girl by the side of the road. They embraced.

“What are you doing here?” asked the girl.
Min?
Was that a name? “We didn’t expect you before tomorrow at the earliest. Why are you riding? Where is your luggage?”

“I am staying at Mandeville for a few days. I rode over.”

“Really?” In the mysterious manner of females, “Min” managed to invest the simple word with a wealth of meaning.

Lady Fanshawe nudged her head in Sebastian’s direction with a little frown. “Mr. Iverley has been good enough to ride over with me.”

“Not Lord Blakeney?” Min didn’t giggle but she did smirk.

“Lord Blakeney is out shooting with the other gentlemen of the party. I had intended to come alone.” Min nodded. “Of course.” “But I met Mr. Iverley at the stables.”

“I see.”

Obviously important information had been exchanged and he had missed it. It took Sebastian back to his childhood and the company of his girl cousins, whose conversation always appeared fraught with
hidden meaning. He waited, teeth on edge, for the inevitable peal of giggles.

“Mr. Iverley, allow me to present you to my sister, Miss Minerva Montrose. Min, this is Mr. Iverley.”

He dismounted and sketched a bow. Min, despite her age, which Sebastian estimated to be in the teens, curtsied with admirable gravity, then somewhat marred the effect by complaining to her sister. “You know, Di, since you are married I should properly be introduced as Miss Montrose.”

“I do beg your pardon! Mr. Iverley, this is my younger sister,
Miss Montrose.”
This last came with a smile that scrambled his insides. In addition to her other manifest attractions, Lady Fanshawe possessed lips like ripe plums and straight white teeth. “Really, Min. When did you become such a stickler?”

“Since I determined on a diplomatic career.”

For a moment Sebastian had made the mistake of judging Miss Minerva rational. She held up her book and Sebastian seized with relief on the reassurance offered by an ordinary object, despite the lunacy revealed by the girl’s statement.

“What are you reading, Miss Montrose?” he asked.

“Monsieur de Pradt’s history of the Congress of Vienna.”

“Is it good?”

“I haven’t finished it yet. But evidently the diplomats could have done better.”

“You speak of becoming a diplomat. An unusual ambition for a lady.”

“I know it is impossible. I shall have to marry one and become a power behind the throne. Or perhaps I
shall wed a statesman and become a famous political hostess. Either way, it is important for me to know the forms of polite society. That’s why I have become a stickler.” She cast a triumphant look at her sister, making her appear very much her age despite the precociousness of her conversation. Sebastian half expected her to stick her tongue out.

“It’s very hard living in Shropshire,” she added. “I hardly meet anyone worth practicing on. I have to learn everything from books.”

“Don’t underestimate the virtues of the printed word,” Sebastian said. “Books are usually coherent and never answer back.”

He found himself in the position, once his impression of her common sense was restored, of tolerating female company. He was almost disappointed when she declined to accompany them to the house. Miss Montrose, unlike her sister, did nothing to upset his internal equilibrium.

“No thanks,” she said. “I haven’t been through the front door in three months.”

“Is Papa is his study, then?” Lady Fanshawe asked.

“Yes.”

“We shall have to sneak around to the garden door.”

Obviously he’d overestimated the intelligibility of the sisters’ conversation.

He and Lady Fanshawe continued up the drive on foot, leading their horses. “You must forgive my little sister, Mr. Iverley,” she said. “She does tend to run on about subjects that have taken her fancy.”

“It’s good to be interested in something.”

“Then you have come to the right place. Wallop Hall is full of enthusiasm.”

The drive veered off to a modest stable block where they consigned their mounts to the care of a groom. As they rounded some thick shrubbery a low, sprawling stone house came into view. As promised, the building appeared to be of considerable antiquity, covered with thick ivy right up to an arched front door of scarred oak planks. Although the glossy vine almost obscured a small window to the right of the entrance, Sebastian detected movement behind the diamond-paned glass.

Lady Fanshawe stopped and placed a restraining hand on his arm. “Don’t look,” she said softly. “Keep to the left and don’t let your feet crunch on the gravel.”

He did his best to comply, intrigued by the air of mystery and a little dizzy from her proximity. She exuded a subtly perfumed warmth as she leaned on his arm and whispered directions. They’d almost made it to the corner, another few paces would bring them out of sight of the front, when his booted foot slid on a large pebble and sent up a shower of stone, shattering the summer silence. He was not generally so clumsy, but how could he concentrate when she touched him? It was her fault.

For a few seconds they froze. Without any idea what they were trying to avoid, he prepared to run, pulling her with him.

Too late. The front door opened and she muttered a mild oath.

“Diana! My dearest child!”

“Now we are in for it,” she muttered, releasing
his arm. She turned to greet a man with a bald pate, gray whiskers and a paunch, a very caricature of the jolly country squire.

“Papa!” she cried, further confusing Sebastian by sounding happy to see him. “How are you?” He swept her into a great hug.

“Who’s this?” he asked, after his daughter had briefly explained her presence.

“Mr. Iverley. Allow me to present my father, Mr. Montrose.”

“I am acquainted with Lord Iverley.”

“I’m surprised, sir,” Sebastian said. “My great-uncle never leaves Northumberland.”

“We may have met in years past,” Mr. Montrose amended. “I don’t perfectly recall. But we exchange correspondence from time to time.”

“You must be interested in machines, then. Uncle Iverley rarely writes a letter on any other subject.”

“I do like to tinker with all sorts of mechanisms.”

For some reason this seemingly innocuous remark made Lady Fanshawe tense. “Is Mama in the garden?” she said. “I think I’ll just run around and find her.”

Her father seized her arm to prevent her escape. “Nonsense. You haven’t been here in six months. And Mr. Iverley has never been. You must both come into the hall.”

She let her father guide her through the oak door. Though not given to fancy, Sebastian detected the desperate air of a prisoner approaching the gallows. What could this affable man threaten that so oppressed his daughter?

Coming in from bright sunlight was like entering
a cave and it took a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the gloomy hall and notice something out of the ordinary: a wooden seat suspended by a chain from a metal contraption. Whatever it was, it looked relatively benign, certainly not the instrument of torture suggested by Lady Fanshawe’s agonized expression.

“Up you get, my dear,” Mr. Montrose ordered. She looked around as though contemplating flight, then climbed into the swinging chair.

Watching her father conduct some business with blocks of metal hanging from a horizontal bar, Sebastian realized the device was a weighing machine.

“Eight stone, two pounds,” Mr. Montrose announced. “Let me see.” He picked up a vellum bound volume from a small table and flipped through the pages. “Five pounds more than last time.”

“I’m wearing a riding habit. This cloth is very heavy,” she said.

Her father wagged his finger at her then pointed at the entry in the ledger. “None of that. Last time you wore a winter gown and full-length fur-trimmed pelisse. See? You made me record it in the book.” He dipped a pen in an inkwell kept handy for the task and entered his daughter’s new weight.

Although not in the habit of judging people’s emotional reactions—men, thank God, didn’t have them—Sebastian noticed Lady Fanshawe looked as though she were about to cry. Was she, for some reason, upset about the increase in her weight? He couldn’t imagine why. He found her figure absolutely perfect. Its diminution by even an ounce would be a sad loss.

If he cared for such things. Which of course he didn’t.

“I’ve never been weighed,” he said. Mr. Montrose beamed. “Of course you must take your turn. All the visitors to the house do. Get down, Diana.”

The ordeal with the weighing machine over, Diana obeyed. Honestly she’d like to murder her father. He had no idea how acutely he’d embarrassed her, in front of a stranger too. She could only be thankful that Iverley, not Blakeney, had witnessed her humiliation. How sound was her instinctive determination not to allow the latter anywhere near her childhood home. His cousin, on the other hand, seemed to fit right in with her eccentric family.

Iverley took her place in the hanging chair. It was on the small side for his frame and sank several inches from his added weight. He had to tuck his legs under the seat to keep them off the floor. His long arms hung limply at his sides, putting her in mind of a Guy Fawkes effigy on a bonfire.

Her father looked him up and down. “With new people I like to try and guess their weight. Eleven stone, I think, perhaps eleven and a half.” He adjusted the balancing weights. “God bless my soul! Twelve stone, five pounds. You carry more muscle than appears.”

It was apparently a good thing, Diana thought bitterly, that Iverley weighed more than he looked. A fleeting recollection of his thighs crossed her mind. There might be a fine figure beneath his long coat and waistcoat, a good decade out of style, and breeches
that she assumed were made for comfort since they lacked any discernable shape.

“Tell me, sir,” Iverley asked. “What is the object of collecting this information? Have you been able to draw any conclusions from your observations?”

“That’s a good question. I purchased the scale after I saw the jockeys weighed at a horse race. It’s only a simple steelyard and I had some notion of improving the mechanism for reading the weight. But nothing came of it and I moved on to other things. I like to record the changing weights of my family and acquaintance over time. The children love it, don’t you, my pet?”

He looked at Diana who managed to bite her tongue. How could Papa be so oblivious to her feelings? The boys didn’t mind, of course. And their mother hadn’t been weighed in years; since her weight never varied by so much as an ounce she refused to waste her time. But Papa couldn’t get it into his head that his daughters didn’t enjoy being the subjects of this particular scientific experiment.