Page 4 of Vanquishing the Viscount

If only she had taken during her Season, before the “Year without a Summer” ruined everything! A wealthy husband would have wholly revived the family’s fortunes. But she’d been awkward, she’d been shy, and just too well-educated. And there was always some girl prettier, more biddable, more prepared to simper at a gentleman. Whereas she… Well, she just couldn’t stomach the vacuous nonsense that filled most young ladies’ heads. Or the gentlemen who fell for such drivel.

She wanted a man with whom she could talk on an equal footing. Someone who’d discuss classical authors with her, and poetry, and the state of the factories. She wanted a man who’d explain more about the war against Napoleon and have ideas on how best to deal with the hardships assailing Britain in its aftermath. Above all, she wanted a man she could respect, and one who could, just by walking into a room, light it up for her like a beacon.

But no gentleman she’d met approved of ladies indulging in meaningful conversation. A lady was meant to be purely decorative.

Unfortunately, in the eyes of the ton she would be anything but that. She was unfashionably tall and had chestnut hair instead of guinea gold curls. Her eyes, in repose, could be described in no more romantic a term than…brown. Her darling brother, George, had once praised the animation of her face, the dazzling beauty of her smile, and the mischievous light that gave hazel glints to her eyes. She assumed he’d just been teasing.

Then had come that one brief moment of hope. Elias Hartley, Earl of Overcrich, had singled her out for his attention. Elias Hartley, the youngest, most devilishly handsome bachelor of the ton.

The man who had humiliated her, broken her heart, and sworn her off attractive, magnetically appealing dandies forever.

The gossips had loved the debacle, the obvious courtship that had connected her name with his, when all the while he was engaged to someone else. Why had no one taken pity and told her? He was bored, his affianced was stuck in France, struggling to find a ship to bring her home, and he needed the company of an adoring female.

Several females—as she’d subsequently discovered, just to rub salt into the wound. But none of the others as innocent or naïve as herself. She’d emerged from the affair bruised, scarred, and unable to trust anyone who mingled with the upper echelons of Society.

But most particularly, handsome, perfectly formed, supremely self-confident gentlemen. They were all vain, selfish, unkind, and totally unreliable.

Why was she thinking about all this now? She’d set out for her new life in a much more optimistic frame of mind, even pondering that if she succeeded well at being a governess, she could run her own school one day, using the unoccupied rooms at Tresham. Then the house would never be at risk of being sold.

That dream seemed to have melted away in the rain. It didn’t help that a cloud of gloom surrounded the stranger wedged between her box and the other side of the wagon. It was impressive how a person could convey so much disapproval simply through the way they breathed, and fidgeted, and tilted their head at one. He was determined to unsettle her, the odious creature. And he was making her retrace her steps when she needed to be moving onward.

Despite his tousled appeal and good looks—and more probably because of them—she couldn’t wait to be rid of the man.

Thus it was a huge relief when the Four Swans finally came into view, with its cheerfully lighted windows and smoke wafting from its chimneys. It would be a good thing if she were to go inside and dry out a bit before resuming her journey, but that would make them even later.

Carrier Marshman dealt with the deposition of the disobliging gentleman at the inn. Emma hovered, keeping her face averted, while the landlord was instructed not to let the stranger leave until he’d eaten—and kept his meal down—and shown himself able to walk the length of the inn without staggering or getting lost.

And—most important—remembered what his name was.

Her unwilling traveling companion departed from her with a baleful glare on his aristocratic face, and not a single word of thanks. And reinforcing her low opinion of handsome aristocrats.

She gritted her teeth. She’d done the right thing. If George were here, he’d definitely approve. And the stranger’s injury was not her fault but his own—if he hadn’t been careering about on his stallion at breakneck speed on a wet day, he would never have been thrown from his horse. She and Marshman were not responsible for the skittishness of his mount, and they’d done everything they could thereafter to help.

Well, good riddance to him, ungrateful beast. She almost wished she might meet him again when he was feeling better, to give him a piece of her mind. That would put a flush on his noble cheekbones, and no mistake!

She looked up at the rain-drenched skies, and a feeling of impending doom settled over her. What if he turned out to be someone terribly important, like an earl, or even a duke?

Whatever her feelings about High Society, it wouldn’t be wise to make an enemy of a powerful person. Not now, with her family in such a vulnerable financial position. So, for the sake of everything she held dear, she fervently hoped she’d never see the man again.

Chapter Three

“My name is James Markham, Viscount Tidworth, heir to the Earl and Countess of Rossbury.”

The innkeeper of the Four Swans gazed at James consideringly.

James pushed back his shoulders, tilted his chin, and gave the fellow an inimical glare. Confident not only of his station in life but also of his own physical strength, he succeeded in making the innkeeper, no mean specimen himself, back down.

“Apologies, zur,” the man said, bowing. “You’re a long way from home, I reckon, and not known around these parts.”

“Never mind.” There was no point in further speech—he’d no time to lose. He’d left Birney House in plenty of time to reach Ashleaze Court, but the heavens had opened, making his way treacherous, and then that blasted cart had spooked Lawrie into throwing him.

He strode out of the taproom, then stood in the inn yard, looking gloomily down at his clothing. There were scratches on his boots and faint smudges of mud all over his buckskins, not to mention dark stains up the back of his coat, probably made worse by the inexpert scrubbing of the tavern wench who’d attended him. In fact, he hadn’t felt quite so dirty and wretched since Waterloo, and that was a memory he did not welcome.

A groom led Lawrie forward, and James stroked the beast’s soft muzzle, blowing into his nose and murmuring sounds of reassurance. “It’s not your fault, boy,” he whispered. “That damned carrier should have slowed his wagon as he approached the crossroads. He should have known he couldn’t see properly in the rain. And as for that stubborn chit who said it wasn’t safe for me to ride—what did she know? We’re as one, aren’t we boy, when we ride together? I know you’d never throw me off except under extreme stress.”

James stepped onto the mounting block and vaulted lightly onto Lawrie’s back, then pulled the animal’s head around and pointed him back toward the crossroads.

As the horse broke into a canter, he freed a hand from the reins and checked his fob watch. Tarnation! He’d been delayed a full two hours, and Robert Cornwallis could easily have beaten him to it, damn his eyes.