The Viscount’s Revenge (Regency Tales Book 23) Read online

  Table of Contents

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  EPILOGUE

  BONUS CHAPTER: A GAME OF CHANCE

  KEEP IN TOUCH!

  ONE

  Miss Christiana James, the only daughter of the Viscount of Harrington, laughed to herself as she heard the shrill cry of her governess calling her name. She did not respond, of course, choosing to hide herself away deep within the gardens of her father’s estate.

  It was not as though her governess, Miss Walker, was being deliberately annoying. Quite the opposite in fact. She was doing a marvellous job of trying to keep Christiana under control whilst her mother and father were gone to town for a time, but the truth was, Christiana did not particularly want to be kept under so watchful an eye. She longed for freedom, for the time when she might herself go to London and attend all the various balls and soirees that her parents were currently enjoying.

  Not only that, but she was drawing closer to the age when she might start preparing for her debut into polite society, but her mother seemed insistent that she wait another two years! Christiana was rather annoyed by that, of course, given that some young ladies were allowed their debut at only a year older than she currently was. But her mother and father were quite steadfast in this matter.

  The Viscount of Harrington, her father, was a hardworking and studious man who spent the majority of his time at his country estate alongside his wife and daughter. Their only son, Robert, had married some years ago and had already sired an heir. His wife had already produced first a daughter and then a son.

  Robert was eight years Christiana’s elder, which meant that she did not know him particularly well. That said, he appeared to be happy, which she was glad for.

  Her niece and nephew were quite adorable as well, and it was a relief to her parents that the family line would continue when the time came for the title to be passed on.

  Now, of course, it was to be Christiana’s turn to be the focus of a matrimonial match, albeit not for another two years. Her mind was already filled with dreams about London and what she might experience there. She hoped that she would meet the most handsome of gentlemen and be courted beautifully by as many as her mother would permit before she made her choice.

  Christiana’s governess always insisted that she learn womanly accomplishments such as watercolours and the like. Apparently, all young ladies of quality knew how to paint and embroider, but Christiana was much too dreamy to concentrate for any great length of time. She much preferred to walk in the gardens, away from the house, letting her head fill with all kinds of ideas.

  Of course, once she returned, the governess would scold her, just as she always did, and Christiana would ignore her completely, just as she always did.

  It was not as though Christiana was in any real danger, for she knew the gardens and even the grounds beyond very well. She had roamed all through them many a time, her heart soaring as high as the birds that sang above her. Out in the open, she felt a sense of freedom that carried her through the rest of the day, giving her hope and expectation for the future.

  “One day,” she muttered to herself, pushing an errant curl out of her eyes. “One day, I shall be mistress of my own home and go wherever I please and do whatever I wish – with no governess to try and stop me.”

  Lifting her chin, Christiana continued to walk through the gardens. The governess’s shouts grew distant and faint, until they disappeared entirely. This was just as Christiana liked it, being entirely alone within the grounds. It was just her and the small birds that chattered as they hopped about in the trees. She smiled to herself as the fragrance of the nearby rose bush clung to her senses, and her smile broadened all the more. This was heaven.

  Walking purposefully towards the stone wall that ran the length of the estate, Christiana found the small gap and quickly squeezed through, laughing softly as the wind brushed her hair lightly across her face.

  Her lock caught the sun, practically glowing red in its light as she tucked it behind her ear. She wore no bonnet – much to the chagrin of her governess – but she did not care whether or not she got a few freckles.

  The autumn sun might still turn her skin brown, but come the winter, she would return to being as pale as a ghost once more.

  Christiana loved the feeling of the warm rays on her cheeks. She tipped her head up a little more as she walked further away from the house.

  Coming to a fork in the small trail, Christiana chose to climb the hill to the right of her father’s estate, thinking that it would be a fine day for a view of the house and the surrounding countryside once she reached the top. Besides which, there was also a small brook that ran down the hill which would give her more than enough to drink since she was very likely to be rather thirsty by the time she climbed to the very top. Gathering her skirts, she began to climb, her breath already quickening as she scrambled up the rather steep slope.

  It was a hill she had climbed a good many times, and the day was one of the best she could remember. There were only the smallest of clouds in the sky, and even that did not appear the least bit ominous. The different birdsongs seemed to blend together to make one beautiful tune, and, finally, Christiana found herself right at the top, only for her foot to slip, and with a sudden, painful thud, she found herself flat on the ground. Pain shot up her leg, making her wince in unexpected agony. This was not what she had intended.

  Slowly pushing herself up to her knees, Christiana tried to stand, only to let out a soft whimper of pain when her ankle protested violently. Half hoping, half limping, she made her way to a large boulder to her left and with a great sigh of relief, sat down heavily.

  “Good gracious!”

  Christiana started violently in surprise. She twisted her head to see a young man in his late twenties, she guessed, staring at her, his hands planted firmly on his hips.

  She did not know what to say, staring into a pair of the most beautiful dark eyes she thought she had ever seen. Her mouth went dry as he came closer to her, his long, wiry frame towering over her.

  “I won’t hurt you, if that’s what you’re thinking,” he said quietly in a low voice. “Did you hurt yourself?”

  “I – I fell,” Christiana replied haltingly. “I never fall. I know this place very well.”

  “Oh?”

  “My father is the Viscount of Harrington,” Christiana replied, finding her cheeks burning with both awareness of him and embarrassment over what had occurred. “His estate borders this area.”

  The gentleman nodded with a small smile lingering on his face. “I see. You must be Christiana James then. Well, I am Bartholomew Hart, heir of Lord Stockington. I am visiting a relative and thought to come for a short ride into the countryside.”

  Christiana frowned, glancing up at him.

  “But you have no horse.”

  He chuckled, his eyes dancing with mirth.

  “No, indeed. You are most observant. He was tired, so I left him tethered to an old post a little further down the hill. I did not think that anyone would try and take him, since there did not seem to be anyone else about! I did fancy climbing the hill for the view, you see.”

  Christiana managed a brief smile.

  “I see. Yes, of course, there is no one who would take your horse, my lord. They are all quite honourable, I assure you.”

  “Whom?”

  “My father’s tenants,” Christiana replied at once, her cheeks burning crimson as she realised just how poorly she wa
s explaining herself. “They work the fields near the hill and would not touch your horse.”

  He smiled again, looking down at her. “And may I ask what you are doing up here all on your own?” he asked in a tone that made her feel like an errant child. “Or is someone with you?”

  “I come out here often on my own,” Christiana replied, a little defensively. “However, I have hurt my ankle, which is why you find me sitting here on my own. I am just waiting for the pain to go away before I return home.”

  The smile faded from his face at once, a worried look replacing it.

  “That is not very good at all, Miss James,” he replied, his hands dropping from his sides.

  “However did you hurt it?”

  Her face flamed. “I do not quite know,” she replied, frankly. “I did fall, and mayhap I twisted it somehow.”

  The gentleman nodded slowly, still looking rather concerned.

  “And can you walk on it?” he asked, as a drop of rain fell on Christiana’s nose. “It looks like it is about to rain, and I would not like you to get wet.”

  Christiana lifted her face to the sky, thinking to tell him that he was being quite ridiculous, only to see a dark cloud beginning to cover the sun. Her heart sank, her shoulders slumping.

  “I – I can try,” she stammered, as another raindrop landed on her upturned cheek. She tried to get to her feet, only to stumble the moment she put weight on it.

  “Careful, there,” Mr Hart said at once, catching her carefully and setting her back on the rock. “I think I may have to set you on my horse to take you back home, Miss James, if you would allow it?”

  Her throat closed and she nodded, mutely.

  “Very good – although I do not think we will make it before the rain comes.” A slightly frustrated look appeared on his face as it began to rain a little harder. “I think, if you will permit me, I shall simply have to shelter us both from the rain. It looks nothing more than a passing shower.” He looked at her enquiringly, shrugging off his coat. “Might I sit by you?”

  Even though she was but fourteen, Christiana felt her heart begin to race. She gulped, then nodded, aware of just how closely he was sat beside her.

  “This should do the trick,” he said with a smile, pulling the coat from his shoulders and holding it high over their heads as the rain began to come down in earnest. Christiana could think of nothing to say as they sat there, choosing to simply listen to the sound of the rain as it fell from the sky, splashing in small puddles all around them.

  And just like that, within a few minutes, it was over. The sunshine returned in all of its glory and Mr Hart took his coat away. Getting to his feet, he shook the rain from it.

  “Now,” he said with a broad smile. “Do you think you can walk if you lean on my arm? Or must I carry you?”

  Christiana smiled and held out her hand, even though her face was, she was quite sure, crimson red.

  “I am sure I will manage quite well, sir,” she said softly, as he took her hand and helped her to lean on him heavily. “It does not pain me so much when I have you to aid me.” Looking up at him, she paused for a moment before continuing. “You are very good to help me, Mr Hart. I thank you.”

  “Not in the least,” he exclaimed, as they began to move slowly down the hill. “What kind of gentleman would I be if I did not help a lady in need?”

  He chuckled and began to talk of the countryside and all other such things as they made their way slowly down the hill.

  Christiana did not take in much of what he said, finding his presence so overwhelming that it was difficult for her to even think clearly. He was so close to her, so warm and affectionate, that she was quite at a loss as to what to say. Instead, she simply smiled and nodded, making the occasional remark and hoping above all hope that he did not think of her as some ridiculous child, even though it was quite obvious she was not a lady of society.

  Self-consciously, she ran one finger over the bridge of her nose, finding herself suddenly worried about the appearance of freckles. Her heart sank to her toes as she realised that he must think her nothing more than a mere child caught in some folly and in need of rescue. There would be no return of her sudden, overwhelming affection, no quickening of his heart to match hers.

  As he lifted her onto his horse, Christiana grew resolute in her own mind. She would, one day, marry this man. She would find him again when it came her turn to be out in society, and it would be her turn to throw him into turmoil. She would be the most wonderful lady in all of London, and he would have no choice but to turn his head in her direction. One day, she was quite sure, she would have him as her own.

  Even as the cries of her governess fell down around her ears, Christiana remained quite determined. She bid Mr Hart goodbye with as much decorum as she could muster, her breath hitching when he bowed over her hand. Ignoring her governess completely, she kept her eyes on him as he walked away, knowing with such a deep certainty – a certainty that could not be explained – that she would see him again one day. Her dreams began to form almost the moment he left her sight, and turning to her governess, Christiana cleared her throat and pinned the lady with her gaze.

  “My dear Miss Walker, I must do all I can to be the most respectable of young ladies,” she said firmly. “I promise you now that I shall not escape again. I shall do exactly as you say and show nothing but devotion to all that you teach me. I must become a diamond of the first water.”

  The governess, suddenly mute with surprise, simply nodded and helped Christiana to come inside, her eyes widening a little as she did so.

  Christiana smiled to herself, her vow growing in strength within her heart. She would meet Mr Hart again and, one day, he would be her husband.

  Neither hell nor high-water was going to stop her. She was quite determined.

  TWO

  Four years later

  Bartholomew Hart, the newly minted Viscount of Stockington, stared at his best friend in shock.

  “I’m sorry, old man, but there it is,” Lord Trenton said loudly, his hands spread wide. “I’m afraid it’s all over between the two of you.”

  Bartholomew couldn’t move, his feet feeling as if they were fastened to the ground.

  “I know this must come as something of a shock, but it is for the best you know,” Lord Trenton continued, appearing almost nonchalant. “And I cannot say that I am sorry for it. I have long held affection in my heart for her, and you will not deny me it!”

  Bartholomew drew in one long, cold breath. His blood was slowly turning to ice in his veins, his feet already entirely numb. This was his dear friend, his best friend, the one whom he would almost call a brother given their closeness.

  They had known one another since their days at Eton, as two young lads trying to grow accustomed to living away from home. They had shared almost everything, never betraying one another’s trust. Not until this very moment. Bartholomew clenched his fists. His mind still refused to accept what he was hearing.

  Admittedly, Trenton had always been somewhat of a rogue, often chasing more than one young woman and stealing kisses – and more – whenever he could. Bartholomew hadn’t had an inkling that Trenton would think seriously about a future bride, especially since he was not yet required to take on his duties. His father – the current Earl of Braxdon – was still very much alive and well.

  Not so for Bartholomew, who had lost his father only a year prior. The mourning year had been a difficult trial and had given him a fresh perspective on life and what was required of him. And so, come the Season, he had returned to London with the hope of finding himself a bride. He had even told Lord Trenton of his intentions.

  His friend had mourned with him over the loss of his father, had sympathised with all that was now on Bartholomew’s shoulders, and had encouraged him in finding just the right kind of young debutante for himself. Not that Bartholomew particularly cared about love or anything so foolish, but he did, at the very least, want to have a beautiful young wife whom he wou
ld gladly take to bed. Of course, she would have to be from a good family, her father or brother with a decent title and respectable fortune – but that had not been all too difficult to find. Lady Henrietta Vaughn had been the first one to catch his eye, and, finding her lovely in both face and character, he had set his sights on her.

  When Bartholomew had made it clear that he intended to pursue Lady Henrietta, Trenton had been nothing but supportive. He had listened to Bartholomew talk about the lady over and over.

  He playfully mocked Bartholomew for being so caught up with her whilst he himself remained free to pursue whomever he wished. Bartholomew had rolled his eyes, telling Trenton that, one day, he would be as smitten as Bartholomew and unable to walk away from that special someone.

  Lady Henrietta had seemed eager for his suit, had welcomed his court, and had looked up at him with shining eyes whenever he spoke to her of his intentions. She had even declared herself quite in love with him, and whilst Bartholomew had not felt anything as strong, he had admitted to himself that there was a stirring of affection in his heart. When he had proposed, she had clung to his hand and pressed it gently against her heart, promising him that it beat only for him – but that she had to reflect upon her answer and confer with her mother before all could be agreed upon.

  He had not understood; not until this very moment had he realised how deceptive the lady was.

  Lord Trenton had informed him that he was not, in fact, the person Bartholomew thought him to be. That he had become single-minded in his intentions of late – and those intentions were towards Lady Henrietta Vaughn, and, much to Bartholomew’s shock, Lady Henrietta apparently returned them. She cannot…this cannot be. The denial echoed in his head repeatedly.

  Finally, Bartholomew found his voice again.

  “That cannot be true,” he growled, his words escaping from his gritted teeth. “You must be jesting, Trenton.”

  His friend shrugged his shoulders, apparently quite disinterested in just how much he had hurt Bartholomew.