Viscount Vagabond (18 page)

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.”

Reggie, it turned out, was full of admiration for the viscount’s prowess and thought fifty quid a cheap price for such a marvelous mill. If Granny had kept back a few of the girl’s rags and trinkets, what was that to St. Denys’s heir? If he wanted, he could have decked the wench like a queen and never noticed the cost.

“But the gal run away after all,” Lord Browdie reminded in desperation. “Joke’s on him, don’t you see?”

“Joke’s on her, rather. Where’s she now? Probably haunting Drury Lane. Didn’t know an opportunity when it bit her on the nose. Women,” the baronet muttered scornfully.

This conversation threatened to restore Lord Browdie to the foul temper in which he’d begun a day that had started
with a hangover and climaxed with the humiliation of parading his tawdry mistress in front of the two people he hated most in this world.

If he broadcast the tale, he would only gild Lord Rand’s reputation as a virile, dashing fellow. Lord Browdie’s bitterness increased. He believed himself betrayed and illused on all sides.

Here he was, forced to skulk on the sidelines while the arrogant, yellow-haired viscount squired Catherine Pelliston about town. Only a few weeks before, Browdie had been the chit’s affianced husband, her property and money virtually in his grasp. Now the nasty, sharp faced female had the effrontery to declare herself not at home when he called—and he her papa’s oldest friend!

Miss Prim and Proper had no time for him, not when she could be flaunting herself all over London with her pretty viscount. What would Miss High and Mighty think if she heard how her golden darling spent his leisure hours—and with whom? Did Madam Propriety think she could reform Viscount Vagabond?

Lord Browdie smiled, displaying a crooked set of brown teeth to his companion. Once again the black storm clouds drifted away and he saw the happy sunshine. He could not tell the world his tale, but he must tell her. That was his duty as her papa’s oldest, dearest friend.

Considering the outrages to which he was inevitably goaded by Miss Pelliston’s mere presence, it did not bode well for the viscount to be found dancing with her that evening at Miss Gravistock’s birthday ball. Still, Lord Rand had action in mind, and that action required her assistance.

“Lead him on?” Catherine echoed in bewilderment when he began to describe her role. “Are you drunk yet?”

Her partner bit back a hasty retort. “You can’t get information from Browdie unless you speak with him, which means you have to be more welcoming than you’ve been. Looking at a man as though he was something the horse left behind isn’t the way to elicit confidences. You have to be more encouraging. You may even have to dance with him.”

Whatever indignant response Catherine might have made to this is lost to posterity, the dance at that moment inconsiderately requiring that they separate.

As he watched her move away, Max decided that the rose silk gown became her nearly as well as the militant light flashing in her eyes and the faint flush of anger that tinted her cheeks. Something stirred within him and he grew edgy.

Miss Pelliston must have become edgy as well, because when she rejoined her partner she told him icily that she had no interest in Lord Browdie’s confidences.

“Very well,” said Lord Rand. “Trust him if you like. Maybe he doesn’t know about Granny’s. Maybe he won’t say any
thing if he does know. Maybe it wouldn’t help to find out where you stand so that you can make an intelligent decision about what to do.”

Miss Pelliston did not deign to reply, though her deepening colour told him he’d struck home.

“Well?” he said after a moment.

“I concede your point,’’ she said stiffly.

As he gazed down upon her rigidly composed features, the viscount wondered how quickly her expression would soften if he covered her face with kisses. Simultaneously he felt a surging desire to run—very, very far away.

Lord Browdie, it turned out, was eager to unburden himself. In fact, in his haste to claim a dance with Miss Pelliston, he elbowed aside one duke, two baronets, one colonel, and one affronted Jack Langdon, who would have called him out on the spot if Max had not been there to hear his complaints.

“Call him out?” Max exclaimed, as he drew his friend aside. “You don’t know one end of a pistol from the other, I’ll have to take you to Manton’s shooting gallery for regular practice if you plan to take up this sort of hobby. Or did you mean to stand at twenty paces and throw books at him?”

Mr. Langdon thrust one aesthetically long hand into his already rumpled brown hair and reduced mere disorder to complete chaos. That his disheveled locks and distract aspect made him seem more romantically poetical than ever to several ladies in the vicinity was a circumstance of which he was as sublimely unaware as he was of those ladies’ existence. He could not know that his rumpled hair and absent expression made women want to take him in hand and smooth him out.

Jack knew only that he’d elbowed his way through Miss Pelliston’s crowd of admirers—who seemed to be growing more numerous by the minute—and had been about to request the favour of a dance when some ugly old brute had rudely thrust him out of the way.

Jack Langdon was not by nature a violent man. Like Max,
he’d spent his childhood being bullied. Unlike Max, he had not rebelled by running away physically. Jack had quietly escaped into the pages of his books. He liked Miss Pelliston excessively because talking to her was like hiding in a book—an attractive book, to be sure, but a safe, quiet, pleasant one, where no emotional or physical demands were made of him.

At the moment, however, he was feeling homicidally unquiet. As he watched Lord Browdie lead the young lady out, Mr. Langdon knew an unfamiliar yearning to commit mayhem. Fortunately for the peace of the company, Lord Rand was able to appease his friend by offering him the supper dance with Miss Pelliston.

The viscount did not make this sacrifice out of pure compassion. He had suddenly produced an idea that involved action, instead of hovering about boring himself to tears at a hot stuffy party filled with the same dull people he met at every other hot stuffy party. This was a more reasonable explanation than that he was desperate to put as much distance as possible between himself and a rose silk gown.

“You see, Jack, I’ve just recalled an appointment,” he explained. “The trouble is, I’ve already asked her, and Louisa will have my head if I abandon her. Won’t you be a good fellow and take my place? I daresay Miss Pelliston will be delighted.”