Viscount Vagabond (31 page)

From all he’d heard and all he’d guessed, Lord Rand was expecting Attila the Hun. During the wedding breakfast, the viscount found his eyes drawn repeatedly to a pear-shaped man of middling height who hovered about his baroness like a sycophantic courtier.

Since Lord and Lady Rand would not commence their
bridal trip until the following day, they spent their first night as a married couple in his townhouse amid a staff of deliriously happy servants. What the house needed, they’d all agreed long since, was a mistress. The master was universally adored, but he needed a deal of looking after. According to young Jemmy and the all-knowing Blackwood, Miss Pelliston was the only woman capable of managing this fearsome task. His lordship, Mr. Blackwood pointed out, was a handful, but his new wife was more than a match for him, despite her modest physical stature. Even Mr. Hill agreed dolefully that his master might have done worse.

That evening, therefore, Lord Rand and his bride supped quietly at home, surrounded by a beaming staff and a smug Jemmy, who insisted upon waiting at table with the other footmen.

After dessert was served and the room emptied of fawning menials, Lord Rand remembered the papa and teased his bride with charges of calculated overstatement.

“He was meek as a vicar, Cat. I’m sure he never had more than two glasses of champagne the whole time, and he sipped them like a deb at her first party.”

“I know,” she answered distractedly, her mind on other matters. “I scarcely recognised him myself. My stepmama appears to be an extraordinary woman.”

“Must be. Between her and my own Old Man, they’ve convinced your papa to take his seat in Parliament.”

“I can only hope the country will not suffer for it. Still, she has a way about her. She has only to raise an eyebrow at him and he’s subdued. I saw how she looked at him when he came up to greet us. He took my hand in the most courtly way and said I was a good girl and made him proud, and kissed me.” She touched her cheek. “He has never done that before. I nearly fainted from shock.”

Lord Rand casually mentioned that if such a trivial matter shocked her, he must be sure to bring burnt feathers and sal volatile to their bedchamber tonight. He glanced at her untouched dessert and wondered aloud if she was quite finished.

She had no time to answer. Jemmy instantly darted in and snatched up her dish. Likewise he removed the viscount’s plate, and with a knowing wink, took himself away.

Mr. Langdon had been awarded the signal honour of standing up for the friend of his college days. Rather like a consolation prize, he thought, as he settled himself into an armchair and opened his book. If the experience had not been altogether consoling, neither had it been a bitter punishment. One could not, should not feel bitter. Not when one saw the clear, bright face of love shining so happily upon its object. He had seen this when his two friends gazed at each other, and somehow that had heartened him.

Besides, as the Bard had said, “Men have died from time to time and worms have eaten them, but not for love.” Jack would not die, would not even sicken. Though the blow had staggered him it had not crushed him. He had actually gained a great deal from the experience. The trouble was, among the bits of wisdom he’d acquired was one new sensation: for the first time in his quiet, dreamy life he was lonely.

He closed his book and departed from his club unremarked by the increasingly boisterous crowd gathering as the evening wore on. He stopped briefly at his home, where he collected a few belongings and ordered his horse. As the watchman announced to interested listeners that the sky was clear and the time was eleven o’clock, Mr. Langdon rode off into the night.

Lord Rand drew his bride close to him. “Are you all right, Cat?”

She didn’t answer for a moment, being preoccupied, perhaps, with locating a comfortable spot near his shoulder where she could nestle her head.

“Cat?”

“Oh, yes. I’m... well, that was rather...”

“Shocking?”

She sighed. “I’m afraid not. I ought to have been shocked, but... how gentle you are, Max. I shall have to leave off calling you a bully, and your reputation will go all to pieces.”

“We’ll keep that private, shall we, m’lady?”

She giggled and snuggled nearer.

“I’m glad you’re all right, because you are, you know— or were—pure as the driven snow. Browdie lied, sweetheart. There’s no question about it. Will you put Cholly out of your mind now?”

“I will endeavour to do so,” she whispered, “though I may want help.”

“Very well. Just let me know when he pops into your mind. I’ll try to think of something to distract you.”

“Max?” came a shy voice, a while later.

“Yes, sweet?”

“I wonder if you might think of something...
now.”

Scandal Wears Satin

Silk is for Seduction

Royal Weddings Anthology

Last Night’s Scandal

Don’t Tempt Me

Your Scandalous Ways

Not Quite a Lady

Lord Perfect

Mr. Impossible

Miss Wonderful

The Last Hellion

The Mad Earl’s Bride

Lord of Scoundrels

The Lion’s Daughter

The English Witch

Isabella

The Sandalwood Princess

Knaves’ Wager

The Devil’s Delilah

The Royal Bridesmaids Anthology

After a heroic attempt to be an English major forever, Loretta Chase stoically accepted her degree but kept on reading and writing. As well as working in academe, she had an enlightening if brief life in retail and a Dickensian six-month experience as a meter maid. In the course of moonlighting as a corporate video scriptwriter, she succumbed to the charm of a producer, who lured her into writing novels -- and marrying him. The union has resulted in what seems like an awful lot of books and quite a few awards, including the Romance Writers of America’s Rita. Heralded as “…the long awaited successor to Georgette Heyer” by Library Journal, Loretta Chase’s historical romance novels have been published all over the world.

To learn more, please visit
www.LorettaChase.com
.