Rogues and Ripped Bodices (2 page)

He also supposed he owed her a more pleasant
welcome, even if he couldn’t fathom why she was here.

When he pressed open the door, she slipped past
him—again caring little for his personal space. Or hers. In spite of travelling
all night presumably, she smelled floral and fresh. She began to unbutton that
tiny jacket and work it off her shoulders as she did a loop of the room. No
predatory glint hung in her gaze.

Normally, when women visited his home, they were
weighing up his valuables. Gauging how much the paintings were worth. Deciding
how they’d decorate the pale green room. In some ways, the death of his last
wife had at least saved him from any more visits from mothers and daughters.
None would go near him now.

“This is a beautiful room.” She shrugged out of
her jacket and glanced around for somewhere to put it. It ended up draped over
a Louis XV chair along with her hat. “Very feminine.”

Feminine. Yes. There was a lot of
feminine
in this room right now. However, it wasn’t the curves of the gilded chairs that
drew his attention. It was the curves under Miss Thompson’s high-necked shirt
that captured his eye. She did another loop, as though parading especially for
him. Her skirt clung tightly to her hips and as near as he could tell, no
bustle enhanced her behind. Everything fit tight, perfectly. Julian had ample
idea what her figure was like. Long, lithe, with high, pert breasts. Of course
a corset could be responsible for those breasts but this was a fantasy after
all and his fantasy woman had breasts that were high and round and succulent.

Mother wouldn’t approve of course, which made it
all the more appealing. His mother had designed this room and he imagined her
lips curled in distaste at the idea of an American scattering her clothes over
the furniture. Thank the Lord she was in Brighton.

Julian, however, rather liked the idea of more
clothes being scattered. A shirt perhaps. Then a corset. A skirt and some
drawers. Maybe he’d leave any stockings on. He bet she would look radiant in
silk stockings.

Miss Thompson paused by the fire and held out
her hands. Apparently some of his staff was around as it had been lit on this
dreary morning. He glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. Afternoon. Not
morning. He’d slept that away it seemed.

While his visitor fussed with her auburn hair,
drawing back the wet strands that were stuck to her cheeks, he rang the bell
for tea. He had a limited amount of staff—yes the house took a lot of work—but
he hardly needed anyone to care for him. However, there had to be
someone
around.

He eyed the back of her for a while. What to do
with her? He coughed. “Will you not... will you not have a seat?”

She smiled at him. Any hint of that rebellious
woman demanding entrance to his house had vanished. A warm fire and a dry room
had done wonders for her temperament.

Easily pleased then. Very unlike wife number
three.

Viola
twisted her hands together and offered the marquess a smile. She hoped her
apprehension didn’t show. She should never have spoken to him like that. Lords
were meant to be respected. Oh boy, should she have curtsied?

Her stomach felt as though she were on that
awful ship again. Being thrown about, up and down, left to right. The journey
across the Atlantic had been rougher than she’d expected and she’d spent many a
day abed. She hadn’t been able to sleep on the trains either and had nearly
gotten lost in London. Fatigue was beginning to make her head pound.

But no train or ship was to blame for this. No,
it was the darkly handsome man standing in the corner of the room, looking as
though he had little idea what to do with himself. Once she had gotten past his
initial appearance, she’d begun to appreciate how he looked. After six months
of correspondence, she was sure he would be handsome.

Though she had expected him to look after
himself better.

She supposed a widower without a woman to take
care of him couldn’t look refined all the time. That beautiful penmanship had
indicated a proud and careful man.

Oh well, at least he wasn’t grizzled and ugly.
Under the quite thick beard was a handsome face. She could tell. Grey eyes with
a slightly wild look assessed her boldly. His light brown hair had streaks of
grey at the temples and he appeared older than his two and thirty years.
Nevertheless, those broad shoulders and trim waist were to be admired.

And his feet. Those were handsome feet. Wide,
steady. Goodness, did lords always walk around barefoot in their homes? Surely
their feet got cold on the marble floors? Though this pale cream carpet felt
thick and... Oh dear Lord... were those her footprints? She had cut across the
grass as the road up to the house wound around a corner. She had barely given a
thought to her white skirts and certainly not to his cream carpets. Excitement
at meeting the marquess had made her forget everything. But it seemed mud had
splattered up her hem and left lovely round marks from her heels and soles on
the pristine carpet.

Quick, she had to distract him before he
noticed. Oh dear, did the marks go all the way around the room? Viola surveyed
the carpet. They really did.

“You truly have a beautiful home.” She cringed
inwardly. And what used to be a beautiful room until she stepped into it.

“I rang for some tea,” Lord Lockwood said, hands
clasped behind his back.

Viola hadn’t even noticed him do as much but she
noted the cord on the wall wavered back and forth.

“Please sit.” He motioned to the chair nearest
the fire.

Remembering herself, Viola settled into the
chair. It wasn’t at all comfortable. The hard frame dug into her arms and back
and it felt as though it needed new stuffing. At least it forced her to sit
properly. As the youngest child in a family of boys, her posture had always
been lacking. And English women always had wonderful posture. Perhaps it was
because of chairs like these.

Lord Lockwood—gosh, it felt odd to call him
that. She had thought of him as Julian for some time—came to stand by the fire.
He twisted two fingers around another finger—the one a wedding band should have
been on. Twist. Twist. Twist. He was missing his wedding ring, she’d wager. He
hadn’t told her much about his late wife, only that she had died over a year
ago.

But, to think, she would soon be mistress of all
this and she would take care of this English lord. It was like a dream come
true. She glanced out of the window. She hadn’t expected it to be quite so grim
and miserable in England though. It was spring after all. She’d imagined green
fields with little lambs running about. Most of the sheep she had passed had
been huddled under trees, looking as miserable as she’d felt riding in the mail
coach.

“Did you not get my letter?” she asked,
shattering the silence.

“No. About what?”

“About my visit. To arrange everything. You had
said you wanted to finalise everything in April.”

Julian pressed his fingers to either side of his
head and rubbed them. “April.” He scowled. “Right. I recall. But I didn’t
expect you to come in person. Nor did I expect...” he waved a hand up and down
her, “you.”

“Oh.” She supposed fathers did these things
normally but hers was too sick to travel at the moment. He was recovering well
from a bout of pneumonia but there was no way her papa could have managed such
a journey. “You anticipated speaking with Father?”

“Well, yes, frankly.”

“He has been very unwell.”

Which was how they came to write letters to one
another. She couldn’t help but be grateful she had been put in charge of her
father’s correspondence while her brothers ran their father’s shipping
business. For the first time in her life, she’d been trusted to do something
useful and worthwhile. And she had started communicating with this eloquent,
enigmatic Englishman. Their letters had turned from coffee to cats to
companionship. Her friends were riddled with jealousy.

“When might we—?” She was interrupted by a
petite maid coming in with a tray of cups and biscuits. Her stomach grumbled in
anticipation.

“Where would you like it, my lord?” the girl
asked.

“On the table.” He motioned to the table in
front of her that matched the ornamental chair upon which she sat.

The maid placed it down and began to pour. Viola
eyed the steaming cups with appreciation. A shudder wracked her and as soon as
the maid retreated, she snatched up a cup and cradled it in her palms. The damp
fabric of her skirts clung to her legs and a few drips had crept under her
jacket to trickle down her spine. Though her hair had been saved from too great
a soaking by her hat, the tiny wet tendrils continued to send fresh drops over
her skin. All in all, it was not the best way to meet the man she hoped to
marry.

He eyed her with a raised brow before coming to
sit opposite. Was it so very inappropriate for her to be alone with him? So
much so that he wished to send her away? She couldn’t fathom his cool manner.
The British men she had met in New York hadn’t been nearly so stiff, but
neither had they been marquesses. What troubled her most, however, was how
unlike the man in the letters he seemed. She wasn’t sure what she expected but
she certainly didn’t anticipate him suggesting she find elsewhere to stay.

Viola sipped the tea and felt the warmth trail
down to her stomach. Already her spirits began to revive. She reached for a
macaroon and stuffed it into her mouth, chewing quickly. Her stomach
grumbled—loudly. She winced and glanced at the stoic lord to see his reaction.
His expression hadn’t changed. He watched her as though he couldn’t quite
believe she was there, eating macaroons and drinking tea.

Perhaps he was nervous about asking her to marry
him? Perhaps he had changed his mind? If he had expected to start marriage
negotiations with her father before meeting her, he must be displeased she’d
arrived to push things forward.

Well, she would have to prove to him she could
be wifely material. He had to have fallen in love with her via her letters,
even if he had not said as much. There was simply no way two people could
communicate as they did without love. Already on the verge of love, it would
only take a few kind words and actions for her to fall head-over-toes in love
with him. Viola loved love. She poured it onto her brothers, who all thought
her silly, and she doted on her father. The men in her life accepted her
actions begrudgingly but she needed someone who could show her the same in
return.

Julian, the tenth Marquess of Lockwood, had to
be that man. Under those stiff British manners lay a man with a huge heart and
a wonderful sense of humour. She simply hadn’t met him yet.

She skimmed her gaze over the room and tried not
to be daunted by its beauty and elegance. “Is Patches around?”

It seemed to take him a few moments to absorb
her question. A tiny ripple of movement ran through him and he reminded her of
a beast unfurling himself. He finally reached for a cup of tea and nodded.
“Yes, though he’ll be upstairs. He sleeps in the master bedroom for most of the
day and does his stalking at night.”

“I recall. Does he still like to sprawl across
your face in the mornings?”

“Yes.” A hint of a smile teased his lips. His
cat was apparently his weakness. “What of Mittens? You left him at home, I
see.”

“Oh yes, he wouldn’t have taken well to the
travelling though I intend to bring him here next time. I miss him already.”

“No doubt he is missing you too.”

“Papa has promised to spoil him with lots of
fish and sliced ham.”

Their cats had been what had led to their
correspondence back and forth. She had apologised on her father’s behalf when
Mittens had chewed up one of Julian’s letters to her father and it was
unreadable. So when she explained what had happened and asked him to resend his
request, he had sympathised and said he understood well. Viola couldn’t help
but be charmed by this Englishman and his love for his cat.

“I shall introduce you later.” He placed down
his cup when she shivered. “You are still cold.”

“A l-little.” Now he’d reminded her, the chills
seemed to increase, making her hand shake and her tea nearly spill into her
lap. She placed the cup down before she had any more disasters. “I swear the
rain is colder here and it has soaked all the way through to my undergarments.”

That eyebrow rose again. His expressions seemed
to only go as far as mildly surprised to faintly astonished by her. Was she so
very baffling? She would have to try harder to be more ladylike. Her friends
had told her to watch her tongue and be more refined but growing up in a
household of men—poor men for a while—had made her a little rough around the
edges. It didn’t matter that she would inherit part of her father’s business
one day and be a wealthy woman. No amount of wealth would make up for her past.

Viola certainly envied those with family wealth
who had received training in how to behave. Perhaps when she returned home
before the wedding she would ask father to invest in some help. A few weeks of
teaching ought to do it. Then she could return to England and be the perfect
bride of a lord.

He stood suddenly and strode over to the bell
pull. She listened for some kind of sound but heard nothing. How did he know it
had rung? But sure enough, the very same maid arrived within moments, looking
flushed and a little breathless. She imagined lords like Julian didn’t worry
that his staff might not hear him or come to him on command. He simply expected
them to always be there to cater to him.

“Jenny, Miss Thompson could do with a warm bath.
Have one poured, will you? And see that her trunk is taken up to the Sunflower
room.”

“Yes, milord.” The maid turned to hurry away.

“Jenny? Where the devil is Bramley?”

“In the village, milord. Mr Bramley didn’t think
you’d be needing him today so he went in to collect the post and those books
you ordered.”

“Very well.” He waved a hand then called her
name again. “Will you take Miss Thompson up to her room now.” Julian—no, Lord
Lockwood—eyed Viola sternly. “When you are warm and dry, we’ll decide what to
do with you.

A faint flourish of excitement crept into her
belly. He wasn’t exactly warm as she had hoped and he certainly hadn’t greeted
her with the expected passionate kiss but there was something darkly attractive
about the man. His eyes said wicked things to her, even while his face remained
expressionless.

She placed down her unfinished cup of tea.
Perhaps he wished to be rid of her so he could make himself more presentable.
He would look utterly divine in a necktie and formal wear. Coming to her feet,
she offered a formal curtsey.

“Good day to you, my lord.”

A mildly bemused expression crossed his face
before he nodded and turned his attention to the cup of tea in his hand. Had
she curtsied wrong? She sighed as she followed Jenny out. She had a lot to
learn about English gentleman and their etiquette.