Read Winning the Viscount’s heart (Regency Romance) (Regency Lords Book 2) Online
Authors: Regina Darcy
Winning the Viscount’s heart (Regency Romance) (Regency Lords Book 2)
Copyright © Regina Darcy 2016
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher and writer except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a contemporary work of fiction. All characters, names, places and events are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.
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GLOSSARY OF EXPRESSIONS
Accomplishments
– In upper class women, an accomplished’ young lady was expected to have talents such as playing the piano, painting watercolours, speaking French etc.
Ball
- A dance, usually of some size and grandeur.
Beau Monde
, the - Fashionable society. Mostly the upper - class, the rich and the ennobled.
Fuddy-duddy -
a person who is very old-fashioned and pompous.
Peer
- A nobleman that is a duke, marquis/marquess, earl, viscount, or baron, all such titles being hereditary and entitling the owner to a seat in the House of Lords.
Season
- The London social season, in which the fashionable members of the social elite held debutante balls, dinner parties etc. Ran loosely from April through July.
Ton
- High society; the elite; generally the wealthiest and those of rank, with royalty at the top.
As make-believe as fairy tales are, they give pretty young women a sense of vanity while in good fortune, and hope while suffering. Raised on the dreams of poetry and make-believe, Emmeline Knight had received a fair share of both. Despite being a gentleman’s daughter, she held herself loftily above the flirtations of those who shared her rank—and of those flirtations there were many. She instead dreamt of a prince charming, or at least a wealthy peer, who would sweep her off her feet into a world of more lavish living.
She had spent the entire evening in the centre of revelry, passed from one gentleman to another, until she had torn herself away for a moment to breathe. Bodies were packed close together and potential lovers stole furtive glances at one another as the music continued to swell. Her dearest friend, Miss Lucy Grove, pulled her behind the crowd.
“Well now, Emmeline, are your feet sore yet?” she teased. “You have hardly found a moment’s rest since the night began. Quite popular among the local prospects, are we?”
“Even so, I can hardly remember the name of a single gentleman from this evening,” Emmeline admitted.
“Ah, they would weep to hear such news. Half of them looked ready to propose.”
Emmeline merely scoffed. “Forgive me if I feel relieved that none acted on such urges. A rejection would absolutely ruin the mood of the ball.”
“Now, now, Miss Knight. That is not an attitude befitting a lady such as yourself,” Lucy said with a wry smile. “They all seemed perfectly nice. You have plenty of time to find a husband who fits your tastes, but if you reject every kind soul who comes your way...”
“Oh, Lucy. I hardly think it any fault of mine that the local boys are all just that—boys.” She sighed. “Is it wrong to wish for a few better options?”
The surrounding people parted like the red sea, eagerly making room with eyes politely downcast and hungry. Lord William Blackwood, viscount and heir to the Earl of Dingby, wore a light expression of haughtiness, that was so common of the aristocracy, as he sailed through the crowd.
Lord Blackwood had come by his title suddenly, when his older brother had died during his commission in the French revolutionary war of the Second Coalition. As the sole heir of the Earl of Dingby, it was anticipated that he should marry soon. He was one of the most eligible bachelors in the Berkshire society. Unfortunately, he was also not the most eloquent gentleman around, frequently comporting himself much older than his mere 28 years.
“What of Lord Blackwood? He has always been most cordial to you,” Lucy murmured, “and you cannot do much better than a viscount.”
“Archibald told me that there’s only one thing he would want from someone of my status, and it is not marriage,” Emmeline whispered back.
“How oddly realistic. I would never have expected such beliefs from you.”
“I trust my brother’s judgement. Besides, he is too much of a cold fish. Now, come along before he sees me; I should not wish to dance again yet.”
Her mother stood at the side of the dance floor next to her younger brother, Archibald, who was only half listening to her, as the couples in the centre of the room giggled and pranced around each other. Emmeline made her way towards them.
“Yes, mother. Of course,” Emmeline heard him say as they approached.
“Archibald, you always say that. When will you accomplish the task of providing an heir?” her mother chided in response. “The matter is of outmost importance. You’re getting to the age that—oh! Emmeline! Have you been enjoying the dance?” Mrs. Knight smiled in an eager manner that indicated she was asking something else entirely.
“The dancing, yes. The gentlemen, however, I found far less interesting,” she responded. Mrs. Knight’s face fell.
“Oh, Emmeline. Must you be so choosy?”
“Mother, these boys are hardly worth your fretting. Besides, it is not as if there’s a threat of me becoming an old maid. At nineteen, I can afford to wait for someone truly wonderful for a little while longer, can I not?”
“I fear your judgement may be tainted by all those fairy tales you love so dearly,” Archibald muttered.
“Oh, you are hardly in a place to lecture me on judgement,” Emmeline shot back at her brother.
Archibald tutted. “So bold. You are fortunate that none of your followers heard that.” Miss Lucy Grove watched the playful sibling rivalry with an amused smile, but Mrs. Knight seemed eager to change the subject.
“Now, you two, please. Emmeline, I
would
like you to be married in a timely manner,” Mrs. Knight said. “Though a love-match would be perfect, my dear, most maidens marry out of practicality and convenience. You are unlikely to find a prince in these parts.”
“That’s not quite so,” Lucy interjected, lips touched with a sly smile. Emmeline’s curiosity was piqued.
“What do you mean, Lucy?” she asked.
“Well, I heard whispers while you were on the dance floor. Apparently, someone just rented Archester Manor.”
“Archester? Really?” Emmeline said, breathless. Archester Manor was no humble abode. The estate covered nearly 4,000 acres and looked fit for a royal’s summer retreat. For the money it would take to rent it, the guest may as well be royal. Lucy watched her friend’s shock with excitement.
“You have yet to hear the best of it,” she said.
“Please stop holding me in suspense and just say it, Lucy!” Emmeline cried. By this point, all three Knights were leaning in, eyes wide.
Lucy enjoyed her last few moments of superior knowledge, then spoke. “The guest is a Peer from France.” Her small crowd let out a single synonymous gasp. She continued, “His name is
Le Comte de Coligny
, and rumour is he plans to stay all season.”
“Did you say his name was de Coligny?” Mrs. Knight echoed. “Hmm…a Count…I believe my grandfather knew him. Archibald, perhaps you should call on him?”
Emmeline seemed not to have heard her mother.
“Did you say that he came alone?” Lucy nodded.
“I hope I do not presume too much to say that may be the reason he came for the season,” she said.
“Why Berkshire?” Archibald mused quietly. “If he is truly of the peerage as the rumours say, why not look for a companion in a city like London?”
“I do hope you do not mean to insult Berkshire ladies, Mr. Knight, or some of us may take offense,” Lucy said, still wearing her sly and amused smile.
“I can hardly believe—here. A French Count!” Emmeline said. Her thoughts enveloped her. She imagined a reason as to exactly why he had come to their humble village instead of some city; he wanted to meet women of a more non-material nature, who had lived in luxury less than those he was used to. This golden-hearted Lord wanted the company of humble ladies, polite and plain in attitude despite soft and lovely appearances. In her mind, they were already a perfect fit.
“Well, we already have the heir to an earldom. Not that I’ve seen you pay any attention to Lord Blackwood,” Mrs. Knight said, sounding sour. Emmeline paid her no head.
“Oh dear,” Emmeline sighed, fanning herself, “a Peer.” Distantly, the music swelled and descended into silence as the band prepared itself for the next song.
A hand fell softly on her shoulder and rested there for a moment before jerking off as if it had been burnt. It tore Emmeline from her thoughts, and she stared into the stern face of Lord Blackwood. “My apologies, Miss Knight. I simply wanted your attention.”
“Apologies for what?” She looked at his hand, held carefully at his side, then back at her shoulder. He looked about as surprised as she did—perhaps at his own boldness.
“Oh. There is no need for apologies, Lord Blackwood. How may I assist you?”
“I would like to ask your company for this final dance of the evening, if it would please you.”
“Hmm? Oh, of course,” she replied with a dreamy lopsided grin. Lord Blackwood’s eyebrows furrowed at her distance.
“Thank you, Miss Knight.” He held out his hand and she placed hers in it. He looked down at their joined hands and breathed in deeply before leading her to the dance floor.
The band began to play. This song was one that they had clearly been saving, for it was the lightest tune of the evening. It seemed to lift Emmeline’s spirits even higher, even as she was not fully present for it. In mind if not in body, she was with her imagined
Count de Coligny
, living her dearest fantasy. If Lord Blackwood held her hand a little tighter than was considered polite, or caressed the underside of her gloved wrist with his thumb for a brief, blissful moment, she did not notice. Nothing could distract her from her daydreams. Her very own fairy tale had just begun.
“Well, now. You seem a bit frustrated,” Archibald said, to his sister, as he sat down at a nearby chair in the drawing room of the Knight residence.
“Yes, I feel that way,” Emmeline replied with a twitching brow. Watercolours were not a favourite pastime of hers. But they were an accomplishment she intended to add to her list of skills. “You see, the wings of a bird are quite lovely in flight, or even perched on a branch, but in art, they are simply unbearable.”
“Then why subject yourself to such torture?”
“They say that drawing improves the mind, Archibald,” she said. “Perhaps you should try it.”
“Ah, and it has nothing to with mother saying such skills make you more marriageable?”
“I am perfectly marriageable, and I refuse to allow a bird with such lopsided feathers to determine whether that statement is true or not.”
“My apologies. With your sudden interest in matrimonial affairs and constant pining over that Count we have yet to meet, I imagined that there was some sort of correlation.”
Emmeline sighed and placed her watercolours down. “I don’t have a chance, have I?”
“Considering the object of your affections is thus far imaginary, I would say that you have as much a chance as you think you do.”
“He is not imaginary, Archibald,” she snapped. “He is very real and has shown his character well enough through the very action of coming here. Clearly, he is seeking the company of the humbler genteel of the countryside. I am sure that father will call on him soon, and then we will meet and then… well, I am not sure what then, but I know it will be perfectly romantic.”
“And you are so sure this magical meeting will occur at all?”
“You can hardly spend a season in Berkshire without meeting the Knight family, at least once,” Emmeline said loftily. “We are fairly well known, are we not?”
“And if he came for humble young ladies, he will surely find them here,” Archibald said with a mischievous grin.
A rosy-cheeked servant entered with a calling card on a platter. “Miss Emmeline, Mr. Archibald,” he said, “Mr. Knight has requested your presence downstairs.”
Archibald crossed the room to the platter and Emmeline jumped out of her seat. “Who is it? Archibald, quick, look!”
He shot her an amused look, eyebrow raised. “Please do not get your hopes so high so quickly, dear sister.”
“Oh, hush and just look!”
“Fine, fine,” her brother said. He picked up the calling card and, for a moment, the world stood still. Archibald exhaled in a long breath and Emmeline watched, heart caught in her throat. “Goodness,” he murmured.
“Archibald, stop with your theatrics and just tell me who it is!”
“Well, Emmeline,” he said, holding out the card, “it seems your prince has come calling.” On the card, the words
Le Comte de Coligny
were embossed in deep black ink.
“De Coligny—that’s him! The Count! What could have drawn him here so quickly?” Emmeline exclaimed excited.
“Rumours of your level-headed manner, no doubt,” Archibald remarked dryly. “However… this card is quite extravagant, is it not?”
“Absolutely! He is a Count, and should spare no expense—oh, Archibald, look! The corner!” It was carefully down turned.
“The Count is here! Right now!”
“That must be why father wanted us,” he said. “But how strange for him to come in person so quickly. We have not even given him our card yet.”
“You are being an absolute bore, Archibald. Just relish the fact that we are being called upon by a French Peer!”
Archibald hummed thoughtfully in response. “Well, we should not let them wait on us any longer.”
Emmeline rushed down with as much haste as she could without looking overeager. There, in the reception room, stood their father and mother in deep conversation with a well-dressed stranger, if he could be called that, considering Emmeline knew who he was. His hair fell neatly around his animated eyes, both dark and warm. The grin on his face seemed genuine as if he had been looking forward to this conversation more than anyone could have known. There was something about him, however, that seemed almost scandalous; perhaps it was the emotion he wore so easily, or the near overindulgent style of his outfit. Then again, that may just be the French fashion.
She held herself like the princesses she so loved to read about; head held high, eyes mild and downcast, demure smile playing on her lips. The Count looked up at her and a manic spark lit up his eyes as if some wild idea had suddenly captured his mind. He was not so brash as to look her up and down as she had so often seen the boys at public balls doing when they believed she was not looking. He looked straight into her eyes and held fast in a way that was almost as scandalous.
“And,” he said, “you must be Miss Knight.” Emmeline felt her mouth go dry. His voice was a deep, pleasant rumble, and he wore it with a near roguish smile. His French accent added a strange flavour to his words, giving every statement the illusion of an unknown double meaning. She found herself incapable of a verbal response. Instead, she gave a polite yet shaky curtsy and smile. His gaze dragged away from her to appraise her brother. “And Mr. Archibald Knight. A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
“And yours, my lordship.”
“We were just speaking on how to pass the time in this lovely little village,” the Count said. “Do you have any recommendations, by any chance?” Mr. and Mrs. Knight’s eyes immediately looked over at their son in silent anxiety. Archibald’s favourite pastimes consisted mainly of gambling; if the Count was of the opinion that gambling was an immoral sport, their acquaintance could be quickly cut short. If he was not, however, Archibald may have found himself a powerful friend. De Coligny looked at the worried parents with a thoughtful expression, as if piecing together a riddle.
“I frequent a nearby gentleman’s club that you could surely gain admittance to,” Archibald said. The Count’s eyes narrowed.
“What entertainment should I expect from this club?”
“Many games of…chance. Hazard, faro…”
The Count’s face had erupted into a grin. Something seemed to click in his mind, the elusive final puzzle piece at last secured in place. “What of whist?”
“Most of the chaps find it dull, but I am sure that you could find enough to get a game together,” Archibald said, visibly relaxing. The Count, by contrast, was anything but tranquil. He grinned like an eager groom, drinking up every word spoken by the Knights. How wonderful, Emmeline thought, that he had already taken so well to her family. “There’s also bets to be placed on all manner of things, such as sports and politics.”
“I heard of a London club betting on the marriage prospects of its members,” De Coligny said with a laugh. “Do you have any betting pools such as that?”
“We have done nothing so outrageous, but I see no reason that either of us should not begin the first.”
“A good man,” the Count muttered as he stood. “I must be off, now. It was a pleasure to meet all of you. Mr. and Mrs. Knight. Mr. Knight.” He bowed deeply and looked up at Emmeline through his dark lashes. “Miss Knight.”
And then, as quickly as he had come, he was gone—and took all the air from Emmeline’s lungs with him.
“Well,” Mrs. Knight said, looking after him, “wasn’t he just positively enchanting?”
Mr. Knight nodded. “A bit…continental, I suppose, but the French are as they are.”
“He was wonderful,” Emmeline said in a reverent whisper. She saw her mother scoff at her from the corner of her vision.