What the Stubborn Viscount Desires Read online

  He woke in the morning to sunlight streaming through a porthole and the sound of lyrical humming from the bedchamber.

  With a groan, Jonathan sat up. Aches made themselves known in his back and limbs, and since he hadn’t removed his false leg due to not wishing to reveal that part of himself to his unwanted guest, he was even more stiff than usual. A quilt slid down his chest. He frowned. Where had it come from? He didn’t remember procuring it last night.

  Yawning, he glanced over his shoulder to the adjoining door. Perhaps Miss Wickham had covered him. He didn’t know how he felt about that as he wasn’t unaccustomed to another person looking after him. But the fact remained, even after he’d treated her horribly, she’d given him this one nicety. Bloody hell. One thing was certain, it was time to beard the lion.

  He stood, and at the last second, stifled a groan. Today, he felt every bit of his six and thirty years. Never again would he tease Archewyne regarding his age. Not caring that he was still half naked, Jonathan strolled into the bedchamber, where Miss Wickham stood at the basin—fully clothed—as she put the final pin into her upswept hair. When she met his gaze in the slightly cloudy mirror, her eyes widened.

  “Viscount Trewellain.” She whirled around so fast her lavender skirts flared about her ankles. “You are awake.”

  “I am.” When she stole a glance at his chest, he cleared his throat. “I apologize for my behavior last night. It was beyond the pale, and it will not happen again.”

  “Thank you.” A hint of a blush jumped into her cheeks, and she once again peeked at his torso. “I apologize as well. I’m afraid I taunted you into doing… what you did.”

  The chit apologized. For what? Hot anger sprang into his chest. She’d done nothing wrong. “That fact notwithstanding, I should have been a gentleman.”

  “But if I hadn’t come here to begin with—”

  He held up a hand to stop her. “True. Let us move past that.” Unable to stomach the speculation roiling in her indigo eyes, he grabbed his discarded shirt from the floor and quickly tugged it over his head. As he shoved his arms into the sleeves and smoothed the fabric over his chest, he said, “I agree with you. We need to talk.”

  Before his eyes, her whole demeanor changed. Instead of the bright, bubbly woman, she became guarded, even fearful, with slumped shoulders and shadowed eyes. The color had even leeched from her cheeks. She was like a discarded child’s doll. “Now?” When he nodded, she sneezed.

  “Yes.”

  “But I have ordered breakfast and tea. It should arrive presently.”

  With effort, he stopped from rolling his eyes. “Do you always think with your stomach?”

  “No.” A brief smile curved those damned kissable lips, but vanished as quick as it came. “I just found I’m famished this morning, which is odd. At home, I never wished to eat upon waking.”

  Oh, dear God. I cannot hear any more about why her appetite is suddenly voracious. When the floor didn’t open and swallow him whole, he gestured toward the sitting room with his chin. “After you, Miss Wickham.” It chafed to mind his manners; it simply wasn’t who he was unless in the presence of Lady Archewyne, and even then, his use of sarcasm pushed her patience. Not that the title of rake could be laid at his feet these days either. Since Lavinia’s death, he’d firmly kept himself unattached and uninterested in the fairer sex. His heart was not available—probably would never be—and after his inability to save her, he didn’t deserve a second chance even if he wanted one.

  When the stowaway edged past him with a resolute expression as if she were being led to the gallows, he tamped down a sigh.

  What sort of man was he now? He didn’t know. If asked what it was he truly desired over all else, he had no idea what he’d say. The continued safety of England sounded too trite and too convenient given his work for the Crown. And he refused to analyze why he didn’t wish for anything too deeply.

  Or ever.

  Thinking tended to send a man into a brown study and cause change. He didn’t want to become someone else at the moment. Fighting his demons was his responsibility alone, and until they were vanquished, he wouldn’t subject anyone else to them.

  A discreet knock on the door distracted him. When he answered, he swung the panel wide to admit a porter who carried a tray with a teapot, two cups and an assortment of pastries, cold ham and cheese on a tiered serving stand.

  “Thank you,” he murmured once the young man delivered the meal. Alone with Miss Wickham again, he looked into the sitting room. She’d perched on the edge of the settee, her hands primly resting in her lap, her back ramrod straight, her lips pursed.

  From her perspective, perhaps he was an ogre; he’d certainly acted like one. He grimaced, retrieved his cane and joined her. He was perfectly capable of walking without the aid; however, it doubled as a weapon becoming a wickedly sharp, thin half-sword if the occasion demanded and it gave him a measure of calm to have it close by. “Miss Wickham.” He settled his hand over the silver wolf-headed handle.

  “I think you should call me Sophia. This occasion at least calls for that.” To her credit, her voice cracked on the last word.

  “Very well. Sophia.” His chest tightened and discomfort rode his spine. What the devil did she think he would say to her? “You read the letter my father sent me.” It wasn’t a question and the best way to begin such a horridly delicate conversation.

  “Yes. He was very direct in his wishes even over two years ago. I don’t imagine his views have changed since then.”

  “Undoubtedly, this is true. I don’t often talk in person to my father.” For reasons he wouldn’t bore her with now.

  “I see.” She took a teacup in hand and lifted her gaze to his. “How do you take your tea, Viscount Trewellain?”

  Would that there was something stronger than tea to imbibe. “Black.” He frowned. “You may as well address me as Jonathan, for you certainly made use of my name last night.” Surprise sprang into her eyes and a fierce blush colored her cheeks. He silently cursed himself. What sort of a cad was he to bring up those events? Especially when he’d had every intention to ignore what had transpired. Except how could he when the sounds she’d made in arousal echoed in the chambers of his mind, and he could still feel the heat of her in his fingers?

  Damnation, this voyage will be insufferable.

  “All right. Jonathan.” She poured out tea and then handed him the cup, which he endeavored to take without touching her. After, she busied herself by filling a plate with foodstuffs. “You didn’t need to sleep here last night.”

  “I couldn’t very well take the bed since you occupied it,” he spat out before he considered his words. “That would only invite more trouble.”

  “Ah. Then we would have gone further in relations?” A merry twinkle entered her eyes.

  What the deuce? He sputtered. In their limited interactions, she’d always been forthright, but boldness on such a subject? He had no idea how to react. “I should say not.”

  A slight shrug lifted her shoulders as she ate with gusto. “We could have shared the bed without touching in an intimate fashion. To my way of thinking, the gossips will already consider me compromised. The both of us should be comfortable in the bargain.”

  Jonathan gawked. The woman’s penchant for plain speaking would land them in the drink. “The gossips won’t know if you don’t tell them. Therefore, your reputation will remain intact.” Speaking the words aloud made him sound so conceited and removed the fault from him. “Which brings me to my wont to—”

  She wiped her mouth with a linen napkin. “Is it true that you are a king’s agent?”

  “I… I beg your pardon?” He shook his head as his mind reeled to catch up to the abrupt change in topic.

  “In your father’s letter, he indicated that you worked for the Crown, and I assume you take your orders from the Duke of Rathesborne.” She stared at him, curiosity sparkling in her bluer than blue eyes. “Is it true?”

  Obviously pointless to
lie to her when she’d seen the damning evidence, he sighed. “It is.” He cleared his throat. “Now that you know the truth, I’m afraid I must ask that you keep this knowledge to yourself. I cannot remain clandestine if you go about blabbering and exposing my identity.”

  “Oh, I promise to keep it a secret, but how exciting it is.” A smile curved her lips, and the genuine gesture caught his breath for how it lit up her expression. “Do you enjoy it?”

  “What, keeping secrets?” Following her train of thought would drive him mad. “I wouldn’t say I enjoy it, but sometimes it is a necessary evil.”

  “No, working for the Crown, going on covert missions, ferreting out threats.” Sophia took a sip of tea as she peered at him. “Landing men facers and brandishing a pistol.”

  When his lower jaw gaped, he closed his mouth with a snap of teeth. “It has its moments.” Relaxing slightly, Jonathan settled into the high-backed chair. Having someone else know what he was alleviated the tension. “I’ve been in the service to the Crown for many years—since my Navy days really—and while it’s rigorous and nerve-wracking at times, I cannot imagine doing anything else.” Gah, where had that come from? Never had he given freely of himself, and to a relative stranger after such a short time.

  “Is Lord Archewyne an agent as well?” She devoured another seed cake and followed it with a jam tart. A smear of the raspberry confection lingered at the corner of her mouth, and he couldn’t take his focus from it.

  “Yes, but he will be even less pleased than me if you reveal this knowledge.” He drained his teacup. What would she do if he leaned over the table and licked the jam from her skin? Get ahold of yourself, man. She is not for you in any capacity. “However, we should attend to the matter at hand.”

  “Our betrothal.” As if he’d thrown a switch, her excitement and sparkle faded under a pall of apprehension. She wiped at her mouth with a linen napkin and he exhaled a relieved breath when the temptation had been cleared.

  “Yes. I assume since you’ve chased me here that you are opposed to the match.”

  “Of course I am!” She set her cup and plate on the low table with such force the china clinked. “How would you like to have nearly three years of your life spent in a morass of confusion? I cannot move forward, for I have had no choice except to await your whim.”

  Damnation but she is blunt. And quite correct. “I understand, and I’ll admit I’ve been remiss in not attending to this coil as I should have.” She’d wasted time while her life had essentially been held prisoner to his claim. His stomach muscles tightened and to stall, he spent the next few moments piling his plate with food. “What do you plan to do once free of me?” Which was interesting, for most women of his acquaintance desired to be with him. Yet this one apparently hated the very sight of him.

  She pressed a hand to a cheek where her ire still flared, but the twinkle had returned to her eyes. “Anything. Everything. I have done nothing but think upon the possibilities that freedom might bring.” Excitement wove through her voice. “Perhaps I will travel. Gibraltar seems as good a starting point as anywhere else.”

  Lofty if not vague. And completely absurd. “Are you a gifted linguist?”

  “No, but I’m passable in French and know a smattering of German as well as Italian. I shall get by.”

  “Do you have connections all over the world that will give you ease of travel and lodging?”

  Sophia rolled her eyes. “No, but then that is part of the adventure, correct?”

  The woman would be eaten alive so naïve was she. “Not to throw water upon your plans, but unless you are independently wealthy, I do not see how that will be possible, and especially not without a companion.” These were the facts, and an unaccompanied woman would have a bad go of it.

  “I have my savings, which is enough for my return to England once you release me from our engagement.”

  “Ah, then traveling the world is not an option for you.”

  A petulant expression crossed her face, and she crossed her arms beneath her breasts, which pushed those charms more fully into the modest cut of her lace-trimmed bodice.

  He diverted his gaze to his plate. “You have no protection, and I rather doubt what’s contained in your carpetbag is enough wardrobe to sufficiently see you through a tour of Europe.” She’d be easy prey for unscrupulous men, wolves bent on nothing except using a woman like Sophia without thought to her comfort, pleasure or well-being.

  “Viscount Trewellain,” she began, but when he lifted an eyebrow, she hastened to add, “Jonathan.” She fluffed out her skirting. “I am more than capable of looking after myself, and I am intelligent enough to figure out the rest.”

  “That remains to be seen. What of your position as governess? I highly doubt Lady Archewyne will be pleased if you abandon her daughter to go gadding about the world.” Not to mention the countess would have his head if he was the one to let the forthright blonde escape into the world without being properly fitted for it.

  “The family will be out of pocket until mid-spring. That affords me a certain amount of free time, does it not?”

  “Perhaps, but why the reason for the intrigue?”

  “As I said before, you refused to talk to me.”

  “That notwithstanding, had you remained with the Hawkins family—”

  “I had no idea they would be on your ship.”

  “Ah.” Simple effective logistical issue. It made sense. “Yet you are not armed for a trip of this magnitude.”

  “I am not.” She brightened. “Lady Archewyne gave me the use of her dagger, but in my haste, I’m afraid I left the blade in my room. She instructed that I have no hesitation to use it, but I just couldn’t see myself in a position that stabbing someone would be a necessity.”

  Oh dear God. She truly didn’t understand the horror or peril the world could bring. He didn’t like it by half that she had no weapon, and because of that, Lady Archewyne was unarmed as well. Bloody hell. Then another thought occurred to him. Damnation. Lady Archewyne had known of Miss Wickham’s quest. Which meant Miles knew too, and neither of them had told him. What the hell is the point of having friends if they aren’t honest with me?

  She shrugged again and then poured herself a second cup of tea. The faint clink of china brought him back to the present. “Besides, perhaps from Gibraltar I can visit the Cape of Trafalgar.”

  The prickling sensation had returned and marched cold fingers down Jonathan’s spine. “Why the devil do you wish to go there?”

  “My brother Stephen perished sixteen years ago during that naval battle.” When she met his gaze, tears shimmered in hers. “I wish to visit his grave, to say the goodbye I was denied and perhaps find answers you didn’t give when you wrote my father the letter telling us of his death.” Faint accusation hung on her words. “Again, our lives are intertwined in this. I find that exceedingly odd.”

  Oh God. His hand shook so badly he set the teacup on the table before the amber liquid sloshed everywhere. Now he knew why her eyes were so familiar. Damn and blast. He’d been with her brother, had forgotten he’d ever wrote that hastily scrawled missive before leaving Spain so many years ago during his stint in the Navy. After all those years, he’d not connected the names, had not remembered the man after so many other fatalities… Stephen Wickham had been near death, a member of the British infantry caught in the crossfire after the naval battle had concluded.

  I killed her brother.

  Gaping silence stretched between them as she waited, and he buried himself in denial and revulsion. Again, the past came back to haunt him, and this time in a spectacular way. Thrice he had wronged this bit of feminine fluff. No doubt her presence here was to haunt him, remind him… He stared at the woman across from him as the ever-present guilt mounted. He owed it to her brother to protect Sophia, if only from herself—or from him. She was doubly his responsibility, and he couldn’t let her bumble about a foreign country alone, with no clothing and no coin and no security.

&nb
sp; He was many things, but even he knew what was right when faced with the problem of her.

  After a time, Sophia cleared her throat as she clutched her fingers in her lap. “Jonathan, will you set me free? I cannot exist another day without knowing my fate.”

  The walls seemed to close in on him. Sweat plastered his shirt to his back. I do not need this, not now. His vision tunneled and he gripped the edge of his plate so hard he feared the china would break. But how could he, in good conscience and after everything, wish her well knowing she wouldn’t survive past a handful of days? Especially after he’d touched her in the most intimate of ways and compromised her reputation even if no one knew it. He swallowed and his tight throat constricted. His pulse pounded in his ears as a line from his father’s letter sprang into his mind. Should you refuse the match, her reputation—what is left of it—will be ruined, and the men in this family are not in the habit of landing in the gossip pages for gammon like that.

  No, they were not. His brothers would rather die than cause a black mark against the Banshire name. Well, he wouldn’t start now. “I will not. For however long I am in Spain, you will remain with me, and we will both stay betrothed.” He held up a hand at her budding protest. “At least then I can be assured of your protection. Once we return to England, then and only then will I release you from our bond. When we are on familiar soil, I’ll wish you well, and any responsibility I feel for you will dissolve.” It was the best compromise.

  Perhaps in this way he could begin to make up for all the ills he’d brought upon the people he cared about, and her family in particular. She didn’t deserve any of what he’d brought to her life.

  “Have you gone mad?” Frustration lined her face as she slowly rose to her feet. Refusal flooded her eyes. High color marred the paleness of her cheeks. “This is unacceptable.”