TO CAPTIVATE THE VISCOUNT

  REVENGE OF. THE WALLFLOWERS

  AILEEN FISH

  ASPENDAWN PRESS

  Copyright © 2024 Aileen Fish

  All rights reserved.

  Cover design: Mandy Koehler Designs

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only.

  This book is a work of fiction. With the exception of historical figures, any resemblance it bears to reality is entirely coincidental.

  Created with Vellum

  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  About the Author

  Other Books by Aileen Fish

  CHAPTER 1

  The assembly room above the tailor and modiste’s shops in Keswick, England, was aglow with the warm light of a hundred candles, their flames flickering in the crystal chandeliers and casting a golden sheen upon the assembled townsfolk. Cecelia Dixon and her sisters, Arabella and Minnie, glided through the throng of elegantly dressed ladies and well-heeled gentlemen, her emerald green muslin gown rustling softly against the polished parquet floor. Their brother, Barney, was old enough to attend such gatherings but had no interest in them whatsoever.

  “Miss Dixon,” called a deep voice, tinged with both warmth and formality. She turned to find Squire Tom Barrett, a gentleman of respectable means and moderate intelligence and their host for the evening, regarding her with an expectant smile. “Miss Arabella, Miss Minerva, young Mr. Dixon, I’m so glad you’ve come.”

  “Squire,” CeCe replied, her own lips curving in her practiced smile. “A pleasure to see you this evening.”

  Arabella bounced on her heels as they paused to speak with the older man. “I’m so happy to be here. Is it true the militia will attend?”

  Squire Barrett chuckled. “Well, I can’t speak for the entire militia, but I did extend an invitation to the colonel for himself and his men. I feel certain you’ll have new dance partners this evening.”

  Arabella giggled, Minnie rolled her eyes, and the two young ladies scurried off to find their friends.

  CeCe refrained from commenting on the silliness her sisters possessed in excess. She loved them dearly, and sometimes wondered if she could use a bit more of their innocence in her own manner. With a smile and nod to the squire, she followed the girls into the large space.

  Allowing her gaze to sweep the room, she saw the usual people, her neighbors and some who lived further out in the countryside. She spotted her sisters, who were surrounded by a bevy of young gentlemen. Arabella, with her cherubic smile and effervescent laugh, drew a circle of admirers, each vying for a moment of her attention. She was barely nineteen years of age, but most days she acted so much younger. At two-and-twenty, Minnie was more demure but equally charming. She conversed quietly with a tall, sandy-haired man, her eyes alight with happiness.

  “Truly, they are the belles of the ball tonight,” CeCe whispered to herself, a warm smile touching her lips. Her heart swelled with sisterly pride, and she remained in the shadows to allow them the spotlight, content in her role as their quiet champion. Please, let one of them find a man to marry, at last.

  CeCe would turn twenty-six on her next birthday, and was on the verge of giving up hope for herself. But that would set the wrong example for her sisters. Besides, neither of her sisters was likely to marry a wealthy man, and CeCe’s allowance wouldn’t allow her to live on her own. She must find a husband, or find work as a companion or governess. If she were to spend her days teaching young girls everything she knew, she’d much prefer they were her daughters.

  “Is it not delightful to see your sisters so admired?” asked Mrs. Witherspoon, an amiable matron who stood nearby.

  “Yes, it is,” CeCe replied with genuine enthusiasm. “I find joy in their happiness. It’s a sister’s privilege to support such endeavors of the heart.”

  “Ah, Miss Dixon,” Mrs. Witherspoon sighed, a twinkle of knowing in her eye. “But what of your own pursuits? Surely a young lady of your intellect and beauty must have aspirations of wedded bliss?”

  “Perhaps,” CeCe mused. “One does imagine being half of a love match, engaging in stimulating conversation over breakfast, and sharing a dance under the moonlight in one’s own garden.”

  “Such romantic notions you harbor! And why not? Love is the finest of life’s offerings.” Mrs. Witherspoon patted CeCe’s hand affectionately.

  “Yet romance continues to elude us,” CeCe continued, her wit sharpening with a touch of melancholy. “For some, like myself, it may require a longer season to bloom.”

  “Patience is a virtue, dear girl,” the older woman counseled. “And when love finds you, it will be all the sweeter for the wait.”

  “Patience I have in abundance,” CeCe quipped, her resolve hardening. She watched as couples drifted past, their easy intimacy sparking a familiar yearning deep within her. “But I’m tired of waiting.” In fact, she thought, it was past time she did whatever was necessary to marry. She must set an example for her sisters to follow, not sit back and hope they found husbands they deserved.

  “Spoken like a true heroine of your own story.” Mrs. Witherspoon chuckled.

  Smiling, CeCe moved on through the crowd contemplating the men she knew who deserved a second look for herself, or where she could find someone new. She had visited all of her cousins in recent years and not found anyone worthy of pursuit. While she had no dreams of following the drum, it appeared the militia offered the only chance for the three sisters to meet new gentlemen.

  The hum of conversation around her was punctuated by the soft strains of a string quartet nestled in the corner of the large room.

  “Miss Dixon,” called a familiar voice, causing CeCe to turn with a smile ready upon her lips. It was Lady Harrow, resplendent in sapphire satin, a keen matchmaker’s glint in her eye. “Your sister Arabella has been garnering quite the attention tonight. But you, my dear, are not presenting yourself as you should. Go speak to some of these gentlemen who stand alone.”

  “Good evening, Lady Harrow,” CeCe replied. “Minnie and Arabella both shine brightly, I merely hope to reflect some of their glow.”

  “Modesty becomes you, but do not undervalue your own charms,” Lady Harrow said with a knowing nod before being whisked away by another eager mother.

  The soft strains of a string quartet floated through the room, mingling with the murmur of genteel conversation. CeCe moved through the crowd with what she hoped was a graceful sway and not the galloping gait her mother claimed she used.

  “Ever so many ribbons and ruffles tonight,” observed Mrs. Morris, her voice carrying to CeCe over the din. She stood at the periphery of the dance floor, her silver hair pinned up elegantly, a warm smile playing on her lips as she watched the young ladies flit across the room like vibrant butterflies.

  “All in hopes of catching an eligible gentleman’s eye,” CeCe replied. She had the same conversation, it seemed, with whichever matron bent her ear at these assemblies.

  “Ah, my dear, such is the dance of courtship,” Mrs. Morris said with a knowing twinkle. “And speaking of which, our dear Squire Barrett seems to want our attention.”

  As the song was ending, Squire Barrett stepped forward in front of the orchestra. His neatly trimmed beard framed a countenance of amiable authority, and the rich embroidery of his waistcoat shimmered under the candlelight as he raised his hand for attention.

  “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” he began, his voice resonating through the room and effortlessly silencing the chatter. “It’s my great pleasure to welcome you to tonight’s assembly. I trust that each of you shall find the evening most agreeable and that the company present will enliven your spirits.”

  A murmur of assent rippled through the crowd, and Mrs. Morris nodded approvingly at the Squire’s words.

  “May I remind the gentlemen that a dance is far more than mere steps and turns,” Squire Barrett continued, his eyes gleaming with a touch of mirth. “It’s an opportunity to show kindness and consideration. And to the ladies, may your charm and grace shine as brightly as the stars outside.”

  “Ever the poet, our Squire Barrett,” whispered Mrs. Morris, leaning closer to CeCe to be heard.

  “Let the music play, and let us partake in the joy of this splendid evening!” declared Squire Barrett, and with a final nod to the assembly, he took his place among the attendees, his presence a steady anchor in the ever-shifting sea of the social milieu.

  As the orchestra struck up a lively tune and the dancers resumed their positions, the atmosphere swelled with renewed energy. The evening had officially begun, and under Squire Barrett’s benevolent watch, it promised to be one of enchantment and delightful intrigue.

  In the midst of a particularly spirited country dance, with the strains of violins soaring above the rhythmic thump of heels against the wooden floor, the assembly room door swung open with an air of anticipation. All heads turned as Justin, Captain Lord Stavely, made his entrance alongside his fellow militia officers, their uniforms a striking contrast to the sea of pastel gowns and somber e
vening wear.

  “Good heavens,” whispered Arabella, her fan fluttering faster at the sight of the newcomers. “It’s the viscount—Lord Stavely!”

  “Yes,” confirmed Minnie, clutching her sister’s arm. “And he’s even more dashing than the rumors suggest.”

  Stavely strode into the room, his tall frame moving with the assuredness of a man well accustomed to command. His piercing blue eyes swept across the chamber, taking in the swirl of dancers and the clusters of onlookers, all the while emanating a sense of purposeful consideration. The soft glow of candlelight flickered against his brown hair, lending it a burnished sheen that was nearly as captivating as the sharp cut of his military coat.

  “Is it not remarkable how a single man can cause such a stir?” said a matron, her gaze locked onto Stavely’s chiseled jaw and the proud tilt of his head. “Why, I do believe the entire room has come to a standstill.”

  “Quite so,” agreed CeCe, her voice a bit too loud above the breathless hush that had fallen over the assembly, she realized. “He has the look of a gentleman who knows precisely what he wants.”

  “Ah, but do look at how they stare!” exclaimed a young woman standing nearby, tittering behind her lace-edged handkerchief. “Every last woman here is spellbound by his presence.”

  “Wouldn’t you be, my dear?” teased her companion. “A viscount—and a handsome one at that.”

  “Yes,” the debutante sighed dreamily. “One cannot help but wonder what manner of conversation flows from those lips, or what sort of attention he might bestow upon a lady fortunate enough to catch his eye.”

  As the whispers grew and fluttered like butterflies among the blooms of a garden, Stavely paused to exchange greetings with a stout gentleman, his tone cordial yet imbued with an innate authority that seemed to draw people toward him. With a languid grace, he continued through the room, his every movement watched by scores of hopeful eyes, each silently vying for the privilege of being noticed by the viscount.

  “Miss Dixon, pray tell, what think you of our newest guest?” inquired Mr. Charles Danbury, sidling up to the cluster of ladies still entranced by Stavely’s arrival.

  CeCe’s cheeks burned. “Mr. Danbury, you must forgive my distraction. It’s not every day that one has the chance to behold such... such...”

  “Such splendid masculinity?” offered Mr. Danbury with a wry grin, earning a fit of giggles from the gathered women.

  “Yes,” she said, her eyes flitting back to Stavely’s figure. “He is quite the sight to behold.”

  The assembly room was nearly bouncing with the rhythms of a lively country dance when Stavely approached a congregation of town notables. His gaze, clear and direct, settled upon each face in turn as he conveyed his salutations. He’d found that for the first month or so in a new town, the locals nearly stumbled over their own feet to introduce themselves and their daughters. Eventually, the attention would fade, so he simply smiled and endured in the meantime.

  “Good evening, Mrs. Witherspoon,” he said, inclining his head slightly towards an elderly lady whose bonnet quivered with ribbons.

  “Your presence graces us, Lord Stavely,” she replied, her tone threaded with pride. “I trust your accommodations are comfortable?”

  “Exceedingly so,” he assured her with a smile. “And the company,” he gestured inclusively, “is unmatched.”

  A ripple of pleased murmurs spread through the group. Stavely had been told he had the gift of making each individual feel as though they were the sole focus of his attention—a trait that did not go under-utilized.

  “Ah, Lord Stavely, do tell us of your recent maneuvers,” implored Mr. Hawthorne, a man with an expansive waistcoat and an even more expansive curiosity.

  “Alas, I am sworn to discretion,” Stavely replied, a playful glint in his eye. “But I assure you, we stand ready to defend this fine county should the need arise.”

  “Most reassuring indeed!” Mr. Hawthorne puffed out his chest as if personally responsible for the militia’s readiness.

  “Yes,” echoed Stavely, excusing himself with a courteous nod before drifting towards his fellow officers who stood in a less formal grouping.

  “Making the rounds, Stavely?” teased Captain Thorne, a comrade-in-arms notorious for his sharp tongue. “The mothers are practically throwing their daughters at our feet.”

  Stavely offered a tight-lipped smile, though discomfort flickered in his gaze. “It’s a truth universally acknowledged that a single officer in possession of a good commission must be in want of a wife,” he quoted lightly, but his voice carried an undercurrent of empathy.

  “Ha! Well put,” said Lieutenant Grant beside him, laughing loudly. “Look at them, fluttering about like peahens. It’s rather tragic, don’t you think?”

  “Tragic, perhaps,” Stavely mused, his expression shadowing for a moment. “But understandable. Their opportunities are so few, and society demands they secure a future.”

  “Come now, Justin, you’re not going soft on us, are you?” Captain Thorne ribbed, nudging him with an elbow.

  “Never,” Stavely retorted, the corner of his mouth lifting in wry amusement. “But one can appreciate the farce without mocking the players.”

  “Spoken like a true gentleman,” remarked Captain Thorne with a smirk. “If only they knew the son of a duke stood among them⁠—”

  “Enough, Thorne,” Stavely cut in sharply, his eyes hardening like chips of ice. “Anyone who’s browsed a copy of Debrett’s knows my lineage. They also know how many brothers I have between myself and the title. Let’s not bring the subject to anyone’s attention, or I’ll never see the end of the line of matchmaking matrons.”

  “Of course,” Thorne acquiesced, though his eyes gleamed with mischief. “Your secret’s safe in Keswick.”

  “Secrets are the currency of society,” Stavely observed, his gaze sweeping across the room once more. “Though honesty often buys a richer reward.”

  “Speaking of rewards,” began Lieutenant Grant, but Stavely’s attention had been seized by something—or rather someone—across the room.

  “Excuse me, gentlemen,” he said abruptly, leaving the others to their musings.

  Stavely weaved through the throngs with the grace of a seasoned dancer, though he did not partake in the lively sets that spun and curtsied across the polished wood floor. The hum of conversation rose and fell like the gentle swell of an unseen ocean, carrying snippets of laughter and the occasional tinkle of jewelry.

  “Your uniform is most becoming, Lord Stavely,” cooed Miss Harriet Benson, fluttering her fan with practiced ease as she stepped into his path, a conspiratorial twinkle in her eye. “Do all officers cut such a fine figure, or is it a privilege reserved for the nobility?”

  “Miss Benson,” Justin replied, with a slight bow, “you flatter me. It’s the bearing of a man that fills out a uniform, not his title. And I dare say the ladies of Keswick have a keener eye for such things than any tailor.”

  “Yes, we must make do with our observations, for opportunities to converse with gallant officers are few and far between,” she sighed wistfully.

  “Then I am at your service, madam.” He offered a smile that was broader than his interest warranted.

  “Lord Stavely,” ventured a bold voice, as Mrs. Ashton joined the fray, her matronly poise commanding a different sort of respect. “I trust you’ve found our town to your liking?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Ashton. It has been most welcoming. I am curious about the local customs, the festivals perhaps?” His inquiry was genuine, his interest in the fabric of Keswick life clear in his attentive stance.

  “Ah, you must attend the Midsummer Fair,” she extolled with enthusiasm, warming to the subject. “It’s a tradition that dates back generations. You’ll find no better display of our community spirit.”