The Viscount Needs a Wife

RAVES FOR THE NOVELS OF JO BEVERLEY

“A fabulous, intelligent tale.”

—Genre Go Round Reviews

“One of the most masterful writers of Regency romance. . . . With compelling, well-drawn characters, including the cadre of men known as the Company of Rogues, readers won't be disappointed.”

—
Romantic Times
(top pick)

“With wit and humor, Jo Beverley provides a wonderful eighteenth-century romance . . . one of the best in recent memory. The tale is filled with nonstop action.”

—The Best Reviews

“[Readers] will be engrossed by this emotionally packed story of great love, tremendous courage, and the return of those attractive and dangerous men known as the Rogues.”

—Joan Hammond

“[Beverley] can be counted on to come up with clever and creative ways of mixing passion and intrigue to create a beguiling love story.”

—
Booklist

“A delightful, intricately plotted, and sexy romp.”

—
Library Journal

“A well-crafted story and an ultimately very satisfying romance.”

—The Romance Reader

“[Beverley] has truly brought to life a fascinating, glittering, and sometimes dangerous world.”

—Mary Jo Putney

“Wickedly delicious. Jo Beverley weaves a spell of sensual delight with her usual grace and flair.”

—Teresa Medeiros

“A fast-paced adventure with strong, vividly portrayed characters . . . wickedly, wonderfully sensual and gloriously romantic.”

—Mary Balogh

“Beverley's brilliantly drawn protagonists shine in a story that puts equal emphasis on intrigue and love.”

—
Publishers Weekly

Also by Jo Beverley

Available from New American Library

REGENCY HISTORICALS (1811–1820)

Too Dangerous for a Lady

A Shocking Delight

Lady Beware

To Rescue a Rogue

The Rogue's Return

Skylark

St. Raven

Hazard

Forbidden Magic

“The Demon's Mistress” in
In Praise of Younger Men

The Devil's Heiress

The Dragon's Bride

Three Heroes
(Omnibus Edition)

GEORGIAN HISTORICALS (1760S)

Seduction in Silk

An Unlikely Countess

The Secret Duke

The Secret Wedding

A Lady's Secret

A Most Unsuitable Man

Winter Fire

Devilish

Secrets of the Night

Something Wicked

My Lady Notorious

MEDIEVAL ROMANCES

Lord of Midnight

Dark Champion

Lord of My Heart

CLASSIC REGENCY ROMANCES

Lovers and Ladies
(Omnibus Edition)

Lord Wraybourne's Betrothed

The Stanforth Secrets

The Stolen Bride

Emily and the Dark Angel

ANTHOLOGIES

“The Raven and the Rose” in
Chalice of Roses

(also available as an e-novella)

“The Dragon and the Virgin Princess” in
Dragon Lovers

(also available as an e-novella)

“The Trouble with Heroes” in
Irresistible Forces

(also available as an e-novella)

SIGNET SELECT

Published by New American Library,

an imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

This book is an original publication of New American Library.

Copyright © Jo Beverley, 2016

Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.

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.

eBook ISBN 9780698175716

PUBLISHER'S NOTE

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

With thanks to my editor, Claire Zion, and my agent, Meg Ruley, and to all my wonderful readers, who make creating books so much
fun.

Prince George, the Prince Regent, age 54

Prince Frederick, Duke of York, age 52

Prince William, Duke of Clarence, 51

Charlotte, Queen of Württemberg, 50

Prince Edward, Duke of Kent, 50

Princess Augusta, 49

Princess Elizabeth, 47

Prince Ernest, Duke of Cumberland, 46

Prince Augustus, Duke of Sussex, 44

Prince Adolphus, Duke of Cambridge, 43

Mary, Duchess of Gloucester, 41

Princess Sophia,
40

November 7, 1817

Cateril Manor, Gloucestershire

“K
athryn, your dog is looking at me again.”

Kitty Cateril looked up from her needlework to see that indeed her King Charles spaniel was sitting in front of her mother-in-law, eyes fixed on her face. She bit the inside of her cheek to hold back a smile as she patted her leg. “Sillikin, come.”

The small black and tan dog cocked its head, then trotted over, as if expecting a reward for a job well done. Kitty wasn't sure why Sillikin sometimes stared at people, but it seemed to be in disapproval, and her mother-in-law sensed that.

What secret sins could lurk in the soul of straight-backed, gray-haired Lady Cateril? She was the sort of woman often described as beyond reproach. These days, dressed permanently in mourning black, she had been canonized by the heroism and death of her younger son—Kitty's husband, Marcus.

Had Sillikin caught Lady Cateril wishing that the heroism and death had come together? That Marcus hadn't lived, wounded and broken, for seven more years and married someone like Kitty? That devotion to Marcus's
memory hadn't required her to offer Kitty a home? Kitty and her irritating dog.

“I will say again, Kathryn, that you should rename that creature.”

And I will say again,
Kitty supplied silently before saying, “She's too used to the name by now.”

“She's a dumb creature. She cannot care.”

“Then why do dogs respond to their names as people do, Mama?”

Names. So powerful and so often poorly considered. Six years ago, she'd named a wriggling ball of fluff Sillikin. Three years before that, when Kitty had married Marcus, she'd called his mother Mama, in the hope of pleasing the disapproving woman. It had never seemed possible to change to something more formal.

Her bid for approval had been a hopeless cause. Lady Cateril's favorite son, the wounded hero of Roleia, bound to a seventeen-year-old chit? Had she hoped that by using the name Kathryn, the chit would become a sober matron? “Kitty,” she'd said at first meeting, “is a romping sort of name.” There'd been a clear implication that Kitty was a romping sort of person.

Better that than being starchy as a frosted petticoat on a winter washing line!

The weather today wouldn't freeze cotton as stiff as a board, but it was raining. That trapped Kitty in the house, and effectively in this small parlor that smelled of wood smoke and the mustiness that came from long-closed windows. The larger, airier drawing room was rarely used in the colder months, so the fire there was unlit.

She would have liked to retreat to her bedroom even though that, too, lacked a fire, but in Lady Cateril's domain, bedrooms were not sitting rooms. They weren't dining rooms, either. The only time anyone was served food in her bedroom was if she was ill.

Kitty knew she should be grateful to be housed here. Her only other option was to live in cheap lodgings somewhere. At least there she had everything she needed and the estate to walk in.

She had everything except freedom.

In the beginning, she'd rubbed along well enough with her mother-in-law, united in grief. However, when six months had passed, Kitty had followed custom and prepared to put off her widow's weeds. When Lady Cateril realized Kitty had ordered new gowns in gray, fawn, and violet, she'd reacted as if she'd spat on Marcus's grave. When reproaches and then tears hadn't changed Kitty's intent, Lady Cateril had taken to her bed and sent for the doctor. Kitty had been badly shaken, but the rest of the family hadn't seemed alarmed, so she'd stuck to her guns. The first gown had arrived, a very plain gray wool round gown, and she'd worn it, quaking. The next day Lady Cateril had emerged. Nothing more had been said, but a frost had settled.

Kitty had realized then that in Lady Cateril's mind she had only one reason to exist: as Marcus's inconsolable widow. She was as much a monument to his magnificence as the marble plaque in the village church.

CAPTAIN MARCUS EDWARD CATERIL

OF THE 29TH

HERO OF ROLEIA

1782–1815

The words were inscribed on a large alabaster bas-relief that included a shrouded, mourning woman drooping over a plinth. The plaque was white, but the figure was black. Kitty had assumed at first that it was a symbolic representation of grief, but she'd since realized it was supposed to be her. Fixed in drooping black for all eternity.

She'd worn half mourning since then, but when her mourning year had ended, she'd lacked the fortitude to progress to bright colors. Her pretty clothes were stored away, becoming more out of style every day. She'd tried to think of ways to escape, but here she still was, eighteen months after Marcus's death. She had hardly any money and no possibility of desirable employment. She'd gone straight from school to marriage.

She picked up Sillikin. Through the most difficult times, the spaniel had been her confidant and consolation and had heard all that Kitty's pride had kept silent from people.
We'll find a way,
she said silently to the dog.
There has to be a way—

The door burst open and Lord Cateril entered, eyes wild. “The most dreadful news!”

Lady Cateril started upright, a hand to her chest. “John?” she gasped, meaning her surviving son. “The children!”

“The princess. Princess Charlotte is dead!”

There was a moment of stillness as Kitty and Lady Cateril took in his words. Princess Charlotte, second in line to the throne, who'd been due to deliver her first child, the hope of the future, was
dead
?

“No!”

For once, Kitty and her mother-in-law were completely in harmony.

“The child?” Lady Cateril asked desperately.

“A son. Also dead.” Lord Cateril sank into a chair by his wife's side and took her hand. “All hope is gone.”

It was overly portentous, but Kitty knew what he meant. The king and queen had presented the nation with seventeen children, but now, nearly sixty years after George III had come to the throne, there had been only one legitimate grandchild, the Regent's daughter, Charlotte. With her dead, what would become of the nation?
The king was old and mad and expected to die at any moment. The Regent was nearing sixty, grossly fat, and led a dissipated life. No one would be surprised if he died soon as well.

His sisters were all middle-aged, and those who had married hadn't produced offspring. Few of his brothers had married, and none of those unions had produced a living child. With the perversity of fate, some had bastards, which were of no use at all.

Kitty's heart ached for the people involved. “Poor woman,” she said. “And her poor family. Royal, but not beyond the hand of fate.”

“Amen,” Lord Cateril said. “The shops and theaters have closed in respect. The court has gone into mourning, of course. But I'm told people of all degrees are putting on black, or at least dark bands.”

“We must do the same,” Lady Cateril said. “The family must wear full black.” In spite of her genuine shock and sorrow, she shot Kitty a triumphant look.

Kitty almost protested, but Lord Cateril agreed. “You're right, my dear. And black bands, aprons, and gloves for the servants. Please gather the household together in the hall. I must read out the news.”

Kitty helped to pass the word, and soon the family and servants stood together in the oak-paneled hall as Lord Cateril read out the letter he'd received. All were affected and many wept. Afterward Kitty went to her room to put on one of her black gowns. If only she'd given them away . . . but it was provident to keep mourning by. No one knew when death would strike, as had just been proved.

As a red-eyed housemaid fastened the back, Kitty resolved two things. She'd return to half mourning after the funeral, along with everyone else except the court. And she would not live this half life any longer.

Somehow she'd find a way to escape. Here was evidence
that life was fleeting. She wouldn't waste what time she had left in the everlasting shadows of Lady Cateril's grief.

*   *   *

The princess's coffin, along with that of her stillborn child, was lowered into the royal vault at Windsor on November 15. Lord Cateril read a letter giving an account of the funeral to the assembled household, and they all prayed again for the princess and the bereaved family.

Kitty went upstairs to take off her black, tempted to move into brightly colored gowns now, but she truly was sorrowful over Princess Charlotte's fate, so half mourning felt correct. She chose gray and wore silver ornaments instead of jet. When she entered the parlor, Lady Cateril's look was flat, which seemed even worse than anger. Strenuous thinking over the past week had brought Kitty no closer to escape. The only prospect was to find employment. She'd discussed the situation with her sister-in-law and raised the possibility that Sarah give her a reference.

“Employment?” Sarah had asked, eyes wide. “Mama would never permit that.”

“She can't stop me.”

“But she can make my life miserable if I assist you.” Sarah was plump, practical, and kind, but not courageous. She never tried to cross Lady Cateril over anything.

Kitty tried another approach. “Don't you think we should try to ease her out of her mourning? She has two fine children still, and six grandchildren—yours and Anabel's.”

Anabel was Lady Cateril's youngest child, who'd married a man who lived three counties away, probably by design. Anabel had as much spine as her mother, so they easily clashed.

“She won't,” Sarah said. “In some ways she likes the effect of it, but it reflects true grief. She always loved Marcus best.”

“Doesn't John mind?”

“He's his father's favorite and he is the heir. Surely you're comfortable here overall, Kathryn. Why would you want to become someone's servant?”

On the surface it was idiotic. She was treated as one of the family, with everything provided for her. She hardly ever had to touch the small sum left her by Marcus, for any bills were paid by Lord Cateril without complaint.

Kitty had told Sarah the truth. “I want to wear rainbow colors and be joyful.”

“I don't think governesses or companions are encouraged to dress gaudily, or romp around laughing.”

Kitty had had to admit the truth of that, but it didn't change her mind. She was only twenty-seven years old and felt entombed.