How to Train a Viscount Page 3

  “I truly can’t impose on you,” Adam said.

  “Nonsense,” the captain said. “Now I know you need a place to stay. There’s the ship of course, but I reckon we can do better.”

  “I want to be—er—economical. Before I get my funds,” he added quickly.

  The captain nodded. “Economical yet fit for a viscount.” He snapped his fingers. “Let’s go.”

  Jerry rowed back toward the ship, and Adam was alone with Captain Fergus. He hugged Thabisa and hurried after the captain, wondering if he should just run in a different direction.

  But it was true.

  Adam didn’t have any place to go, and that meant Thabisa didn’t have a place to go. She was already shivering, and he tucked her into his shirt. His steps were shaky, as if still accustomed to traversing the wave-affected hull.

  Perhaps he could let Captain Fergus help. Perhaps it wouldn’t be horrible to follow him.

  And so Adam did.

  The house the captain stopped at was far too grand, and Adam’s stomach sank.

  “This doesn’t look economical,” Adam said.

  “Oh, no.” Captain Fergus grinned, grabbing the large door knocker and striking down on it with a rapidity perhaps more suited to sailing mechanics. “It’s even better. It’s free.”

  Adam’s throat dried, and a sour taste invaded it.

  In the next moment, the door opened and a gray-haired man in dark attire that looked more expensive than any clothes he’d ever seen stood before him.

  The duke.

  This must be the duke.

  Adam gulped. What should he do? He’d seen pictures of people kneeling when they met royals. He should do the same.

  His knees slammed into a puddle, and Thabisa clung onto his chest. Water splattered over his breeches. Adam bit his teeth hard, refusing to give an unmanly yelp in the presence of such greatness. Thabisa had no reservations against yelps of any kind and emitted a mighty squeal.

  “Goodness gracious.” The duke’s hand drifted toward his heart, and his eyes bulged. “Oh, my. My, oh, my.” The duke turned his gaze toward Captain Fergus. “Is your friend well?”

  “He’s healthy,” Captain Fergus said, though there was an odd skeptical note to his normally cheerfully voice.

  “But that sound!”

  “That’s ‘is monkey.”

  “Monkey?” the duke gasped.

  Thabisa poked her head from Adam’s shirt and squealed again.

  “Oh, my!” The duke’s eyes rounded. “What an amazing creature.”

  “Get up,” Captain Fergus said, and for some reason his face was red. Adam hadn’t thought anything could embarrass the captain, given his comfort with coarse words and coarser stories.

  “I’m being polite,” Adam explained.

  “It’s not necessary,” Captain Fergus said. “I mean, it’s good to be polite, but—er—”

  Adam blinked. He supposed in the pictures he’d seen, the royals had been wearing crowns. He’d done the wrong thing. Adam’s cheeks flamed, as if Satan had decided to set them alight, and he stumbled up. Dirty water dripped from the breeches, and Thabisa still squawked.

  “Is the duke in?” Captain Fergus asked.

  “Oh, he’s out. In the Channel Islands actually,” the man, who was evidently not the duke said.

  “Oh.” Captain Fergus’s shoulders slumped momentarily. “See, this ‘ere is a new viscount.” The captain leaned toward the man. “Recently inherited. Trouble ‘is, ‘e don’t got anywhere to stay.”

  “He’s a friend of yours?” the non-duke asked.

  Captain Fergus nodded.

  “In that case, he can stay here. His Grace would insist.”

  Captain Fergus beamed. “Come in, My Lord.”

  Adam hesitated.

  “He’s shy,” the captain said.

  “It must have been a very distant relative who died,” the non-duke said.

  The captain nodded with more firmness than Adam thought necessary.

  Raindrops fell, and Thabisa shivered again.

  He sighed and entered the home.

  Illustrations of fish dotted the walls, and Adam found himself staring.

  Adam had always had a preference for mammals, but something about the many varieties of fish was fascinating. The colors of their scales were vibrant, and they came in all sorts of shapes.

  “His lordship’s clothes was lost too,” the captain said. “Don’t reckon the duke has got anything lying about?”

  “I’ll choose some items for him.”

  “They don’t need to be fancy,” Captain Fergus said with a wary glance at Adam.

  “Don’t worry, His Grace was rather rough when he first arrived too.”

  “Aye, at least this one didn’t spend years being a pirate,” the captain said amiably, and the non-duke laughed.

  “Excuse me,” Adam said. “Who exactly are you?”

  The non-duke blinked. “Why, I’m the butler.”

  “’Is job is to answer the door,” Captain Fergus said. “Imagine that.”

  The butler chuckled, and Adam forced himself to echo their smiles.

  The rain pitter-pattered a noisy rhythm, like bullets pummeling the exterior, warning him he wasn’t where he should be. The butler and captain might be nice, but Adam doubted their pleasantness would be maintained, were they to discover his lie.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Isla prepared to make the short ascension to her neighbor’s suite.

  The important thing was to stun. Fortunately, Isla was experienced. Tonight was a night for her emerald gown. Most women favored pastel gowns, but blending in with others was a tiresome proposition in any situation, much less when one could choose otherwise. She directed her lady’s maid to assist her, and she was content only when she was decked in her favorite jewelry. Her mother’s pendeloque earrings, rose-cut emeralds and diamonds set in silver, dangled from her ears, and a matching riviere necklace adorned her throat.

  She ducked her head into Miss Grant’s room. Her companion looked lovely, at least when one did not linger on her sour expression or on the unfashionable cut of her dress. Most people had long since abandoned the urge to resemble Grecian goddesses, though Miss Grant’s instinct toward divinity remained strong.

  “You look pretty,” Isla said. “Perhaps we can get you a new dress.”

  Miss Grant shrugged. “It is not necessary, Lady Isla.”

  “Nonsense,” Isla said briskly. “Shopping is delightful.”

  “I do not expect these balls to be a common occurrence.”

  “I am fond of dancing.”

  Miss Grant pursed her lips together. “It is not always admirable to retain all one’s youthful qualities.”

  Isla decided not to argue. Tonight was a night for joy.

  Perhaps Isla would have to wait for Wolfe to return to have the purchase of her property approved, a process that could take months, but she would enjoy this night. Her brother was a newlywed, and though two years ago she would have been surprised if someone had told her there would be a time when they would no longer be close, it now seemed impossible to imagine a time when they would be again. When her brother arrived, he was liable to insist she procure a cottage in an area he perceived as more suited to spinsters and Isla would begin a descent into boredom.

  No matter.

  She refused to let anyone be sorry for her.

  “Let’s see if we can avoid getting lost,” she said gaily, as they headed up the stairs.

  “Naturally, we will avoid getting lost,” Miss Grant said, clutching onto the banister in a sensible manner. “We may be older women, but we are still in possession of our faculties.”

  Isla did not enjoy being grouped in Miss Grant’s age category. She was certain Miss Grant was older than her, though her companion’s passion for skin ointments negated a precise calculation. After all, Miss Grant had still failed to develop an appreciation for jokes.

  Still, perhaps there might be advantages for ending the ni
ght early. She didn’t want to be subjected to Miss Grant’s disapproval in the morning. There would be other, better balls she would rather attend in the future. The hostesses just seemed to be tardy in sending out invitations this year.

  The butler announced them, and Isla entered the ball, striding over the black and white marble floor that matched her own. Grand bay windows jutted toward the ocean, and a few couples gathered before it, lost perhaps in dreams of an imagined future.

  A fire puffed in the corner, dispatching ashy clouds through the room. A few gray-haired women huddled beside it, as if the smoke had stained their locks.

  “Ah! Available seats,” Miss Grant said, her first words of enthusiasm today. “I will guard them.”

  “I don’t intend to join you,” Isla said.

  Miss Grant’s lips twitched, as if Isla had engaged in witticism, but then she scurried toward the fireplace.

  Isla was alone.

  She gazed about the room, striving to recognize people. She flashed a smile toward some people.

  Last year, she would have been welcomed. Last year, men would have rushed toward her, with the urgency of bulls partaking in a stampede, and women would have joined her, eager to hear her opinions.

  Instead, it was quiet. Murmurings sounded, but it was of other guests greeting one another.

  Isla took a drink from one of the footmen and pretended to occupy herself with it, as if conversation were impossible when one had a glass to clutch and ratafia to sip.

  She strode further into the room. Isla did not linger on the view.

  Instead, she went in pursuit of the hostess. The sooner she found Mrs. Hollins, the sooner they could leave. All she needed to do was make the requisite small talk and murmur some platitudes about the decor, even though Isla would have decorated the apartment with greater taste. Mrs. Hollins’ suite seemed only composed of neutral shades, and Isla preferred to use a larger palette when decorating. When Isla chatted with the hostess, she could reference a headache so if the hostess did not see her later, she would assume it was Isla’s general fragility rather than a reference to any improvements she could have made as hostess.

  Isla wove by the dancing couples and the married couples intent on conversation, when they could converse at home and make use of their time here to speak with other people.

  “Ah! Lady Isla!” Mr. Hollins appeared. “I’m so glad you’ve come to grace our party with your beauty.”

  She smiled. “It’s a pleasure to see you.”

  “You are looking well,” he said. “My wife says you’re intending to stay here.”

  “Yes.”

  “And to think you live right below us.” He leaned toward her. “I told my wife we should invite you at once, but she explained women take long to unpack.”

  Isla gave a tight smile. Her lady’s maid unpacked for her, and since she’d hired someone efficient, the process was not long. At all.

  Mr. Hollins swept his gaze over her, lingering on her bodice. “Some dress, my dear. Some dress.”

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “Most of the girls seem to favor fluffy numbers with ribbons and nettings. You don’t need to do that.”

  “Simplicity has its merits,” Isla said.

  “The word I was thinking of was tightness.”

  Isla decided not to enter a conversation on fashion with the host. “I was hoping to find your wife.”

  “Oh, she’s about somewhere.” Mr. Hollins looked gallantly around the room, but Mrs. Hollins was already heading swiftly toward them.

  “Lady Isla,” Mrs. Hollins said smoothly. “I am so pleased you could join us. Mr. Hollins, will you please receive the guests? We don’t want anyone to be confused.”

  “Naturally, my dear,” Mr. Hollins said. “I’ll test those appetizers too.”

  “Thank you,” Isla said, but before she could compliment the cream colored chairs strewn across the room with their matching cream pillows, Mrs. Hollins’ attention shifted to Isla’s companion, who had found herself a seat near the fireplace and was gamely entering into a conversation with a pair of the most established matrons.

  “Your companion is young.” Mrs. Hollins narrowed her eyes. “Most companions are older.”

  “Perhaps most companions are older,” Isla said, “but they also have a tendency to be maiden aunts. Unfortunately, I don’t have any aunts. Both my parents have long ago died, and I assume you would not like their specters to haunt this festivity.”

  Mrs. Hollins’s face grew distinctly rosier, as if she’d uncharacteristically dabbed her cheeks in French rouge like a lady of the night in Pigalle.

  There was an odd tension emanating from Mrs. Hollins that Isla had not encountered last year. She recalled Hollins effusing a distinct jolliness and possessing a habit of chatting merrily. Now she appeared nervous.

  “Are you quite well?” Isla asked.

  “Naturally.” Mrs. Hollins’ lips swerved into a wobbly smile. “I’ve heard you plan to not join the season in London this year. I suppose we’ll see you quite frequently?”

  “Oh, yes,” Isla said.

  “Isn’t it odd not to do another season? Since you haven’t—er—”

  “Since I haven’t found a husband?” Isla asked.

  “Precisely,” Mrs. Hollins said. She sounded relieved, and then flushed, as if realizing her lack of subtlety.

  “I have resigned myself to not having the pleasure of a husband,” Isla said.

  “It must be terrible to be jilted,” Mrs. Hollins said, her voice oozing sympathy.

  Isla hadn’t meant the words to generate sympathy.

  In fact, she’d bemoaned her betrothal. At least she hadn’t had to find a husband like most of the other women in her season, who were encouraged to spend their whole lives not speaking with anyone but then, when they reached the age of eighteen, required to not only speak to men but to charm them sufficiently that the men would be compelled to marry them.

  Yet Callum had been...frustrating. He’d received glory, merely because his father had also been a duke, though it had helped that he’d been handsome, in possession of all his teeth and most of his hair, but he’d been also content to while away his time in Hades’ Lair, the gaming hell he’d built with Wolfe.

  “I am perfectly content,” Isla said, but her voice was sharper than she intended, and her hostess flushed.

  “I see.” Mrs. Hollins’ voice seemed guarded, and she glanced in the direction of the buffet table.

  It took Isla only a second more to realize Mrs. Hollins was not admiring the haphazard manner in which the servants had piled hors d’oeuvres on silver platters, but that she was directing her attention to her husband, who was munching on a piece of cheese.

  “I should ascertain that poor Mr. Hollins is not lonely.”

  Mr. Hollins did not give any indication of loneliness, having finished his cheese and proceeded to investigate the merits of other types. He currently was occupied in piling his plate with a variety of cream and butter colored delicacies.

  Isla didn’t blame him. One of the advantages of the end of the war was the added availability of various culinary delights, even the sort associated with France.

  Mrs. Hollins didn’t issue an invitation for Isla to join her. Instead she scuttled away.

  Isla swallowed hard, even though she hadn’t taken a sip of her ratafia.

  She surveyed the room. A few women looked hastily away, and though she met the gazes of some men, their wives seemed eager to spur them into conversation.

  And then Isla realized it.

  They were afraid of her.

  They’d always been intimidated by her, but now they were afraid.

  Isla wasn’t doing another season. There was nothing more significant she could have done to declare her intentions to never marry.

  And if she wasn’t seeking a husband, and if she wasn’t even conscious of the need to preserve a good reputation for the sake of her betrothal, then what was she doing at a ball?
r />   Perhaps they thought her likely to steal their husbands from them. She’d essentially declared she would never resemble them.

  Perhaps this was why everyone expressed eagerness at avoiding spinsterhood. Perhaps women weren’t simply wary of having to depend on the continued generosity of relatives after their own parents died. Perhaps this was why spinsterhood was only embraced by the most bookish bluestockings, who would not miss dwindling invitations to social events.

  Isla finished her ratafia and placed it on a convenient sideboard. The clink the glass made against the mahogany wood was not as satisfying as Isla desired. She wanted a louder sound, one that better expressed her frustration. After all, unmarried men old enough to be her father were still welcomed at events.

  Tittering sounded behind her, and she stiffened. Where there were titters, there were usually overly loud whispers and unsubtle pointing. Ever since Isla had been jilted and her fiancé Callum had decided eloping with the poorly dressed, second daughter of a vicar was preferable to marrying her, Isla’s presence had seemed to cause eyebrows to raise with regularity.

  She raised her head, conscious her posture was impeccable. Isla had never imagined she would play the role of villainess, but it was preferable to being mocked.

  A year ago, these women would have been eager to converse with her. She’d been a duchess-to-be, and she was still the sister of an earl. A year ago, people would have desired her opinion on French fashion and how to best match jewels with one’s attire. A year ago, she would have been content, conscious her life was proceeding on its plan.

  A footman glided through the room, and she swept two glasses of interesting jewel-colored drinks from the silver platter.

  The footman widened his eyes.

  “You neglected to offer these to me,” she said, and then headed for Miss Grant before he might determine whether or not to apologize to her. Perhaps Miss Grant had acted correctly in claiming two seats by the fire after all.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Elegant ebony carriages lined the square, and Adam avoided meeting the drivers’ gazes. No doubt they would be able to tell Adam was an imposter. They were accustomed to driving actual gentry about.