What the Stubborn Viscount Desires Read online

  “Miss? Time is of the essence,” the porter reminded her. “The ship will depart soon.”

  She nodded to the young man as she blinked the tears away. I will not cry. Not anymore. Tears accomplished nothing, and they certainly wouldn’t bring back the idyllic life she’d enjoyed before Stephen died and her father had drowned his sorrow in drink and gambling. “We may continue.” It was folly to stand out here on the dock and invite the viscount’s notice. She needed that element of surprise. A man caught unawares would be at his most honest. This time, she followed the porter and a sudden wave of exhaustion slammed into her.

  For months, she’d hoped for such a chance, and when she’d stumbled into the viscount’s path during the Christmas holidays while in Kent with the Hawkins family, she’d ‘come the crab in his presence, and they’d both bared claws. Thinly veiled insults had ensued, and the air around them had been charged.

  In short, he despised her, and she couldn’t stand him. Yet they hadn’t conversed about the very thing that bound them together—the crux of their troubles. The viscount couldn’t have it both ways. He could not continue to tie up her prospects and ignore her as if she didn’t exist though they were betrothed. She narrowed her eyes as she followed the porter up one of the ramps. The uncertainty would end today, and she would have her freedom from pig-headed men who thought erroneously to control her future, societal dictates be damned.

  My destiny is my own. I decide where I will go and what I will do.

  “Your cabin number, miss,” the porter asked in a voice tinged with boredom as he turned to her.

  Anxiety again clawed at her stomach. “Uh…” What was that dratted number for the viscount’s quarters? One of her close friends worked as the Duke of Rathesborne’s secretary. She’d singled him out, for the duke and the earl were friends, and the viscount was often seen in their company, so it had been logical to assume that the duke would know about the men’s movements. It had taken very little flirting on her part to procure this information. She should be embarrassed or slightly scandalized to admit that she’d deliberately led the poor man on for the information, but she refused to feel bad. It was something she’d needed, and more desperately than he needed his integrity. The man could square with the duke if the knowledge came about. It was not her concern. Finally, the number popped in her brain. “Twenty-two.”

  Surprise flashed in his expression. “That is one of the nicest cabins onboard.” Then he glanced up and down her person with speculation.

  “Oh, is it? I had no idea.” At least that was the truth. Before the man could inquire further, she yanked her carpetbag his hand. As he gawked, she rushed to explain. “I’m certain you have many duties to perform at present. I can find my own way and no longer require your assistance. Thank you.” Quickly digging into her reticule, she handed over a few coins, dropping them into his gloved hand as he floundered. “Enjoy your day.”

  Sophia bustled past him and soon melded with foot traffic in the narrow passageway beyond. The excited drone of conversation floated around her. At another time, perhaps she’d feel the same, but this mission was not one of pleasure. A twinge of alarm tingled at the base of her spine now that she was actually onboard. What if she were discovered? She ignored the warning. I am here to talk to the viscount. Nothing bad will happen. How could it? The plan she’d concocted was flawless. Plus, she’d be gone before the ship departed. Her stomach cramped anyway. And if things unraveled? She’d be forced to stow away and then return to England at Gibraltar, and hope to God she could secure passage in a timely manner. But she would have the viscount’s agreement. Nothing would mar that.

  Stop worrying, Sophia. You are almost free.

  With a firm nod and determined steps, she followed the passageway until she arrived at the correct cabin. Another tremor of unease assaulted her. What if the door required a key to unlock it? Then she took herself in hand. If there was a God in heaven, there wouldn’t be an obstacle. As passing people and military personnel jostled her elbows, she shifted her bag into one hand, and saying a quick prayer, she pressed on the brass latch.

  Merciful heavens, it opened, and she released a sigh of relief. With a grin, Sophia slipped quickly inside and closed the panel behind her. Even though she’d enacted the first step of her plan, her heartbeat raced. Was it with exhilaration or fear? There was no way to tell.

  The space, decorated in navy and maroon draperies, bedclothes and rug, was plunged in shadows. After setting her carpetbag in the corner behind the door, she strode over the cozy space and twitched the curtains open to reveal a round porthole. Sunlight flooded in and gave the cabin a more cheerful air.

  Temporarily forgetting her reason for being there, Sophia explored the restrictive area. Besides the bedchamber, there was an equally tiny adjoining sitting room that contained a settee in crushed navy velvet as well as a wooden straight-backed chair and a matching low table. No doubt the suite had been expensive, and she could almost picture the viscount lounging in the rooms during the voyage. How many days would he be at sea? Since she hadn’t traveled and had only dreamed of doing such, she had no answers.

  A pang of longing shimmered through her. What would it be like to visit ports of call the world over, those places she’d only read about in books, the exotic locales she’d heard of when the countess was in a storytelling mood? Perhaps with the new freedom glimmering on her horizon, she could indulge… Except she would still have her post as governess. She brightened at the thought. Mayhap the Hawkins family would require that she accompany them on their adventures. Lady Jane would need instruction and education, after all.

  With a smile, Sophia headed back into the sleeping chamber. She removed her cloak and dumped it with the rest of her luggage. How long would it be before the viscount arrived? A quick glance at the watch that hung suspended on a golden chain around her neck told her the ship would depart in under a half hour. Excitement wound up her spine. Soon her life would be her own once more. In an effort to calm her nerves, she perched on the edge of the bed and waited.

  Dear God, how she loathed waiting.

  As her eyelids began to droop, footsteps sounded outside the door. The echo of muffled, masculine voices drifted to her ears. One of them belonged to the viscount. With a gasp, Sophia hopped from the bed. Her stomach tightened with nerves. He is here! She wrung her hands together as the urge to retch climbed her throat. I’m not ready. What had she planned to say, to demand of him? Suddenly, she couldn’t remember. It mattered not that she’d interacted with him a handful of times. Those were under the watchful eyes of the Hawkins family and much different than being alone with him.

  And then she lost her mind, for she rushed about the space in search of somewhere—anywhere—to hide. The bold and forthright attitude she’d prided herself on vanished in the face of frenzied panic. What had she been thinking with such an insane plan? Perhaps she should have sent a letter or courier as Lady Archewyne had suggested.

  The latch on the door rattled and alarm shot through her being. This was what happened when she acted with planned impulse, making demands where she had no right. Ah, here. With trembling fingers, Sophia pulled open a slim door built into the wall. The narrow closet would be just the thing. Perhaps he would enter, look about and then decide to go above deck to watch the ship depart.

  That reprieve would give her time to soothe her nerves and find her words—and her courage.

  No sooner had she climbed into the closet, stuffed her lavender skirts about her and pulled the panel closed did the door to the cabin swing open. Heavy footfalls thumped over the hardwood. The carpet muted them as the men advanced into the room.

  “You may leave the luggage on the bed.” The rumble of the viscount’s voice reached her through the closet door. It resonated in her chest and she bit her bottom lip to prevent making a sound. “No, I don’t require anything else. I am perfectly capable of putting my own things away. Thank you.”

  A second man said something, but the low-pitch
ed mumble was indiscernible. The opening and subsequent closing of the door rang in the silence.

  Dear God, am I alone with the object of my dislike?

  Sophia held her breath as she strained her ears. Had the viscount left with the porter? She laid her ear against the panel as best she could in the cramped space, but no other sound revealed itself. In the darkness, her heartbeat raced. Her breath came in tiny pants that she attempted to keep silent. Would that give her presence away?

  Minutes passed with excruciating accuracy and still nothing stirred beyond her hiding place. There was no room for her to shift her weight or in any way move into a more comfortable posture. She gritted her teeth against the soft rasp of satin as her skirts slid around her. How long should she wait? Again, she strained to listen. Was that a rustle of fabric or was it her imagination? There was nothing in the closet to occupy her spinning mind or to provide distraction.

  The complete darkness closed in almost as if the cupboard tried to squeeze her into the nothingness of itself.

  Her pulse pounded hard in her ears. Sweat trickled down her back. She dearly wished to burst from this wretched place and take a deep breath. When a tickle teased her nose, panic chilled her skin. No, no, no, not now. Sophia willed herself not to sneeze. It had been a flaw and an embarrassment since childhood. Every time she found herself in a stressful situation or allowed fear to overtake her, she sneezed in response. When she went to lift a hand to her nose to prevent the looming disaster, the narrow walls of the closet prevented such movement.

  And the tickle turned into itching that no amount of nose wriggling could alleviate.

  Don’t do it, Sophia. Just this once, hold it in.

  Her heartbeat tripped in a frantic tattoo as she wiggled her nose like a mad rabbit. Nothing helped and the urge to sneeze intensified.

  She blew out a silent breath. Bit her lip. Nothing helped. No, no, no… And then she couldn’t hold back any longer. The sneeze squeaked out of her with the volume of cannon fire, at least to her ears.

  Would it matter? Perhaps there was no one inside the cabin. She waited, her muscles tensed to the point of aching, but there wasn’t—

  The unmistakable cock of a pistol rang in the stillness and the latch on the closet door ticked slightly as it was depressed.

  Damn and blast.

  Chapter Three

  As soon as the door closed behind him, Jonathan surveyed the bedchamber where he’d spend the next five days. A cheerless place, and decorated in dark colors and wood, there were worse places to pass the time when he wished to avoid the sickeningly sweet romantic overtures of the Hawkinses. Foul misfortune, that, to travel with them. Yes, they were in love, but they shouldn’t subject their friends to such displays. Why the devil Miles insisted on making a cake of himself in that manner escaped him.

  The prickling feeling he’d experienced while on the docks assailed him again. He gripped the silver head of his cane tighter in his right hand. Something is amiss. And he’d wager a year’s income that whatever had bothered him would explode soon.

  A faint trace of apple blossoms lingered on the air. The scent reminded him of his father’s country estate in the spring. As he stood stock still, he took a brief inhale. Yes, faint but it was there, and his porter hadn’t worn any sort of scent. Then the young man had argued with him about handling and unpacking his luggage, which now rested on a trunk at the foot of the bed. He’d learned from long experience that, as a king’s agent, one couldn’t be too careful about personal belongings. He’d let the porter carry his one trunk and one bag, but that was as far as it went.

  But none of that explained a potential intruder. He narrowed his eyes as he scanned the compartment. The counterpane had recently been mussed as if someone had sat there. What the deuce? In the corner near the door, a pile of things rested, and they most certainly did not belong to him. As quietly as he could, and from years skulking about for the Crown, he crossed the floor. A cloak of heavy navy wool half covered a worn carpet bag.

  Devil take it. Jonathan straightened and again threw a questing gaze around the space. What was at play? His chest tightened and his pulse pounded hard in his ears. It wasn’t outside the realm of possibility an assassin was there. Lord knew he’d angered more than his fair share of men and women the world over. It came with being an agent. Protecting England’s interests, at times, didn’t involve doing the pretty.

  With a wry grin, Jonathan stealthily returned to the place where he started and scrutinized every bit of the floor space. Ah, there. A tiny seed pearl lay like an unassuming speck on the hardwood. As if he were a cat, he padded over, his boots making no sound, and he grasped the bauble between his thumb and forefinger. Holding it up to the light, he studied it. The barely visible hole through the pearl indicated it belonged on a gown.

  What did this mean? Perhaps leftover of a previous guest, but since the ship was primarily used for military transport, it was highly unlikely a female had occupied this cabin. And even more doubtful a previous guest would have left luggage. Which meant someone had been here… and perhaps still was.

  He tossed the pearl away, and after transferring his cane to his other hand, he slowly drew his revolver from the pocket of his greatcoat. Grim reality rode his spine. He had hoped that for at least five days he wouldn’t need to worry about threats. As if I do not have enough to occupy me on this mission. Did the assassin wish to seduce him before she attempted his murder? No matter why she had come, he’d relish throwing her arse over the railing, and he would grin when she hit the water.

  This plot wouldn’t succeed.

  A muffled sneeze—a distinctly feminine sneeze—fairly exploded in the silence, and that muted sound confirmed his theory. Damn it all. He was not alone in this cabin, and it was time to do something about it.

  Jonathan cocked his pistol, strode to the wall where he’d heard the sound, and spying a brass latch, he pressed the handle. “If you think to kill me, let me disabuse you of that notion.” He wrenched the narrow closet door open and was obliged to take a step backward when a woman tumbled out of the space in a flurry of lavender skirts. At the last second, he caught her before she hit the floor. The bonnet she’d worn, at least two years outdated, remained wedged in the closet as it had been torn from her head upon her exit. The lavender-dyed feathers quivered from the sudden activity.

  “What the devil is the meaning of this?” Through the shock clouding his brain, he stared into the face of the one woman he’d hoped never to see again on a personal basis—Miss Sophia Wickham. Or rather, the woman to whom it was assumed he was engaged.

  She blinked up at him with eyes that were so deeply blue they were almost indigo—familiar eyes and ones he’d swore he’d seen before—and cried out in dismay when he thrust her from him. After a few stumbling steps, she found her balance and wiped her gloved hands down the front of her gown, the satin of which was hopelessly wrinkled. “Ah, Viscount Trewellain. Just the man I wished to see.” She barely took a breath before continuing. “But you are wrong. I do not wish to kill you; though you have been exceedingly vexing in recent years and any ill-luck that befell you would only be your fault, I merely mean to talk with you.”

  Jonathan’s mind spun so fast he couldn’t form the proper words. Instead, he kept the revolver trained on the woman before him. In times of crisis, the one point he could be assured of making was with a weapon. “What are you doing here?”

  Confusion filled her expression. “I told you. We need to talk, and well you know it. In the event you’ve forgotten, there is unfinished business between us.”

  The melodious tone of her voice refused to impart calm. Anger grew in his chest even as he swept his gaze over her person. The bodice of her lavender gown was indeed trimmed with ivory lace and seed pearls, as was the bottom hem. She had obviously sneaked in, and finding her in the closet was concerning. If she could so easily track him, others could too.

  “Goddamn you, Miss Wickham. Your effrontery knows no bounds.” How dar
e this woman invade his personal space. Jonathan narrowed his eyes when she merely blinked. Spying a cobweb stuck to her upswept wheat-blonde hair mollified him slightly. “I have not forgotten.”

  “Excellent. Then shall we discuss what you plan to—”

  “No.” He kept his pistol trained on her. “Do me the courtesy of moving into the next room.” When she didn’t budge from her spot, he waved the revolver. “Now.” Even to his own ears, his command brooked no arguments. “I don’t make it a habit of shooting women, but I might revise my personal rules for you.”

  Her eyes widened, and to give her credit, she didn’t exhibit fear. “Don’t be surly. This conversation has been brewing for almost three years. Lord knows you’ve been avoiding me ever since.” But she swept past him with her chin outthrust as if she were the one outraged.

  “I do not wish to hear anything you have to say on this subject.” Their betrothal was a farce. He followed her into the adjoining sitting room. “Sit.” He gestured to the settee with the nose of his pistol.

  “It is quite rude to order a lady about with a weapon.” She sat on the piece of furniture with a decided huff.

  “Shall I order you about by raising my voice, then?” he asked with a sudden hilarity that bordered on insanity.

  “No.”

  “I feel compelled to add that it is also the height of disrespect to sneak into a gentleman’s cabin and hide away in his rooms. Have you no respect for your own person?”