A Marriage Deal With The Viscount. Bronwyn Scott
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had ever had, and what made him a brilliant officer. But perhaps not the best of husbands. He hadn’t been home for years. Conall wondered how Avaline was holding up under her husband’s prolonged absence, but he didn’t dare ask. A man’s marriage was far too personal to discuss between third parties as small talk, even when those third parties were fathers and best friends.
‘Fortis is a good soldier, your Grace. I am sure all will go well.’ Conall smiled. ‘Besides, Camden Lithgow is with him. Cam is cool-headed enough for both of them.’ Lithgow was another friend, the grandson of an earl looking to make a name for himself that went beyond resting on the laurels of his family’s antecedents. ‘Again, thank you for your assistance.’ Conall took his leave and found his way down the hall, family enough not to need a footman’s announcement or direction.
Conall didn’t kid himself that circumstances were ideal. The possible investor was an unorthodox choice—a woman, who apparently operated on the fringes of the ton except for her connections to the Duke’s family. She was not what he would have chosen, but a lot had happened in this past year that he would not have chosen either. Feminine laughter met him at the drawing-room door, each laugh distinct, indicating the smallness of the gathering. This was not a large tea, but a quiet, intimate affair for three. Two of whom he knew. The other was riveting. Conall’s gaze lit on the stranger immediately. How could it not?
She was the sort of woman a man noticed even in a room full of people. Her blonde hair carried the sheen of platinum mixed with gold, a striking complement to the alabaster cream of her skin which was tinged with the faintest shades of pink. That tinge gave her the appearance of youth, of freshness, as did the crisp lavender muslin of her gown.
She might have been springtime personified if not for her eyes which were blue and hard as sapphires. They told a different story. This was a woman of some worldly experience. Those cool blue pools of knowledge held his with a boldness not often encountered at an English tea. Had she been expecting him? Was she prepared for this meeting? Perhaps she’d even asked for it? Conall had the unnerving sensation that she knew him. He didn’t know her. He was certain of it. He would remember her even if he’d seen her only once. She was not a woman a man forgot, more the sort other women remembered with jealousy. No wonder society had judged her harshly.
The Duchess came forward, taking his arm. ‘Taunton, what a pleasant surprise.’ Was it, though? He felt as if he was the only one surprised by his arrival, that they had been anticipating him all along, the tea a mere ploy in order for La Marchesa and he to meet. ‘Come, let me introduce you to our guest. You already know Helena, Frederick’s wife.’
Helena rose to kiss him affectionately on the cheek and Conall saw the reason for the intimacy of the gathering and for the Duke’s permission to bring Helena’s special but potentially scandalous friend to tea. The future Duchess of Cowden was pregnant again. It was a good thing Ferris’s wedding was this week. Any later and she’d be too obviously enceinte to attend. ‘You look beautiful,’ Conall assured her. And she did. Pregnancy agreed with Helena as much as family agreed with Frederick. Frederick was a lucky man. A stab of sad envy went through Conall. Frederick had everything to offer a wife, to offer a family. Conall could offer none of that security, only a debt-ridden title and a failing estate. He had nothing to pass on to one son, let alone four.
Helena turned to the other woman with a soft, warm smile. ‘Sofia, let me present Viscount Taunton, a friend of the family. Viscount Taunton, my dear friend, La Marchesa di Cremona.’
‘Buongiorno, Marchesa.’ Conall bent formally over her hand, careful not to take his eyes from her face. The use of her title brought a shadow to her eyes for the fleetest of moments. Had he been looking down he would have missed it. Did she prefer not to use her title? A wry smile twisted at his mouth, struggling to get out. He knew a little something about that.
She gave a light laugh at his Italian. ‘There’s no need for that. I am as English as you.’ Her smile deepened. ‘I can see you are surprised, which is all the more reason to dispense with the title. It only serves to confuse people.’ She slanted a playful but scolding look at Helena. ‘I would be Sofia here, dear friend, just plain Sofia.’ Her voice elongated the ‘I’ with exquisite precision. ‘Just as you are Helena and not Lady Brixton when you are among friends.’
Conall doubted this woman could be plain anything. He cast a swift, hopefully surreptitious glance at her hands. There was only one way an English woman acquired an Italian title. They were long, slender hands. Elegant. And empty. Devoid of a ring. But she was not devoid of a title. It did make for a bit of mystery and perhaps therein lay the whiff of scandal the Duke alluded to: an Englishwoman married to a foreign marquess.
She folded her hands, covering her empty finger as she spoke. He hadn’t been as circumspect as he had hoped. ‘I am told, Lord Taunton, you are interested in importing alpacas.’ Her eyes were steady on him as he took his seat and accepted a cup of tea. She was assessing, studying, her gaze as bold as her question. What did she see in that raking inquisition of a gaze? A man she could trust with her money? A man with an enterprise worth investing in?
Well, two could play that game. Conall returned her gaze with an inspection of his own. He would make it clear from the start he would not be intimidated. He might need investment money, but that didn’t mean he’d play the sycophant. Nor did it mean he’d take funds from just anyone. This had to be a good fit for him. His reputation and that of his family were on the line.
They finished their tea and the conversation flagged for the slightest of moments. The Marchesa smiled expectantly at him, a hint of challenge in her blue eyes. ‘Perhaps you would care to take a turn about the gardens with me and explain your venture further? We can spare the Duchess and Lady Brixton our boring business talk.’ She rose, her confidence in his acceptance obvious. She knew he wouldn’t or couldn’t refuse the request. It was the whole purpose he’d come down the hall, after all, and they both knew it.
‘I would be delighted.’ Conall understood perfectly well this was his audition. What he said and did in the next few minutes would determine the future of Taunton. He offered the Marchesa his arm. ‘Shall we?’
She should not have touched him. The arm he offered her was firm and steady beneath her fingers, sending an unlooked-for warmth to her stomach. She’d been on her own too long, defending herself against lechers and men like Lord Wenderly, who’d made her the most indecent of offers, men who were too ready to objectify her simply because she was beautiful and alone—easy prey in their minds. As a result, she’d not been prepared for her body to react this way. She’d not been prepared for him, the handsome Viscount in his prime, with intelligent eyes and a certain energy that filled up any space he occupied. He was electricity personified. At some point when the alpaca investment had been under consideration by the Prometheus Club, her mind had decided viscounts interested in alpaca farming were portly, short, middle-aged eccentrics with rather less hair than more. After all, that description represented in some part all the men in the Prometheus Club and it stood to reason that like sought out like. But Taunton defied expectation. She’d been entirely unprepared for the man who had sauntered into the Duchess’s sitting room full of masculine charm and confidence.
Looks and charm should not have affected her like this. If anything, those attributes should have put her on edge. She’d fallen victim to looks and charm before. She thought she’d become immune to handsome faces a long time ago, once she’d figured out handsome faces did not necessarily indicate handsome intentions. And yet, Taunton had a dangerous magnetism to him, a charismatic edge.
Sofia gave him a long considering look, tallying his assets in what she hoped was a more objective sense as they walked the gardens of Cowden House. Forewarned was forearmed. She would study him, discover the source of his charm and he would not catch her by surprise again. As a male, he did not disappoint. He was young still, but not too young, in his late twenties, possibly early thirties. He was grey-eyed and dark-haired and had a face that was saved from chiselled sternness by