The Viscount's Heir (formerly titled, Heaven Sent (The Wrong One) PREVIEW ONLY

Chapter 3

The Valet

"Andy," Allayne whispered to his valet as they ascended the steps to the Countess' manor. "Another carriage had arrived after us. Let us dawdle in the receiving room so I can get a good look at the occupants. Who knows, that might be the Earl's daughter."

"Yes, Sir," Andy darted his eyes at the thinning crowd in the reception line, his Adam's apple going up and down.

"Now, don't be anxious," Allayne said, under his breath. "Remember, you're The Honourable Allayne Carlyle, and I am Andy, your valet. Pray don't slip and call me Sir."

"Yes, Sir," Andy blanched at Allayne's reproachful glare. "I mean, yes, Andy."

"Now introduce yourself to the Countess Dowager as such," Allayne urged him towards the end of the queue of eager guests. "Look her in the eye and keep your chin up. And stop fidgeting for Christ's sake!"

"Oh, Lord, Sir—I-I mean Andy—" Andy grimaced, "I think this is a bad idea."

"Balderdash!" Allayne nudged him forward as their turn came up. "What is so hard about pretending you're me? You have known me for over ten years. It's child's play, if anything."

Andy pulled out a handkerchief—one embroidered with Allayne's initials and wiped his brow. "Oh Lord," he reddened. "I'm sorry Sir—Andy, I didn't mean to use your handkerchief."

"Good God, man!" Allayne muttered a curse. "Stop apologizing! You may use everything I have—except for my razor and my drawers—understood?"

"Yes Si—"

Allayne flicked his chin in warning, darting his eyes past him to indicate the presence of the Countess.

Andy colored to an unpalatable shade of green.

Allayne squeezed his eyes shut and drew a deep breath. Dear God, please don't let the fool dump his breakfast on the Countess' titanic bosom—

"You must be Mister Allayne Carlyle," the countess offered her hand to Andy in greeting.

Andy stared at the older woman's hand, took it, and opened his mouth, but no sound came out.

Allayne had a very serious inclination to throttle the silly man. Where did all his training as a valet go? Andy knew exactly what protocol called for, yet here he stood, frozen like a damn opera singer in the throes of stage fright.

Allayne inserted himself partway between Andy and the Countess, and then bowed. "My lady, I beg your forgiveness in behalf of Mister Carlyle. He had been practicing the aria and lost his voice. Nevertheless, he would like to express his utmost delight in meeting you and is looking forward to your enchanting company."

Allayne cast a speaking glance at Andy who promptly bowed over the countess' hand and nodded his head vigorously.

The countess did not appear to notice their exchange and seemed rather flattered by Allayne's buttery tongue. "But of course. What a wonderful surprise to know that Mister Carlyle can sing. Perhaps he can indulge us with a concerto when he recovers. I gather you are here to accompany him?" She regarded him with an interested gaze.

"I am merely his valet, my lady. Mister Andrew—" Allayne lost his train of thought for a second. What the hell was Andy's last name anyway? Ah, but there's no time to cerebrate. "Huntington."

"Huntington?" The countess' finely lined brows arched.

Blast. Allayne concealed his discomfiture. Of all the surnames in England, why did he use Huntington—the first thing that materialized in his brain—and not some common name like Smith or White? Huntington was hardly fit for a valet when the name connotes an ancient legacy dating back to the Norman Conquest—not to mention the fact that it commands recognition in the upper echelons of society.