The Viscount's Kiss
“Are you all right?” Nell asked.
Lord Bromwell studied Nell in a way that sent the blood throbbing through her body as even the tipping coach had not.
“I believe I am undamaged. I wonder…?”
“Yes?”
“I wonder if I should attempt an experiment….”
“Experiment?” Nell repeated quizzically, having some difficulty following Lord Bromwell’s line of reasoning and, at that particular moment, not really sure what an experiment was.
With no further warning, without even knowing her name, let alone being properly introduced, the gentleman raised his head.
And kissed her.
The pressure of his lips was as light and beguiling as the brush of a moth’s wing, as delicious and welcome as warm bread and hot tea on a cold day, and more arousing than anything she’d ever experienced….
The Viscount’s Kiss
Harlequin® Historical
Praise for USA TODAY bestselling author MARGARET MOORE
“Moore continues to captivate with her latest historical.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews on A Lover’s Kiss
“Drury and Juliette will charm their way into readers’ hearts.”
—In the Library Reviews on A Lover’s Kiss
“A suspenseful, tragic romance of the first order! I recommend A Lover’s Kiss especially to readers who enjoy the Regency period.”
—Romance Reader at Heart on A Lover’s Kiss
“Margaret Moore knows how to serve up the perfect medieval tale.”
—A Romance Review on Knave’s Honor
“Fans of historicals…will be unable to put Ms. Moore’s story down. The story is fresh, fun, fast-paced, engaging, and passionate, with an added touch of adventure.”
—The Romance Readers Connection on The Notorious Knight
“Filled with fast-paced dialogue and historical details that add depth and authenticity to the story. Readers will be well entertained.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews on My Lord’s Desire
“Colorful and compelling details of life in the Middle Ages abound.”
—Publishers Weekly on Hers To Command
“She convincingly transports you to an era of daring heroes and the women who tame them.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews
USA TODAY Bestselling Author
MARGARET MOORE
The Viscount’s Kiss
For my Dad, Clint Warren,
a hero and father who taught by quiet example
Available from Harlequin® Historical and MARGARET MOORE
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Other works include:
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Contents
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
Chapter Twenty-Two
Epilogue
Chapter One
It has long been my dream to study these fascinating creatures in their natural habitat, to watch them as they spin their webs and go about the business of living, myself unnoticed save as another species of fauna inhabiting their world.
—from The Spider’s Web, by Lord Bromwell
England, 1820
That man does not belong here, Nell Springley thought as she surreptitiously studied the only other occupant in the mail coach headed to Bath. He’d been asleep when she’d boarded in London, and he was still asleep despite the rocking and jostling of the vehicle, his tall beaver hat tipped over his eyes and his arms crossed over his chest.
He was clearly well-to-do, for he wore a fine indigo frock coat of excellent wool an
d buff trousers that hugged his long legs. His blindingly white cravat, tied in an intricate and complicated knot, fairly shouted a valet’s skillful expertise. His slender fingers were likewise encased in superbly fitting kid leather gloves and his Hessian boots were so brightly polished, she could see the reflection of her skirts.
Surely a man who could afford such clothes would have his own carriage.
Maybe he was a gamester who had gambled away his fortune. If he was the sort who frequented outdoor boxing matches, that might explain why what little of his jaw and cheeks she could see had been browned by the sun.
Perhaps he’d been in the Navy. She could easily imagine that figure in a uniform, his broad shoulders topped by an officer’s braid, shouting commands and looking very dashing on the quarterdeck.
Or he could be a tosspot sleeping off a night of drunken merriment, having spent the rest of his money on wine. If that were so, she hoped he wouldn’t wake up until they arrived in Bath. She had no desire to be engaged in conversation with a sot. Or anyone else.
The coach lurched over a particularly bone-jarring bump that rattled the baggage in the boot and made the guard riding outside the coach curse. Nell, meanwhile, grabbed the seat as her poke bonnet slipped over her eyes.
“Bit of a rough spot,” a deep, genial male voice noted.
Shoving her bonnet back into place, Nell raised her eyes—and found herself staring at the most handsome young man she’d ever seen. Not only was he awake, his hat was now properly situated on his head, revealing amiable blue-gray eyes separated by a narrow nose bordered by angular cheekbones. He was young, and yet there were wrinkles at the corners of his eyes that suggested he’d had vastly more experience of the world than she.
But then, most people had more experience of the world than she.
Nell blushed as if she’d been caught eavesdropping and immediately clasped her hands in her lap and lowered her eyes.
As she did, out of the corner of her eye she spotted something moving on the fawn-colored, double crimson-striped seat beside her.
A spider! A big, horrible brown spider—and it was headed right for her!
Gasping, Nell lunged across the coach—and landed on the lap of the young man opposite, knocking his hat from his head.
“Steady!” he warned, his upper-class accent providing more proof he was from a well-to-do household.
Blushing even more, she immediately moved to sit beside him. “I—I beg your pardon,” she stammered, feeling hopelessly foolish, while noting that one stray lock of brown hair had tumbled over his forehead, making him look rather boyish and far less intimidating.
“There’s no need to be frightened,” her companion said. “It’s only a Tegenaria parietina. They’re quite harmless, I assure you.”
Now completely humiliated by her childish reaction, Nell didn’t know what to say. Instead, she smoothed out her skirts and glanced at the seat she had so abruptly vacated.
The spider was gone.
“Where is it?” she cried, gripping the seat and half rising regardless of the swaying motion of the coach. “Where’s the spider?”
The young man held up his hat. “In here.”
He had it in his hat?
He gave her an apologetic smile. “Spiders are of particular interest to me.”
However handsome he was, however gentlemanly, he was definitely eccentric and possibly deranged.
“Please keep it away from me,” she said, inching as far away from him and his hat as she could get. “I hate spiders.”
The young man heaved a heavy sigh, as if her common aversion was a very serious failing. “That’s a pity.”
Considering everything she’d done in the past few days, to be condemned for disliking spiders struck Nell as completely ridiculous.
“Most spiders are harmless,” the young man continued, peering into his hat as if the spider were a cherished pet. “I’m aware that they aren’t as beautiful as some insects can be, like butterflies, but they are as useful in their way as butterflies or bees.”
He raised his eyes and smiled, and she was immediately sure he never lacked for partners at a ball. “However you feel about spiders, you must allow me to introduce myself. I’m—”
With a loud crack, the coach flew up as if it were alive before coming down with a thunderous thud that sent Nell tumbling from her seat. Her companion reached for her, pulling her against his body, as horses shrieked and the driver shouted and the coach began to tip sideways.
It fell over, landing with another thud, and Nell found herself sprawled on top of the young gentleman and hemmed in by the seats.
He studied her in a way that sent the blood throbbing through her body as even the tipping coach had not. “Are you all right?”
She didn’t feel any pain, only an acute awareness of his body beneath her and his protective arms around her. “I think so. And you?”
“I believe I am undamaged. I suspect something went wrong with a wheel or an axle.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” she murmured. She could feel his chest rising and falling with quick breaths, as rapid and ragged as her heartbeat, even though the immediate danger had passed.
“I should investigate and ascertain what has happened.”
She nodded.
“Right away,” he added, his gaze locked onto hers and his handsome, sun-browned face so very close.
“At once,” she whispered, telling herself to move yet making no effort to do so.
“I may be of assistance.”
“Yes, of course.”
“I wonder…?”
“Yes?”
“If I should attempt an experiment.”
“Experiment?” she repeated quizzically, having some difficulty following his line of reasoning and, at that particular moment, not really sure what an experiment was.
With no further warning, without even knowing her name let alone being properly introduced, the young man raised his head.
And kissed her.
The pressure of his lips was as light and beguiling as the brush of a moth’s wing, as delicious and welcome as warm bread and hot tea on a cold day, and more arousing than anything she’d ever experienced—completely different from that other unexpected kiss only a few short days ago that had ruined her life.
As he was different from the arrogant, domineering Lord Sturmpole.
This was what a kiss should be like—warm, welcome, exciting, delightful…as he was.
Until, with a gasp like a drowning man, he broke the kiss and scrambled backward as far as he could go, so that his back was against what had been the floor of the coach.
“Good God, forgive me!” he cried as if utterly horrified. “I can’t think what came over me!”
She just as quickly scrambled backward between his legs, until her back was against the coach’s roof.
“Nor I,” she replied, flushing with embarrassment and shame, for she did know what had come over her—the most inconvenient, ill-timed lust.
This was hardly the way to travel unnoticed and unremarked!
“It must have been the shock of the accident,” he offered as he got to his feet, hunching over in the small space and blushing as if sincerely mortified. “If you’ll excuse me, I shall inquire as to our circumstances.”
He reached for the handle, which was now over his head and without any further ado shoved the door open and hoisted himself up and out as if he were part monkey.
Crouching on the pocket of the door in the side of the coach, Nell straightened her bonnet and took stock of the situation. She was in an overturned coach. She was unhurt. Her clothes were disheveled but not torn or muddy. Her bonnet was mostly unscathed, while the young gentleman’s hat had been crushed beneath them, along, no doubt, with the spider inside it.
She had also kissed a handsome stranger who seemed to feel genuine, heartfelt remorse for that action, despite her obvious—and incredibly foolish—response.
She must be jinxed, born under some kind
of ill omen. What else could explain the difficulties that had beset her recently? Her employment as companion to Lady Sturmpole had seemed a stroke of good fortune, then turned into an unmitigated disaster. She had been relieved to catch this coach at the last minute, only to have it overturn. She had been glad she would have to share the journey with only one other traveller, and he was asleep—but look how that had turned out.
As abruptly as he’d departed, the young man’s head reappeared in the opening. “It seems the axle has broken. It will have to be fixed before the coach can be righted, so we shall have to find an alternate means of transportation. If you’ll raise your hands, I’ll pull you out.”
She nodded and obeyed. “I’m afraid your hat is ruined and the spider dead.”
“Ah,” he sighed as he reached down for her. “Poor creature. Perhaps if I had left it alone, it would have survived.”
Or perhaps not, she thought as she put her hands in his.
He pulled her up with unexpected ease, proving that he was stronger than he looked. It seemed his apparel, unlike many a fashionable young gentleman’s, was not padded to give the appearance of muscles he didn’t possess.
Once she was out of the coach, the soft light of the growing dawn illuminated the burly coachman, dressed in the customary coachman’s attire of green coat and crimson shawl. He was lying on the verge, a bloody gash in his forehead and his broad-brimmed brown hat a short distance away. His red coat splattered with mud, the guard held the reins of the four nervous horses that had already been unharnessed from the coach. He also held a rather ancient blunderbuss. One of the horses had clearly broken a leg, for its left rear hoof dangled sickeningly. Thankfully, no passengers rode atop the mail coach; if they had been in a crowded stagecoach, people might have been seriously injured or killed.
The young man climbed off the coach painted maroon on the lower half, black above, with a red undercarriage, and the Royal cipher brightly visible on the side, then reached up to help her down.