A Marriage Deal With The Viscount

Chapter Two

She should not have touched him. The arm he offered her was firm and steady beneath her fingers, sending an unlooked-for warmth to her stomach. She’d been on her own too long, defending herself against lechers and men like Lord Wenderly, who’d made her the most indecent of offers, men who were too ready to objectify her simply because she was beautiful and alone—easy prey in their minds. As a result, she’d not been prepared for her body to react this way. She’d not been prepared for him, the handsome Viscount in his prime, with intelligent eyes and a certain energy that filled up any space he occupied. He was electricity personified. At some point when the alpaca investment had been under consideration by the Prometheus Club, her mind had decided viscounts interested in alpaca farming were portly, short, middle-aged eccentrics with rather less hair than more. After all, that description represented in some part all the men in the Prometheus Club and it stood to reason that like sought out like. But Taunton defied expectation. She’d been entirely unprepared for the man who had sauntered into the Duchess’s sitting room full of masculine charm and confidence.

Looks and charm should not have affected her like this. If anything, those attributes should have put her on edge. She’d fallen victim to looks and charm before. She thought she’d become immune to handsome faces a long time ago, once she’d figured out handsome faces did not necessarily indicate handsome intentions. And yet, Taunton had a dangerous magnetism to him, a charismatic edge.

Sofia gave him a long considering look, tallying his assets in what she hoped was a more objective sense as they walked the gardens of Cowden House. Forewarned was forearmed. She would study him, discover the source of his charm and he would not catch her by surprise again. As a male, he did not disappoint. He was young still, but not too young, in his late twenties, possibly early thirties. He was grey-eyed and dark-haired and had a face that was saved from chiselled sternness by his smile—something he brandished often, a charming weapon of sorts. It would be interesting to know if he used it offensively or defensively—to engage or to hide. He had height and was elegantly built for fashion, a tailor’s dream without being foppish, while still maintaining a certain breadth of shoulder and an athletic trimness of waist. She noted the excellent cut of his blue morning coat and the expensive wool of his cream trousers, cut narrow in the latest fashion.

Those were just the top notes. She’d wager the pristine white linen that peeped above the layers of his coats was fine Irish and the ankle boots that emerged from beneath his cream trousers were expensive Italian leather. No wonder he was interested in alpacas from Peru—wool from halfway around the world. The man was a walking calling card for international trade and a very handsome one at that. But his best feature was how he sounded, the most sibilant of tenor baritones, a murmuring quicksilver stream of words that matched his eyes.

She could have listened to him all day. As it was, she didn’t need to. She’d read the report, of course. Much of what he shared wasn’t new information to her. The purpose of this walk was to learn about him. What sort of man was asking for her money, for her partnership? If this were to be done without the backing and comfortable insurance of the Prometheus Club, it was imperative he be a man of great integrity—an asset, unfortunately, not many men of her acquaintance possessed. Misjudging a man’s character wasn’t a mistake one could afford to make twice. If the Viscount fulfilled this first requirement, there would be time for discussing alpacas later.

At the end of his exposition, Taunton’s grey eyes crinkled at the corners as he gave her a friendly smile. ‘Do I pass?’ They’d reached the end of the garden where a small, round pergola, more decorative than useful, adorned the far corner by the high fence that kept aristocrats in and street riff-raff out, a discreet reminder of power and who belonged inside its circle.

She’d straddled that fence quite precariously since her return to England. One wrong move and she could be entirely on the other side. Her presence on this side of the fence was accepted by very few like Helena Tresham, tolerated by some—namely those who wished for Helena’s favour—and considered downright dangerous by many who worried what would happen to their womenfolk if she was allowed to run amok among them with her ideas of freedom and equality. She wondered where the Viscount would land on that scale of tolerance if he knew just how many scandals were attached to her? Or did he need her money badly enough to ignore them?

Sofia met the Viscount’s gaze with a light laugh and a tap of her fan on his immaculate, expensive sleeve. ‘Have you passed? So soon? That would be a rather hasty decision made on limited acquaintance.’ Perhaps he was used to women making impulsive decisions where he was concerned. He was good looking and affable, easy to be with and easy on the eye. Women probably poured their hearts out to him regularly and much more. She was not foolish enough to trust a handsome man with her secrets or her heart, or the contents of her bank account without further investigation. ‘Such action would be rather impulsive, wouldn’t you agree, my lord? I don’t think you would want to do business with an impulsive investor who threw money around indiscriminately to any who asked.’

She smiled to lessen the scold. She wanted to be sure of him, not alienate him. She needed him as much as he needed her, perhaps more. His need was simple: money. For him, money was the end goal. She, however, needed more than money. For her, money was the means to other, grander, ends. She needed the things money could buy, but only if she had a lot of it and relatively soon. Freedom and financial security were expensive commodities these days and she needed both for her own well-being and for the well-being she wanted to ensure for others.

‘Touché, Marchesa. You are quite shrewd. I can see why Cowden trusts you.’ He inclined his head in a nod to her reprimand, his grey eyes becoming serious, and she recognised she’d been wrong about part of her earlier assumption. Women might be imprudent around him, but he was not impulsive. This was not a game. She knew, too, in that narrowing grey gaze of his he was vetting her as much as she was vetting him. The realisation gave her a moment’s anxiety. She did not like to be scrutinised, talked about, guessed about, as if her life was a trivial game. Sofia usually tried to prevent such speculation by taking the upper hand first.

‘What else would you like to know?’ His voice was quiet now, sterner. The easy fluidity with which he’d spoken of his alpaca project was gone, replaced by something sharper, the tone of a man who had something to lose. Good. She didn’t want to do business with a man who could afford mistakes, or who embraced projects on a whim only to tire of them halfway through. She needed this to matter to him, as if it were life or death. For many reasons. Most obviously for the making of money. Less obviously for the distraction his worry would create. The more he worried about alpacas, the less time he’d have to be curious about her.

‘I want to see timelines for importation, for profit yields. How soon will there be any return on the investment? I want to see the facility where they will be kept. I want to read the sources you used for your research and draw my own conclusions.’

‘I am afraid that will be somewhat difficult, given that the facility and the other materials are not in London.’ His tone implied they would simply have to do without those key facts. After all this time, she was still amazed at the innate confidence of the aristocracy. The Viscount simply expected her to hand over a significant amount of money on the merits of a short conversation and one report. Then again, aristocrats had a very different sense of money from the rest of the world. Even noblemen with debt—and that was nearly all of them—seldom understood the value of a single pound versus a hundred pounds. Perhaps if they did their debt would be less? She’d not understood the reference to spending money like water until she’d married, even though her father had lived well above his means. Life with the Marchese had been illuminating in so many ways.

The Viscount smiled, perhaps to appear less argumentative, but she didn’t miss the faintest hint of agitation in the Viscount’s quicksilver tones. He did not like the idea of waiting. A bit more desperate than he let on, was he? It was good to know he had a sense of immediacy as well, although she wasn’t sure what a handsome viscount might be desperate about. ‘Marchesa, the materials you seek are in Somerset, at my home,’ he explained as if distance eradicated the need for research.

Somerset, in the south-west. Twenty hours’ carriage ride from London via the mail coach with fast horses, good roads and little luggage. The train would do better at four hours even with several stops along the way. She fixed him with a pleasant smile and a direct stare that brooked no rebuttal. ‘I hear Somerset is lovely in the early summer. We can go after the wedding festivities. I shall make the arrangements and send you the details.’ She held out her hand for him to shake, the masculine gesture catching him off guard.

There was the slightest of hesitations at her bold gesture and then he smiled, taking her hand with a firm grip. ‘Somerset it is, Marchesa. I will send word to my staff to expect us.’

She left him then, with the excuse she needed to send notes of her own and to make arrangements for their departure. In truth, now that next steps had been laid out, she did not want to spend any more time in the Viscount’s company. He would have questions about her; he would want to know what a married woman with a foreign title was doing here in England alone.

Those were questions she preferred not to answer. The less he knew about her, the better. The sooner they were away from London, the less chance there was of him discovering her sordid past.

Sofia let out a breath. This was not going as planned. She would have been content to stay hidden away in her Chelsea terrace home, conducting business by letter behind the façade of Barnham’s name, making money and pursuing her own dreams, her own plans. She wouldn’t have participated in the Season at all if it hadn’t been for the wedding and the lure of the alpaca deal.

That wasn’t quite true. Those were lures that brought her out into society. But there’d been a threat, too, that even now under the warm spring sun brought a chill to her bones. Sofia pressed a surreptitious hand to the hidden pocket of her skirts, feeling the folded sheet of paper within: Il Marchese’s latest letter and least friendly to date. It had arrived on the heels of Helena’s invitation to the wedding, an invitation she’d thought to refuse. But the letter had changed that. It was a reminder that for all of her careful plans, a formal divorce sanctioned by the Kingdom of the Piedmont and the distance of three delicious years of freedom, she was still not beyond Giancarlo’s reach. Il Marchese di Cremona, her husband, wanted her back.

It wasn’t the first letter in the last six months, but it was the darkest. The first letters had wooed her with apologies and testaments of reform. He wanted to try again. He would be a better husband this time. She did not believe those protestations, not with ten years of infidelity and cruelty to weigh against his words. Nor had she given them any credence. Why should she? She was here and he was a continent away and unlikely to bestir himself to come after her. She knew him. But those letters had invoked a tremor of subtle fear. He’d found her. The address on the envelope proved it right down to the number of her row house—not that she’d ever taken pains to hide her location. She’d not thought she needed to. She was here in England with a choppy Channel, a continent and the legal assurance of their dissolved union. She had every security that Piedmont no longer recognised her marriage.

But times had changed, it seemed. This letter no longer cajoled. Giancarlo’s patience and the King’s was running thin. Piedmont might recognise her divorce, but the Kingdom of Piedmont no longer approved of its existence. The King himself wanted Giancarlo to reclaim his wife, and Giancarlo, wanting the King’s favour, was willing to do so.

Sofia drew a deep breath against the panic such a thought raised. She wouldn’t go back, not even if the King of Piedmont required it, which it seemed he did. This time, Il Marchese was not the only one with money. She had money, too, a lot of it, and that was the most important weapon of all. With money, she could fight. She could raise an army of solicitors and barristers, she could tie up proceedings in Chancery for years with appeals.

The comfort in that idea was short-lived. Of course, Il Marchese wouldn’t fight fair. If she took it to court, there were things he might accuse her of, things that, even though untrue, could cast a poor light on her scruples and cause people to question her morals. Should that fail, what he couldn’t force legally, he would force practically. He would simply take her, kidnap her and drag her back to the Piedmont. Then, a piece of paper regarding the dissolution of their marriage would hardly matter. There was no one to stop him from taking her except herself.

Il Marchese would have to find her first. Money meant she could fight. It also meant she could run. Money was portable. She would go to ground in the most obscure parts of England if need be. The trip to Somerset was a start. Would the Marchese give her fair warning? Would he come himself or would he send his minions to negotiate?

No. She wasn’t going to think about it. She would not worry over it. He wanted her to worry. This letter was the beginning of the torment he’d designed for her, part of his game, lest she forget who really held all the power. She entered the house, her head high, a smile on her face. Helena must not know about this new threat. Helena would want to fix everything, would want to use her father-in-law’s influence to protect her without realising the consequences of stirring that pot. Sofia could not allow her friend to be dragged down into the mire of her life. She’d not told Helena everything, could hardly bring herself to give words to her marriage, not when Helena’s was so blissful.

This was her battle and she’d wage it alone as she’d waged so many other campaigns in her life. Alone, victory was possible, escape was possible, freedom was possible. With others involved, there could only be...complications. In two days, she could leave London behind her and vanish into the west. Like a good general, she would retreat, regroup and fortify her new position. There was only the wedding to get through and then the ball. She’d survived worse.

Chapter Three

Conall shifted uncomfortably on the hard seat of the pew. He’d survived worse, but there was no doubt weddings made him edgy. They were reminders of the passage of time and the pressing need to do his duty for the Viscountcy; a duty he could not afford without a wealthy bride, which placed him in a rather contradictory position. To marry money, one needed to have money. Unless one wanted to marry a wealthy Cit. No woman of good birth wanted to marry an impoverished title. Olivia de Pugh had reminded him quite coldly of that axiom when she’d broken off their pending betrothal right after his father’s death when Conall had gone to her in good faith with the financial details his death had revealed. She had not been impressed with his honesty.

Weddings were also reminders that marriage was the greatest business risk of all, one that came with no safety net, as his mother had discovered. Her lifetime of security had been an illusion maintained only as long as his father had lived. Even his death proved that forever was for ever—the choices made in that marriage would follow his mother always. When it came to matrimony, there was no getting out of it, there was only tolerating it.

Conall took his seat five rows back from the Cowden family pew and looked around St George’s. There were plenty of people here who were doing just that—tolerating it. Behind him sat Lord and Lady Fairchild, who both gambled copiously, but never together, perhaps to recoup the excitement their marriage lacked; to his left was Lord Duchaine, who had come alone as he usually did. Lady Duchaine was in Paris, staying longer with each annual trip to the Continent. There were rumours she kept a lover in a grand apartment in the Faubourg, a lover ardent enough to override the pleasures of the London Season.

There were others, too. All decked out in high fashion, all with false smiles and similar stories. Duchaine and the Fairchilds were by no means anomalies. How ironic they’d all come to celebrate another couple being consigned to their ranks. Conall thought it more appropriate if they’d come to mourn or at least warn the couple. It seemed hypocritical for the noble masses that filled St. George’s to smile and shed a ‘happy tear’ when they knew from experience just how elusive marital happiness was.

Across the aisle, Olivia de Pugh, golden and lovely in a pale-yellow gown specked with tiny primrose flowers, entered with her family and the very wealthy Baron Crossfield. She spied Conall and gave the slightest of nods and an I-told-you-so smile. Another time, he might have felt the intended sting of her gesture, but today, Olivia’s traditional English beauty left him empty. Perhaps he’d had a narrow escape, after all. What man wanted to be loved for his income or title alone? Wasn’t this room full of people who were testament to how unsatisfying that premise ultimately was? And yet the practice of matching title to fortune persisted as if by doing it over and over again, it would suddenly come out aright.

Or maybe the room was full of people, like him, who’d once hoped they’d be different, that for them, marriage might work out. After all, it had worked out for the Treshams. That family was renowned for their love matches. Conall focused his gaze on the Cowden pew, where there sat two generations of exceptions. The Duke and Duchess of Cowden were already in place, hands linked, heads bent towards one another. Beside them sat their two daughters-in-law—Helena valiantly hiding a six-month pregnancy beneath crinolines to avoid censure and Fortis’s wife, Avaline, her blonde head held high against gossip about her absent husband. Conall made a note to speak with her at the wedding breakfast, to offer her the consolation of his presence. At the front of the church, Ferris Tresham waited for his bride, his older brother at his shoulder in fraternal solidarity. Ferris’s eyes were riveted on the back doors, but Frederick’s gaze was for Helena. Anyone could see that after seven years of marriage, he was still mad for his wife.

Once upon a time, that had been Conall’s dream, too—a love match with a woman who inspired such loyalty and affection in him. His father’s death had changed all that. His hopes for a marriage were different now. These days, a good marriage was defined for him as one that would secure his mother’s future, his sister’s dowry and his younger brother’s education, along with the upkeep of the estate. He would gladly set aside his personal affections to achieve those things which his father had failed to guarantee. That failure tainted his grief, mixing anger with an overwhelming sense of loss when he thought of his father.

Around Conall, people began to shift in their seats, heads craning to the back doors. Murmurs escalated to barely suppressed whispers. Time to start? Conall turned in his seat to catch sight of the bride and the signal to stand, but there was no one. ‘False alarm, eh?’ He elbowed his friend, Lord Hargreaves, good-naturedly.

Hargreaves, blond and young, with a nose for gossip, arched his eyebrow. ‘Hardly a false alarm, old chap.’ He lifted his chin with a discreet jerk to indicate the back rows of the church where a woman sat, square-shouldered, and dressed in lavender. Conall chuckled at that—lavender was a colour for half-mourning. Perhaps someone else understood weddings as he did. The woman’s face was veiled by a fetching lavender creation atop spun-gold hair, but it could not entirely obscure her identity.