The Viscount's Vow Releases Next Week! Here's the First Chapter

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.