Page 38 of Just a Little Daring

“Thank you, I won’t,” August replied stiffly. His stomach rebelled at the idea of eating when Vivien’s father was likely about to tell him to keep away from his daughter or else he’d chop him up into bite-sized pieces. Of course, he ought to keep away from her anyway. He’d already decided he would keep away from her, but that did not seem to be the point.

The viscount slid a glass across the table and August took it, staring down into the richly coloured liquid with a heavy sense of inevitability.

“So, you are the reason my daughter has been moping about the house like a sad little wraith.”

August looked up and swallowed hard. His tone had been mild, but August knew this man’s reputation too well to be lulled into a false sense of security.

“My lord, I never intended…”

“We never do, do we?” Cavendish said, smiling a little. “But all the same, the results are undeniable. Vivien is in love with you.”

August jolted in his seat, the words striking him all the harder for the baldness with which they’d been spoken. He ought to be horrified or at the very least alarmed by her father throwing the accusation at him, except it had not been an accusation, more a statement of fact, and August’s heart was soaring. It ought not, the stupid organ. It was a pointless reaction to an impossible situation.

“My daughter has not said so out loud, you understand. She would not do so, believing her case to be hopeless,” Cavendish went on, as though he hadn’t just flung August’s entire world into turmoil. “But I know her. You are the only man she has ever spoken to me of with admiration shining in her eyes and such warmth in her voice. You have made quite an impression.”

“As she has on me,” August said, seeing no point in dissembling.

Cavendish nodded. “I should think so, and yet you are not courting her?”

August let out an unhappy huff of laughter. “A circumstance I should think you’d be grateful for,” he said bitterly.

“Why would I be grateful to see my only daughter wretched?” he demanded, an edge to his voice August was not about to underestimate. “I confess to spoiling my children, Mr Lane-Fox. If they want something, they invariably get it. Vivien wants you.”

Cavendish poked at some tender spot inside August with his sharp words, and it hurt. Pain and frustration bubbled up in an unpleasant surge.

“She agreed,” August said furiously. “It’s not like I don’t want to court her, but we both agreed it would end badly. I am not you, Lord Cavendish. My family is a scandal, my mother is living openly with her female lover, one of my sisters is in trouble with the law more often than I am and the other paints indecent pictures of heroic women besting naked men. I spend far too much of my time defending the family honour, such as it is. Too often with my fists. I do not have vast wealth, a title, or a reputation that would make people think very hard indeed before offering Vivien the slightest insult, as was demonstrated all too vividly in the dining room of the Ship Inn.”

August broke off, his chest heaving with emotion. He had not intended to speak quite so passionately.

“And so you are giving up?” Cavendish replied with perfect calm, quirking a dark eyebrow.

August very much wanted to throw the damned brandy in his imperturbable face.

“What choice do I have?” he demanded, too unhappy and frustrated to moderate his tone.

“Quite. Just as you say. Vivien ought to marry Blackstone, or Ashburton. I’ll mention it to her.” Cavendish said. He got to his feet, nodded to August, and headed for the door.

August stared as the viscount left without another word, totally off balance. Well, good. Cavendish agreed with him. As well he ought. He had agreed with him. Hadn’t he?

Chapter 13

Miss Knight,

I have followed you, as you bid me to do.

I am also ensconced at the Ship Inn, though I might tell you I could have bought the Royal Pavilion for the price they charged me for my modest accommodation. Brighton is full and there is not a room to be had anywhere. However, my persistence appears to have paid off. I hope you are pleased. You snap your fingers and I come running like the most obedient lap dog.

I am only marginally mollified by your observation about the colour of my eyes. I admit, the sea looks positively Mediterranean today. It makes me long for warmer climes. Perhaps one day I shall take you to Provence. I believe you would like it.

―Excerpt of a letter from Louis César de Montluc, Comte de Villen to Miss Evie Knight (daughter of Lady Helena and Mr Gabriel Knight).

11th April 1841, The Old Ship Hotel, Brighton.

“Oh, Papa! Did you get him out?”

Vivien flew across the lavish rooms of their suite and into her father’s arms.

“There, there,” Papa soothed, hugging her tightly. The scent of bay rum clung to him as always, a scent she associated with happiness and security, and unconditional love. “Of course I got him out, though I got the feeling he’d rather I’d have left him there.”