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Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
Forbidden Nights with the Viscount (#ulink_536f065a-efec-5492-a7a0-32cc47dd09d2)
Julia Justiss
To the Beau Monde group of RWA,
without whose historical expertise and
graciousness in sharing it, this book could
not have been written.
Prologue (#ulink_dcb81b58-77a8-5ea4-8e59-53ac3651afad)
London—late April, 1831
‘So your half-brother is getting married.’
At his best friend’s comment, Giles Hadley, ostensible Viscount Lyndlington and Member of Parliament for Danford, looked up from the reports he was studying in the small private room of the Quill and Gavel, a public house near the Houses of Parliament. ‘George?’ Giles asked, not sure he’d heard correctly.
David Tanner Smith, Member from the Borough of Hazelwick, gave Giles a patient smile. ‘Yes, George. Have you another half-brother?’
Stifling his first sharp reply—that he didn’t care who or whether his irritating half-brother married—he said instead, ‘What makes you think George is getting leg-shackled?’
‘It all but says so in the Morning Post. “Lady M., daughter of the Marquess of W.,” David read, “has been seen frequently of late in the company of the Earl of T.’s younger son, the Honourable G.H. The lady has wealth and impeccable connections, the gentleman aspirations to high office, even if he is not to inherit. Might this be a match made in political heaven?”’
‘Lady Margaret, daughter of the Marquess of Witlow—if I’m correctly filling in the newspaper’s discreet blanks—certainly possesses the credentials to make an ideal wife for any man wanting to dominate Tory circles,’ Giles admitted. ‘No wonder George is interested.’
‘Indeed. With the marquess’s wife in delicate health, Lady Margaret has played hostess for her father for years, ever since she lost her husband—Lord Roberts. Died in a carriage accident, tragically soon after their marriage.’
‘Five or six years ago, wasn’t it?’ Giles asked, scanning through memory.
‘Yes. Besides that, her brother doesn’t care for politics. Which means the man who marries Lady Margaret will not only gain a wife with extensive political expertise, but also inherit all the power and influence the marquess would otherwise have expended on behalf of his son.’
‘A shame she supports the wrong party,’ Giles said. ‘Not that I’ve any interest in marriage, of course.’
‘A greater shame, if reports I’ve heard about the lady’s charm and wit are true, to waste even someone from the wrong party on George.’
Just then, the door slammed open and two men hurried in. With a wave of his hand towards the stacks of paper on the table, the first, Christopher Lattimar, MP for Derbyshire, cried, ‘Forget the committee reports, Giles! The session’s going to be dissolved!’
‘Truly, Christopher?’ David interposed. Looking up at the last arrival, Benedict Tawny, MP for Launton, he asked, ‘Is it certain, Ben?’
‘For once, Christopher isn’t joking,’ Ben replied, his handsome face lit with excitement. ‘Grey’s tired of the Tories making endless delays. He’s going to take the issue to the people. Which means a new election!’
‘That’s great news!’ Giles cried. ‘Sweep the Tories out, and the Reform Bill will be sure to pass! Equal representation for every district, a vote for every freeholder, an end to domination by the landed class—everything we’ve dreamed of since Oxford!’
‘An end to rotten boroughs, for sure,’ David said. ‘I doubt we’ll get the rest—yet. Though I’m not sure why, as a future earl, the rest is so important to you, Giles. To any of you, really. I’m the only one here not of the “landed class”.’
‘You’re the son of a farmer—which makes you “landed” by occupation,’ Christopher said with a grin.
‘My late father’s occupation, not mine,’ David replied. ‘I’d be lucky to tell a beet seed from a turnip.’
‘Whether we get the reforms all at once or by stages, it’s still a landmark day—which calls for a toast!’ Ben said. Stepping to the door, he called out, ‘Mr Ransen, a round of ale for the group, if you please.’
‘Did you truly believe, when we sat around in that dingy little tavern in Oxford recasting the future, that we would ever see this day?’ David asked, shaking his head with the wonder of it. ‘Our views certainly weren’t very popular then.’
‘Neither were we, except with the inn’s doxies. What a mismatched set!’ Christopher laughed. ‘Me, ostensibly the son of a baron, but really the offspring of one of Mother’s lovers, as the snide were ever fond of remarking. Giles, ostensibly heir to an earldom, but estranged from his father, with the favoured half-brother dogging his heels, practically panting with eagerness to step into his shoes.’
‘And making it clear to our classmates that, should he attain that earldom, he’d not forgive or forget anyone who befriended me,’ Giles added, suppressing the bitterness that always simmered beneath the surface.
‘Then there was me, illegitimate son of a lowly governess,’ Ben chimed in. ‘The snide never tired of recalling that fact, either.’
‘But all still gentry born,’ Davie said. ‘Unlike this true commoner. It’s selfish, I know, but I’m glad you three never quite fit in with your peers. I can’t imagine how lonely Oxford would have been otherwise.’
‘You wouldn’t have been lonely,’ Christopher replied. ‘You’re too clever. You always knew the answers, no matter the subject or the don. Who else could have coached us so well?’
Before his friend could reply, the innkeeper walked in with their ale. Claiming glasses, the four friends raised their mugs.
‘To Giles, our impatient leader; to Davie, our philosophical guide; to our rabble-rouser, Ben; and to the final accomplishment of our dreams,’ Christopher said. ‘To the Hellions!’
‘To the Hellions!’ the others repeated, and clinked their mugs.
While the others drank, Davie turned to Giles. ‘A new election means new strategy. Will you campaign?’
‘I’ll make a run through the district,’ Giles said, ‘but my seat’s secure. I’ll probably go canvass in some of the boroughs we’re still contesting. Maybe we can pry more of them out of the hands of the local landowners.’ He grinned. ‘Maybe we can even steal some away from the father of the oh-so-accomplished Lady Margaret.’
Davie laughed. ‘I hear his seats are pretty secure. But by all means, give it a try.’
Giles downed the last of his ale. ‘I just might.’
Chapter One (#ulink_7840605e-a603-567f-8875-40593935305d)
A month later, from her seat in the open carriage in front of the hustings in the market town of Chellingham, Lady Margaret Roberts smiled out at the crowd. ‘You will all turn out for the election tomorrow, won’t you? I’d be most grateful if you’d vote for my cousin, Mr Armsburn! I assure you, he will do his very best to serve your interests in Parliament.’
‘If he promises to send you back every time he needs a vote, it’s his!’ one of the men next to the carriage declared.
‘Aye, and mine, too, for such a pretty smile,’ the man beside him shouted.
‘Thank you, gentleman,’ she replied, blowing each of them a kiss. The crowd’s roar of approval made her laugh and blow another.
Ah, how she loved this! The excitement of the milling crowds, the rising anticipation on election day as the votes were given, knowing that the winner would take his place in Parliament and help forge the destiny of the nation. The thought that she might in some small way have a part in the making of history was a thrill that never faded.
Since the bitter pain of losing her husband Robbie, resuming the role of her father’s hostess and political assistant had been her chief pleasure in life, the only pursuit that distracted her from grief.
The love of her life might be gone, but there was still important work to do. Or at least, she told herself so in the loneliness of her solitary bed.
Pulling herself from her reverie, she looked up—and met a gaze so arresting she instinctively sucked in a breath. Deep-blue eyes—like lapis sparkling in moonlight, she thought disjointedly—held her mesmerised, the pull so strong she felt as if she were being drawn physically closer to him.
And then she realised they were closer. The owner of those magnificent eyes was making his way through the crowd towards her carriage. At the realisation, her heartbeat accelerated and a shock of anticipation sizzled along her nerves.
Those fascinating eyes, she noted as he slowly approached, were set in a strong, lean face with a purposeful nose, sharp chin and wide brow over which curled a luxuriant thatch of blue-black hair. The gentleman was tall enough that his broad shoulders, clad in a jacket of Melton green, remained visible as he forced his way through the crowd.
Just as he drew near enough for her to note the sensual fullness of his lips, he gave her a knowing smile, sending a shiver of sensation over her skin.
How could he make her feel so naked while she was still fully clothed?
And then he was before her, smiling still as he extended his hand.
‘How could I not wish to shake the hand of so lovely a lady?’ he asked, his deep voice vibrating in her ears like a caress. And though she normally drew back from physical contact when there were so many pressing close, she found herself offering her hand.
His grip was as strong and assured as she’d known it would be. Waves of sensation danced up her arm as he clasped her fingers, and for a moment, she could hardly breathe. If she were given to melodrama, she might have swooned.
Taking a deep breath, she shook her head, trying to recover her equilibrium. ‘I hope you will be equally amicable about according your vote to Mr Armsburn?’ she asked, pleased her voice held a calm she was far from feeling.
His smile faded. ‘I hate to disoblige a lady, but I’m afraid I’m here to support Mr Reynolds.’
‘The radical Mr Reynolds? Oh, dear!’ she exclaimed, her disappointment greater than it should have been. ‘I fear our politics will not be in agreement, then, Mr—’
Before the gentleman could answer, a tide of men washed out of the tavern across the street. ‘Free beer, free men, free vote!’ they chanted, pushing into the square. From the corner, a group of men wearing the green armbands of her cousin’s supporters surged forward. ‘Tories for justice!’ they cried, shoving against the free-vote supporters. Several of the tussling men fell back against her horse, causing the gelding to rear up and fight the traces. Alarmed, she tugged on the reins, but the panicked animal fought the bit.
The gentleman jumped forward to seize the bridle, settling the nervous horse back on his feet. ‘You should get away in case this turns ugly,’ he advised. Making liberal use of his cane to clear a path, he led the horse and carriage through the throng and on to a side street.
‘There’s a quiet inn down Farmer’s Lane,’ he told her when they’d turned the corner. ‘I’ll see you safely there, then locate your cousin.’
She opened her lips to assure him she’d be fine on her own, but in truth, the sudden rancour of the crowd, the shouts and sounds of scuffling still reaching them from the square, disturbed her more than she wished to admit. ‘I would appreciate that,’ she said instead.
Within a few moments, they reached the inn, the gentlemen sent the horse and carriage off with an ostler and offered her his arm into the establishment. ‘A private parlour for Lady Margaret, and some cheese and ale,’ he told the innkeeper who hurried to greet them.
‘At once, sir, my lady!’ the proprietor said, ushering them to a small room off the busy taproom.
Once she was inside, shielded from the view of the curious, the gentleman bowed. ‘It is Lady Margaret, isn’t it?’
‘Yes. But I don’t believe we have been introduced, have we? I’m sure I would have remembered you.’ No woman under ninety with eyes in her head and any sense of appreciation for the male of the species could have met this man and forgotten him.
‘We’ve not been formally presented—a lapse I am delighted to rectify. But the Borough of Chellingham has long been in the pocket of the Marquess of Witlow, so what other lovely lady could be canvassing for his candidate than his daughter, the celebrated Lady Margaret?’
‘Oh, dear! That makes me sound rather…notorious.’
He shook his head. ‘Admired and respected—even by your opponents. I don’t believe the squabbles outside will escalate into actual violence, but with “free beer” and elections, one can’t be sure. Promise me you’ll remain here until your cousin can fetch you. Though I cannot help but feel a man lucky to have so lovely a canvasser working on his behalf should take better care of her.’
‘How can I thank you for your kindness—and to a supporter of your opponent?’ she asked. ‘Won’t you at least allow me to offer you a glass of ale? I hate to admit it, but I would feel easier if I had some company while I…calm my nerves.’
That might have been overstating the case—but for once, Maggie didn’t mind imposing on the gentleman’s obvious sense of chivalry, if it meant she could command his company for a bit longer.
And discover more about the most arresting man she’d met in a very long time.
He smiled then—setting those sapphire eyes sparkling, and once again sending shivers over her skin. ‘I wouldn’t want to leave you…unsettled.’
Oh, the rogue! She bit back a laugh, halfway tempted to rebuke him. Those knowing eyes said he knew exactly how he ‘unsettled her’ and didn’t regret it a bit.
With that handsome figure, fascinating eyes and seductive smile, he’d probably unsettled quite a few ladies, her sense of self-preservation argued. It would be prudent to send him on his way before he tempted her to join their number.
After all, she’d had a lengthy page from that book, and wanted never to pen another.
But despite the voice of reason, she didn’t want to let him go.
The landlord hurried in with her victuals on a tray, offering her a perfect excuse to delay. ‘You will allow the innkeeper to bring you a tankard of his excellent home brewed? Mr Carlson, isn’t it?’ she asked, turning to the proprietor. ‘My cousin, Mr Armsburn, told me you have the best ale in Chellingford. I know he’s drunk many a pint when coming through to campaign.’
‘That he has, Lady Margaret, and bought rounds for the taproom, too,’ Carlson replied. ‘I’m happy to stand a mug to any of his supporters.’ After giving them a quick bow, he hurried back out.
‘Now, that is largesse you cannot refuse,’ she told her rescuer.
‘Even if I’m accepting it under false pretences?’
‘We needn’t upset Mr Carlson by telling him that. He’s been a Tory voter for many years.’
‘No wonder you charm the electorate—if you know even the names of the local innkeepers.’
She raised an eyebrow. ‘Of course I know them. One cannot represent the best interests of the district unless one knows the people who live there, and their needs. But you have the advantage; you know who I am, but have not yet given me your name. All I know is that you’re misguided enough to support a Radical.’
He laughed, as she’d meant he should, and made her an exaggerated bow. ‘Giles Hadley, ma’am, at your service.’
The note of challenge in his tone puzzled her for the few seconds it took for the name to register. ‘Giles Hadley!’ she repeated with a gasp. ‘The leader of the Hellions, the infamous Viscount Lyndlington—although you do not use the title, do you? Should I be expecting a whiff of fire and brimstone?’
He laughed again. ‘Rumours of our exploits have been highly exaggerated! I doubt we were any more given to frequenting taverns and consorting with the, um, gentle ladies who worked there than most undergraduates. We just patronised a humbler class of establishment, and consulted, rather than patronised, the patrons.’
‘So what was this about being hell-bound?’
He shrugged. ‘One of the dons who was a clergyman heard that, if we ever had the power, we would eliminate churchmen’s seats in the Lords. The sacrilege of wanting to upset the established order, along with our “dissolute” activities, led him to denounce us all as the Devil’s minions. As for my title as a viscount, it’s only a courtesy accorded to the son of an earl. I prefer to be known for what I’ve accomplished.’
‘Which is quite a bit, I understand! I’ve heard so much about you!’
‘If you heard it from my half-brother George, no wonder you’ve been imagining me with wings and a forked tail,’ he said drily.
She shook her head. ‘Most of what I know comes from my father and his associates—who see you as a rising star in the Whigs. My father, who does not praise lightly, has several times lamented that Lord Newville managed to snag you for the Reform cause before he could persuade you to join the Tories. I am honoured to make the acquaintance of a man so esteemed by my father!’
And she was—awed enough at meeting the man even his opponents spoke of as likely one day to become Prime Minister that for an instant, she forgot his physical allure.
But only for an instant. With her next breath, the shock of learning his identity was once again subsumed in awareness of the powerful attraction he generated.
