The Viscount's Valentine (Classic Regency Romances) Read online

  “We have a special request from a stranger in our midst. Mr. Black has requested that this dance be changed from a mazurka to a waltz, and I have agreed.”

  Bron felt the young woman start and she gazed up at him in alarm.

  “I don’t know how to waltz,” she said, panic tingeing her soft voice. “The year of my come-out it was not yet done in London, and I . . . I have never . . . they do not have the waltz here . . .”

  “But you know the steps?” he asked, placing his hand at her waist and taking her other in his.

  “I . . . yes, no . . . oh, I don’t know.”

  “Follow me,” he said, as the music started.

  The musicians were just as uncertain, and it took a few minutes to get the rhythm, but soon they caught on, and Bron swept Mrs. Hockley into the steps. She followed his steps, and alone on the dance floor, they whirled.

  It was her. He knew it, even though all those years ago he had never heard her voice, nor held her in his arms. Time halted and spun backward, taking him back to 1808, before he had become a soldier, before he had seen the horrors of war, before Honey was taken out of his life forever after the barest glimpse into her eyes. He gazed down at her, but she would not raise her face to meet his eyes.

  “May I call you Honey?” he asked.

  Ah, that did the trick, he thought. She had glanced up, startled.

  “No, sir, you certainly may not!”

  Her voice trembled with indignation, and perhaps with something else. Fear? Agitation?

  “We have barely been introduced,” she continued.

  Ah, but Honey, you have lived in my heart for these past twelve years! He longed to say the words out loud, but it was absurd. She had not even known he existed until this moment, even though their eyes had once met across a crowded ballroom. And what he felt for her was surely just curiosity, or unsated lust, or interest piqued by her sad story so many years past. Would things have turned out differently for them both if he had just taken the chance and engaged her to dance that night?

  Honey could not even think at first, the feel of Mr. Black’s strong hand holding her waist firmly, burning her through the fabric as if she wore nothing at all. Why did he affect her this way, or was it just the dance? The waltz was considered dangerous, not for the immorality of it, but for the swift turns, so injurious to a delicate woman’s constitution. But she began to think it was dangerous more for the closeness of man and woman together, especially when that man was so desperately attractive, his voice so low and masculine, his height and breadth blocking everything and everyone from her vision.

  They were alone on the floor at first, but soon some young people, encouraged by the example of their elders, stepped out on the floor and tried it, whirling joyfully in great sweeping motions across the polished hardwood. But still she felt utterly alone, as she stole a glance at her partner to find Mr. Black gazing steadily down at her.

  How dare he ask to call her by her first name? That must have been Sir Gordon’s doing, for he persisted in calling her Honey when they were dancing, and he always made it sound like a lover’s endearment rather than her name.

  But if this man called her Honey in that way it would be her undoing, she feared. And yet how ridiculous that was! This man was just amusing himself at a rustic ball while he visited his friend for a few days. He would soon become bored and move on, back to London, back to his natural milieu, which was certainly the ballrooms and bedrooms of London’s elite.

  What a shocking thought. What had brought that into her mind, about bedrooms?

  “You are blushing,” he said.

  She looked back up into his eyes. They were familiar, almost, in their deep blue color, and she was reminded of a long-ago pair of blue eyes that had scorched her across a ballroom. But she had never formed an impression of the man to whom those eyes belonged; she had no time before her dance partner swept her away. She did know that they were set in a pale face, though, and Mr. Black was bronzed to a tawny golden color.

  “Tell me what made you blush,” he whispered, holding her gaze.

  “It is nothing, just a wayward thought.”

  “I would give much to know what that wayward thought was. I would give more if it had to do with me.”

  “Mr. Black,” Honey whispered. “You must not . . . you shouldn’t . . .” Her pulse hammered and she became conscious of every point of contact between them—his hand on her waist, her hand in his, her other hand on his shoulder, the muscles flexing and knotting as he directed her through the sweeping steps.

  He pulled her closer, and they danced so close she could feel his thighs brush hers occasionally, and in one turn he pulled her close enough that he brushed her breasts with his chest, setting up a tingling that would not go away. She didn’t understand these strange sensations. What was wrong with her? Was she ill? She was certainly dizzy.

  The music slowed and finally ended, but he did not return her to her sister’s side. Instead he pulled her into an alcove off the ballroom.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Here,” he whispered, and pulled her behind a thick pillar in the small alcove.

  She gasped but could make no other sound, for he covered her mouth with his that instant. And then she was lost. She ought to struggle, some part of her brain told her. She ought to tear herself away. She should hit him. He was being impossibly, scandalously impertinent. She should . . .

  But oh, my . . . what was he doing with his lips and his hands and . . . and his tongue? Her eyes closed and she felt her heart pound against the muscled wall of his chest, so hard even through layers of cloth. His lips were soft and yet firm, and clung to her own with a moist pressure that made her head whirl and her knees go weak.

  She had read the romance novels and never understood the silly heroines who allowed a man to take such liberties as this, but now . . . she lost all train of thought and gave herself up for a few precious seconds to the new sensations that threaded, wound, jolted through her body, setting every inch of her tingling. Her hands crept up around his neck and her fingers threaded through silky hair that curled possessively around her fingers, beckoning her further.

  What was happening to her?

  With that frightened thought she pulled away from him. He released her almost the moment she struggled and she staggered away from him. His blue eyes glittered in the dim light and his breathing was hoarse and raspy. She covered her lips with one shaking hand and shook her head, unable to speak, and with tears clouding her eyes, she stumbled away from him. She must leave. She went to find Nell so she could escape to the sanctuary of her calm, cool, safe home.

  Chapter Four

  Bron leaned back against the pillar and licked his lips, tasting her there still, shaken by how sweet she felt in his arms and with his lips pressed to hers. He felt like a man who had not eaten for so very long, only to have honey fresh from the comb dripped into his mouth. The few drops only left him ravenous for more.

  And yet . . .

  He would have sworn that when she pulled away from him she was frightened, that there were even tears in her lovely eyes! They were in a public ballroom. Surely she knew that he would go no further than that kiss, when just feet away were a hundred or more people? But she had backed away from him shaking like a child in a thunderstorm, bewildered by the power, trembling with excitement and yet fear.

  But she had liked it, of that he was sure. She had enjoyed that kiss almost as much as he had—almost, but not quite. He had felt a swell of passionate madness well up in him when her slender fingers had threaded through his hair, caressing the nape of his neck, sending him wild with desire. It had been a very long time since just the touch of a woman’s fingers had done that.

  Perhaps she had not had a lover since her husband had passed away. It had been three years, Gordon had said. And her husband was infirm before that. Who knew how long it had been since a man had touched her that way? She might be shaken by fear of her own desire for that reason.


  But she was a widow now. He had not truly thought of that until this moment. He had not considered anything beyond dancing with her; the kiss had been the inspiration of the moment. As a widow, she was allowed so much more freedom than the young girl she had been when first he saw her. She could indulge her carnal hungers, and no one need know. It was a new thought, and a very welcome one. He need not confine himself to a stolen kiss, but could dip into this honey and savor the sweet taste all through the night, and mayhap through the day.

  But from her startled reaction to his ardor, she would need to be wooed. That was not a problem. He thought he might enjoy pressing his skills into use when the reward would be heaven on earth. For she was not indifferent to him. She had trembled with desire and molded to his body as if she hungered for him.

  Once more in control of his body’s ardent response to the delicious widow, he walked out from the alcove only to see Honey leaving, pulling her sister toward the door with their cloaks and bonnets in hand. Swearing under his breath, for he did not want to rush—it was unseemly—but neither did he want to lose this opportunity, he bolted across the ballroom, slipping between the dancers that circled the floor.

  “Hon . . . Mrs. Hockley,” he called.

  It was the sister who stopped and whirled at his voice, and smiled at him sweetly. Honey would not turn. But she was forced to look at him as he called her name again. He stepped toward her and she drew back, as if he were aflame and she in danger of being burnt. And her expression! She was repulsed, if he was not mistaken.

  He frowned but was wise enough to keep his distance then. He bowed to both ladies. “Good evening, ladies. Charming to meet you both. May I call on you?”

  Mrs. Jordan spoke immediately. “Oh, please do, sir! Lockworth Manor! Anyone in town can direct you. It is the largest house in town, at the head of the main street. Call tomorrow!”

  He looked for encouragement to Honey, but her eyes were down-turned and her cheeks mantled, probably in reaction to her sister’s bold speech. It could not end this way, he vowed. One way or another she would be his. He would bend her to his will and have her begging for his love or he was not the man some women had called Blackheart.

  “I look forward to it, Mrs. Jordan. Your servant, Mrs. Hockley.”

  • • •

  Honey was mortified. “Oh, Nell, how could you be so encouraging? The man is a rake and a scoundrel, I just know it.”

  “I hope so,” Nell said, gasping as the cold Yorkshire wind whipped them as they exited to their carriage.

  “Nell!” Honey spoke not another word as the ancient carriage took them up the sloping street to Lockworth Manor, her home since her marriage to Abner Hockley. At one time it had belonged to a knight of the realm, but the man had gambled away his last farthing and the thrifty wine merchant had bought it and all of the furniture it contained.

  She was thinking of such rubbish to avoid contemplating that scandalous kiss. How could he have abused her that way? What kind of man would do that? Of course, they knew nothing about Mr. Black but that he was a friend of Sir Gordon. The baron’s home was some miles away, but he was a gregarious sort, and was known throughout the district as something of a rake. Clearly his friend was of the same ilk.

  And yet all through the long, cold night the memory of Mr. Black’s terrifying kiss kept her warmer than she had been for many a winter night.

  The next day dawned frosty and overcast, the kind of day that could mean a heavy snow would set in and not let up all day. Honey hoped so. It would keep Mr. Black and Sir Gordon away, with any luck. After breakfast Honey and Nell retired to the morning parlor. Honey settled on her favorite chair with another stack of household mending.

  “How is John?” Honey asked of her sister’s husband, squinting at her needle and threading it in the weak light that filtered through the lace curtains. Sighing, she set her mending aside and got up, pulling the curtains open and then resuming her seat. She needed all the light she could get to thread her needle and set stitches, but also she hated blocking the view of Lockworth Moor, the long rise behind the manor house that swept up, broken only by hedgerows and rocky outcroppings. Snow lay lightly on the grassy moor, and black-faced sheep nosed under the thin coating to the green underneath.

  Realizing Nell had not answered her, she glanced up at her sister. “Nell? I asked how John was.”

  Nell, her slender figure shown to advantage in a cream morning gown with rose net over the skirt, paced to the window and laid her cheek to the pane.

  Troubled by her loquacious sister’s silence, Honey once more laid her sewing aside. “Dear? Is something wrong between you and your husband?”

  Turning away from the window with a bright smile, Nell said, “Whyever would you say that? John adores me; you know that. Do you know what he said when he asked me to marry him? He said . . . he said he had never known anyone with so beautiful a smile, and he wanted to make sure I smiled forever.”

  Alerted by the brittle tone, Honey considered her next words carefully. “And so why have you come to visit me, dear? And for a long visit, I think you said. Not that I do not want you here. You will never know how much I appreciate your company, but with your anniversary coming up . . .”

  “La, but we cannot be in each other’s pocket forever,” Nell said. She flitted around the room and gaily laughed. “I thought it would be amusing to come up for a visit this time of year.”

  To Yorkshire? Honey thought. Nell, who needed a constant round of balls and card parties and routs and musicales to be happy, in lonely Yorkshire in the dead of winter? There was something wrong, but for the moment she would leave it alone, for Nell was clearly not ready to talk about it.

  They sat for a while in amicable silence, then had luncheon, and still the snow had not come. After luncheon Honey again suggested sitting in the morning parlor, but Nell condemned the view as dreary, and restlessly demanded that they do something, anything!

  “Well,” Honey said, doubtfully. “I . . . I promised to take some treats to old Mrs. Landers down at the bottom of the hill. If you would like to take the walk with me . . .”

  “I suppose that will have to do,” Nell said, ungraciously.

  And so they bundled themselves up in cloaks and bonnets, Honey adding a bright red scarf over her bonnet, for the air was frosty, and set out down the slanted street toward Mrs. Landers’ small cottage. Lockworth was a tiny village, not much more than one short row of cottages and shops. In the dreary stretch of winter after the Christmas and New Year holiday, the villagers settled in to hearth and home with only the monthly assemblies to break up the routine.

  Mrs. Landers was an elderly widow, formerly the schoolteacher of the dame school in Lockworth. She inhabited a small corner cottage next to the bakery and around the corner from the tobacconist, and though too proud to admit it, had not nearly enough money to live on. She was ninety, and had no family left alive. She lived on the goodwill of the parish—the vicar was very good to her—and what little she had left from a long-ago inheritance from a husband who had been dead for half a century. Honey had for years taken it upon herself to make sure that anyone in the village who was struggling did not struggle to extremes. She had given much through the years, but had found that Mrs. Landers had become a favorite. Now she visited not just to bring the old lady luxuries she could not afford for herself, but also for the salty wisdom of nearly a century of life.

  She tapped on the door and she and Nell were let in by the cheeky little maid that Honey had sent to her from her own household to be “trained” by Mrs. Landers. It was one of the many ruses she used to provide the old lady with help without appearing to give charity.

  The nonagenarian was snoozing by the fire, her plain white cap neatly perched atop a coronet formed by her braided white hair. Nell glanced around, sighed deeply at the plain aspect of the small cottage parlor, and took a seat in the shadows.

  “Mrs. Landers,” Honey said gently, kneeling beside the old woman’s chair. She put her
hand on the older woman’s shoulder.

  “Eh? What?” The woman awoke and glanced up at Honey. She covered the younger woman’s gloved hand with her own, gnarled and blue-veined and crooked with arthritis. “Honey!” Her voice, the thin querulous sound of old age, nevertheless held a note of affection.

  “I brought some treats for our tea,” Honey said, placing her large covered basket on the stone hearth, “and my sister to visit!” She beckoned Nell, who moved into the firelight reluctantly.

  Mrs. Landers squinted up at Nellie and put her spectacles on her nose. She looked from one young woman to the other. “I see the resemblance,” she said. “But she don’t have your eyes, child. You’ve got kind eyes, she doesn’t!”

  Honey flushed with embarrassment and glanced anxiously at Nellie, who had drawn back, offended by the older woman’s plain speaking.

  “But she is so much prettier than me,” Honey said, with a laugh.

  “Not so,” Mrs. Landers said. She gazed steadily at Nellie. “Come here, child,” she said, holding out her hands to Honey’s sister.

  Her lips set in a prim line, Nellie moved forward and knelt reluctantly in front of the old woman. Mrs. Landers grasped her hands and pulled her into the firelight and squinted at the younger woman. “Not happy. You’re not happy. Man trouble?”

  Nellie gasped. “Not at all,” she exclaimed. “I am married.”

  “Doesn’t mean you haven’t any man trouble.” The woman laughed, a thin, reedy chuckle that ended in a coughing fit.

  Honey rushed to get her a glass of sherry, and held it to her lips. After the restorative, the old woman sat back in her low chair near the hearth.

  “Just because I am an old woman and my husband died nearly a half century ago does not mean I do not remember what being married is like.” She cast a shrewd glance Nellie’s way. “Humphrey was the best of men in many ways, but all men have their failings and we women spend the better part of our lives trying to correct them. Which is our mistake. Take them as they are, young woman. Take your husband as he is.”