Vanquishing the Viscount Read online

  The hand at her neck caught in her hair and tugged her head back so she was looking right into his pale-blue eyes. His lips were no more than a whisper from her own.

  Then his pupils darkened, and his mouth descended over hers.

  She wasn’t well placed to struggle, but she tried valiantly, nevertheless, when he pressed her body hard against him, one hand stealing down to grasp her buttock while his lips plundered hers.

  No! With a massive effort, she yanked herself out of his grasp, pulling him off-balance in the process. There was an ominous clink of china as he steadied himself against her desk, then the unmistakable clatter of an inkwell hitting the floor.

  Charles let out a curse at the very same moment a darkly familiar voice said, “Am I interrupting something?”

  Emma spun toward the doorway.

  There, standing very stiff and straight, was Viscount Tidworth.

  Could today get any worse?

  Chapter Fifteen

  James was impressed by his own sangfroid as he said evenly, “Why, Charles, you appear to be covered in ink. Hadn’t you better take speedy action?”

  Charles scowled at him for a moment, then replied grumpily, “Yes, I should. Good afternoon, Tidworth. Did you never learn to knock?”

  “And did you never learn to keep your hands off your servants?” James responded, noting the deep flush that had stolen across the governess’s features.

  “Well, I’m glad you find this funny,” his friend grumbled, swiping at himself ineffectually with the blackboard cloth. “I shall probably have to take a bath now, to make sure the ink doesn’t stain me for days. Why have you come, Tidworth?”

  “I’m here to see your father, not that it concerns you.”

  Charles harrumphed. “There’s no one else here today, not even Philippa. But that’s what you must expect if you come calling upon people without warning. Miss Hibbert will have to look after you until I’m presentable.”

  He stalked past James and shouted down the corridor for someone to organize a bath for him.

  “Most people would ring the bell, not yell,” he muttered to Charles’s departing back.

  James turned back into the room to find Miss Hibbert looking at him like a startled deer.

  With a wry smile, he said, “Don’t be put out, Miss Hibbert. Charles and I have been friends for years, and often irritate and tease each other.”

  Charles had been completely out of order, discomfiting his servant like that. James would make light of it for her sake, but he’d have a word or two to say to Charles in private on the matter.

  But now, finally, he had Miss Hibbert to himself. The perfect opportunity to make amends for his awful lapse of manners the previous week.

  But she kept looking at him with those deep hazel eyes of hers.

  He cleared his throat and walked toward her. “Would you like me to inspect the back of your gown for ink spots?”

  She immediately backed off, then started examining her skirts for ink splashes. Was she going to speak to him at all?

  He moved closer, carefully avoiding the puddle of ink seeping into the floorboards, and tried again. “Perhaps I can call for a maid to clean this up for you?”

  “No,” she muttered, turning awkwardly to look at the back of her gown. “That’s my job.”

  He puffed out a breath. He didn’t want her on her knees mopping up ink while he expressed his regrets for his rudeness. He wanted her full attention.

  “On the contrary, your job is to look after me. Charles has just said so. I’ll call for someone. Wait here.”

  He rang the bell and lurked in the passageway until a maid arrived, then sent her off to fetch a bucket and mop.

  When he returned to the schoolroom, Miss Hibbert was standing by the window, her face in shadow, but he could tell from the tension in her pose she wasn’t happy. Was there something more bothering her? Something worse than his own behavior? Worse than Charles’s ungovernable appetite for innocent women?

  “Miss Hibbert, I sense you are eager to get back to your charges. Shall we go in search of the tiny tyrants?”

  She smiled. “I saw you giving Willie a piggyback.”

  Finally. A response. “I hope I haven’t overexcited him. He won’t pay attention to his lessons now, will he?”

  “No matter. We were going to do some sketching by the pond.”

  “Outside? Splendid. I shall lend you my support while Charles sorts himself out. What an inordinate fuss over a little ink spill!”

  She laughed but soon became somber again. Something was definitely amiss.

  Bowing to her, he offered to carry her books and pencils, held the door open for her as they left the schoolroom, and followed her out into the courtyard.

  It was a pity Mr. Keane wasn’t at home. He’d have to make another visit. Unless the master of the house was due back this evening, in which case he could stay the night and discuss properties with Keane in the morning.

  They walked side by side in almost amicable silence to the pond, then stopped to gaze across at Willie, who was watching the ducks squabbling and splashing in the pond.

  James said quietly, “You seemed to be in difficulties when I arrived, Miss Hibbert. I thought I’d rescued you, but you still seem uncomfortable.”

  She gave a little shrug. “I believe I can deal with Mr. Charles. He was just teasing me.”

  “We both know what he is. You heard it for yourself that evening his papa rang a peal over him. Don’t let him take advantage of your inexperience.”

  Did that sound pompous?

  Yes. It did.

  She said tartly, “You’re very liberal with your advice, my lord.”

  “Please, call me James, or Tidworth if you prefer.” There was too much sarcasm in the way she said my lord.

  “I know my place, my lord.”

  Clearly, this wasn’t going to be easy.

  “Forgive me,” he said. “But going on past evidence, it seems you do not. However, I didn’t come here to cross swords with you. I came to make amends.”

  She turned and looked up at him, surprised. “To me? I thought you came to see Charles.”

  “His father, actually. But I was hoping to snatch a few moments alone with you. I’ve been in an agony of guilt since last Saturday. The way I accused you was unforgivable. I pray I might be forgiven.”

  Her eyes locked with his, and he couldn’t help but notice how brightly the golden irises glistened, and how long her dark eyelashes were.

  She bit her lip and said slowly, “There is nothing to forgive. I now know what I did to you when first we met and can only say how sorry I am for being so indomitable about your injury. It is I who should ask to be pardoned, not you.”

  He blinked at her, then looked down at the dusty toes of his riding boots, awash in a mixed knot of emotion. She knew about Belinda. Charles must have told her.

  Probably for the best it was out in the open, even if he didn’t like the idea of his friend sharing his personal troubles with strangers. A governess, at that.

  Though she’d said she came from an ancient noble family. No doubt true. He could see it in her manners, her looks, and the way she held herself. It would be a crime if Charles decided to seduce her.

  The idea of any man seducing her threatened to send his thoughts galloping off in completely the wrong direction. He couldn’t help but flush as he said, “You are forgiven, Miss Hibbert, on one condition.”

  “Which is?”

  “That you must say you forgive me, and agree we’ll say no more about it. Let’s turn a new page, and try to be friends.”

  She nodded, and smiled at him, unleashing an intriguing warmth in his gut. That smile…those lips…

  “Is— Er, is this your sketchbook I’m carrying?”

  He sounded like a stammering idiot. What had happened to that sangfroid?

  She nodded. “It is.”

  “May I?”

  He started leafing through her sketches, which mostly consiste
d of busts of the children and architectural details of Figheldene Hall. He was stunned at her skill. Having a modicum of artistic talent himself, he readily appreciated the abilities of others.

  Toward the back of the book, he came upon a very detailed sketch of a rambling Tudor brick-built pile. “What place is this?” he queried.

  Her shoulders sank, and her voice sounded strained as she replied, “That’s my home.”

  “It’s a splendid drawing,” he said heartily. “And a delightful building. I’ve always much admired those tall red-brick chimneys that look as if they are twisted.”

  She turned away from him and gazed down at the rippling water of the pond. Had he said something wrong? Just when they were getting on so famously.

  “And the crenellations running along below the roof are quite charming,” he continued, desperate to see her smile again. “You have leaded lights, like here at Figheldene. Modern fashion is all very well, but there’s a lot to be said for the tastes of our ancestors, don’t you think?”

  No response.

  He hurtled on, “It looks a very comfortable home, though old. Has it gardens with it? Are there any knot gardens? I’m most partial to knot gardens.”

  An audible sniff came from his companion, and her shoulders shook.

  Damnation! The woman was on the verge of tears. What had he done—or said—now?

  He wasn’t going to leave it a week this time. Seizing her elbow, he steered her to a lichen-covered stone seat and eased her onto it.

  There was a splash and a chuckle from the direction of the pond. He looked up to see Willie with a self-satisfied smile on his face and a duck kicking rapidly away from the bank.

  “William Keane,” he called, loud enough to bring Willie up short. “You are meant to be drawing the ducks, not chasing them!”

  Startled, Willie backed away from the edge of the pond, then picked up his sketchbook and settled down in the grass next to Mary. James waited until he was certain the boy was absorbed in his task, then returned his attention to Miss Hibbert.

  Taking his place beside her, he said gently, “Tell me what’s wrong, Emma—if I may call you Emma? Whatever I can do to help, just say the word. I am at your command.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  If only he hadn’t praised her drawing of Tresham Hall! Emma was certain she wouldn’t feel quite so vulnerable had he not brought up her beloved home. Now all she could do was wring her hands, fight the tears, and battle to speak around the huge lump in her throat.

  “I’ve had bad news from home this morning. My father’s taken ill, and my family’s in increasing difficulties.”

  “Oh, then you should go home to be with them! I’ll tell Charles to arrange it.”

  He was right—she was needed at home. If Lord Tidworth could convince the Keanes to let her go for a visit, she’d forgive him anything. Maybe even begin to like him…a little.

  Then she remembered. “But we’re going to Brighton, in hopes of reducing Willie’s cough.”

  The viscount paused, drumming his fingers silently on his thigh. “A bit early in the year, but yes, I can see it might do him good.”

  Emma was instantly arrested by the sight of his firm, strong hand with slight bruising on the knuckles. Hadn’t he said something once about boxing? She wondered what he’d been hitting lately—sparring with Gentleman Jackson? Practicing with a punching bag? Maybe he imagined her face every time he landed a blow. Or that of the woman who’d jilted him.

  She couldn’t really blame him.

  “I can’t see that you need to accompany Willie,” the viscount was saying. “He has his nurse, and if he’s poorly, he’ll be in no state for lessons. Even if he’s well, he’ll be too excited to concentrate on his studies because he’ll just want to go back to the beach. You shall go home, Emma. Don’t worry if Charles cuts up rough about it—I’ll deal with him, and I’ll intercede with his parents on your behalf, if needed. I’ll purchase your ticket for the stagecoach, and we’ll arrange everything as soon as the Keanes return.”

  It was a handsome gesture—not at all what she’d expected from Tidworth. “You’re too kind,” she said. “But please don’t put yourself out for me.”

  “It’s the least I can do. Now, how shall we occupy ourselves until Charles has recovered his temper? Shall we talk about art, perhaps? I hear the Elgin marbles at the British Museum are well worth a visit. Or if drawing is a topic you’re more comfortable with, we could discuss the relative merits of Blake and Turner. Or maybe you’d rather we just strolled and didn’t converse, at all?”

  “I— Well, I…”

  She couldn’t help being tongue-tied. Though the distance between herself and Tidworth was quite proper, she felt his presence as strongly as if he were bonded to her. It was a most peculiar sensation. She should retreat at once.

  Only, there was nowhere she could retreat to, without being really obvious. Whatever it was about him that affected her, she’d no intention of making him aware of it.

  “I know,” he said cheerfully. “We could do some sketching. When you see my paltry efforts, your melancholy will melt away.”

  She laughed softly. Success!

  He took up her sketchbook and pencil where they lay forgotten on the seat between them, licked the tip of the pencil in a very businesslike manner and, arranging the sketchpad on his knee, angled himself toward her.

  “You are to be my model,” he said. “I beg you not to move a muscle, or my meager offering will be no better than one of young William’s stick figures.”

  Her heart buoyed. No one had ever offered to sketch her before—not even Elias, and he’d tried to flatter her in any way he could think of. Even if the viscount made her look like Frankenstein’s monster, she would love that he’d tried.

  Clasping her hands in her lap and gazing across toward the flowering hawthorn bushes between the pond and the field beyond, she attempted to clear her mind of all thoughts. Especially unpleasant ones about the sale of her family home.

  The garden fell silent. There seemed to be no wind at all, no movement, no sensation other than the feel of Lord Tidworth’s gaze upon her face, noting every feature with such intensity it felt like a caress.

  He gazed at her, he looked down at the book, he sketched, then looked up again—she could just see his movements from the corner of her eye. As she surreptitiously followed the deft strokes of his pencil, her breathing became more shallow, and her heartbeat more rapid.

  No man had ever looked at her like this—as if he saw right through her flesh and into the very depths of her soul. She remained still, enclosed in the private universe that contained only herself and Tidworth, whose every action—good or bad—seemed to affect her on a deeper level than anyone else’s ever had. Which was extremely disturbing, because she’d sworn she would never again be taken in by the charms of a divinely handsome man.

  Just like Elias, those men whom God had favored with looks that made women fall at their feet, became shallow and vain. The more conquests they made, the less they cared for any woman, it seemed. Even after having secured a good woman for her status, her fortune, and her ability to bear healthy children, such a man was liable to get bored and take a mistress.

  Which meant that gentlemen like Viscount Tidworth needed to be kept at arm’s length. If not even farther away.

  And yet, as he continued to draw her, she realized she was leaning toward him, pulled as if by an invisible cord or a magnetic force issuing from his body.

  “Miss Hibbert!”

  “Hmm?”

  “Don’t fall asleep on me! I’m nearly done. I’m just trying to define your hair, to get the shine exactly right.”

  He scratched away at the paper a few moments more, then said, “There. Done. But dare I show it to you?”

  “Of course you must!” she exclaimed, coming back down to earth again. “Or what would be the reason for drawing it?”

  “You might hate it. Or think it a caricature.”

  “I won
’t know until I see it, my lord.”

  “No, I think I’d better keep it to myself.” He ripped the page smartly out of the sketchbook and pressed it, image inward, against his chest. “Perhaps you should go and see how your charges are faring. When all goes quiet is the most dangerous moment.”

  Who’d have thought this man could be such a tease? “You can’t do that!” she protested. “You must show it to me.”

  She put out a hand for it, but he flicked the drawing out of her reach. When she grabbed for the paper again, he stuffed it behind his back and sat there smirking at her.

  She was almost breast to chest with him now—if she leaned over any farther, she’d tumble into his lap.

  Her throat went dry, and she felt again that tug of recognition, that feeling of need, of bodily excitement, that he aroused in her. For a moment she wondered if he felt it, too, for he gazed soberly back at her, all humor suspended.

  As her eyes held his, he raised the paper and interposed it between their faces. She edged back on the seat to see it better. And let out a slow breath. “Remarkable.”

  He lowered his hand. “I’m assuming that’s a compliment,” he said with a lopsided grin.

  “Yes, in all seriousness, it’s quite excellent.”

  “I’ve surprised you—you didn’t expect me to have any skill.”

  “I had no preconceptions either way. I am genuinely impressed.” Looking at his hands, she mused on the fact that fingers that had grasped a saber, fired a pistol, and punched adversaries in the boxing ring, could still make so fine a line, produce so poignant a portrait.

  “Praise accepted. Now, I’d better find Charles, smooth his ruffled feathers, and see about getting you your release papers. Dare I hope you and I have now buried the hatchet?”

  As one, they got to their feet, shook hands, and exchanged smiles. After a brief hesitation, Lord Tidworth released her and headed back toward the hall.

  Transfixed, she watched his lithe figure as he strode away, then collapsed back onto the seat, sending her drawing things flying. While she couldn’t account for him, she’d felt again that extraordinary pulse of energy when they touched. It had rampaged through her body and stolen her breath. It took several long minutes before she felt fully composed again, and when she did, she hunted for the portrait, to admire it some more.