Vexing The Viscount by Emily Bryan

hammered against the whalebone prison of her bodice.
    “Teach me what you know of kissing then,” he said. “That seems safe enough.”
    He had no idea how his kiss melted her inside. Yet the thought of spending time with him, of exploring the mysteries of kissing him, was too delicious an adventure to pass up.
    “Very well.” Daisy took his arm and led him toward the splash of light pouring from the open doors to her great-aunt’s home. “Bring me a suitably naughty Roman object of art and I will teach you what I know of kissing.
    But in the meantime, we should rejoin His Lordship’s party. I believe that’s a saraband I hear. And I do so enjoy the dance.”
    Daisy decided she’d trip through one more set, then plead exhaustion and head for bed. She was sure she’d be up half the night, rereading Blanche’s entries about the artful use of the lips, teeth and tongue.

“Dangerous principles impose upon our understanding, emasculate our spirits, and spoil our temper.”
    —Jeremy Collier, English bishop, theologian and Jacobite
Chapter Six
    The reek of smoke and unwashed humanity surged over Sir Alistair Fitzhugh with the force of a Brighton breaker. The chimney at The Unicorn was drafting poorly again, so all the smells of the pub—yeasty ale, oily mutton stew, excessive perfume from the slumming dandies in the corner and the ripe tang of the serving girl who’d just as soon spread her legs for a man as bring him his brew—coalesced into a single stale stink.
    Sir Alistair sniffed in appreciation. It was the smell of life, of honest, hard work. Barring the dandies, of course, but the pub needed them to keep the pickpockets from preying on the locals. It reminded him of the smell of his home pub back in Edinburgh.
    Or as near to it as he could manage in the spidery sprawl of London town.
    His eyes adjusted to the hazy dimness as his gaze swept the room. There in the far corner, a man in a greatcoat with the collar upturned was nursing a pint.
    So, he came after all
.
    Sir Alistair made his way toward the booth and slid in across from the man without a word. A blowsy girl ambled over with a brimming mug in one hand and the other fisted at her waist. Her breasts threatened to spill over her tightly laced bodice. He dropped a coin between them and gave her already hard nipple a tug through the cheap muslin. Shegiggled and blew him a kiss, promising to return with bread and two bowls of stew. As she turned away with a flip of her skirt, Alistair scented a whiff of her, wet and swollen, beneath the homespun.
    “Expect I’ll have a bit of that later,” his companion said.
    “I wouldn’t if I were you, Brumley,” Alistair said. “If she isn’t riddled with the French pox already, she will be soon. Better to frequent a reputable brothel, where the madam makes certain the girls and the patrons are both clean. Surely you’ve the coin for it.”
    “Not with the pittance my wife deals out,” Lord Brumley said with bitterness. “It was in the marriage contract. Winifred retains control of her considerable dowry by special decree. Always reminding me how tightly her father’s lips are pressed to King Geordie’s arse.”
    “Bleedin’German sod,” Sir Alistair muttered, not meaning Lady Brumley’s father.
    “Quite.”
    Might as well cinch the matter.
Alistair hefted his mug. “To the king over the water, then.”
    Not meaning the German usurper.
    Brumley eyed him sullenly, lips drawn tight. This was the moment, and the bastard knew it. Lord Brumley drew a deep breath. Once pledged, he was in.
    Alistair had cultivated the unhappy lord for months, enticing Brumley with visions of what his life would be like without the heavy-handed King George. The poor bugger wouldn’t be crawling to his well-connected wife for every scrap. James Stuart placed on his rightful throne would mean rich rewards for those who helped restore him, and a free hand for Lord Brumley into his wife’s deep pockets.
    And not a damned