I am so excited!
The Viscount's Vow comes out June 5th. Which is NEXT FRIDAY! I can hardly believe it. I feel so attached to this book and the characters. I hope you love Edward and Charlotte as much as I do.
Here's the first chapter. Tell me what you think!
The Viscount's Vow
Chapter One
Copyrighted Material
Edward’s pulse was racing. He could hear the
pounding of the cannons, a staccato rumble that
penetrated the fog surrounding
his brain. He had to move. He had to find Marcus and get to a more
secure
location. Why couldn’t he move? What the devil?
“My lord, open the
door!”
The voice calling
to him definitely wasn’t his commanding officer, Christian Wolverton. It
sounded like his butler, Jefferson. But what would he be doing on the
battlefield?
Edward clenched
his fists and tried to clear his head. He slowly became aware of soft carpet
beneath his head. Where was he? Opening one eye, he saw an unlit fireplace in
front of him. Not on a battlefield, then. The voice calling to him really was
Jefferson. Coming fully awake, he remembered. He was at his townhouse in
London.
“What is it,
Jefferson?” His voice came out as little more than a croak. His mouth was dry
and felt stuffed with linen. Swallowing, he tried again. “What is it!”
“I must speak to
you. It is quite urgent.” Jefferson sounded out of sorts. Much like Edward
felt.
He rose from the
floor and dusted himself off. Looking down, the shirt and breeches he wore were
horribly wrinkled. His evening jacket and waistcoat had been discarded on the
desk. He couldn’t see his cravat anywhere. His valet would be vastly
disappointed. Gibbs was a stickler for keeping Edward’s wardrobe impeccably
maintained and turning him out in the first stare of fashion.
Squinting his eyes
against the sunlight that had managed to filter through the heavy brocade
curtains, he tried to remember where he’d been last night. The Kensington ball.
That’s right. They’d had plenty of champagne and brandy in which Edward had
freely indulged. He didn’t remember coming home, though.
Rotating his
shoulders to shake off the aches from sleeping on the floor, he opened the door,
eyeing his butler. “What is it, Jefferson?”
Jefferson stared
at him as if he were an otherworldly spirit come to haunt him. “My lord,” he
said, averting his eyes from Edward's unbuttoned and untucked shirt, not out of
modesty, but to hide his disapproval. Jefferson was nothing if not proper.
Edward leaned
against the doorjamb. He refused to ask for a fourth time. Instead, he would
just wait for Jefferson to collect himself and state what the matter was.
Besides, speaking made the ache in his head worse, and he’d decided on the spot
to do as little of it as possible.
“My lord.” Jefferson
looked behind him, then leaned in. “Your mother has arrived. I put her
in the drawing room, but she is most insistent that she have an audience with
you immediately.”
Edward groaned and
his shoulders slumped against the wall. “Did you tell her I am indisposed?”
Jefferson bobbed
his head. “Several times. She just marched past me and raised her eyebrows.”
Lowering his head,
Edward rubbed his temples. His mother was barely five feet tall, but she had a
commanding presence. “Fine. Tell her I'll be down directly.”
Jefferson motioned
to someone coming down the corridor, urging him to hurry. “I sent for Gibbs.
And I also ordered a tea tray to be brought to your mother while she waits for
you.”
Gibbs scurried
into view. He was a nervous man, but didn’t ask questions and kept Edward’s
clothes pressed and ready. He could also tie a mathematical knot in a cravat. That
was all Edward needed him to do.
Gibbs bowed. “I
brought you a posset from Cook, my lord. It should help your head.” He handed
Edward the cup and a horrible smell hit Edward the moment it was in his hand.
He reared back.
“What the deuce is in this?”
“Cook’s secret
family recipe, guaranteed to cure a sore head.” Gibbs carefully stepped around
Edward and walked toward the wardrobe. “What would you like to wear to greet
your mother?”
“I won't be
changing.” Edward peered into the murky brown liquid of the posset. Did he dare
drink it? He could just make out some suspicious-looking lumps floating on the
side.
Gibbs turned to
face him, his face aghast. He pointed at Edward’s attire. “But, my lord, your
mother couldn’t possibly be expected to receive you in . . . in . . .”
Edward held his
breath and tossed back the drink as quickly as he could. It tasted as disgusting
as it looked. He swallowed again so he wouldn’t cast up his accounts on Gibbs’s
boots. “My mother is not receiving me. I am receiving her. And as she has
arrived unannounced, she’ll have to take me as I am.”
He handed the
gaping Gibbs his empty cup and strode out into the hallway. As a sort of
compromise, Edward did manage to run his fingers through his hair and tuck in
his shirt. He hadn’t lost the entirety of his manners after all. Reaching the
door of the drawing room, he hesitated to open it. There was only one reason
for her to come to London. One he didn’t want to discuss.
Ever.
If
he didn’t receive her, though, his mother would search the house for him. She
was not one to be put off. With a sigh, he opened the door.
She
was sitting in the high-backed chair near the fireplace, her pale hands in her
lap contrasting with the severe black of her mourning gown---a reminder that he
should also wearing at least a black armband for his own mourning attire. The
thought made his head pound again.
At his entrance,
she stood, and even the whisper of her bombazine gown swishing around her feet
seemed loud. With a quick glance at his apparel, his mother’s mouth pursed into
a tight line. “Edward.”
It
never failed to surprise him how she could make his name sound like an
admonishment. “Mother, what a surprise.”
She
raised both brows and waved toward his attire. “I can see that.”
He
slowly walked to where she stood, gritting his teeth at the pain in his head made
worse by the overly bright room. Who had opened the curtains at this time of
morning? “Could this not have waited until evening?”
Though he wasn’t
planning to be at home then. He anticipated finding another ball or musicale
where alcohol flowed freely and there were enough people to divert him from the
otherwise empty hours stretching eternally in front of him. Too much time to
think. And remember.
The
viscountess sat with a heavy sigh, and Edward gratefully sank into the chair
next to hers. Blinking, he stared at her disapproving face, then turned away.
“I
can’t let this nonsense go on any longer,” she said softly, leaning over and
taking his hand in hers. “I should have come to you weeks ago. Perhaps I could
have saved us both some heartache.”
"Father wouldn't have wanted that."
Edward shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He’d need something to drink if the
conversation went much further.
"He wanted exactly that. Didn't you get his
messages?" His mother's other hand came over to rest on top, sandwiching
his fingers between both of her hands.
"I got them.
But I assumed he was calling me home only to once again remind me of my
station, my duties, and my responsibilities." How was he to know his
father had truly been on his deathbed? He’d thought it another ruse to lure him
home, but now he'd missed the only chance he would ever have to reconcile with
his father---all because of his own pride.
His mother patted
his hand as if he were once again a small boy. "He had so much he wanted
to say to you."
Edward pulled his fingers
away, her touch adding fire to her reprimand. "Yes, I know I've
disappointed you both." He pushed a hand through his hair. "But then,
I was always a disappointment to Father."
Her mother pressed
back into her chair with a long sigh, releasing his hand. "You and your
father had difficulties, but he always loved you."
Edward wanted to
shake his head. His father had loved the idea of molding a son into someone who
cared only for performing their duty and responsibility. There had never been
room for Edward’s own ideas on what his life should be. "Did you come to
discuss Father?"
The door opened,
and his mother paused while the maid brought in a tea service. She set it all
out on the table next to the viscountess and bobbed a curtsy before she left.
When the door was once again shut, his mother poured a cup of tea for him, with
two sugars and a dollop of cream, just how he liked it. With the way his
stomach was roiling, however, he didn't know if he could drink it. He took it
anyway.
She stared at him
over the rim of her cup. "I came to ask you to come home to Hartwell Manor,”
she said before she took a sip.
He couldn't do it. He couldn't go back there. “No.”
She set her saucer
back on the tea tray and faced him, unfazed by his flat refusal. "It's
time, my son. It's been too long, and you're the viscount now. Like it or not,
you have responsibilities and duties that must be tended to."
How many times had
his father said the same thing? That he had duties and responsibilities. That he
was born with duties and responsibilities. Edward stared into the fire,
letting her words wash over him. He never wanted to be in this position---to be
the viscount. That was partly why he’d run away and joined the army. "The
steward is doing a wonderful job. I get weekly reports. There is no reason for me
to be present."
"It's time to
come home. The estate needs you. I need you." His mother's voice
was soft, yet firm.
He looked over at
her with a frown, fear twisting through him. "Are you in ill health, too?
Is that why you're so insistent?"
She held up a hand
in reassurance. "No, no, I'm quite healthy, and God-willing, will stay
that way. But you've been home from the war for months. I'd like to get to know
you again."
There was pleading
in her eyes, and Edward groaned inwardly. How could he refuse his mother? So
many men on the battlefield had called for their mothers at the end, wanting to
see them one more time. He’d survived and had another chance to be in his
mother’s company. He wouldn’t waste it, though he’d rather have more time to control
the night terrors he’d been experiencing since he’d arrived back in England.
"Very well,
Mother. I can come to Hartwell for a few days." He clenched his teeth. He
could likely manage a short visit to Hartwell and be back in London before the
next round of entertainments later in the week.
The viscountess
immediately shook her head. "I'd like you to have an extended stay. You
were gone for two years. Surely you can find it in your heart to stay with your
mother for a month or two." She shifted in her chair and twisted her
fingers in her lap. Edward suddenly realized that she was nervous to ask him to
come home.
He knew what his
duty was regarding the estate and his mother. If nothing else, his father had lectured
him on that topic from the time he could walk. With a sigh, he looked at his
mother’s face. She was still beautiful, but there were shadows under her eyes
and lines around her mouth that hadn’t been there when he left for war. Perhaps
it was time to go home, then. "Of course. I’ll pack for an extended stay."
She clapped her
hands and stood with her arms outstretched. "I'm so pleased. And I know
Charlotte will be as well. She's faithfully waited for you."
Edward stood and
obediently went into his mother's embrace, but his mind was on the woman who’d
faithfully waited. Even just hearing her name caused his chest to constrict.
Charlotte.
Long hair, the
same beautiful color of a good Spanish coffee, teasing eyes, and a ready smile.
The only woman he'd ever loved and the one he was trying to forget.
He clenched his
jaw, pushing the memory away. "I'm sure Charlotte won't be pleased to see
me when David informs her that our betrothal has been broken."
His
mother pulled back, her eyes wide with surprise. She put her fingers to her
mouth and shook her head. “No! Edward, you wouldn’t do that to her. She loves
you.”
“It’s
nearly a fait accompli.” He grimaced. “Another disappointment to add to
your collection regarding my actions.” He stepped back and clasped his hands in
front of him. “I’ll present myself at Hartwell tomorrow, Mother. But you may
regret your invitation.”
He
didn’t wait for his mother’s reply, just gave her a stiff bow before walking
out. Truth be told, he didn’t want to see any agreement in his mother’s eyes
that he truly was a disappointment to her or that she might regret her
invitation. No, the only thing he wanted to see right now was his bed.
And maybe the bottom of his glass so he could forget
what his life had become.
