Page 2 of Two Vows and a Viscount

“Good afternoon, Uncle,” Ella trilled, smiling with full awareness that he knew her low opinion of his character.

Her aunt seated herself, flipping open a fan that she could hide behind. “Good afternoon, Lord St. Trevelyon. How are you this fine afternoon?”

The viscount ignored her question, preoccupied by nudging the woolen pad tied to his right calf into position. Ella had noticed that her uncle had begun stuffing his stockings to enhance the appearance of his thin legs, but the pads had an unfortunate habit of migrating to the front.

She amused herself by imagining her teacup flying through the air, a tide of brown liquid splattering her uncle’s immaculate neck cloth and his chin as well. Her eyes lingered there for a moment; that round chin resembled nothing so much as a speckled egg, no matter how often he shaved.

Drat! That was Unkind Thought #3. Ella was trying to limit herself to four unkind thoughts a day, a mission to ensure that she didn’t become an embittered spinster.

Old maid she would certainly be, since no matter how her aunt talked of marriage, her only prospects were serving as an unpaid housekeeper or becoming a governess. Still, she refused to curdle like sour milk. Her parents would have expected more from her.

Actually, her mother and father would have expected her to debut with Fulvia as her companion. But that was life. After her parents perished six years ago, she and her cousin had promptly switched places in the world.

With a wave of his slender hand, the viscount sent Jarvis back to the house. “I bring good tidings of great joy.”

Ella caught back a laugh at her uncle’s quotation of the biblical announcement of the baby Jesus’s birth. Her uncle was no angel. That did not count as Unkind Thought #4, because it was an evident truth.

He cast her a dark look, apparently catching the amusement in her eyes.

“How wonderful,” her aunt chirped. “May I pour you a cup of tea, my lord? It is a custom blend of Pekoe and Imperial.”

“I scarcely think that a custom blended tea is required when the viscountess is not entertaining guests.”

His wife flinched and started nervously stirring her tea.

“Au contraire,” Ella exclaimed. “Ladies drink it in order to control their appetites, Uncle. You, of all people, understand the importance of a slender figure.” She beamed at his scowl. Her uncle was fanatical on the subject of women’s figures and regularly put his wife on slimming diets.

Luckily, Ella and Jarvis conspired to supply buttered toast so that her aunt didn’t faint from privation.

“Gluttony may be curbed in other ways,” the viscount said bitingly. “No sugar, for instance.”

The viscountess guiltily put down her spoon.

Fulvia sighed. “This subject is distasteful. I, for one, would like to hear the good news. I trust yours has to do with my debut? We are perilously close to the ball to celebrate the celebratory ball, with scarcely a new garment on hand.”

The viscount surveyed his daughter from head to foot. Fulvia smirked back at him with complete confidence, tossing her curls behind her shoulder. Ella had to admit that her cousin was a match for her bullying father. His most withering comments flowed past her like water through a sieve: she simply did not hear them.

“Thank God, you inherited your mother’s beauty,” his lordship pronounced, with acid emphasis. “That gown, Daughter, is unrefined.” The bodice of Fulvia’s gown was trimmed in inexpensive white satin ruffles that took on a yellow tint in the sunshine.

“True, it lacks a diamond bracelet,” his daughter replied, demonstrating her nimble ability to ignore censure. “La Belle Assemblée said last month that a string of pearls or diamonds should accent a lady’s upper arm.”

The viscount’s eyes slid, snakelike, to his wife. “I consider it your failure that our daughter looks as overdone as a butcher’s wife on Sunday.”

Ella hastily intervened. “My aunt did suggest that the gown was over-trimmed.”

“Her opinion is irrelevant!” Fulvia retorted. “I understand fashion better than either of you. You must admit, Mother, that your ideas are hopelessly out of date. Your sleeves are too long, and the fullness of your skirt emphasizes your belly, to call a spade a spade.”

“Fulvia,” Ella said, “ ‘belly’ is not a word that a young lady should utter. Nor should she be impertinent to her mother.”

“I apologize, Mother,” Fulvia said with a shrug.

“How interesting.” Her uncle’s eyes narrowed. “I see.”

“Just what do you see?” Fulvia demanded. “I ought to be about London ordering clothing, Father. Have you forgotten the ball?”

“I see that it’s a good thing I have arranged your marriage,” her father answered.

Fulvia squeaked and clapped her hands. “Marvelous! To who, Father?”