Page 8 of Vanquishing the Viscount

Making his way into the hallway, James stood for a moment in the midst of a milling crowd of people, wondering who to tackle first. But before he could decide, he felt a peculiar prickling sensation between his shoulder blades, exactly like the feeling he’d had at Waterloo when his instincts had saved him from a sniper’s ball.

His breathing went shallow, and he turned around slowly to see who was staring at him with such palpable dislike. But there was no one. Then he looked up and saw faces peering down at him through the balustrade on the landing above.

Willie and Mary Keane, dressed in their nightclothes. His shoulders relaxed as he raised a hand to wave. Their parents must have permitted them to stay up late to watch the dancing.

But come to think of it, Mrs. Keane would never have allowed that—she was far too strict. Someone else must have.

Yes, there was, indeed, a third face looking down at him. It must be the new governess Charles had mentioned in glowing terms. Was she really as attractive as he claimed?

James’s gaze locked with a pair of dark eyes set in a pale, oval face.

His breathing quickened.

By God! He knew that face! It was the self-same woman who had delayed him on the road to Ashleaze Court, before his intended proposal to Belinda Carslake.

The very woman whose thoughtless actions had been the undoing of his most cherished dream of wife and children.

Fury swamped him, and the blood sang in his ears as he took the stairs two at a time.

He would confront his nemesis! And bring her down.

When he was finished with her, her job would be gone, her reputation in tatters, and her dreams as dashed and empty as his own.

Chapter Six

Alarm shot instantly through Emma at the all-too-familiar sight of the man below. She gasped in horror.

Along with Willie and Mary, she’d been innocently watching the Keanes’ guests, reliving her bittersweet memories of the days when she would have been down there among them, one of the Quality. Fortunately, there’d been no one she recognized at the little soiree, for it wouldn’t do to be caught hanging about on the landing in nightgown and wrap, peering down at the gentry through the banisters like some kind of Cinderella.

Then one guest, in particular, had caught her eye as he’d made the rounds in the hall. His noble bearing had first attracted her attention, as well as his splendid height. He’d looked so magnificent, she hadn’t been able to take her eyes off him—despite her firm resolve never again to trust a handsome face. For long minutes she’d followed his progress around the room. Then suddenly, to her great consternation, she realized she recognized that perfectly proportioned body.

Instead of sodden, muddy traveling clothes, he wore an elegant, long black tailcoat, which, if the lamplight reflecting from his broad shoulders was anything to go by, was entirely made of silk. This was partnered with spotless white silk breeches encasing his muscular legs, a patterned light waistcoat, and a fine linen shirt with a high collar supported by a stock that kept his handsome head elevated in a very grand manner. The close cut of his clothing accentuated the taut musculature of his figure, and she suddenly remembered with a flush how she’d run her hands over his chest and limbs as he lay sprawled on the muddy ground.

And how much she’d enjoyed that illicit exploration.

She’d not yet been able to see his face, but it had to be him. None other than the arrogant ingrate she’d met on her journey to Figheldene, and overheard in the garden last week with Charles. The transformation from drowned rat into Society Buck was quite remarkable. There was a restless energy about him—he looked like a clock wound up with its pendulum held in check, or a lion about to spring on its prey.

Then the predator had stopped prowling and glanced about the room, as if sensing her gaze upon him.

That was when he turned, looked up, and saw her.

She froze, and so did he.

Her heart pounded like a navigator’s mallet. It really was him. And, unhappily, he’d recognized her instantly.

For seconds that stretched to an eternity, his eyes raked her face, and she gazed back at him in absolute horror. A hollow space opened up in her stomach, and had she not been clutching the stone balustrade, she might have swayed like a poplar in a gale.

Then, suddenly, he was gone from her vision, only to appear moments later charging up the stairs like a rampaging bull.

Desperate to avoid a scene which might cost her job, she swiftly urged the children back to the nursery and their beds, then she raced along the passageway and scampered into the schoolroom.

She shut the door and fumbled with the key. She must lock it behind her!

Too late. The latch lifted, and he was there in the room with her, his face looking positively demonic in the flickering light from the dying fire.

Her heart quailed.

Even though she was at a complete disadvantage, dressed only in her nightclothes and with no weapon at hand—not even her dignity—there was only one thing to do.