Page 1 of Two Vows and a Viscount

THE SEDUCTION, BOOK II

CHAPTER ONE

IN WHICH WE MEET MISS ELLA ST. TREVELYON

TOWNHOUSE BELONGING TO VISCOUNT ST. TREVELYON

CHELSEA

THE GARDEN.

March 30, 1815

At 3 p.m., Miss Fenella Grey put down the storeroom inventory, donned an afternoon frock, and walked down the lawn to meet her aunt and cousin for tea. The Viscountess St. Trevelyon always asked her to join them, clinging to the idea that Ella was a cherished member of the family.

As opposed to an overworked housekeeper, who happened to be a relation.

The back lawn of the St. Trevelyon townhouse stretched to the Thames River. This afternoon was unseasonably sunny, and the lacy struts of the riverside pagoda shone white against beds of daffodils bending in a light wind. Years ago, Ella’s father—the current viscount’s brother—had built the pagoda for the delight of his wife and daughter.

To Ella, the memory felt like a storybook she had read but not experienced. Did her mother teach her to embroider there, laughingly complimenting her uneven stitches, or was that a dream? Did her father put her on his shoulders so that she could see into a robin’s nest, or was that an imaginary anecdote, spurred by loneliness?

The viscountess and Ella’s cousin Fulvia were already seated, looking like an illustration for La Belle Assemblée. Even at thirty-two, her aunt’s hair matched her daughter’s pale gold, and she looked young enough to be Fulvia’s elder sister. The family butler, Jarvis, was bending over them, offering a platter of scones. Ella smiled at him. “Did Cook manage to find currants, Jarvis?”

Jarvis bowed. “At the eleventh hour, my lady. The scones are still hot.” Like his mistress, Jarvis ignored Ella’s lowly position—except during those hours when a housekeeper and butler necessarily work in tandem.

At breakfast, for example, the viscount had announced that he would join the family for tea. Since his lordship’s scones must have currants—and since his tantrums dominated not a nursery, but an entire household—Ella and Jarvis had hurriedly dispatched a footman to purchase the desired fruit.

“Ella, darling, do sit down,” the viscountess said. She waved the plate of scones away. “Oh, no, I mustn’t eat a thing, Jarvis. My waistline is swelling in a most unbecoming fashion.”

“You had very little breakfast, my lady,” the butler murmured.

“Ella, I’ve seen that gown one hundred times at least,” Fulvia said, wrinkling her nose. “There’s no reason for you to wear rags. Mother, you must insist that my cousin accompany us to a modiste.”

“I scarcely go anywhere,” Ella pointed out, accepting a currant-studded scone and a piece of cake to boot. She had been working since five in the morning and had worked up a ravenous appetite.

“But you shall accompany us to the ball celebrating Fulvia’s debut, and those that follow during the Season,” her aunt said with a warm smile. “Your uncle remarked at dinner last night that your absence might cause people to question your virtue. More importantly, you, too, need to find a husband. So, you must order new gowns for the evening and yes, for morning calls as well. Fulvia is right, dear, you cannot receive gentlemen callers in that faded calico.”

Jarvis handed her a teacup, and their eyes met with an unspoken understanding: The viscountess was darling, but hopelessly impractical. How could Ella, who was given neither an allowance nor a salary, afford even one evening gown, let alone an entire wardrobe?

“His lordship is coming!” the viscountess exclaimed, putting down her teacup.

Sure enough, Viscount St. Trevelyon was striding down the lawn, frowning as he adjusted the frothing lace at his wrists. An imaginative person might think that a chilly wind accompanied him; Ella fancied that the grass withered beneath his feet.

Certainly, her aunt looked frost-bitten on a regular basis.

“Ella, mend your bearing!” the viscountess hissed. “And Fulvia, a more ladylike expression, if you please.”

Fulvia obediently put on a simpering smile. Ella crossed her legs at the ankle and folded her hands. Her uncle preferred that ladies be entangled in their own limbs, unable to run screaming from the room.

Ella considered her uncle akin to a wolf: carnivorous and prone to howling. Everyone in the household had learned to read the apex predator’s moods. As his lordship was manifestly unimaginative, he dressed in black when angry, and in colors when merely piqued. Today the viscount was wearing a bronze-colored velvet coat lined with striped, green silk. His neckcloth was olive and tied in the Mathematical.

So: a good mood, scowl notwithstanding.

When the viscount reached them, his wife and daughter sprang to their feet and dropped into deep curtsies, heads bowed. Ella stood up but didn’t bother to bow her head; her curtsy barely escaped being disrespectful.

As a penniless relation literally relegated to the attic, she had to take her pleasures where she could find them.

“Viscountess,” Lord St. Trevelyon said, bowing his head. “Daughter.” He paused as he eyed Ella.