Page 1 of The Viscount's Promise
Chapter 1
“I want you to watch over Emily during the wedding celebrations, Morley.”
Malcolm Arborn, Viscount Morley, nearly spit his brandy across the carpet. He turned to his friend, hoping his abhorrence showed on his face. For good measure, he said clearly and distinctly, with more than a touch of horror, “If you think I am going to play nanny to your sister, you are mad.”
Caleb Masters, Marquess of Willbridge, didn’t so much as flicker an eyelid at the pronouncement. Which was to be expected. Being acquainted as long as they had—hell, they were more than acquainted, they were closer than brothers—liberties were bound to be taken with the friendship, no matter how detestable they might be to the other party.
Though he supposed, with Willbridge marrying in just over a week’s time—and, for all reasons,love—their friendship would slip away like so much mist with the coming light of day. A sour taste settled on his tongue, a sensation that had been with him since he had learned of his friend’s engagement days ago. Malcolm tightened his fingers around the crystal glass in his hand, taking a healthy swig of his brandy in an attempt to eradicate it. Yet the bitterness remained.
“Emily is two and twenty, hardly in need of a nanny,” Willbridge said, bringing Malcolm back to the topic at hand. “But she has been protected far too much in the past decade by my mother—a mistake I intend to rectify. I have hopes that the coming wedding and subsequent house party will help to bring her out of her shell.”
“And what is my part in all this?”
Willbridge frowned. “Despite my intentions, I do worry what the strain of such a situation will do to her. I need someone to watch over her where I cannot, to make certain it does not become too much for her.”
Malcolm let out a bark of laughter. “And I am that remedy? Do you know me at all?”
“I know you very well,” Willbridge replied softly, regarding him closely. “Which is why I believe you are ideal for this.”
“What, squiring your sister around? Making sure she isn’t left without a partner at balls? Or does it go beyond that, and she needs me to tell her when to curtsy, what frock to wear, how to greet this pompous ass or that snobbish dame?”
Malcolm knew he sounded petulant and bitter. If he hadn’t been able to hear it in his own voice, Willbridge’s raised brows would have told him all. Furious over his loss of temper, he rose and walked across his study to the window. Grosvenor Square lay spread out before him, busy and humming with humanity. It was why he had chosen this room as his private sanctum when he had succeeded to the title after his brother’s unexpected demise. He needed this noise, this confusion, this barrage of life. The last thing he desired, after all, was peace and quiet, time to think and remember and...feel.
“I can see where you would come to that assumption,” Willbridge replied, his voice cold. “But no, my sister is not an imbecile. She has been fully educated on class and social niceties.”
Malcolm downed the rest of his brandy in one quick swallow, letting it burn all the way to his stomach, leaving a blessed numbness behind. “Damn it, I’m sorry,” he muttered. “I never meant to disparage her.” He shifted his gaze, caught the image of Willbridge in the window as he nodded in acceptance of the apology. Malcolm let out a slow breath. “But that does not explain why you wish me to watch over your sister.”
There was a beat of silence, then a rustle as Willbridge stood and walked to his side. “You would remember Emily as a shy but happy child, I assume?”
Indeed he did. Malcolm smiled slightly. She had been sweet, with huge gray eyes and a timid smile that spoke volumes of her awe of him—until the day of the accident.
Malcolm’s smile faded. Emily had been badly injured in the same tragedy that had taken her twin brother’s life. Malcolm had been there that day, had witnessed it. Never would he forget the feel of her slight, coltish body in his arms, blood pouring from the gash that had cut open her cheek. He had not seen her since, the heartache from the tragedy having caused a nearly insurmountable rift in the family. Until Willbridge’s intended, Imogen, had come along and healed the breach.
Now Willbridge and Imogen were planning their marriage at the family’s country estate in a week’s time—an unwelcome prospect as it was. Willbridge’s request, however, added another level to Malcolm’s distaste for the situation.
He realized belatedly that Willbridge was awaiting an answer. “Yes, I remember her.” He cleared his throat, shooting a careful glance at his friend. “Did her wound heal well?”
Willbridge’s lips tightened. “No, it did not. And she has suffered dreadfully for it, I’m afraid. She has retreated into herself in the most disturbing way, and my family allows it.”
Malcolm felt a frisson of something travel up his spine. He thought on it for a moment until he saw it for what it was: unease. This situation was quickly getting out of control. Best to be blunt. “I do pity her for it,” he stated baldly. “But I cannot see what this has to do with me.”
Heaving a troubled sigh, Willbridge met his eyes. “I would ask you to watch out for Emily, perhaps make things easier for her. Stick close to her and see she is not in any distress.” He paused, his gaze sober. “I would have your promise, Morley.”
A hot knife of displeasure speared beneath Malcolm’s skin. He kept his voice neutral as he said, “You know I do not give promises lightly, Willbridge.”
“Yes, I know.”
A look passed between them. Willbridge was fully aware what he was about. Having been the victim of so many broken promises in the past, Malcolm would do everything in his power to see a vow through once he gave one. It was his one claim to honor, something he would uphold unto death.
“And you think to weasel a promise from me for this?” Malcolm growled. “Don’t you think such a job would be better suited to another female? A relative, perhaps? You must have them in abundance and would have no trouble finding one who would leap to do your bidding.”
“That I do. But there is no one I trust as much as I trust you, Morley.”
Malcolm’s lips twisted even as the compliment warmed him. He banished the better feelings, not wanting them to cloud his judgment. “Not even your esteemed fiancée?”
“You know as well as I that Imogen is something altogether different,” his friend murmured, his eyes softening.
“Yes, so I have heard.”
