Married to the Viscount (3 page)

“Oh?” Evelina said with interest.

“Her father was ill for many years. As she is his only child, his care fell to her, which allowed her little time for the usual courting.” Not to mention that some gentlemen probably objected to her mixed blood. “But I expect she’ll find a husband eventually. She’s an amiable woman with a good—”

He stopped short. All the women at the table were eyeing him now with rampant curiosity. Bloody hell. He usually knew not to say anything that set matchmaking females to speculating. But Nat’s mysterious disappearance had put him off his game. Too late to undo the damage, judging from the shrewd gleam in Lady Brumley’s eye.

“You seem to know a great deal about Miss Mercer,” the gossip said. “Perhaps she wasn’t as dark and plain as your brother claims. What did
you
think of her looks, Ravenswood?”

Thankfully, he was spared answering when the door to the dining room opened to admit his butler. When McFee approached the table and bent close enough to reveal an unnat
ural pallor beneath his ruddy Scottish skin, Spencer knew something was wrong.

“What is it?” Spencer asked in a low tone.

“I must speak to you privately, my lord.”

McFee probably had news of Nat. Spencer rose and faced his guests. “I beg your indulgence, but I must step into the hall a moment.”

Amid murmurs of polite assent, Spencer strode out of the dining room with McFee at his heels, only waiting until he’d shut the door to ask, “What’s happened?”

“There is a female waiting to see you.”

Spencer scowled. McFee only used the term “female” with certain sorts of women. By God, if Nat had sent some tart with a message…“What does she want?”

“To speak to you.”

“About my brother?”

“No, my lord.”

Relief flooded Spencer. “Then tell her to return tomorrow. I have no time for this tonight.”

“She was most insistent. And I believe you should probably speak to her.”

Spencer raised one eyebrow at his butler’s presumption. “Why? Who is she?”

“You see…well…that is…”

“For God’s sake, spit it out,” Spencer said impatiently. “I don’t have all night.”

McFee drew himself up with wounded dignity. “She claims to be Lady Ravenswood. Your wife.”

“My what?!”

The cry echoed down the hall to the magnificent high-ceilinged foyer where Abigail Mercer waited with her servant, Mrs. Graham. Abby pricked up her ears. “I think his lordship has been informed of our arrival.”

“Thank the good Lord.” Mrs. Graham scowled. “That Mr. La-Di-Da of a butler was acting so strange I wondered if he would even announce us.”

Abby bit back a smile. Mrs. Graham had been with the Mercer family for an eternity, first as Abby’s nursemaid and later as general family servant. Though the aging widow could be a grouse at times, Abby couldn’t imagine doing without her. “Well,
I
feared we had the wrong house, especially with all the carriages in front. His lordship must be having guests for dinner, though why he’d do that on the night of our arrival—”

“I just want to know why he didn’t have nobody at the docks to fetch us. Didn’t you tell him what ship we was coming on, milady?”

“I certainly did. And how odd that his lordship wasn’t more solicitous of our comfort. I thought we should never find a hired coach to carry us here.”

A commotion at the other end of the hall, doors opening and closing and the murmur of various voices, drew Abby’s attention. Lord Ravenswood was probably explaining to his guests why he was being called away.

Mrs. Graham frowned. “His lordship sure sounded surprised to hear of our arrival. But I think, milady—”

Abby burst into laughter. “Heavens, would you stop calling me that? Bad enough that you insisted I wear this ridiculous corset. But the ‘milady’ you drop into every sentence is really overdoing it. I keep looking around to see whom you mean.”

Mrs. Graham sniffed. “Better get used to it. You’re a viscountess now.”

“I don’t feel like a viscountess. I can hardly even think of Lord Ravenswood as a viscount. In America, he was more like a country gentleman. He always made me feel at ease.”

“I say it’s about time some man treated you like the fine
lass you are. But I didn’t like that proxy wedding business, and poor Mr. Nathaniel Law having to stand in for his brother—”

“I didn’t mind it so much. This isn’t a love match, you know. I can hardly expect romantic behavior from his lordship.”

Then again, the way he’d looked at her sometimes during his two weeks in America…Just remembering it sent a shiver of delightful anticipation down her spine.

Forcibly she reminded herself of the practical nature of their agreement.

“His letters said he was marrying me because he had ‘feelings of respect and admiration.’ But that’s all right. I have them for him, too.” And his admiration could grow into love in time, couldn’t it?

He might even now have warmer feelings for her than he would reveal in an impersonal letter. Why else would he have gone so far as to marry an American spinster of mixed blood? Seeing his grand house only confirmed her suspicion that the handsome, clever, and amiable Lord Ravenswood could have any English lady he wanted.

But he’d chosen her. Just thinking of it fairly started her heart to pounding.

A door opened and closed again, but this time the murmurs at the other end of the hall were followed by footsteps. “I think he’s coming.”

“Lord have mercy!” Mrs. Graham patted down a stray curl of her graying red hair. “Quick, milady, give me some of that Mead for my breath.”

“Good idea.” Although the Mead was intended for medicinal use, it also made a perfect breath sweetener. Removing her personal vial from the kerseymere reticule that dangled from a cord on her wrist, she handed it to her servant.

Opening it, Mrs. Graham swigged some, winced, and returned it to Abby. “Lordy, that sure is nasty-tasting stuff.”

“But the scent makes up for it, don’t you think?” Abby lifted the bottle to her lips, the heady aroma of rosemary and neroli oil wafting to her as she sipped. She swished it around in her mouth, then swallowed the bitter tonic as she closed up the vial.

The footsteps had stopped halfway down the hall, and more murmuring could be heard. Abby returned the bottle swiftly to her reticule. Why didn’t he just come on?

“How do I look?” Glancing down at her wrinkled traveling gown, Abby groaned. “Oh, I look awful. I hate for him to see me like this.”

“Can’t be helped. Considering you’ve been hauled from pillar to post to get here, you look pretty enough.” Mrs. Graham stepped in front of her, lifted her black bombazine skirt, and rearranged it to drape more naturally. “You should have let me lace your corset tighter. This gown needs tight lacing to fall proper.”

Abby snorted. “If you lace it any tighter, I’ll explode out either end.”

Mrs. Graham clucked her tongue. “You’re just not used to wearing it is all. Your mother, God rest her, shouldn’t have let her strange notions keep you from dressing proper.”

“Strange notions” was Mrs. Graham’s polite term for any of Mama’s Senecan beliefs. “Mama was right about corsets being unhealthy.”

“But refined ladies must wear ’em, especially in England. You don’t want these English thinking you’re some country girl not fit to be a viscountess, do you?”

“What is the meaning of this?” rumbled a voice from just beyond Mrs. Graham.

With a squeak, Mrs. Graham whirled around and Abby jumped. Rounding the staircase with that stuffy Mr. McFee at his side was the viscount himself.

My husband
, she reminded herself. And heavenly day, what a man. She’d never seen him dressed so formally, his
broad shoulders filling out a double-breasted tailcoat and his muscular thighs straining against the fabric of form-fitting breeches.

And all of it jet-black except his shirt. His black attire, silvery eyes, and rapidly clouding brow made her think of Hino, the thunder god of Mama’s Senecan tales, thunder and lightning and storm all rolled into one.

Then he strode up to tower over her, and she swallowed hard. She’d forgotten his imposing height. And why did he look so sternly upon her? He’d never done so before. “My lord, it seems we’ve taken you by surprise, but—”

“You certainly have.” His clipped words cast a chill over her. Then his gaze flicked down. “You’re in mourning.”

She nodded. “Papa passed away two months ago.”

The stormy brow softened. “I’m sorry. You have my deepest sympathies.”

“Thank you. It was expected, of course, but I still…miss him.”

“Of course you do,” he said, his voice husky with concern.

Thank God. For a moment there, she’d thought him a stranger and not at all the considerate gentleman she’d known in America.

He stepped nearer, swamping her with his familiar spicy scent, thick with bergamot and soap and essence of male. “Death is never expected, my dear, no matter how much one tries to prepare.”

His kindness brought tears to her eyes. She brushed them away, and his face softened even more.

Removing his handkerchief, he pressed it into her hand. “Now I understand why you’re here. You’ve come to England to work out the terms of your partnership with my brother, haven’t you?” When she stopped blotting her eyes to gape at him, he smiled. “Forgive me, Miss Mercer, if I seemed a bit short at first, but my butler erred in announcing you. He said my
wife
was out here, and I—”

“He didn’t err.” Her fingers tightened convulsively on his handkerchief. He’d called her Miss Mercer. Dear heaven, surely he wasn’t denying…“You know perfectly well that we’re married.”

His smile vanished. “I know no such thing.”

Abby glanced to Mrs. Graham for confirmation, but the woman just stood there gawking at him, apparently struck dumb by his outrageous denial.

Reminding herself she was a descendant of a great Seneca chief, she squared her shoulders. “Then perhaps you’d better explain what you meant in your letters when you said you wished to marry me.”

The clouds rolled back over his brow. “I didn’t write any letters to you.”

“But I have them right here!” Now truly alarmed, she hunted through her reticule until she found them, then thrust them at him. “You see? These are yours.”

He took the letters and scanned them swiftly. When he lifted his gaze to her, his eyes flashed lightning. “I have never seen these before in my life, madam.”

She could hardly breathe, and not just because of the blessed corset either. “But that’s your signature on them!”

“No, it’s not. It’s a very good forgery, I’ll warrant you, but a forgery nonetheless. Besides, it doesn’t even match the writing on the letters.”

His thunderous stare made it clear that he expected
her
to offer the explanations that ought to be forthcoming from
him
.

“Of course it doesn’t. Your brother said your secretary wrote the letters, and you only signed them. But Nathaniel insisted that you dictated them yourself and—”

“Nat gave these to you?”

“Yes. They were included with packages he said he received from you.”

He scanned the letters again, and the color drained from his features. “That’s Nat’s handwriting, all right.”

Panic gripped Abby’s chest. “You mean he wrote them? Why would he—I demand to speak to your brother.”

“You’ll have to wait your turn,” he bit out. “He’s not here. He conveniently disappeared a few hours ago, and we’ve been looking for him ever since.”

Dear heaven. Now it all made sense. Nathaniel had been the one to broker the marriage in exchange for part ownership of Papa’s company. He’d been the one to convince her and Papa that Lord Ravenswood was eager for the match. And it was Nathaniel who’d taken her dowry.

Numbly Abby searched for the more official-looking piece of paper in her reticule. When she found it, she held it out with a wavering hand. “I guess that means you didn’t know about this, either.”

Warily, Lord Ravenswood took the paper and examined it. When he lifted his head again, his mouth formed a pained line. “I am so sorry, Miss Mercer—”

“No,” she whispered, backing away from the truth in his eyes. “No, it can’t be. You can’t be saying—”

“I swear I did not authorize my brother to arrange any marriage. I can’t imagine why he’d do so. I’ll admit that he has forged my name a time or two in the past as a joke, but I never dreamed he would do something like this.”

“Oh, Lordy,” Mrs. Graham muttered, fanning herself with the frantic movements of someone watching her dreams disintegrate before her very eyes.

As Abby was watching her own dreams die. Lord Ravenswood had never meant to marry her. The fanciful feelings she’d attributed to him, the sweet fantasies she’d conjured up of their future life together…they were figments of her own imagination. Figments that Nathaniel had used to his advantage.

The complete humiliation of it seeped into the marrow of her bones. She was here in England, having spent nearly all
the meager funds left to her, with her dowry and her father’s business stolen—

Spots formed behind her eyes. She tried to breathe, but the blessed corset wouldn’t let her, and suddenly the room spun and the spots joined to form one giant spot blotting her vision, and she sank down into blackness…

Chapter 2

Do not allow rude servants from other households to provoke you into bad behavior. Your employer will reward your forbearance, and those other servants will only succeed in annoying their own employers.

Suggestions for the Stoic Servant

W
hen Spencer saw Miss Mercer’s usually rosy complexion pale to the color of milk, he feared the worst. So when her eyes glazed over and her knees buckled, he dropped the papers and lunged for her. He barely caught her in time to prevent her collapse on the floor.

As he lifted her limp body in his arms, her head wobbled back lifelessly. She looked very ill, and it was all his fault.

“Now see what you’ve done, you…you Englishman you!” Mrs. Graham cried, wielding the vile insult “Englishman” like a club. “How dare you act this way to my sweet mistress, who never done a body wrong in her life?”