The Viscount Finds Love Read online

  Table of Contents

  [email protected]

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Foreword

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Books by Bess McBride

  About the Author

  The Viscount Finds Love

  Bess McBride

  The Viscount Finds Love

  Copyright 2018 Bess McBride

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners. References to Cinderella and Beauty and the Beast are public domain. The Mysteries of Udolpho by Ann Radcliffe is used as a title only without content and is public domain.

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to the publisher and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

  Cover art by Tara West

  Contact information: [email protected]

  Published in the United States of America

  Dedication

  For my third great-grandmother, Rachel Lee—this one’s for you!

  And for lovers of Regency stories and fairy tales everywhere.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Foreword

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Books by Bess McBride

  About the Author

  Foreword

  Thank you for purchasing The Viscount Finds Love. Second in a series of fairy-tale time travel romances called Fairy Tales Across Time, The Viscount Finds Love is set in England’s Regency era. And as always, I enjoy paying homage to my ancestors, so I’ve named the heroine Rachel after my third great-grandmother, Rachel Lee.

  Here’s a bit about the story.

  What’s a fairy godmother to do when she has too much time on her hands? She must meddle in the affairs of others, of course! So begins the second tale in Hickstrom’s Book of Fairy Tales.

  Yet one more unsuspecting twenty-first-century young woman finds herself enthralled in a delightfully quaint old book of fairy tales. At the behest of a strange little lady with blue hair, bookstore owner Rachel Lee reads a passage from an old book. Little does she know that she will find herself transported in time to a land far, far away...to Regency England.

  Viscount Halwell fancied himself in love. Perhaps he was. But the object of his affections chose another. He has settled back into his rather unremarkable life, a dutiful son to his overbearing mother and distant father.

  Fairy godmother Hickstrom has plans for the young viscount, however, and his mother is not included!

  Thank you for your support over the years, friends and readers. Because of your favorable comments, I continue to strive to write the best stories I can. More romances are on the way!

  You know I always enjoy hearing from you, so please feel free to contact me at [email protected] or through my website at http://www.bessmcbride.com.

  Many of you know I also write a series of short cozy mysteries under the pen name of Minnie Crockwell. Feel free to stop by my website and learn more about the series.

  Thanks for reading!

  Bess

  Chapter One

  A very long time ago in a land far, far away there lived a fairy godmother. This isn’t her story.

  Over Two Hundred Years Ago, England

  Viscount Halwell opened his eyes to yet another dreary day at Alton House. He should have removed to London some time ago but could not face the onslaught of invitations and social activities that no doubt awaited him at his town house.

  A crack in the curtains revealed that the gray skies matched his mood. He drew in a deep breath and released it slowly, the tightness in his chest unrelieved by the motion.

  The wedding had come and gone over a month ago. The happy couple had traveled to the continent and returned yesterday. Despite Halwell’s melancholy, his mother, Lady Georgianna, insisted that they call upon the newlyweds as a courtesy. He had protested but had known his mother was correct. Had he gone to London, he could have avoided seeing Lady Mary St. John so soon. Yet...had he gone to London, he would have missed seeing her upon her return.

  Such a dilemma. She was lost to him. The better man had won. He had no moral right to long for her, yet he did. Though he had met many fine young misses and potential brides, none had stirred his imagination, his heart, as had Mary. Something about her had been particularly unique, refreshing, perhaps even mysterious, and she had no equal.

  He had offered her his heart and name, and she had rejected him. No, not rejected him precisely. He recalled the exchange several months ago.

  This is not the time or the place, but I wish to speak to you privately, if that is possible. Perhaps I could call upon you tomorrow? I know that is not an easy task given St. John’s proclivity for seclusion.

  Wait! You’re not going to...propose to me, are you? I can’t!

  Miss Palmer, please grant me an opportunity to express myself properly in another setting. This is very awkward.

  It is. I just can’t. I can’t marry anyone...here.

  What do you mean...here? In England? Is it that you would miss your home?

  Yes, that’s it. I have to go home, to America. I have family there. They need me.

  I understand, Miss Palmer. Is it possible that they could come here to England? I would be honored to have your family live at Alton House with us if you would consent to become my wife.

  Mary had said no more that evening, but in a confusing set of events, she had removed herself from Alvord Castle the following day and come to stay
at Alton House—for less than an hour.

  Then Mary had vanished from the premises, the eccentric Miss Hickstrom stating that Miss Palmer had gone home to America. Yet Mary had left Alton House without her case, which was not the least of the oddities that day.

  She had married St. John within weeks of her abrupt departure, hardly time enough for her to have gone home to America and then returned to England. Halwell’s mother had requested his attendance at the wedding, and though it pained him beyond measure, he had attended the ceremony.

  “Miss Palmer looked lovely,” his mother had said as they drove back to Alton House from the church. “St. John seemed very happy.”

  “Indeed,” Halwell had said, unable to trust his voice. He seemed to have developed a perpetual huskiness.

  “I did think at one time that she might be right for you, George, but I can see now I was mistaken. She was much too flighty, disappearing from Alton House that day! I still do not understand what happened. Did you hear anything more after St. John sent for her case?”

  “No,” Halwell responded briefly. He turned to watch the passing landscape, wishing that his mother would cease and desist with the topic. A glass of brandy was what he needed.

  “I am sorry that I pushed you toward Miss Palmer, George.”

  “You did nothing of the sort, Mother,” he said, keeping his face averted. He cleared his throat, hoping to alleviate a painful knot.

  “I wonder if you will stay in the country now or return to London,” his mother had said. He suspected that she prefer he stay with her at Alton House, as his father was often away for long periods.

  “No, I do not intend to return to London this year,” he said.

  “Are you certain, George? You have so many friends, so much to do. You seem a bit melancholy. You could do with some festivities.”

  “No, I think not,” he had repeated, uncharacteristically monosyllabic. He was normally much more voluble.

  His mother, sitting across from him in the carriage, had regarded him with concerned eyes.

  “George,” she had begun.

  “Thank you, Mother. I will stay at Alton House. I would prefer not to go about. Perhaps I am sickening.”

  “You have never been sick a day in your life!”

  “How odd,” he had murmured. “Perhaps it is an illness of age.”

  “George! You are only five and twenty, far too young to assume you have an illness related to aging!”

  He had nodded and resumed gazing out the window at nothing in particular. His mother had fallen silent. She had inquired after his health in the ensuing weeks and had offered to call the doctor, but Halwell had refused medical attention. There was little a doctor could do for a broken heart...little indeed.

  Yet he must rise, dress with care, breakfast and set out to see the lady who was lost to him, and the gentleman who had claimed her for his own.

  Halwell looked out the window once again. Yes, the gray skies suited his gloomy mood. He pushed himself out of bed and rang for his valet.

  “Good morning, your lordship,” Jensen said upon entering. The tall, thin man with sparsely graying hair hurried to pull open the curtains, though to what end Halwell did not know. No sunlight filled the room.

  “You are awake early,” Jensen said.

  Halwell stood and stretched his lethargic frame.

  “Good morning, Jensen,” he said. Somewhat taller than his valet, he looked down at the elderly man, who removed Halwell’s nightshirt. He washed mechanically and sat down while Jensen shaved his face. When the valet selected beige trousers and a cheerful yellow waistcoat, Halwell dissented. Glancing out the window again, he voiced his preference.

  “The gray tailcoat and black breeches this morning, Jensen. Nothing too light. Perhaps the charcoal waistcoat.”

  “But, sir, did you not wear that to a funeral service for an acquaintance of your father’s last year?”

  “Did I?” Halwell asked, though he knew the answer. “Perhaps I did. That will be quite fitting.”

  “I thought you were calling upon Lord and Lady St. John this morning, sir. Lady Georgianna’s maid informed me that you were accompanying her ladyship to Alvord Castle.”

  “I am.”

  Jensen blinked at Halwell’s brief response. He turned and withdrew the requested clothing from the wardrobe while Halwell crossed to the window. The garden lay just below, and while he normally enjoyed the myriad colorful roses in bloom, he saw nothing but an empty, dull lifetime ahead of him.

  “I should say, sir, that your mother has a guest at the moment who will be accompanying you to Alton House.”

  “Who?” he asked without interest.

  “A Miss Hermione Hickstrom?”

  Halwell whirled around...

  Chapter Two

  Present Day, America

  Rachel heard the bell over the door ring as someone entered the shop. Her assistant, Sally Carr, greeted the customer.

  “Hello. Welcome! Can I help you find something specific, or are you just browsing?”

  “Just browsing, my dear.” The accent was English and quaint. Rachel looked around the corner where she had been shelving some books that Sally had purchased at an estate sale.

  A tiny figure with silvery-blue hair twisted up into a bun at the crown of her head stood in the middle of the shop, looking around. She seemed more interested in studying the shop than she did the bookshelves.

  Sally, behind the counter, had returned her attention to a book she had been reading, one that she had picked up from the estate sale.

  The little woman, sporting a purple ankle-length filmy dress festooned with large pink peonies, nodded at Rachel but turned her attention to Sally.

  “What is that you have there?”

  Sally, twenty-five, with short black no-nonsense hair, looked up.

  “This? Oh, this is an old book of fairy tales. Hickstrom’s Book of Fairy Tales. Would you like to look at it?”

  “Yes, please,” the woman said. She crossed over to the counter and took the faded cranberry-colored hardback book.

  Rachel hadn’t looked at the book yet, as Sally had pulled it out of the box to study it before they placed it on the shelf. From that distance, Rachel could see the binding was well preserved, the lettering gold stamped.

  The customer opened the book, leafed through it and stopped on a particular page. She ran her fingers down the page in a rather oddly affectionate gesture. To Rachel’s surprise, she started reading aloud.

  “‘A very long time ago in a land far, far away there lived a fairy godmother with little to do but concern herself overly much with notions of love and lonely hearts and the lives of others. No solitary heart was safe where she was concerned. She must do everything within her power to ensure that love conquered all.

  “‘What follows is the tale of two such lonely hearts.’”

  Rachel moved over to stand beside her. Sally leaned forward over the counter, as if to read the page with the little lady, albeit upside down.

  The book was in remarkably good shape given that the binding appeared old. Rachel saw no evidence of fraying or cracking. The pages were thick but not ripped or marred.

  The woman looked up at Rachel.

  “Hello,” she said. “I wonder if you are the one I am looking for.”

  “Hi! My name is Rachel Lee. I’m the owner here. How can I help you?”

  “Yes, I think it must be you, for it is not this lovely young lady.” She smiled at Sally, which took the sting out of her words.

  “And you are?” Rachel asked.

  “Miss Hermione Hickstrom,” she said. “I am delighted to meet you.”

  She offered her hand in a rather regal gesture, and Rachel took it.

  “It’s nice to meet you as well.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, Rachel saw Sally blink and then slide the book toward her. Slipping a finger inside the book to mark the page, Sally partially closed the front cover, as if to read the title. She shot Rachel a qui
ck glance and tapped on the lettering.

  Rachel shook her head quickly in Sally’s direction.

  “Are you interested in buying this book?” Rachel asked Miss Hickstrom.

  “Buy it?” Miss Hickstrom tittered. “Oh, no, dear! I wrote it! I have no need to purchase it.”

  Rachel shook her head, this time in confusion.

  “That’s her name,” Sally said, pointing to the gold lettering.

  Rachel looked at the cover again.

  “I was trying to tell you!” Sally said.

  “‘Hickstrom’s Book of Fairy Tales,’” Rachel read aloud. “Ohhhh! I see! Your family though, right? You couldn’t have written it yourself. The book looks quite old!”

  “How sweet of you! I am quite old, my dear, but how kind of you!”

  Rachel supposed the woman could have been fabricating a tale. She hated to use a term so harsh as lie. Miss Hickstrom seemed sincere though, as if she believed herself.

  “Well, it’s a beautiful book! Fairy tales,” Rachel murmured, trying to be pleasant but unsure of what the woman wanted in particular. “What inspired you to write a book of fairy tales? How long ago did you publish it?”

  “Many, many years ago,” Miss Hickstrom said, reaching for the book and opening it to a page. She lifted her head and met Rachel’s eyes. “Why? Perhaps I am a fairy godmother with little to do but concern myself overly much with notions of love and lonely hearts and the lives of others.”

  Rachel glanced at the book. Miss Hickstrom had recited the words on the page, as if she had them memorized. Rachel supposed that was possible. She smiled at the blue-haired woman in polite bewilderment.