“Isn’t it obvious? You’ve no dowry. You’re but a cousin to the current laird, and your paternal grandfather—”
“Second cousin,” Vivienne interjected, grinning at Mr Sloane. “What you’re trying to say is Lucian Hart’s choice of career means I fall beneath acceptable standards.”
The lady raised her chin. “Many gentlemen frown upon your grandfather’s seafaring background. Edinburgh society would suit you so much better.”
The viscount laughed. “So, the lady’s ancestor was a pirate, too. Did this fellow escape the noose? Did he go unpunished because he had connections to the aristocracy? Did you inherit a fortune despite being the offspring of a criminal?”
A darkness fell over Mr Sloane’s fine features.
A darkness of satanic proportion.
“A criminal? Livingston Sloane served the Crown. I
have proof.” Evan Sloane gritted his teeth. “Next time we meet, I shall stuff the document down your throat and watch you choke.” He cricked his neck. “Beware. I intend to inform everyone of the false charges made against my grandfather. I intend to ensure you’re made to grovel for the mistake.”
Vivienne should have been petrified, but Mr Sloane radiated a raw masculinity she found highly arousing. Indeed, she was keen to bring the conversation to an end. Keen to ensure Mr Sloane kept calm, for the viscount was no match for the virile gentleman clutching her hand.
“My lady, might I ask how you learned of my betrothal before I had a chance to tell you personally?” Did the woman have anything to hide? Would she confess?
Consumed with her thoughts, it took the countess a moment to reply. “Mr Ramsey came to see me, concerned by your sudden announcement. We have called at Silver Street more than a handful of times these last three days.”
“I’ve struggled to sleep since the intruder tore through my home, and needed a brief respite.” The countess believed the blackguard was an opportunistic thief and knew nothing of the mask left behind.
The lady’s face turned ashen. “Blessed Lord! Tell me you are not this gentleman’s guest.”
“I am Lord and Lady Hawkridge’s guest and will reside there until the wedding.”
The countess appeared mildly appeased. “You’ll need help with your trousseau. Your mother would have insisted I take on the role. And it would be better for everyone concerned if you stayed with me in Russell Square.”
Vivienne might have found the kind gesture touching. But she noted a hint of desperation in the woman’s voice, feared the countess would resort to manipulation in the hope of changing Vivienne’s mind.
An inner war raged.
You need to align yourself with me, not the countess.
Mr Sloane’s comment raced through her mind. And as much as she was grateful to the friend who had nursed her mother during those final hours, a feeling deep in her chest said she could not completely trust the countess.
“Buchanan and Mrs McCready remain my loyal companions. And Mr Sloane has opened an account with a fashionable modiste. Besides, we are to marry in a matter of days.” Vivienne took it upon herself to taunt Charles Sloane. “A marriage between descendants of Lucian Hart and Livingston Sloane is what our grandfathers wanted. An alliance will reap untold rewards.”
“I daresay all pirates keep to a code.”
Upon witnessing his cousin’s sneer, Mr Sloane took a single step forward. It was enough to make the fop retreat. “Should I discover you’re prying into my affairs, I shall take a cutlass and gut you like a fish.” He bowed to the countess. “We shall post an announcement in the broadsheets. You’re welcome to visit my wife at Keel Hall. I trust you enjoy the rest of your evening.”
Without further comment, and keeping a tight grip on Vivienne’s hand, Mr Sloane led her from the room and down the crowded staircase to join the exuberant throng.
The first strains of a waltz reached her ears.
“Dance with me, Vivienne.” Mr Sloane drew her towards the large double doors leading to the ballroom. “Else I’m likely to storm upstairs and rip that popinjay’s head off his shoulders.”
Music drifted through the hall, teasing her with its sensual rhythm. All thoughts turned to the dance, to the feel of his warm hand on her back, the nearness of his body, the intoxicating scent of his cologne. Every nerve tingled with anticipation until a buxom lady in the garb of a serving wench blocked their path.
“Sloane, I’ve been searching for you all night. I believe this dance is mine.” She stared at Vivienne through the eye slits of a silk mask. “The fairy can wait her turn. Old friends take precedence.”
“Mrs Worthing.” Mr Sloane removed the woman’s wandering hand from his chest. “I’m afraid I must decline the invitation and correct your misconception. The lady is a sea nymph, and soon to be my wife.”
“Wife!” the wench scoffed. “Wife! Oh, you’re a devil of a tease. I suppose I can wait. Let the fairy have her dance. Meet me outside afterwards, and we shall find a secluded corner of the garden so you can tease me some more.”
Jealousy slithered through Vivienne, hissing wicked taunts. It took every effort not to pull the blade from the gentleman’s boot and press the point to Mrs Worthing’s throat. But words spoken with calm assurance carried a deadlier blow.