Free The Spurned Viscountess by Shelley Munro

take the woman to bed and keep her there until her belly swelled with child. The idea made his stomach churn.
    “Charles will take care of the repairs.”
    A snort escaped Lucien. The honorable Charles Soulden was a useless fop. His so-called cousin spent his nights carousing about the countryside with his friend Viscount Mansfield, his days sleeping away his excesses. Work? The man didn’t know the meaning of the word. “I believe Charles has social obligations to fulfill. I heard him inform Lady Augusta of them last night.”
    St. Clare shrugged, leaning heavily on his ebony cane. “No hurry. As I said, a day or two will make little difference.”
    Irritated with the man’s attitude, Lucien turned to Maxwell. “I’ll start the repairs today. Rosalind will understand the need for my absence.” After wandering the estate, Lucien knew the need for repairs was dire. It was no wonder the village people accepted money from the smugglers in exchange for providing labor and a cloak of secrecy. Lucien could hardly blame them for trying to provide for their families. What was also obvious was the growing resentment from the villagers and tenants who lived on the estate.
    Impatient with talk, Lucien leaped to his feet, wanting the hard physical activity of estate work. He needed to fall into his bed at night with his limbs heavy and aching with tiredness. For then, he might actually sleep.
    Lucien paced to the door in front of the desk, eager to be gone. “I’ll put the work in motion. Are the building supplies ordered?”
    The man blinked. “There was no point. The work wasn’t scheduled.”
    “I’ll take care of it.” Lucien marched from the study. Long strides carried him into the outer bailey. A raven cawed from its roost atop the disused North Tower. Damn pile of stones. It needed dismantling before it toppled into the sea.
    At the stables a groom came running at his call. After a short delay, he mounted Oberon and trotted from the stable yard, glad to be gone from the oppressive bastion.
    He urged Oberon into a canter. For once, Oberon was content with the pace and they loped alongside a hedgerow, heading for the cluster of cottages on the edge of St. Clare village.
    A crop of barley grew in the field adjacent, the stalks spindly and sparse for the time of the season. Planted too late, perhaps with inferior seeds.
    Was it any wonder the village people relied on the smugglers to supplement their incomes? It was a matter of survival.
    As Lucien reached the brow of the hill, he had a view of St. Clare village in the valley below. A plume of smoke rose from a chimney. In front of the nearest cottage, a red rooster scratched in the dirt. A toddler crawled through an open door out into the muddy street. Somewhere a blacksmith worked his forge, the incessant pounding of a hammer beating in time with Oberon’s hooves. A group of women who’d been talking ceased their prattle and turned to stare. The scene bore little resemblance to the prosperous Bacci estate in Italy.
    Lucien slowed Oberon and dismounted. Every man, woman and child in sight froze, clear suspicion on their faces. Even the rooster seemed wary, squawking in fright and disappearing into an alley running between two cottages. Lucien could understand the attitude. He was finding it difficult to trust these days, second guessing the motives of everyone around him.
    “My lord?” The frail woman elected as spokesman was so skinny she looked as though a gust of wind would send her soaring through the skies.
    “I have come to check the cottages, to see which require repairs.”
    They greeted his words with a stunned silence. Lucien frowned once again over the lack of concern from the castle.
    A huge man with bulging biceps and a blacksmith’s hammer in one hand appeared behind the group of women. “Talk be cheap.”
    The women backed up as if distancing themselves from the man.
    “Do you have time to give me a tour?” Lucien asked. “Can you show me what