Page 63 of Vanquishing the Viscount

He wouldn’t make the same mistake twice. No, his future courtship of Miss Emma d’Ibert would be subtle, slow, and persuasive. He’d rein back his desires and court her gently, politely, as a true gentleman should a lady.

Assuming she refused Charles.

But what if the tables were turned on him, and she accepted Charles, despite her protestations to the contrary?

That outcome was unthinkable. He might just have to call Charles out and shoot him. That would solve the issue nicely.

The sound of laughter jerked him from his disturbing thoughts. Some of the boats and a punt had been brought out and were being sculled inexpertly around the island. He should offer to take some of the children out later—he loved hearing their squeals of delight at the speed of his rowing.

He looked for Emma again, but she was no longer sitting where she had been. His mouth suddenly dry, he cast about for Charles, but he was nowhere to be seen, either.

Panic gripped him. This was the moment that would make or break his future hopes.

He walked across to the buffet table, realized he wasn’t hungry, and stalked back to find a seat on the blankets. But he couldn’t stay there, either. Every position was uncomfortable, and there were no conversations he was interested in joining. To calm himself, he began walking along the margins of the lake…and caught sight of a woman disappearing into the recently erected Greek temple.

Sweat broke out on his forehead. He recognized that gown—Emma’s. Why Charles had to drag her quite so far away from the company to have his private conversation, James couldn’t fathom. Couldn’t they just converse as they walked, instead of disappearing into the Stygian gloom of one of the follies?

It was no good. He had to go and find them. Not to eavesdrop, but to be on hand should Emma need him. Charles was apt to sulk when disappointed—or even cut up rough—and James didn’t want Emma to be on the receiving end of one of his friend’s temper tantrums.

Correction: erstwhile friend.

He half walked, half ran to the colonnaded pavilion of the folly, then paused by the open door and peered inside. The circular chamber was fed with light by a central oculus in the domed roof. Bathed in a golden glow in the middle of the floor—and clenched in a tight embrace—were Emma and Charles.

James’s heart turned to lead, and he looked away, biting down hard on his knuckles.

He’d gambled everything on a woman’s heart—and lost.

A muffled cry brought his head around sharply. Emma was stamping down hard on Charles’s foot and attempting to wrestle herself free. Each time his head darted forward to kiss her, she pulled away. The expression on her lovely face was not one of desire.

It was one of disgust.

James saw red.

The next instant, Charles was flailing about on the stone floor, and Emma was safe behind James, protected by his body.

Charles scrambled to his feet, his face a mask of fury. “You pushed me down! How dare you push me down!”

“Count yourself lucky I didn’t punch you,” James returned ominously.

“I should knock you down for that,” Charles said, squaring up to him. “You damn well deserve it.”

James didn’t move a muscle. “You’re welcome to try,” he said.

He watched impassively as Charles looked him up and down, weighed his chances, then lowered his fists and stood glaring at him malevolently.

When Emma made a small noise of distress behind him, he reached a hand back to reassure her. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I won’t hit him in front of you, much as I want to draw his cork for manhandling you like that. Charles, it’s time you excused yourself from this house party.”

“But I’ve been enjoying myself—until now, that is.”

James raised an eyebrow and just stared at him.

Flashes of angry red appeared on Charles’s cheekbones. “You always were on the wrong side of arrogant, James,” he spat out.

“That’s enough. I don’t want to cross swords with you in front of Miss d’Ibert, and if you had anything of the gentleman in you at all, you wouldn’t, either.”

His former friend looked at him balefully, held his gaze for several heartbeats, then relaxed his shoulders. “Very well, I’ll leave. But you must stand by your part of our bargain. You won’t say a word to Aunt Letitia or Papa?”

“I’m a man of my word. Goodbye, Charles. From this moment on, I no longer consider myself your friend.”