Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Where a Fatigued Viscount Ponders Parenthood
Three Days Later at a Viscount’s Shabby Estate
Chance threw his booted feet atop a desk in the Allerton family for two centuries and dropped his head to his hands.
His skin smelled of nutmeg and chalk. He had a dab of what he hoped like hell was jam on his sleeve.
He’d run circles around the house without a hint of pleasure surrounding the effort.
It was two hours past twilight, and he’d just gotten the girl to bed.
Katherine Elise Brierly, a six-year-old termagant and his problem for the rest of his life , wasn’t well-mannered as he’d promised Hildy.
She was the most talkative creature he’d ever had the misfortune to meet.
She had opinions on every topic, many suited to a woman, not a child.
How his cravat was tied. His boots polished.
The ragged trim on her counterpane. The tattered velvet drapes in her bedchamber.
The water stains on the ceiling in the breakfast room.
Chance groaned and massaged his temples .
And the questions . How old was the estate? How big? Did he have horses? Why was his majordomo, Alfred, so crooked? Was he married? Did he plan to be? Did he have a dog? Perhaps kittens? The girl had stated unequivocally that she wanted kittens.
Chance glanced across the space, considering the drink cart without thought to make that wish happen.
Raising a child was a damned sight harder than it looked.
He’d found himself explaining things he could—his marital state, number of horses and pets—and leaving much of the rest to his housekeeper, Mrs. Walker.
Who let him know right off she couldn’t keep up with a child without the assistance of the governess variety.
His father had, somewhere along the way, let Rose Hill’s staff go due to dwindling funds, so they had the bare minimum.
Although he’d not spent much time in Derbyshire growing up, Chance recalled Mrs. Walker being around forever . She was likely as old as this desk.
Despite it all, however, he liked it here. Miserable memories from his childhood weren’t a part of this place.
Lifting his head, he gazed about at what had once been an impressive library. His father had sold off many of the volumes, leaving gaps on dusty shelves. Cobwebs. Streaked windowpanes. Faded carpets. General neglect, which his father had excelled at. With regard to dwellings and children.
But the foundation was solid. Like a sliver of wood that would make a gorgeous piece of furniture once he took it in hand, he knew, with hard work and an infusion of capital, he could restore the estate to some level of its former glory.
There was a dowager’s cottage at the edge of the woodland that would make an astounding workshop.
He currently leased space in London from Xander Macauley, his shipping partner, which worked out well enough.
But this would be his .
It all came down to blunt he didn’t have.
Time he wasn’t sure he could allocate when he had two other decaying properties to worry about.
A brother in the middle of a dangerous rebellion.
A thriving business, his passion. When aside from making furniture, he’d never had a passion.
No woman he couldn’t live without, that was certain.
He recalled the smile on Hildy’s face the other day.
He wanted what she had with Tobias Streeter.
He truly did. Society assumed because he played fast and loose that he didn’t wish for a wife, a family.
He might be a scoundrel, but he was not a cad.
Of all his affairs, none had ended, except for the one with that fanatical countess, with a vase being thrown at his head.
He was friends with each and every chit he’d tupped.
His predicament was more, well, he’d never needed anyone enough to fight for them.
Or had never felt he could let himself need anyone might be the best way to describe his quandary.
Now this girl. Katherine Elise Brierly. Six-year-old hellion in muslin.
Was she the peculiar start to his family?
Chance drifted to sleep dreaming of off-limits governesses and talkative girls who tugged his heartstrings.
Viscount Remington’s eyes were blue.
A piercing, haunting blue. She likened the color to the icy glints shimmering in the snowflakes swirling about. One caught on the bow of his top lip and melted while she watched, setting her knees trembling beneath more layers than she’d ever needed to wear in Philadelphia.
Alas, her shivers were not due to the brutal English winter.
His expression stunned, Remington halted in the entranceway, her portmanteau dangling from his fingers.
The coachman who had accompanied her was seeing to the carriage and horses, arranging for her trunk to be delivered to her bedchamber.
Her companion, Ada, stood to the side of the corridor in disparaging silence, which was as it should be.
Ada was unhappy about arriving four hours late due to the storm and even more unhappy to be plotting a governess farce in this “blasted wreck of a country.”
“You’re American,” Remington said, his gaze racing the length of her as if he searched for a mark to verify his evaluation.
Flustered, Franny gathered her woolen spencer at her neck and trundled into the house, shutting the door behind her with a creaking slam. Her skin was chilled to the bone, but her cheeks were hot. “And you’re a viscount who answers his own door.”
He laughed, a husky surprise to the three souls huddled in the foyer of a medieval structure in obvious need of love. And heaping piles of money, Franny surmised as she gazed around.
The dwelling dazzled, nonetheless, make no mistake.
Although she’d come to sketch the man, the viscount’s fortress would do in a pinch.
From the ancient gatehouse at the end of the winding drive to the acres of winter-lush forest wrapped like a cloak around the estate.
Towering chimney stacks rising from the snow-laden mist. A trench surrounding the house she thought could properly be called a moat.
It was like nothing she’d ever seen. A castle straight out of the fairytales Ada had read to her when she was a child.
Remington gestured to the barren hallway.
“The few servants I have are abed. My majordomo is as aged as the planks beneath our feet. He rarely makes it past sunset. Our housekeeper, Mrs. Walker, is much the same. I’m afraid it’s left to me to escort you to your chamber. We’re rather informal in the country.”
Informal meaning impoverished. The funds needed to fully staff such a monstrous place were not available.
Franny glanced over the viscount’s shoulder, down the arched gallery, to the grand staircase spiraling to opposite wings of the house.
Except for being wealthier than almost everyone in London, she could be Cinderella.
Stepping away from her staid life for one night of adventure. Or two weeks, rather.
When she looked back, it was to find that the viscount’s gaze had followed hers down the hall. From his scowl, it appeared that what she considered magnificent, he considered a burden.
“It needs work,” he muttered, his chest lifting with his deep inhalation.
“It’s lovely, my lord,” she countered, her fingertips giving a familiar tingle, yearning to sketch.
His vexed expression was nothing short of enchanting.
“Majestic. Stately, even. We have nothing like this in Philadelphia. And in your family for centuries. How remarkable. My home is less than ten years old.” She shrugged. “Everything in America is new.”
Ada grunted and scrubbed her thumb over the scuffed oak paneling that was likely two hundred years old, obviously preferring new.
Remington took his time returning his attention to Franny.
His thorough review revealed his effort to see the dwelling as she had.
A considerate, unexpected response. His lashes were long and dark, dusting his skin as he blinked.
His shirt and buckskins were damp at the hem and cuff, as if he’d recently returned from outdoors.
He wore an unbuttoned gray waistcoat, his cravat untied and hanging loosely from his neck.
No coat. Sleeves rolled to show an indecent amount of muscled forearm.
He ran his palm over his unshaven cheek in contemplation, his jaw flexing with thoughts he kept to himself.
This was not the flippant lord the ton whispered about.
Hildy’s words rang in her mind. Doesn’t look like any viscount you’ve ever seen, does he?
No, he did not. It’s why, from first glance, she’d been intrigued. Intrigued enough to lie about being a governess and wedging her foot inside his castle door.
The most appalling in a life of appalling decisions.
Franny’s heart skipped a beat as she stared at him. Men never listened. No one who looked like him anyway, sly beauty and winsome charm. Franny spoke without expecting anyone to. The men who listened, listened because her dowry was big enough to solve their problems and nothing more.
“The well-mannered girl I promised Hildegard Streeter is a terror,” he said when his gaze finally met hers.
His eyes were the color of hydrangea petals, even more glorious in milky candlelight than they’d been in full moonlight.
“She assured me in her letter that you’re experienced enough to handle it.
The chit has a thousand questions for which I have no answer.
She wants biscuits and milk every other minute.
Her threshold for boredom is the lowest I’ve encountered in another living soul.
” He cocked a broad shoulder and chewed on his lip, the one the snowflake had melted on.
“I don’t have sisters, and I don’t know how to talk to girls. ”
Franny covered her mouth with the back of her hand, but too late. Her laughter rolled like a carpet between them. Not know how to talk to girls, indeed.