How To Vex A Viscount (2 page)

“Actually, I read a treatise only last week on the new fashion of tassels. The writer felt they were merely phallic symbols in subtle form.”

“Hmph. I shall never look at a tassel the same way again.”

His eyes narrowed in speculation. Daisy hoped he might show some sign of remembering her, but it had been more than a decade since they’d met. She’d been a flat-chested ten-year-old, and he’d been a haughty woman hater of twelve. With soulful eyes and a blinding smile.

Now he turned that charming smile on her without a hint of recognition in his intense gaze. “You must possess an unusual library.”

The library Daisy frequented most often belonged to Isabella Haversham, her great-aunt. Isabella had once been a famous courtesan. But even now that she was a married lady—the wife of an earl, no less—she still entertained philosophers and artists and “freethinkers” with regularity. Lady Wexford might be painted with scandal’s brush, but an evening in her company was far more diverting than squirming through the tortured clavichord recitals that took place in other parlours around the city.

Daisy wangled an invitation to Isabella’s soirees as often as she could. For that reason, as well as her great-aunt’s library, Daisy suspected her education was considerably broader than that of most young women her age.

“Innocence and ignorance need not forever clasp hands,” Isabella was fond of saying.

Daisy looked pointedly back at the lamp. There was no denying she’d been studying it before. She might as well put a bold face on it.

“I was wondering if there is any kind of mark on that lamp,” Daisy said. “One that might indicate who the maker was.”

“He left no mark,” Lucian said.

“He? So you believe a man fashioned it?”

“Men were the artisans in antiquity,” he said with confidence.

“Hmm. That surprises me,” she said with wide eyes. “I can’t imagine a man wanting to set one of those alight.”

Lucian coughed out a laugh. “But you can see where a woman might have reason.”

“Certainly. Male domination of nearly every field of endeavour springs to mind.”
As well as possession of the memory of a gnat,
she added silently. “But the lamp poses a host of questions.”

“Ah, yes, and you raised an intriguing one.” One of his dark brows arched, a reminder that he’d overheard her. “I’d be happy to help you discover the answer.”

Was he suggesting something improper? If he was, it would serve him right if she gave him another scar.

“You owe me no further assistance. Not after I ruined your shirt. And your waistcoat. And your . . .” She shouldn’t have allowed her gaze to travel the ink’s path down the front of his breeches. For a moment, she imagined an appendage shaped like the lamp affixed to his groin, and felt her cheeks heat. To cover her embarrassment, she sank to the floor to retrieve her scattered notes.

“Think nothing of it.” His voice was no longer the adolescent squeak she remembered. “I should be more careful where I put my jaw. I do hope you have not suffered an injury to your head.”

The way his deep baritone rumbled through her, the fact that she even had a head temporarily escaped her notice.

“Please allow me.” Lucian set down the valise he’d been carrying and knelt beside her. He helped her reassemble her pages. Then he offered his hand to help her up, and she took it.

Had someone loosed a jar of June bugs in her belly? “Thank you, my lord,” she murmured, for lord he was. Lucian Ignacio de Castenello Beaumont. Son and heir of Ellery Beaumont, Earl of Montford. Daisy assumed Lucian was now styling himself Viscount Rutland, one of his father’s lesser titles, since the earl was still very much alive.

But Daisy remembered Lucian as Iggy.

His ears had turned an alarming shade of red when she called him that. “Iggy” was not dignified, he’d complained. As if a skinny, dirty-kneed twelve-year-old were capable of anything remotely like dignity.

But Lucian was no longer twelve. He was a man. And the last time Daisy heard his name bandied about in polite society, the sober matron doing the talking lowered her voice, but the words
reclusive
and
wastrel
were unmistakably used.

Neither of which did anything to slow her racing heart, Daisy admitted with a sigh.

She accepted the stack of papers from him. “There’s no salvaging your ensemble, I fear. Please permit me to have a new suit of clothing made for you.”

She could afford to be generous. After all, her uncle had discovered the family fortune beneath the stones of Dragon Caern Castle just when other members of the nobility were losing theirs in the South Sea stock swindle.

“I wouldn’t hear of it,” he assured her smoothly, though she knew Lucian’s father had invested heavily in the failed company. Perhaps his mother’s family was still solvent. She’d been a noblewoman in her homeland. Nearly all the vestiges of Lucian’s Italian accent were now gone. Daisy thought that a terrible shame.

“There’s no need for you to replace this ensemble. I’ve been meaning to retire this suit in any case,” he informed her.

That would be a pity, since the cut of that green frock coat does wonderful things for his shoulders, and as for those bree
—Daisy caught herself before her thoughts completely ran away with her, but lost her fight with the urge to flick her gaze to where his breeches moulded to his thighs.

He caught the direction of her gaze and an amused grin tilted his lips. “My! You are a keen observer, aren’t you?”

“Forgive me. Ruining your clothing’s has upset me,” she said, her cheeks flaming. “I’m acting like some pudding-headed debutante.” Instead she was firmly on-the-shelf spinster of one and twenty.

“If you were a debutante, I’d have remembered you,” he said.

Daisy doubted it. Especially since he showed no signs of recognizing her yet. Surely she bore some resemblance to the young girl who’d followed him about like a puppy so many years ago. His family had spent only a week in residence at Dragon Caern, but it had been the most frustrating, most splendid, most memorable week of her young life.

“However, if you want my advice,” he continued, “your chances of remaining unmarried will decrease if you try not to douse every man you meet with ink.”

“Perhaps remaining unmarried is my choice.” She frowned until she noticed the way he flashed his teeth at her, clearly teasing. Lucian was the sort of man a woman might forgive anything so long as he smiled at her.

Daisy bit her lip to keep from babbling further. She sidled away from the case where the phallic lamp was on display.

Lucian looked around the nearly deserted exhibit hall. “It seems there is no way for us to be properly introduced, but perhaps you will allow me the honour of giving you my name.”

Final proof that he truly didn’t recognize her. Her belly spiralled downward in disappointment.

How was it possible that she could carry his image in her head for all these years while he completely forgot that Daisy Elizabeth Drake even existed? Bristling with indignation, she took another step backward to put more distance between them.

Before she could remind him that he should already know her name (and quite well, thank you very much!), the door behind her swung open and whacked her soundly on the bum. Then the door slammed shut as whoever opened it realized he’d hit something. Daisy stumbled forward and Lucian caught her in his arms.

She was pressed tight against him, suddenly engulfed in his masculine scent, a clean whiff of sandalwood and soap. Beneath her splayed fingers, the musculature in his chest was rock hard. Her breath caught in her throat.

“Are you injured, miss?” Lucian asked.

“Only my pride.” Daisy pushed against him as a signal he should release her. She wasn’t about to admit that her derriere throbbed.

“No, I fear we have another casualty,” he said, not loosening his hold on her a bit.

Daisy followed his gaze to her décolletage, where some of the ink from his shirt and waistcoat had been transferred. Part of the stain marred her pale blue stomacher and part darkened the mound of her breast that rose above it.

“Pity. An alabaster bosom should never wear black.” He drew a fingertip along the froth of lace at the neckline she’d always thought of as modest, but never would again. “Alas, I forgot
my
handkerchief this morning or I should return the favour and try to wipe it off.”

The thought of his hand on her skin with only a thin layer of cloth between them made her belly quiver.

The door creaked behind her and eased open a tentative few inches. A monocled gentleman peeked out and waved Lucian over with urgency.

“There you are, Rutland. We’ve been waiting for you.”

Daisy started and jumped away from Lucian. She recognized the gentleman as Sir Alistair Fitzhugh, head of the Society of Antiquaries. She’d petitioned for admission several times, only to have Sir Alistair blackball her membership on account of her gender. The man cast a quick dismissive gaze over her and turned back to Lord Rutland.

A baron’s niece counted for very little when measured against a viscount, she supposed.

Fitzhugh’s monocle popped out and dangled from its silver chain as he eyed the large, oddly shaped ink stain on Lucian’s clothing. “Good God, man, what’s happened to you?”

“It was—” Daisy began.

“My fault entirely,” Lucian finished for her. “I will be in directly, Fitzhugh.”

Lucian turned back to Daisy. “Perhaps once I’ve delivered my presentation—”

“Hold a moment.” She’d expected an Oxford-don type would lead the discussion. “You’re the speaker?”

He nodded with a wry grin. “When I’m allowed to be.”

She covered her mouth with her fingertips. When had Lucian become an expert in Roman antiquities? Or, more specifically, lost Roman treasure.

“As I was saying, I hope we may continue our discussion at a later time. I’d enjoy learning what else such a charming young lady finds . . . curious in these dry halls.” He retrieved his valise, made an elegant leg and shot her a wicked grin. “And for your information, the answer is no.”

“No?” Her brows nearly met in a puzzled frown.

“It’s not life-size.”

Miss Drake, it is my sincere hope this will be the final time I am called upon to send you notification of rejection for membership.

With respect,

Sir Alistair Fitzhugh, Esq.

CHAPTER TWO

“What colossal cheek!” Daisy gaped at Lucian’s retreating back. The man had the gall to turn her quest for knowledge into something decidedly bawdy. Of course, he might argue that she started it when she asked if the blasted lamp was life-size. But in her defence, she’d been under the assumption that she was talking merely to herself.

Why, Lucian was a veritable eavesdropper.

And insufferably smug.

To top it off, the dark-eyed devil hadn’t even invited her in to hear his blasted lecture! He was no better than the rest of the gentlemen in the Society.

And he’d committed the further unpardonable sin of not remembering her.

Sir Alistair had refused to admit Daisy to the lecture hall earlier. The study of antiquities was far too “earthy” a subject for a young lady, he’d said, looking down his long Scottish nose at her. Now that Daisy knew the speaker was only Lucian Beaumont, she was of half a mind to return to her great-aunt’s town house.

But the door to the lecture hall hadn’t latched behind Lucian when he took his leave, and Daisy wasn’t the sort to let an opportunity slide by. With a quick glance up and down the corridor to make sure she wasn’t seen, she pulled the door open and sidled through as small a crack as possible.

The entire back row of chairs was empty, so she slipped into a seat and hoped no one would notice. Once she got a look at the mosaic propped up on the dais, she was sure no one would spare her a second glance.

The myriad of tiny coloured tiles were almost completely intact. Even from her distant vantage point, she could tell that the artwork was splendid. But Daisy could see why this mosaic wasn’t on display to the general public. The subject matter would shock a sailor, and since she’d been raised by a prodigal pirate, that was saying something.

The work was nearly the size of a hogshead of beer in a public house. All around the outside of the circular mosaic, there were scantily clad figures depicted in odd poses, some bent over, some with limbs entwined in uncomfortable-looking positions. A few were joined in groups of three instead of two.

Daisy squinted, wishing she’d thought to borrow Great Aunt Isabella’s lorgnette. She turned her attention to the much larger representation in the centre of the circular design.

The figure was a man, his calm Roman eyes looking out on the world with amused interest, the slightest upturn to his mouth. He stood proudly, his short tunic displaying muscular legs.

And protruding from beneath his tunic was an organ that would put Uncle Gabriel’s stallion to shame. It was as long as the man’s forearm and nearly as thick.

Hmph! Bet that’s not life-size either,
Daisy thought, shifting uncomfortably in her seat.
It looks more likely to impale than pleasure.

Daisy often sneaked into Isabella’s library to read her collection of love poetry. Most recently, Daisy had discovered the unpublished memoirs of Mademoiselle Blanche La Tour, a French courtesan, who led an extremely adventurous life in and out of the boudoir. Mlle La Tour was not reticent in her description of either type of exploit, so Daisy’s knowledge of intimate behaviour far outstripped her personal experience.

She was reading through the journal slowly, asking Nanette, her great aunt’s French maid, for help when her own grasp of the language proved too school-girlish for the subject matter. Nanette proved a font of information, as well. Daisy never imagined so much could be accomplished with something as small and seemingly insignificant as a tongue.

She jerked herself back from her naughty musings. Lucian was speaking.

“This mosaic was unearthed on my father’s estate in the ruins of what I confidently believe was once a Roman proconsul’s residence,” he said. “Only a regional governor would have commissioned such a work.”