Hating the Vexing Viscount (Romancing the Ton #3)

Prologue

Marina

Hertfordshire, England

Marina had hit the target dead center six times in a row, and all she could think about was how proud Evan would be when he arrived.

The pistol she used was her father’s, stolen from his study two months ago in a fit of rebellion.

It had become as familiar in her hands as her embroidery needle once was—though she suspected her mother would faint upon knowing which skill her daughter now preferred.

Shooting might not be the only thing she’d learned that would cause her mother to clutch her pearls.

Heat bloomed through her at the wicked thought. She shook it off and adjusted her stance the way Evan had taught her, feet shoulder-width apart, remembering the first time he’d positioned her body when he’d discovered her in this clearing.

She’d been mortified. Caught by Evan Villiers, Viscount Ockham’s son, in boys’ breeches she’d pilfered from the servants’ laundry, attempting to teach herself to shoot after she’d seen her father with some woman leaving one of their hunting cabins.

The very father who was ready to sell her to the Earl of Minto, who was an aged, vile beast of a man.

She’d needed to do something, anything, that he wouldn’t approve of. Perhaps her inclination had been to learn to shoot and then turn the weapon on him until he admitted what an arse he was.

But that moment was where it had all begun. Where she’d met the man she was going to marry.

Two months. Two months of meeting in secret at dawn, of his chest warm against her back as he adjusted her aim, of his breath against her neck as he murmured instructions that had become less about shooting and more about the inches between their bodies.

Two months of lessons that had transformed into something that made her wake before dawn with her heart already racing.

Marina touched the pocket where she’d tucked the handkerchief she’d embroidered with his initials. E.V. worked in chocolate thread that matched his eyes—the intense color she saw when she closed her own at night.

The sound of horse hooves made her heart flutter. She smoothed her pale, yellow muslin—her best day dress that she could claim she’d worn for morning calls should anyone question her—and tried to calm her racing pulse.

Three days ago was the last time she’d been with him on the blanket beneath the old oak. He’d touched her in ways that made her forget her own name. His fingers had been so gentle, and then his mouth—

Heat flooded her cheeks, and she was already damp for him.

After their last encounter, he’d told her he would make his intentions known. That she would always be his and they would discuss the matter with her father.

She ran toward Evan as he dismounted, but stopped when she saw his expression.

He looked destroyed. His dark hair was disheveled as if he’d run his hands through it repeatedly.

His cravat was hastily tied and his coat wrinkled.

But it was his eyes that stopped her cold—those warm brown eyes that usually lit when he saw her were hollow, rimmed with red, empty of everything that made him Evan.

“What’s happened?” She dropped the pistol in the grass.

When she reached for him, he didn’t step into her embrace as he always did. Instead, he stood rigid as she touched his face, her fingers finding the roughness where he hadn’t shaved. Her chest tightened. Whatever had happened, they would face it together.

“Tell me,” she whispered.

“My father is dead.”

The words landed like stones between them. She wrapped her arms around him immediately, pulling him against her with all her strength. For a moment, she felt his body shake before he went absolutely still.

“Oh, Evan. When? How?”

“Yesterday.” The words were flat, mechanical. “The cause is of no consequence.”

Her eyes burned with tears for him. Marina knew his relationship with his father had been complicated, but there had been love there. She’d seen it in the way Evan spoke of him, pride mixed with frustration. She wouldn’t press him to explain until he was ready.

“Why didn’t you send word? I would have—”

“What? Come to comfort me?” He pulled back from her embrace, and the absence of his warmth sent a chill through her. “I hoped to find you here. Might as well get this matter over with.”

The words didn’t make sense. Nothing about his tone, his posture, the coldness in his voice made sense. And somehow it felt more about her than about his father.

“I don’t understand.”

He walked past her to where she’d set up the targets, his back to her. His shoulders were rigid, his hands clenched at his sides. For a moment, he simply stood there. His entire body jerked violently, as if he were fighting something inside himself. When he finally spoke, his voice was hollow.

“This arrangement between us is finished.”

Arrangement.

The word lit a fire in her chest. Not courtship. Not understanding. Not love. Arrangement. As if they were discussing some matter of business.

Her mouth went dry. If he thought she was a woman to be dallied with and then tossed aside, he would live to regret such a notion. “Arrangement? How fascinating. I wasn’t aware I’d agreed to terms. Perhaps you could clarify what services I was providing?”

He turned, and looking at him was like looking at a stranger wearing Evan’s face. Where was the man who’d laughed against her skin? Who’d traced patterns on her bare shoulder before kissing it?

“You were always temporary, Marina. Surely you understood that.”

“Oh, I see.” Her tone was designed to hide how her heart was fracturing with each word. “Temporary. How refreshing to finally understand my position. Tell me, my lord, do you typically invest two months training your temporary dalliances, or was I a particularly slow student?”

Something flickered in his eyes—pain, perhaps, or regret—but his voice remained steady. “An amusing diversion during what has been a rather dull spring. But I have responsibilities now and no time for whatever you believed this was.”

“Amusing,” she scoffed. “Yes, I imagine I was quite the entertainment. The proper earl’s daughter so desperate for attention and rebellion that she’d steal pistols and play at being wicked.”

“Marina—”

“No, please, I must know.” She moved closer, and he actually stepped back. Good. “Three days ago, when your mouth was between my thighs, were you thinking how amusing I was then? When I fell for your pretty words about always being yours, was that the height of comedy?”

His nostrils flared, his face reddening. “Stop.”

“Why? Does plain speaking offend your sensibilities?” She smiled, and it was all teeth. “How odd, considering you seemed to enjoy my enthusiasm when it served your purposes. Or was that part of the amusement—how eagerly I offered myself to you?”

He flinched as if she’d struck him. “It’s not—”

“Tell me,” she continued relentlessly, “which part entertained you most? My trust? My devotion? Or simply how easy it was to get me on my knees in the middle of this field?”

“Christ, Marina, stop.” His voice cracked, and she saw her Evan for just a moment. He was the man who’d held her so tenderly, who’d whispered promises.

But he’d never meant any of them.

“Why? Is the truth uncomfortable, my lord?” She was magnificent in her fury, and she knew it. “Did you expect me to cower and run so you don’t have to answer for what you’ve done?”

Her hand moved on its own. She slapped his cheek hard enough to snap his head sideways, hard enough that her palm went numb.

His hand flew to his cheek, and for one heartbeat she saw him.

Not the stranger wearing Evan’s face, but her Evan.

The man who’d spent patient mornings teaching her to aim, who’d kissed her like she was precious, who’d held her as if letting go would kill him.

Raw pain flickered in his eyes, and his fingers trembled against his skin.

Then he dropped his hand, and the stranger returned.

“There’s the passion I enjoyed.” His smile was colder than she’d ever seen it. “Though it’s less charming when not directed toward my pleasure.”

Bile rose in her throat. Her skin crawled with the memory of his touch, every place he’d kissed her now feeling like a mark of shame she’d carry forever. She wanted to scrub herself raw, to remove every trace of him from her body. But she knew it wouldn’t help. He was carved into her.

“I was going to give myself to you.” The words escaped before she could stop them.

“How fortunate I saved you that particular embarrassment.” He straightened his cravat with casual indifference.

“You should know that men prefer women with at least some discretion. Your eagerness rather removes the mystery, doesn’t it?

The next man you set your cap at might appreciate more of a challenge. ”

“Leave. Now.” Her voice was steady, all emotion burned away by the completeness of his betrayal. “Get off this land.”

“Actually, this is Ockham land. Your father’s property ends at that oak.” He swung up onto his horse as if nothing had happened. “I’d prefer if you didn’t trespass again.”

She bent and picked up the loaded pistol, aimed it at his heart with hands that didn’t shake. All those mornings of practice, and her stance was perfect.

“You taught me to shoot true.”

He didn’t flinch, didn’t even look concerned. “So I did.”

“I could kill you right now.” And she meant it. In that moment, with his dismissive eyes on her and his betrayal sitting like lead in her chest, she absolutely meant it.

“But you won’t.” His certainty was another insult. “Because despite your fury, you still care for me.”

“You’re wrong.” Her finger rested on the trigger, the metal warm beneath her touch. “I don’t care. Not anymore. You’ve cured me of that unfortunate weakness.”

Something shifted in his expression. Was it fear? Regret? But his voice remained cold. “Then we’ve done each other a service. Goodbye, Marina.”

He turned his horse and rode away without looking back. She kept the pistol trained on his retreating form. She could put a ball between his shoulder blades. Could watch him fall from that horse and bleed into the grass where they’d first kissed.

But he was right about one thing. She wouldn’t. She couldn’t. And not because she cared. She could never allow herself to care.

Only when he disappeared over the rise did she lower the weapon.

Then she fired every remaining shot into the target, each pull of the trigger returning a piece of herself. Never again would she trust. Never again would she believe pretty words. Never again would she allow herself to be eager for such nonsense.

The last shot obliterated what remained of the target’s center, leaving nothing but splinters and a hole.

She tossed the pistol in the grass where he’d helped her learn to aim.

Beside it, she dropped the embroidered handkerchief with his initials.

The gift was evidence of how pathetic she’d been.

The blanket by the oak, the one where she’d planned to give him her virginity and promise to love him forever, could rot there for all she cared.

The bastard had done her a service. He’d taught her to shoot, and he’d taught her that men weren’t to be trusted.

She’d never allow herself to be taken in by a handsome face again.

Not ever.