Chapter 1
Damien Chevalier, Viscount Edrych heard the loud pounding on the front door. He
eased his swarthy musculature up, off the white sheets, and was raking his
hands through his unruly hair as he called out, “Bloody hell. Come in.”
The cottage door opened with a slam. An out of breath servant leaned against
the door facing, wheezing, “She is here. Your bride is at the Hall.”
“Very well. Thank you, Tom. And, walk back up the hill. No use giving yourself
a bloody heart attack.”
Tom eyed the rumpled black mane framing a face that was both aristocratic and
foreign. The bloody Lord was stark necked, his hair could use a trim; it lay
clear to his shoulders. He reeked of too much whiskey and rum. Given that the
man had been a bastard, a black sheep, until just last week, when the Viscount
stuck his spoon in the wall and the will made him at last the legitimate heir.
He supposed the master had done well to take his whore here in an empty
cottage, instead of the master chamber the night before his wedding.
“Filbert has your bath heating, your clothing laid out. The Duke and Duchess
Burkham arrived with the Vicar, more than an hour ago. Mrs. Handily can see the
woman settled, but you’d best get yourself up there, and cleaned of a certain
stink-- before that Lady Katherine sees you. Like as not, she’ll change her
mind and hie it back to
The Viscount stood, stretching all six feet and three inches, until his fingers
touched the beams overhead causing Tom to cast his eyes to the floor as not to
gawk at that honed flesh.
A loud yawn came, before the slide of clothing and thud of boots the man pulled
on.
It was a bloody shame, the servant thought, that the old Viscount had waited so
long to do right by him. All the servants knew him, and his mother. The Viscount
had him schooled well, sent him to Greece, where his grandfather on his
mother’s side lived, and where it was said the master had worked in a common
fishing village whilst making his own income casting his nets in the sea, and
painting or drawing.
His mother, the opera singer, who had been the old Viscount’s mistress for
years, had lived mostly in
Never mind that the Viscount had no legal heirs besides. He had punished the
young master, obviously. Kept him in the shadows and on the fringes even though
it was common knowledge who he was. His blood was Edrych’s and everyone, right
down to the Vicar recording the birth, had written the father’s name clearly
enough. The cruelest part was, that the Viscount had apparently wed his
mistress at the time of the pregnancy and the birth, but sworn all to silence.
He later dissolved the marriage for still unknown reasons, leaving only that
abrupt note with the solicitor, which proved Damien’s legitimacy as heir. Tom
knew that it was far too late, however, for the lord had lived too long with
the stigma of bastardry for any piece of paper to have made a difference.
Tom stepped back at the sound of boots thudding, glancing at Damien as he came
out pulling the ties of his billowing white shirt closed. They climbed the rise
toward the mansion.
“The lady, don’t look like no bluestocking.”
“What’s that?”
Tom said louder, “The lady. You was muttering she was a bluestocking while in
your cups. I’ve met a few, pinched-faced, dowdy ones. This one, though has the
footmen tripping over themselves.”
“Appealing, is she?”
“Handsome I’d say. And shaped…” Tom made some waves with his hands.
Damien laughed and clapped him on the back. “Well. I suppose that will make
getting the marriage consummation much easier. Although, I doubt we share the
same tastes, Tom. Begging your pardon.”
Since it was well known Tom’s wife was big as a draft horse, Tom grunted, “You
fancy gents like them pale and sick looking’, too thin. But she’s not
overweight by any means, Sir. She’s like them paintings…the good ones.”
“All right, old man. I get the idea.” They topped the rise, headed toward the
back path, which led to the rear entry. “Let’s get me shaved and trussed up for
the sacrificial alter. I need more sleep.”
As Tom opened the back door, servants rushed to follow the Viscount up to fill
the bath. Tom shook his head and sighed. The old Viscount was dead and
everything had fallen into the master’s lap at last; wealth, farms, stables
kennels, hunting lodges-- even acceptance of the Ton, chiefly thanks to this
marriage. He dearly hoped the man didn’t muck this up and keep up his wild
ways. There was nothing at all to rebel against now, and certainly, any man
with sense would count themselves fortunate to get Lady Katherine, bluestocking
or not, she came with a fortune and connections, and she was handsome besides.
* * * *
Lady Katherine Channing, called Katie, heard the thumps and deep voices in the
adjoining room. She’d been put in what would be her mistress chambers, in order
to refresh for the wedding. It was separated from the master area by a sitting
room, and beside that, a bathing chamber. She did not doubt which one the
deep-voiced man was in, for he fell against the wall declared that someone
named Jones, was trying to scald his bloody arse off.
Katie finished doing up the ivory satin gown she’d had designed with latches
down the front in the shape of roses. Other than that adornment, it was plain
with long sleeves; the skirt falling straight, to mask what she considered was
her generous backside.
Finished with that, she repaired the damage to her bronze hair. The straight
mass had been half drawn up, with long strands dangling down her back and over
her shoulder. Tucking a scrap of lace in the low square bodice, she looked
around and spied her shoes, satin pumps, she’d tossed out of the trunk.
She should have let the maid help her. Kate preferred not to have her person
fussed over. That late debut, when she was nineteen, had cured her of any
curiously about her feminine side. She would rather read a book, feed sheep, or
visit a museum. It was not only ridiculous but also exhausting to primp and try
to look perfect. Besides, at twenty-five, she had lived in her father’s house
at Channing Park alone for two years. Though the Duke and Duchess were her
neighbors-- and she had servants, she wasn’t some preening deb or even a
romantic woman at heart. She was practical and intelligent, well educated-- and
could bloody well do without frills.
Standing before the long mirror she absently looked herself over while she
detected those thumps and a pouring of water. At five-foot-five inches she was
considered average height, and despite being unfashionable, rounded, and curvy,
she at least didn’t look like the desperate dowd she knew society had dubbed
her.
It was their revenge, she supposed, for her being so outspoken and not
conforming during her come out. Only the Duchess comprehended that she hadn’t
been husband hunting at all, doing the debut only because her father, though a
brilliant lawyer, had also been an Earl. It was one’s duty. She’d done it, with
every fiber in her being resisting such a superficial role, because no man took
her seriously or respected her mind. They didn’t want her to have any bloody
mind at all.
She had no reason to think that Damien Chevalier would either, but he needed
her for his own reasons too. She had to make the man respectable and accepted
that by wedding him to her bloodlines, giving him an heir, and as the solicitor
for the Viscount had said, teaching him how to be discreet and taming some of
that wildness she might do that. No short order, but she had little doubt she
could accomplish it.
She couldn’t get past the barriers of her sex if she didn’t wed. To be widowed,
even if she had been older, mayhap... But the fact was she wanted to build
schools and hospitals, to put her mind to use, her money to something
productive. Too often, she was reminded that charity and genteel philanthropy
was one thing, actually running some institution or even overseeing the
building of one, was out of the question. She had problems with her own
steward-- because he would not listen to her suggestions.
The advanced farming methods, the experiments she wanted to attempt, were all
humored but never seriously implemented. She was bloody tired of waiting for
the world to realize women were as smart as men. It would never happen. The
best she could hope for was that as the wife of someone like Damien was
reported to be, nothing she did would be blinked at. She could study what she
liked, do as she pleased, and they would work out the kinks as they went along.
It was a perfect solution.
The thumping ceased, voices faded further back. Katie headed below to the
parlor, where the Vicar waited with the Duke and Duchess. She knew very well
whom she was wedding. Anyone over puberty had heard of Damien and his untamed
ways. Believing that honesty and bluntness were assets, she fully intended to
assure him that he could carry on with his pursuits eventually, with her
blessing.
Albeit he must be discreet, and refrain from flaunting his mistresses and
bedmates. Men were going to have their vices regardless, and astute wives
turned a blind eye. She had neither illusions nor expectations, and he had his
own fortune to squander now. So long as she got her ideal of freedom, they
would get on famously.
* * * *
“Not the neck cloth,” Damien muttered, trying to avoid the fussing valet who
stood a foot shorter.
“But Sir. It is proper for a wedding. You must wear it. Just for the nuptials.”
“Very well.” Damien could not suffer through more Jean-Paul’s whining and
wheedling. He’d experienced it enough when his father had commanded an
appointment and he’d stayed in the seldom-used apartments assigned him. Then,
his father would observe all formalities, though those wasted visits invariably
ended with Damien telling him to go to everlasting hell.
He was the Viscount now. He could wear what he bloody well liked.
Jean was finished with his task. Damien did draw the line at tying his hair
back with the black ribbon. He strode to the vanity and brushed it. It was
drying in its usual long waves. He caught the merest sight of the formal black
and white clothing he wore; the lace spilling over his hands, and the blue
embroidery in the black brocade vest. The signet ring twinkled on his finger.
He grunted at it.
Downing a brandy, that had been poured earlier, he mentally mused that every
visit to the hall had been one long lecture, and list of conditions he must
conform to, before his father would claim him openly. He must follow in the
footsteps of his hypocritical sire and believe his own sham. He did his level
best to act the opposite, and the old sod still made him legit.
The valet was cleaning up the room. Tom came in, having bathed, shaved, and
changed into fresh blue livery. Stationed by the door, he cast his brown eyes
over Damien and smiled. “You look right spiffy, sir. A proper Viscount, save
for that hair. Ought to tie it back.” He fingered his own sack-like que.
“And you ought to act like a servant. But you won’t.” Domain smiled sourly.
“Wouldn’t know how with you, my lord. Since I’ve been pulling you out of the
fires of destruction so long. But I’ll be right and proper with the Lady. “
Casting him a jaundice eye, Damien grunted. “You’d better, or else I’ll tell
Maude that you been playing a bit of slap and tickle with the under maid.”
Tom choked and turned a beet red, pulling at his lace cravat.
The Viscount laughed, but very soon lost his smile and looked at the clock.
“Lead me to the gallows, old man.” He bowed to Tom.
“You’ll know the way. They’re in the blue parlor. “Tom found his voice. “I’m to
follow behind, make sure you don’t turn and run.”
“Never.” Damien stepped out into the hall, squared his broad shoulders and
flicked some lint off his sleeve. “I’m thinking of what I’ll get out of it. A
free bedding and a n--”
Tom coughed. “I believe the Vicar is at the bottom of the stairs.”
Damien leaned over to look, indeed spotting the plump face of that man. “Good
day to you, Hansen,” he called down loudly.
“And to you, Sir,” The Vicar called back.
As they walked down the stairs, Damien whispered back to Tom, “Caught him in a
tavern once with his frock up and his trousers down. I was about thirteen. The
Vicar and I understand each other.”
Tom rolled his eyes, nodding to the butler who opened the parlor doors, sliding
them back on either side.
They reached the landing and walked to the doorway.
Upon seeing the bride and the Duke, the Duchess beside them, at the far end by
the mantle, Damien commented drly, “Isn’t it the groom who is supposed to await
the bride’s entry?”
Tom opened his mouth, but before he could speak, a rather husky but clear
female voice replied, “Since neither of us are traditionalist, I assumed it
would not matter.”
“Indeed.” Damien was staring at the woman in ivory silk, looking her over from
head to toe, slowly, before he murmured. “If you are Lady Katherine, I will
willingly cross the room and give myself to you… for whatever you wish.”
The Duchess gasped. The old Duke coughed in his fist. But again the bride answered
rather dryly. “Marriage will do, for a start.”