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    How to Catch a Wild Viscount
    How to Catch a Wild Viscount
    How to Catch a Wild Viscount
    Ebook100 pages1 hour

    How to Catch a Wild Viscount

    By Tessa Dare

    3.5/5

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    About this ebook

    She's on the hunt for a hero…

    Luke Trenton, Viscount Merritt, returned from war a changed man. Battle stripped away his civility and brought out his inner beast. There is no charm or tenderness in him now; only dark passions and a hardened soul. He has nothing to offer the starry-eyed, innocent girl who pledged her heart to him four years ago.

    But Cecily Hale isn't a girl any longer. She's grown into a woman—one who won't be pushed away. She and Luke are guests at a house party when a local legend captures their friends' imaginations. While the others plunge into the forest on a wild goose...er, stag chase, Cecily's on the hunt for a man. She has only a few moonlit nights to reach the real Luke…the wounded heart she knows still beats inside the war-ravaged body…or she could lose him to the darkness forever.

    This is a novella of approximately 20,000 words, or 80 pages. It was originally published under the title The Legend of the Werestag.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherTessa Dare
    Release dateAug 14, 2014
    ISBN9781501442919
    How to Catch a Wild Viscount
    Author

    Tessa Dare

    Tessa Dare is the New York Times bestselling, award-winning author of more than a dozen historical romances. A librarian by training and a book-lover at heart, Tessa makes her home in Southern California, where she shares a cozy, cluttered bungalow with her husband, their two children, and a pair of cosmic kittens.

    Read more from Tessa Dare

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    Reviews for How to Catch a Wild Viscount

    3.5/5

    118 ratings2 reviews

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    • 3/5
      I was hoping for a bit more angst, but it is a short story. I've been meaning to check out Tessa Dare for a bit.
    • 3/5
      really 2 1/2 stars. some annoying male chauvinist and stupid girl moments.

      1 person found this helpful

    Book preview

    How to Catch a Wild Viscount - Tessa Dare

    Chapter One

    Autumn, 1815

    When they’d entered Swinford Woods, laughing and making merry, passing around a flask of spirits for warmth, Denny had offered a forfeit to the first hunter to spot the beast. His last bottle of apple brandy from the pressing two years past.

    Well, it would appear Cecily had won. It seemed doubtful, however, that she would survive to claim her prize.

    Peering through the darkness, she studied her quarry. Dark, beady eyes regarded her around an elongated nose. The curved, lethal tip of a horn glittered in the moonlight. The creature’s rank, gamy odor assaulted her, even from several paces away.

    The animal impatiently pawed the leaf-strewn forest floor, fixing her all the while with an offended glare. Good heavens, it was enormous. It must outweigh her by ten stone, at least.

    She didn’t know what to do. Should she run? Climb a tree? Feign death and hope it lost interest and went away? She’d become separated from the others some ways back—stupid, stupid. Would they even hear her, if she called?

    Denny? she ventured. The animal cocked its head, and Cecily cleared her throat to try again. Portia? Mr. Brooke?

    The beast shuffled toward her, great slabs of muscle flexing beneath its hoary coat.

    Not you, she told it, taking a quick step back. Shoo. Go home.

    It bristled and snarled, revealing a narrow row of jagged teeth. Moonlight pooled like liquid around its massive jaw. Good Lord, the thing was drooling.

    Truly panicked now, she drew a deep breath and called as loud as she could. "Denny! Help!"

    No answer.

    Oh, Lord. She was going to be slaughtered, right here in the forest. Miss Cecily Hale, a lady of perfectly good breeding and respectable fortune, not to mention oft-complimented eyes, would die unmarried and childless because she’d wasted her youth pining for a man who didn’t love her. She would perish here in Swinford Woods, alone and heartbroken, having received only two kisses in the entirety of her three-and-twenty years. The second of which she could still taste on her lips, if she pressed them together tightly enough.

    It tasted bitter.

    Luke, you unforgivable cad. This is all your fault. If only you hadn’t—

    A savage grunt snapped her back into the present. Cecily looked on in horror as the vile creature lowered its head, stamped the ground—

    And began to charge.

    God, she truly was going to die. Whose brilliant idea had it been, to go hunting a legendary beast in a cursed forest, by the light of a few meager torches and a three-quarters moon?

    Oh, yes. Hers.

    Three hours earlier

    Menacing clouds obscured the moon’s silvered radiance. Portia flattened one palm against a low-slung, imaginary sky. Her voice portentous, she continued to read from the notebook. With a mighty crack of thunder, the heavens rent. Rain lashed the crumbling abbey in unremitting torrents, and a crystalline gale blasted like the very breath of Hell.

    From her chair near the hearth, Cecily checked a smile. This performance was pure Portia, right down to the dramatic toss of her unbound, jet-black mane.

    Rain filled the gargoyles’ straining mouths, sluicing down to their craven talons and pooling in the Byzantine crevasses, viscous and obsidian. Portia dropped the notebook to her lap and closed her eyes, as though to savor the suspense. Then her eyes snapped open, and she tore the page from her notebook and crumpled it savagely before casting it into the fire. Rubbish. Utter rubbish.

    It isn’t rubbish, Cecily protested dutifully. Friends, after all, were supposed to support one another, and if Portia wanted to write gothic novels, Cecily would encourage her. It was gratifying to see her friend excited about something—anything—now that she’d emerged from her year of mourning. It’s a fine beginning, she said. Dramatic and chilling. Truly, it gave me a little shiver.

    Perhaps there’s a draft, Mr. Brooke remarked.

    Portia ignored him. Do you really think it will do? She chewed her lip and fished a pencil from the folds of her skirt. Maybe I should write it down again.

    You should. You most certainly should. I don’t believe I’ve ever heard a group of sentences so . . . so very . . .

    Wet? The suggestion came from a shadowed corner of the drawing room.

    Cecily recognized the deep, wry voice, but she refused to acknowledge the speaker. Why should she? Luke had spent the past week at Swinford ruthlessly ignoring her. Four years ago, during a ball at this very house, they’d been interrupted in the midst of a most intimate conversation. He’d left to join his regiment before dawn, and Cecily had spent four long years—the best years of her youth—waiting for him to return, praying God would one day give them a chance to resume that discussion.

    Now he’d come back. They’d been in the same house for eight days. And he’d made it perfectly, painfully clear he had nothing whatever to say.

    Well, she supposed she must be fair. He had spoken the word wet just now.

    Atmospheric, she said evenly, forbidding any note of impatience or frustration or bitter heartbreak to tweak her voice. I was going to say it’s very atmospheric.

    Portia looked to their host. Denny, what did you think?

    Cecily shot him a pleading glance. She and Denny had practically grown up together, and she knew him well enough to recognize the peril in Portia’s question. He was a good-hearted, uncomplicated man, and he had a way of being too honest at times, without realizing it. Come on, Denny. Give her a kind word. A convincing one.

    Capital, he exclaimed, rather too loudly to sound sincere. First rate, I’m sure. At least, I know I could never write a thing to touch it, what with the torrents and the sluicing and those Byzantine crevasses.

    Portia pinched the bridge of her nose. "Lord. It is rubbish."

    If you want my opinion . . . Brooke said, lifting a decanter of whiskey.

    I don’t.

    Brooke, of course, was undeterred. To the contrary, a keen anticipation lit his eyes. The man possessed a cutting wit, and used it to draw blood. Some gentlemen angled trout while on holiday; others shot game. Arthur Brooke made it a sport to disenchant—as though it were his personal mission to drive fancy and naiveté to extinction.

    He said smugly, My dear Mrs. Yardley, you have assembled a lovely collection of words.

    Portia eyed him with skepticism. I don’t suppose that’s a compliment.

    No, it isn’t, he answered. Pretty words, all, but there are too many of them. With so many extravagant ornaments, one cannot make out the story beneath.

    I can make out the story quite clearly, Cecily protested. It’s nighttime, and there is a terrific storm.

    There you have it, Denny said. It was a dark and stormy night. He made a generous motion toward Portia. Feel free to use that. I won’t mind.

    With a groan, Portia rose from her chair and swept to the window. "The

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