The Viscount and the Virgin (9 page)

‘I do not know how much your mother may have told you,' she said, handing Imogen one of the glasses and perching on the edge of the bed, ‘about the Duties of a Wife.'

Most people would think Amanda had told her young daughter far too much about what it was like to be married to a hell-raising rake. Imogen saw her mother as she had been during the last days of her life, her eyes glittering with pain as she catalogued every detail of her own disastrous marriage and begged her not to make the same mistakes.

But she very much feared that was exactly what she had done. From the very first moment she had clapped eyes on him, she had thought Viscount Mildenhall the most compellingly handsome man she had ever seen. Even discovering what an unpleasant nature he had, had done nothing to quench the fizz that a mere glimpse of him could start running through her.

And then he had kissed her.

To such devastating effect, she had agreed to marry him. Oh, she might have told herself she was merely
falling in with what everyone expected of her. But she had a niggling suspicion that there were plenty of selfish reasons for marrying him, too. She had been guilty, when he had dined with the family, of sneaking peeks at his handsome profile when she was sure nobody else was watching her. Letting her eyes linger on those full, red lips. Recalling the episode on the terrace. And experiencing a very strong wish to soothe the mark her teeth had put there. And when he had looked up from his plate, and their eyes had met, a thrill had shot right through her, rendering her breath less for several seconds.

She could not even summon up the will power to dislike him any more. Even his arrogant assertion that he was a catch now only seemed like a bald statement of the truth. He
could
have married anyone he wanted! Yet he had, as a gesture of friend ship to Rick, made the truly noble sacrifice of marrying a girl he did not like one bit.

Seeing the downcast expression on her niece's face, Lady Callandar took a fortifying sip from her own glass.

‘Well, I am sure it will not be so bad for you, my dear, as it evidently was for your mother. I am sure Viscount Mildenhall will be able to set your pulses racing when he kisses you.'

To hear her aunt speaking aloud of kissing Viscount Mildenhall, when that was exactly what she had been thinking about, made Imogen's face flood with heat.

‘Ah!' cried her eagle-eyed aunt. ‘So he had kissed you already, has he, the young rogue!'

‘Y-yes, Aunt,' Imogen confessed. ‘I am so sorry…'

‘Well, never mind,' she said magnanimously. ‘You
are to be married, after all, and I can see that the prospect of becoming more intimate with him is not repugnant to you. Which is a good start. I should think that the first few weeks of your marriage, at least, should prove most enjoyable.' She sighed, and a faraway look came into her eyes. ‘Ah, what it is to be a young bride, married to an energetic, well-put-together young man like that! Although—' she gave herself a little shake ‘—you must not make the mistake of thinking, because of the amount of time he spends with you, and the level of intimacy you will share, that he may be doing anything so vulgar as falling in love with you.'

From the way her aunt's shoulders drooped, Imogen wondered whether the older woman was talking about her own experience of marriage. There were still traces of the handsome man her uncle had once been, beneath the layers of flab that years of self-indulgence had added to his frame. She could just imagine her aunt as a young bride, marrying with high hopes, then having them dashed by her uncle's selfish, tyrannical attitude towards her.

‘We all know,' her aunt continued in a rallying tone, ‘that Viscount Mildenhall has chosen you primarily because you are the sister of one of his closest friends. And because you are a healthy, energetic young woman who is likely to give him the heirs his father is so keen to see him produce. For those reasons, he is prepared to overlook your lack of dowry. Or so he told your uncle.'

Ah. No wonder Lord Callandar had looked so pleased. He had managed to get his trouble some niece off his hands without having to dip into his pockets to induce somebody to marry her.

She sighed. She had long since accepted she was nothing like her mother, who had been so beautiful that she inspired men to the heights of passion. Not, she shuddered, that she wanted to cause men to fight over her. Or kill one another for love of her. But it would be nice to think she might stir just a little bit of admiration in her groom's breast.

Her aunt, misinterpreting that shudder, was instantly full of sympathy. ‘It is the main duty of a wife to provide her husband with sons. It is a compliment to you, my dear, that out of all the women he might have chosen, Viscount Mildenhall picked you.'

He did not pick her, so much as give in to Rick's pleading to find a home for poor little Midge, she thought, slumping down into her pillows.

‘Oh, Imogen,' Lady Callandar sighed tearily, ‘I know you are a very affection ate girl, but you must not look for that sort of love within marriage. Especially not from Viscount Mildenhall. From what I have observed of him since he came into the title, he takes after his mother, the Earl of Corfe's second wife. She was a cold, proud woman.' Her aunt grimaced. ‘Though that match was arranged by his parents, so it was hardly surprising they barely spoke to one another once she had presented him with a son. No, what you must hope for is that, in time, you will come to an easy understanding which will lead to a lifelong friend ship.'

Perhaps that might be possible. Once he had a chance to get to know her, he would see she was nothing like he had so far imagined! And once he stopped being so suspicious of her…

Lady Callandar reached out and stroked a stray curl from her forehead. ‘Knowing you, the first time he
strays you will experience agonizing jealousy. But on no account, my dear, must you create the kind of scene that will make your husband uncomfortable. No matter how many little affairs he may have, what you must remember is that you will always be his wife. His viscountess. It is equally important,' she ploughed on, in spite of Imogen's shocked gasp, ‘that you do not indulge your craving for affection until you have presented your husband with an heir. Even your mother, silly creature that she was, managed to wait until she had given birth to a healthy boy.'

‘It was not like that! She did not mean to have an affair with Lord Leybourne. It just happened!'

Lady Callandar pursed her lips. ‘These things never
just happen
, Imogen.'

Imogen flung herself back against the pillows, a scowl on her face. Her aunt did not understand what it had been like for her mother; that was the trouble.

‘It was madness, Imo,' Amanda had sighed, though her eyes had been alight with an emotion Imogen had not been able to decipher. ‘We knew what we were doing was wrong, but, oh, we could not deny our selves just a few snatched hours of hap pi ness out of the waste land Kit had made of my life.' She had sighed and plucked at the coverlet with her emaciated, yellowed hand. ‘Not that your father cared one whit,' she had pouted. ‘He thought it was a huge joke. He mocked William for being able to stomach touching me when I was pregnant. He taunted me with ac counts of his current mistress. About her taut stomach and firm breasts. But William defended me.' She sighed wistfully. ‘I remember Kit sitting at my dressing table, mopping at a cut over his eye with one of my handkerchiefs and laughing about the impressive
physical prowess of the lover I had taken, and—' she had shuddered disgustedly ‘—saying he was quite looking forward to discovering whether William had managed to teach me any new tricks. He said that if I had learned to be a little more enterprising, then he might not find it such a chore to resume his marital duties once I had delivered his child. That I might look forward to receiving more of his attention—' The feverish confession had ended in a fit of coughing, as it so often did.

Imogen tried to shut out the image of her mother's wasted frame, but she could not silence her words. Not when they chimed so exactly with what her aunt was warning her marrying into the nobility would entail.

‘I do concede,' her aunt admitted, ‘that there were extenuating circumstances. I remember that the Earl of Leybourne was your mother's most ardent admirer, until Baron Framlingham came onto the scene. The woman he married was nowhere near so beautiful as your mother, and I suppose, when they were all thrown together by that Home Office business—'

‘Yes!' Imogen sat up and grasped her aunt's hand. ‘He told her that although he had tried to be a good husband, the feelings he had for his first love had never completely died. And she said the moment she saw him again, she was filled with regret for the choices she had made, and wished she could some how wipe away all the years of misery she had suffered with Kit. They went outside into the garden, and she wept all over him, and he tried to comfort her, and…'

‘I suppose she told you one thing led to another,' said her aunt dryly. ‘But I have to inform you that nobody just falls into an affair. They choose it. For whatever reason. Boredom or revenge, or as in your mother's case,' she
added wistfully, ‘perhaps for comfort.' She visibly took herself in hand, before saying bracingly, ‘Imogen I do hope you will take your mother's fate as a warning. You must not yearn for the unobtainable in your marriage. Strive instead to be content with what you have.'

On these words, her aunt left the room, leaving Imogen sickened at the prospect of enduring the kind of marriage her aunt had just outlined. Where she was expected to turn a blind eye to her husband's infidelity, as her aunt clearly had to whenever her uncle strayed, and count herself lucky anybody had deigned to marry her in the first place!

She was the very last person in the world who ought to become a viscountess!

Although, realistically, she supposed it was too much to hope that a man as attractive as Viscount Mildenhall would stay faithful to any one woman for very long. Especially one as plain as her. She sank back into her pillows and glared up at the canopy.

And her aunt, who she had always thought of as being the arbiter of etiquette, seemed to think there would be nothing wrong with her having adulterous affairs as some sort of…compensation! So long as she had got the main duty of being a wife over with first.

She sat up, blew out her candle with a vengeance and thumped her pillow before flinging herself back into it.

She supposed at least she was going into her love less marriage with her eyes open. Whereas her poor mother had believed Kit loved her.

Her aunt seemed to think Viscount Mildenhall would restrict himself to her, until he had got her pregnant, too, whereas her father…

She rolled onto her side, drawing her legs up to her chest. Kit had never had any intention of so much as nodding towards the conventions of marriage. As soon as he had got his hands on the inheritance he had married Amanda to secure, he had gone out and celebrated in the wildest fashion imaginable. He had flaunted a succession of mistresses in public. And then, when Amanda did not immediately fall pregnant, set out to prove that the fault was not his. He had eventually brought home a baby boy that he had fathered on a Gypsy woman, in forming Amanda that since she could not give him a son, she would have to see a bastard filling the empty crib in the nursery.

Kit had intended to humiliate her by forcing her to care for his illegitimate son. But he had over looked the fact that Amanda adored babies. And that by this time, she had given up all hope of ever having any children of her own. He had told her so often she must be barren, that she had come to believe it.

‘Imo,' she had sighed, her eyes filling up with tears, ‘he was such a beautiful baby. With a shock of dark hair and your father's smile. I might not have been his real mother, but I felt just as though he was my first born. He was not responsible for his parents' actions. Poor, helpless little mite! It was cruel of Kit to bring him into our home and try to use him as a weapon. I never forgave him for that!'

Kit had been disappointed to see Amanda finding consolation in caring for the boy as if he was her own, and quickly tired of having a squalling brat in the house. So he began to torment her by threatening to send the boy back to his real mother. What had sealed little Stephen's fate, though, had been Grand papa Herriard storming into
the house and demanding that Kit house his by-blow elsewhere. Amanda had, she told Imogen, gone up to the nursery and held the little boy in her arms, fearing it might be the very last time she held any child she could call her own. But her father's attempt to browbeat him into ‘doing the right thing' made Kit dig in his heels. For if there was one thing Kit Hebden relished, it was behaving badly. Having a Gypsy brat openly living in his house, forcing his wife into what everyone interpreted as a humiliating position, suited his warped sense of humour down to the ground. And so Stephen had stayed.

And Society had been duly shocked.

Imogen frowned. Viscount Mildenhall had told her he was no stranger to scandal, on account of his stepmother's actions, but he had not said he would ever actively court it. On the contrary, he had not even wanted anyone to know what had happened out on Lady Carteret's terrace. He also said he was willing to take her in hand, to spare Rick's blushes for her future conduct. If he had an affair—no, when he had an affair, she corrected herself—he was the kind of man who would conduct it with discretion. And if there were any by-blows, he would certainly not bring them home and force her to raise them!

Viscount Mildenhall might be a handsome charmer, but he was
not
cast in the same mould as her father. In his own fashion, he would probably attempt to be a good sort of husband.

Anyway
—she huffed, turning over—
if he wasn't, he would have Rick to answer to!