The Virtuous Viscount Page 2

  “Sorry, ol’ chap. Stickney is getting another carriage ready, but this one we were able to hook up in record time. I figured with an injured party, speed might be of the essence.”

  Marcus nodded before he turned and strode over to the group under the trees. He knelt to gather up Miss Storm in his arms. “I apologize, ladies. Another carriage will arrive posthaste.”

  Lady Widmore blocked his path to the carriage. “You cannot mean to leave us here? She will be fine waiting.” Lady Widmore’s spite-filled eyes glanced at the woman in his arms.

  “Unless you would like the indignity of riding in the wagon of the gig, you will have to wait. The inconvenience cannot be avoided. You will have the company and protection of Lord Harrow and Sir Tidley. It’s the best I can do.” Marcus moved around her and strode to the carriage.

  Michael followed.

  “Let me help you, Remy.” Michael took the woman from his arms while Marcus leapt up into the front seat of the open gig next to Phillip. Once settled, he lifted her up to him.

  Marcus leaned the woman against his chest, with her head resting on his shoulder, before he gave Phillip the nod to drive off. Miss Storm’s hair tickled his cheek, and he detected the sweet scent of roses emanating from her in spite of the damp. Something unexplainable stirred deep inside him. Lord, how can I be attracted to an unconscious woman? He shivered. He pulled her limp body closer to his own. Every protective instinct was aroused.

  Through the uncomfortable ride, Marcus fought to keep his charge secure against the strength of the jolts as the carriage wheels hit dips in the road. Marcus’s back ached from the strain.

  “Sorry your respite from town life has eluded you once again,” Phillip began. “You don’t think—”

  “—this was intentional?”

  Phillip nodded. “I tend to be suspicious.”

  “Two wheels? Why, when one would suffice? Her traveling companions show little concern for her.”

  Phillip shrugged.

  “Don’t worry, Westcombe. With the four of us working together, I suspect we can manage to avoid being compromised.”

  Lord Phillip Westcombe glanced at the girl. “Are you sure she’s really unconscious?”

  “Yes, Phillip.” Marcus glanced down at the pale face. “She cannot attend to our conversation.”

  Phillip drew the gig up to the front door and tossed the reins to a waiting groom. He jumped down from the equipage and hurried around to help Remington descend with the woman in his arms.

  Marcus strode up the steps, and the doors opened to allow him entrance.

  “Marcus?” Phillip called.

  “Yes?” Marcus turned.

  “I’ll head back to help the others.”

  “Thank you.” Marcus nodded and proceeded into the house and up the stairs as a frantic Mrs. Hughes urged him on. His dog, Charlie, yipped at his heels. At the top, they took a right turn, headed down the south wing of the mansion, and slipped into the room his housekeeper indicated.

  Mrs. Hughes frowned at the damp state of her master and the woman in his arms. “Here, let me help you get her wet cloak off, and we will set her in the bed.”

  Together they managed to remove the garment, and Marcus placed her on the mattress by the pulled back counterpane. He stepped away as water dripped from his hat.

  Mrs. Hughes moved to remove the girl’s shoes and noted Marcus’s continued presence. She chided him. “Young man, you need a hot bath, some salve for your legs, and something to eat. At least drip yourself dry in the hallway and not on the carpet.” She turned her back on him in dismissal.

  Marcus drooped. “I will leave her to your care.” He strode to the door and paused. “Her name is Miss Storm.”

  “How appropriate,” she muttered as the door closed behind him.

  He stood in the hallway. Water dripped on the wooden floor in a sad rhythm. His terrier sat by his side looking at the door, waiting for her master’s next step.

  Drip. Drop. Drip. Drip. Drop.

  For a moment, he did not know what to do. Happy birthday, Marcus Allendale, Viscount Remington. Happy birthday, indeed. He shook his head and grimaced. He didn’t want to leave but became more aware of how cold and damp he was. He strode down to another hallway, followed by the dog, toward his own suite of rooms to dry off and tend to his wounds before he returned downstairs to welcome his unexpected guests.

  A short time later, Marcus paced in his study as Charlie watched. Fresh clothes and a sip of brandy warmed him, but he was restless. That was nothing new. For weeks, he held a conviction deep inside that it was time for him to seek a bride. What would it have been like to come home tonight to someone other than paid servants? To have a wife minister to my wounds?

  He snorted. If only he might find a woman he liked, who had a perfect combination of purity as well as the ability to preside over his home and be a political hostess. If she were attractive, that would be a bonus. He longed for the kind of marriage his parents had. They had been in love. He understood such unions were rare amongst the beau monde. Hollowness ate at him from within.

  But the girl upstairs. Something unsettled him when he looked at her. In a brief moment when her eyes had opened and she had gazed into his eyes, he was undone. Intrigue and hope vied for a place in his heart. Perhaps her unexpected visit here would give him opportunity to explore that further.

  2

  Marcus awaited his friends.

  Dr. Miller had refused to stay for dinner. Miss Storm remained unconscious, which concerned the doctor as well as Marcus. This would not be a short visit for his guests.

  Sir Michael Tidley entered the room. He glanced around. Spying only Marcus, he took a seat to consider his friend. Marcus’s dog jumped up to receive some absent-minded petting from the knight.

  “Charlie, dear dog, you should be aware that your master is already half in love with Miss Storm,” Michael teased.

  The terrier barked.

  “I beg your pardon?” Marcus scowled as he sat down and proceeded to pick at his fingernails.

  “I don’t know when I’ve ever seen you look at any woman the way you did that young lady tonight.”

  Marcus steepled his fingers, tapped them against his nose, and avoided eye contact. “You imagine things.”

  “Hmmmm.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Marcus narrowed his eyes as he placed his hands on the arms of the chair, poised to move.

  “You get grumpy when life doesn’t quite go your way, and tonight definitely did not fit in your plans.” Michael leaned back in his chair and extended his legs out before him, crossing them at the ankles. His slimmer figure shown to advantage in a well-fitted pair of buff colored pants and custom made boots. He tied his cravat simply, and his dark hair, cut shorter than Marcus’s, had a little curl at the back where it met his shirt. Topped off with a brown jacket and turquoise vest, he was the image of a dashing Corinthian.

  Marcus sighed. “I had hoped to come home and relax.”

  “Women are not relaxing.”

  “The one who is unconscious will not be a problem. I have serious doubts about the other two.”

  “Did they give you more grief when they arrived?” Michael’s mouth twitched in an effort not to smile.

  “Most certainly, but I doubt we will see any more of them this evening. Their servants showed up a half an hour ago in a separate carriage. Stickney awaited them at the turn-off.”

  “This was not an anticipated stop?”

  Marcus shook his head. “You and Phillip are too suspicious. No. They were quite put out to be here, until they entered the foyer.”

  “Rose Hill is an impressive property.”

  “It’s home.”

  “It would be an even nicer home if you had a lovely wife to share it with.” Michael’s voice was all seriousness.

  “The thought has crossed my mind. I am eight and twenty. My brother Jared is off to war, and my sister, Henrietta, is happily married to Lord Percy. This house is empty
without either of them here.”

  “Has anyone in London sparked your interest?”

  Marcus gave a harsh laugh. “I am tired of the masquerade of the beau monde. Maybe my standards are too high, but I cannot imagine living with a woman who doesn’t share my faith.”

  “Somewhat difficult to weed out during a contra-dance. You don’t really want a whey-faced Methodist do you?”

  “Their faith doesn’t make them unattractive, Michael, but some seem to think when one accepts Christ, they forgo any joy in living. Definitely not the kind of woman I want to spend the rest of my life with.”

  “But Miss Storm? You’ve not shared one word with her. What draws you?” Michael leaned forward.

  Marcus rose to walk over to the drink table, picked up a glass, and motioned to the decanter. “Brandy?” Noting his friend’s nod, Marcus poured two glasses. His friend delighted in baiting him. He was too tired to deal with this nonsense tonight.

  “Thank you.” Michael rose and strode over to accept the glass. The dog curled up on the other end of the chair to watch. “You are avoiding the question.”

  “I am not.” Marcus brought the glass to his lips and sipped, closed his eyes, and swallowed. “I don’t know the answer.”

  “You don’t know the answer to what?” An elegantly attired Lord Phillip Westcombe strode in. He had meticulously combed blond hair and his cravat intricately tied. He wore black inexpressibles and polished boots. His coat fit him like a glove.

  Marcus suspected a footman had probably been conscripted to help him get it on and would be needed later to remove it. “Good evening, Phillip.” Marcus responded. “It is of no importance.” He glanced at Michael with a silent plea to let the conversation drop.

  “Well, I’m famished. Has your wonderful cook arranged for something hot to eat?”

  “But, of course. We only await Theo to go in to dinner, but it will be simple fare.”

  “Anything your cook prepares is far from simple.” Phillip patted his flat stomach. “In the past, I have left your home, even after short stays, struggling to get my clothes to fit properly.”

  Lord Harrow entered the room sporting country attire over his substantial form. While not as tall as Marcus or Phillip, he bore himself with understated dignity. He was barrel-chested but didn’t hesitate to fence or box with his friends although he preferred more sedate entertainments. His short, sandy brown hair was styled simply. “Did someone mention food?”

  Marcus’s stomach growled in response. “Yes. Shall we remove to the dining room?”

  ~*~

  They had already begun the first course when Lady Widmore and her daughter arrived to join them. The matron was dressed in a puce gown with low décolletage. She wore her greying blonde hair piled high with a few curls free on the side. Jewels sparkled on her neck, wrist, ears, and fingers. Lady Widmore stood ramrod straight at the table with her chin elevated as she acknowledged the men.

  Lady Hetitia was dressed in a white gown that washed out her complexion. Green ribbon trimmed the dress. Matching adornment wove through her saffron locks. She was a younger version of her mother from the set of her chin, to her eyes and crooked teeth.

  Marcus and his friends stood as a footman helped the women to their seats.

  “My apologies, Lady Widmore. I had been assured you and your daughter were weary from this evening’s trials and planned to dine in your rooms.” Marcus resumed his seat and picked up his spoon to eat his soup as a footman arranged place settings and assisted the women with their chairs.

  “We decided it would be rude of us to hide away in our rooms and leave you bereft of female company.” Lady Widmore tittered.

  An uncomfortable silence fell on the room.

  “We were on our way to London for the season.” Lady Heticia volunteered.

  “Was this to be your first season, Lady Heticia?” Theo asked, with an indulgent nod.

  “Yes, my lord. I’m looking forward to the balls and recitals and seeing the sights of London.” Miss Widmore’s speech was rapid.

  Lady Widmore placed a hand on her daughter’s arm to stop her chatter. “We were unable to bring her out when she came of age but hope to make it up to her now.”

  “It’s tragic that your trip has been interrupted by this unfortunate accident and Miss Storm’s injury.” Lord Westcombe spoke.

  “Surely that needn’t cause delay?” Lady Heticia glanced from the gentlemen to her mother, eyes wide and mouth agape.

  “Hetty, dear, it may not delay us for long, but we cannot travel until our coach is repaired and Miss Storm is restored to health.” Lady Widmore’s nose rose even as she glared at her daughter.

  Marcus exchanged glances with his friends. “I gladly offer you one of my own carriages to convey you to town, Lady Widmore.”

  “How generous of you, but Miss Storm would be without a chaperone in a houseful of bachelors. We cannot allow any scandal, which could taint my dear Hetty’s chances to make a match in London.”

  “You are correct. We must protect Lady Heticia’s reputation. You are welcome to stay here.” Marcus leaned back in his seat and sipped his wine while the footman cleared his bowl to bring in the next course.

  “That would be wonderful. Wouldn’t it, Mother?” Hetty bounced in her seat.

  “Calm yourself, my dear. Our first responsibility is to your dear cousin.” There was a lack of sincerity in her tone. She turned her gaze to Marcus. “Has the doctor tended to her yet?”

  Marcus’s eyes narrowed as he nodded. “She remains unconscious. He was unable to ascertain the full extent of her injuries but is certain she has a concussion. I have a servant sitting with her.”

  “You have been most gracious in attending to our needs, Lord Remington.” Lady Widmore applied herself to the roast rabbit and seasoned vegetables placed before her.

  The rest of the meal passed as Sir Tidley entertained the women with tales of mishaps that occurred at previous seasons’ balls. After the servants removed the final course, the ladies excused themselves to go to their rooms while the men remained to enjoy their port.

  Marcus leaned back, let his head fall against the tall chair, and closed his eyes. “I thought that would never end,” he groaned.

  The other men chuckled.

  “Happy birthday, Remy!” Theo cried out and raised his glass. “May you make it through another year escaping the parson’s mousetrap.”

  Marcus frowned, tilted his head, and glanced at Michael.

  “What? Did I say something wrong?” Theo set his glass down. A furrow appeared between his brows.

  Phillip sipped his wine and tapped at the side of the glass as he placed it back on the table. “I suspect perhaps our esteemed friend here is thinking of wrapping the noose around his own neck this year.”

  Marcus sighed. “I dislike coming back to Rose Hill alone.”

  “Alone? What are we, tripe?” Michael asked.

  Theo laughed. “I don’t think having any one of us greeting him at the door with a kiss would be quite his idea of a homecoming. Am I right?”

  Marcus lowered his eyes as his thumb caressed the stem of his goblet.

  “You’ve never been in the petticoat line, Remy. I have never even known you to be sweet on a girl, not even at university when the rest of us ran wild. Not even when we hit the town, thinking we were the answer to the world’s problems. You always held yourself aloof from our mischief. You danced with the ladies and gave honor to the wallflowers, but never once did you single out any woman for your attentions.” Phillip sipped his port.

  “You’ve become adept at avoiding the snares set for you because you are careful and perfected your reputation. You are a paragon in everything you do. Certainly finding a bride will not be difficult.” Michael wiggled his eyebrows.

  “If I miss my guess, Lady Heticia would be more than happy to save you the trouble of another season.” Theo teased.

  “Thank you, but no. Lady Heticia is not to my liking.” Marcus sipped his
wine.

  “You will need to be doubly on your guard. I suspect hunting season has opened on the Rose Hill estate, and gentlemen, we are the prey.” Phillip frowned.

  Theo sighed. “I despise being hunted.”

  Marcus parted with his friends for the evening and started down the hallway to his suite of rooms. As he reached the door, his hand rested on the knob and his head leaned against the wood. He shook his head and turned to walk to the south wing. Marcus knocked on the bedroom door. The maid he had met earlier opened the door a crack. “Molly, is it?”

  “Yes, m’lord.” She dipped a curtsey.

  “How fares your mistress?”

  “She continues to rest.” Worry etched her young face.

  “May I enter?” He pleaded.

  Molly’s eyes grew large. “T’would not be proper, m’lord.”

  He sighed. “I only want to visit her. I’m not about to ravish an unconscious woman in my home. You may act as a chaperone.”

  Molly crinkled her nose as she considered him. She nodded and allowed him entrance. Molly closed the door and escorted him into the adjoining bedroom.

  Marcus entered the room decorated with yellow rose bedecked wallpaper and a bedspread of similar flowers and white lace. As he drew near the bed, his eyes were riveted to the young woman under the blankets. Her brown hair spread out on the pillow, and his cravat had been replaced with a smaller bandage. Bruising was visible on her pale face. He swallowed hard. She was so still. So pretty, even with the new bandage on her head. Marcus located a nearby chair.

  He pulled it to the bed, sat, and bent his upper body forward. With his elbows on his knees and with folded hands, he silently prayed.

  Lord, I’m not sure why You brought this woman to my home. It grieves me to see her so injured and unresponsive. Please place Your healing hand on her.

  He glanced again at Miss Storm, the bed, and the window. It grew late. He grimaced and rose, releasing a long sigh. Fatigue overwhelmed him. He thought he had been tired before the adventure of this evening. He was even more so now.

  Molly accompanied him from the room.

  Marcus nodded his head. “Thank you, Molly.”