Cinderella and the Scarred Viscount
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Sarah Mallory
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23
Chapter One
London society was buzzing with the news: Lord Austerfield, hero of Waterloo, was in town and looking for a wife. Major James Rossington, Fourth Viscount Austerfield, felt his lips thinning as he read the report of his latest appearance at Almack’s.
The newspaper described him as the most eligible bachelor in London. Perhaps that was true, in terms of wealth and rank, but there was no disguising the injuries he had suffered throughout his army career. Injuries that had people staring at him in the street, and made acquaintances so uncomfortable it was as much as they could do to look at him. Muttering, Ross folded the newspaper and threw it aside. He had had enough. He would go back to Auster as soon as he could arrange it. He didn’t want a wife and he was damned if he would spend another minute looking for one.
The family wouldn’t like it, of course; they were desperate for him to find a suitable bride. Dido, his widowed older sister, and his aunt Beatrix, Countess of Malham, had begun their offensive in the spring, persuading him that he should go to London for the season. He had bowed to the pressure, which was easier than withstanding the onslaught of those two formidable ladies, but he had spent six miserable weeks in town and now he wanted nothing more than to return to the peace and solitude of Auster.
The crowded streets were bad enough, but it was as much as he could do to enter Almack’s. It wasn’t just the stares—or worse, the way some acquaintances avoided looking at him—it was the memories it evoked. The last ball he had attended had been the Duchess of Richmond’s, on the eve of Quatre Bras, and the loud chatter and hot, overcrowded rooms in King Street brought the horrors of what followed rushing back.
Somehow, he had got through that first visit to the Marriage Mart and managed to attend twice more. On each occasion he had gone to bed exhausted, yet his sleep had been shattered by terrifying nightmares full of noise and pain and loss.
His glance fell to the papers scattered over his desk: bills, letters, invitations. It would all need to be dealt with before he could leave London. Why the devil had he allowed himself to be persuaded to come here?
He knew the answer, of course. Guilt. He had not wanted to become viscount, and when he had heard of his brother’s death, he had railed against it, angry that his brother had not married and produced an heir, so that he, Ross, might continue with his career as a soldier. But Sebastian had seen no reason to rush into marriage; he had been enjoying himself too much.
Ross remembered his bitter resentment when he had read that last letter. It had reached him on the eve of Waterloo when his mind was fixed upon the forthcoming struggle against Bonaparte. Seb wrote of his success at the York races and the charms of his latest mistress, whom he had taken with him to Comers. Only later did Ross learn that even as he was reading that letter, his brother was already dead, having broken his neck in a riding accident.
A quiet cough interrupted his reverie.
‘Lady Malham and the Honourable Mrs Burnley to see you, my lord. I have shown them into the drawing room.’
Ross looked up at the butler, his face inscrutable.
‘Thank you, Tyler. See that they have refreshments, will you? I will be with them directly.’
He pulled all the papers into one pile, wishing he might have put off this meeting but knowing it was impossible. He was a soldier; he could deal with recalcitrant lower ranks, argue his case with fellow officers and even hold his own with brigadiers and colonels. But women, and specifically the women of his family, were another matter altogether.
Girding his loins for the coming fight, he pushed himself out of his chair and prepared for battle.
The two ladies waiting for him in the drawing room looked harmless enough. Both matrons of middling years, they were elegantly attired in the latest summer fashions and were sitting at their ease in two of the armchairs, while a small table before them held an array of tiny cakes and two glasses of the Viscount’s finest Madeira for their delectation.
But looks, as Ross knew, could be deceptive. After initial greetings had been exchanged, his aunt Beatrix went directly to the attack.
‘I thought to see you at Lady Fretwood’s ball last night, my lord. Where were you?’
‘I did not wish to go.’ Ross poured a glass of wine for himself and sat down. ‘I shall be leaving London shortly.’
‘Leaving!’ Beatrix sat up in her chair. ‘But you have not been here five minutes.’
‘On the contrary, I have been here several weeks.’
Dido said hopefully, ‘Perhaps my brother has found a lady to his liking and has been invited out of town for the summer. Is that it, Ross?’
‘No, it is not. I have decided to end this foolish charade.’
‘There is nothing foolish about it,’ retorted Lady Malham. ‘You must take a wife.’
Dido’s hand came up and his aunt, recognising this as a warning, drew a breath before continuing in a milder tone, ‘It has been two years since Sebastian died. A good eighteen months since you left the army. There can be no excuse for further delay, James. At five-and-thirty it is time for you to choose a bride.’
James! No one had called him that for years. He had always been Ross to his family, except when they were seriously displeased with him.
Dido noticed his frown and said quickly, ‘Indeed, it is your duty to do so, Brother. We really do not want that wretch Amos Paston inheriting the title.’
‘But why not?’ Ross raised his brows. ‘I know he doesn’t bear the Rossington name, but the ancient patent is very clear: as the son of Father’s eldest sister, he is my legitimate heir.’
‘But the man is a toad,’ Beatrix declared. ‘His nose was very much put out of joint when he learned you had survived Waterloo.’
‘Really? Since I returned to England he has gone out of his way to help me recover.’
Beatrix gave an unladylike snort. ‘His father was a money-grubbing little man. My father would never have agreed to the marriage if they had not eloped and it became necessary to hush it up. He always maintained Fred Paston had no breeding. His son is of the same ilk.’
‘At least he doesn’t press me to take a wife!’ Ross retorted, his patience beginning to wear thin. ‘In fact, when I mentioned the idea, he advised me not to rush into anything.’
‘Of course he doesn’t want you to marry, he is your heir!’ Beatrix retorted. ‘But we digress. It is your marriage that concerns us, Austerfield. You know what is required, a well-mannered woman of impeccable breeding.’
Dido added her mite. ‘There are any number of women in town who fit that description. Some of them are exceedingly handsome, too.’ She clasped her hands together and regarded him with a hint of desperation in her eyes. ‘All you need do is choose one.’
‘And make sure she has good teeth,’ Beatrix advised him.
Ross’s flare of anger had died down and now his lips twitched. ‘My dear aunt, I am not buying a horse.’
‘Same principal,’ she replied crisply. ‘She will be the mother of your heir. She needs to be sound in wind and limb. A modicum of intelligence would be quite useful, too. And of course, she must have all the usual accomplishments.’
‘Perhaps I should allow you to choose for me,’ he muttered, his irritation growing again.
Dido regarded him with a look of mild disdain. ‘This is no laughing matter, James! The succession is in your hands.’
He was very tempted to reply that, surely, they meant it was in his loins. It would almost certainly see both ladies flounce out of the house in high dudgeon, but his good manners surfaced and he kept quiet.
‘Actually, Austerfield has a point,’ remarked Beatrix, sipping thoughtfully at her wine. ‘It might well be best if we select an eligible bride. After all, we know exactly what is required—’
Suddenly Ross saw the situation slipping out of his control.
‘Absolutely no need for that,’ he said tersely. ‘I have already seen a suitable young lady. Two, in fact.’
Dido clapped her hands together. ‘Oh, Ross, do tell!’
‘I met them at Almack’s the other night. Danced with them both.’ Not that there was any avoiding it, after their mother had almost thrust them under his nose. ‘They are sisters. The Misses Bettridge.’
‘Well, well!’ said Dido, her eyes brightening. ‘I am not personally acquainted with the family, but I have seen them about town. Two very pretty young ladies, excellent manners and good figures—what they call willowy, I believe. Do you know the family, Aunt?’
‘Not well, but they are perfectly respectable. Lord Bettridge suffers from poor health and hasn’t been seen in town for years, so it falls to his wife to try to find husbands for the gels.’ The Countess pursed her lips. ‘Having two daughters myself, I cannot blame the woman if she is a little, er, eager in putting them forward. Which of them do you prefer, Austerfield?’
‘I really could not say.’ In truth, Ross was hard-pressed to tell them apart. ‘I need to, er, improve my acquaintance with them.’
‘Then you have not given up the idea of marriage,’ exclaimed Dido. ‘What a tease you are, Brother! We came here thinking you did not have anyone in mind as your prospective bride, when in fact there are two.’
‘Which is very good news.’ Lady Malham rose and shook out her skirts. ‘We will leave you to pursue your interest with one or other of these young ladies, James. But Dido and I will put our heads together and decide upon a few more suitable gels, in case the Misses Bettridge should prove unsatisfactory.’
When his visitors had gone, Ross walked across to the side table to pour himself more wine, then he stared at the empty wall. A large mirror had been fixed there, until he had had it removed when he came to town. He did not need a looking glass to remind him of his hideous scars. He raised his glass in a mocking salute.
‘Well, my lord, it appears you will have to go at least one more step in this damned farce, after all.’
Morwood Manor was basking in the late June sun, soaking up the heat in the creamy stone walls. Windows and doors had been thrown open to allow what little breeze there was to waft through the building and even Lord Bettridge had been coaxed out of doors to sit in a shady spot on the terrace with a shawl about his thin shoulders and a rug wrapped around his knees. It was here that Carenza found him.
‘Papa, there is an express come from Tavistock Square!’
He looked tired but his face brightened when he saw her hurrying towards him. She held out the letter but he waved it away.
‘I pray you will read it, my love. Your sharp eyes are so much better than mine.’ He watched anxiously as she broke the seal and read the note. ‘What is it, Carenza, have the girls been taken ill? Or perhaps some accident has befallen your mama!’
She is not my mama!
No matter how many times Papa used the term she could not help herself silently, stubbornly, correcting him. She had been but five years old when Papa had brought home his new bride, little more than a year after the death of the first Lady Bettridge. Carenza had tried to be a dutiful daughter but she could not love her stepmama and she knew the feeling was mutual.
‘No one is ill,’ she assured him, after reading the first few lines.
‘Then you may precis it for me, if you would, my love,’ he murmured as Carenza sat down on the bench beside him. ‘I am sure it is full of details about their stay in town, but it tires me too much to hear of all their gadding about.’
‘Yes, of course, sir. However, this letter is mercifully short.’
No more than Papa did Carenza enjoy her stepmama’s boastful and exhaustive accounts of all the new gowns they had ordered, every ball and party they had attended and how many times dear Letitia and Adelaide had been asked to dance. Surprisingly, there was nothing of that nature in this short missive.
Carenza gave a tiny gasp. ‘They are on their way home, Papa! Lady Bettridge says they are cutting short their stay in town because Viscount Austerfield has shown a particular interest.’ She looked up, her eyes wide. ‘She has invited him to Morwood!’
‘A viscount.’ Her father chuckled. ‘Gertrude must be in raptures. I suppose it is Letty who has captured his fancy—she is the older of the two.’
‘It does not say.’ Carenza looked at the letter again, in case she had missed something, but no. ‘How strange. All she says is that we are to set the house in readiness. She expects to be home with Letty and Adelaide on Wednesday. The Viscount is to follow a day or so later. Good heavens, we have less than a week to prepare!’
‘Your mama will wish to impress our guest.’ Her father’s thin fingers plucked anxiously at the rug across his knees. ‘It must be the best guest chamber, naturally. And he will have a carriage, servants. His valet, of course...’
‘None of this need concern you, Papa.’ Carenza put her hand over his and squeezed it. ‘I will have a word with Mrs Trudby, who will see to everything indoors, and I will ask Fewston to make room in the stables for His Lordship’s horses. May I tell them to hire extra help from the village, if they need it?’
‘Why, yes, my love. You have no need to ask me about such matters, I trust your judgement on anything to do with the household.’
‘Thank you, Papa.’
She sat with him for another half an hour, until Evans appeared, but even after the valet had helped her father away to his room to rest before dinner, she remained sitting on the bench, her mind going over all the preparations for the Viscount’s visit. Between them, she and Mrs Trudby, the housekeeper, would arrange everything satisfactorily. However, Lady Bettridge would want everything just so, and if any detail fell below her exacting standards, Carenza knew the blame would land squarely upon her shoulders.
Ross swung the curricle towards the open gates of Morwood Manor and drove through without checking, a manoeuvre that caused the one-armed man sitting beside him to mutter a curse and an exhortation to his master not to be so damned reckless. Ross merely laughed.
‘Losing your nerve, Sam?’
‘Not I, Major,’ retorted his groom. ‘But I ain’t lost the will to live, neither!’
‘I have not overturned you yet, and I don’t intend to start now.’
‘No, and I don’t suppose you means to injure those greys you’ve paid a fortune for, either. But you will, Major, you mark my words, if you carries on driving in that neck or nothing fashion.’
Many masters would consider such blunt speech to be gross insubordination, but Ross had known his groom a long time. They had fought together in the Peninsula, in the days when Ross had been a young, inexperienced officer and Sam a corporal. He had valued the man’s opinion then and he still did. In his heart he knew Sam was right and now slowed the pace to a gentle trot.
‘I beg your pardon,’ he said ruefully. ‘Since being injured, my temper has become far more hasty. I have been venting my anger on my horses.’
‘What beats me is why you agreed to break your journey here, when Basingstoke has a perfectly good posting inn.’
His mood somewhat mellowed, Ross shrugged. ‘I was bounced into it, but having allowed myself to be invited, I cannot cry off now. However, I do not intend to stay more than a day or two. Ah, here we are.’
The house was in sight, a fine stone building of the last century set within a small park.
‘Remember,’ he barked, guiding the curricle around the final sweeping curve of the drive, ‘we will not be here long, so do not make yourself too comfortable in your quarters!’
‘So, my dear. We have been summoned,’ declared Lord Bettridge as he descended the stairs to join his daughter in the hall.
‘Yes, Papa. I believe Lord Austerfield is expected shortly.’
Carenza waited patiently while Evans helped her father down the final few steps.
‘And we will be gathered in state to greet him.’
Lord Bettridge thanked his man and beckoned Carenza to take his free arm; then, leaning heavily on his ebony stick, they walked slowly across the hall to the drawing room.
‘I understand your sisters have been at their dressing tables all morning, prettifying themselves.’
‘Yes, they have.’ Carenza laughed. ‘Adelaide told me she was awake half the night with excitement and Letty changed her gown at least three times this morning before returning to her original choice!’
‘And you, Carenza? What have you done to prettify yourself for our visitor?’
‘Me? I have changed my gown, but I have no expectations that the Viscount will notice me.’
He had come to see Letty and Adelaide, so what did it matter that the pale blue muslin with its excessive adornment of lace and ribbons did not suit her? She had chosen it because it was the newest and most recent of her dresses, all of them made-over gowns that had been rejected as outmoded or unwanted by her half-sisters. Letitia and Adelaide were taller than Carenza, but they were both on the thin side: modishly slender, according to their mother. Two rashers of wind was how Mrs Trudby had described them, in an unguarded moment.
It was easy enough to shorten the skirts but it took some ingenuity upon the part of Carenza and Mrs Trudby to alter the gowns to fit Carenza’s more generous curves, but the result was generally satisfactory. She could have ordered a new gown from the seamstress in the village, even at such short notice, but it would have meant asking Papa for more money, and explaining to him that she received not a penny of the generous dress allowance he made to Lady Bettridge. That would only cause an argument, and with Papa’s heart being so weak, Carenza did everything she could to spare him any upset.
‘The Viscount might well notice you, if you did not wear that lace cap,’ he said now, with uncharacteristic severity. ‘It makes you look like an old maid.’
‘At five-and-twenty I am an old maid,’ she reminded him, laughing and in no wise offended. They paused while she opened the drawing room door. ‘Naturally, I am anxious his visit should go off well, but it can make little difference to me.’
‘Please do not keep your father at the door, Carenza!’ Lady Bettridge’s shrill voice was like a shower of cold rain. ‘You know he cannot stand for too long!’
No longer having any desire to smile, Carenza escorted her father to his chair and made sure he was comfortable. She arranged the cushion at his back, rested his ebony cane against the wall and moved a small table closer, in readiness for the refreshments, when they were offered. Her half-sisters were slumped on either end of a sofa, looking bored, but Carenza did not suggest they help her with any of this. They made a show of filial obedience and fawned over Papa whenever they wanted new gowns or extra dancing lessons, but otherwise they paid little heed to his comfort.
‘And why did you have to bring in your papa?’ Lady Bettridge continued, her tone sharp. ‘Evans could have done it just as well and you would have been free to make sure everything is in readiness for Lord Austerfield’s visit.’
‘I have already done that, ma’am,’ Carenza replied. ‘The servants will have the Viscount’s valet and his bags sent up to the Blue Bedchamber when they arrive. You informed me His Lordship will be driving himself in his curricle, with his manservant following in the chaise. I have instructed space to be cleared for the carriages and the extra horses. I have just come in from talking to Fewston about it.’
‘Good heavens, girl, do you not know better than to visit the stables in a clean gown?’ Lady Bettridge’s eyes snapped angrily. ‘I have a good mind to send you to your room!’
‘Viscount Austerfield, my lady!’
The footman’s sonorous pronouncement worked like magic upon the company. Lady Bettridge’s angry speech ended abruptly; Letitia and Adelaide jerked upright, straightening their shoulders and composing their features into smiles, while Carenza sat down quickly, curious to catch her first glimpse of their visitor. Her stepmama and half-sisters had offered very little information about Viscount Austerfield and she had received the impression that he was old and ill-favoured, although presumably these disadvantages were as nothing when weighed against his title and his fortune. Thus, when the Viscount walked in, she suffered a severe shock.
Carenza had been sorely misled. To begin with, Lord Austerfield was not old. She guessed he could not be much over thirty, and as for being ill-favoured, it was nothing of the sort. He was above average height and powerfully built with broad shoulders and a deep chest. He moved confidently and had the straight back and upright bearing of a soldier. From her chair in the corner, she could see nothing amiss in the Viscount’s profile. It was a strong face with lean cheeks and a straight nose, but from the light brown hair brushed back from his brow to the sculpted lips and firm jaw, Carenza thought him handsome. She felt a slight fluttering deep inside. Very handsome, in fact.
She watched as Lady Bettridge flew up from her chair to welcome the Viscount, fawning about him, solicitously suggesting he should sit down and even pressing him to take a glass of wine before she realised he was waiting to be presented to his host. The introduction was hastily made and the two men exchanged a few words.
The Viscount’s voice was deep and well-modulated. As attractive as his profile, thought Carenza. She would have been happy to listen to him speak for much longer but the conversation was cut short by Lady Bettridge.
‘Such a journey you have had, Lord Austerfield, you must be fatigued. I pray you will sit down and take your ease.’
‘My dear,’ Lord Bettridge interrupted her, his tone perfectly pleasant but resolute, ‘I fear there has been an omission. You have not presented His Lordship to Carenza.’ He turned back to their guest. ‘My eldest daughter, Lord Austerfield.’
The Viscount had his back to Carenza but she did not miss the way his head went up and the slight straightening of his body, indicative of surprise. So, he had not been told there was another unmarried daughter at home. Worse, he had not been interested enough in the family to find out. If he had noticed her at all as he entered, he probably thought her a poor relation, not worthy of attention.
He was gazing at his host and he said now, a trifle uncertainly, ‘Miss, er, Bettridge?’
Carenza felt no sympathy for the Viscount’s embarrassment. If he could not bestir himself to learn something of his hosts before descending upon them, then he deserved none.
‘That’s it, my lord.’ Papa gave him an encouraging nod.
Carenza quickly schooled her face into an expression of polite welcome, but as the Viscount turned towards her, the smile froze on her lips.
In contrast to the right side of his face, which she had seen when he entered, the left was disfigured by a web of scars that stretched from temple to jawline and beyond, disappearing beneath the collar of his fine linen shirt.
‘Miss Bettridge, I am delighted to meet you.’
He made her a very elegant bow, apparently indifferent to his appearance, but when he straightened Carenza noticed that his grey-green eyes were wary. Her animosity disappeared and she wanted only to put him at his ease. She gave him her friendliest smile, but before she could utter a word, Lady Bettridge came bustling up.
‘Carenza, go and tell Hutton to bring in the wine. And on your return, fetch up the little cakes from the kitchens.’
Colour flared in her cheeks. She was accustomed to the peremptory tone but she had seen the Viscount’s look of surprise, the haughty lift of his brows, and she was embarrassed for Lady Bettridge. She thought, as she hurried away, that all her stepmama’s plans would come to naught if such behaviour gave the Viscount a disgust of the family.
