The Viscount's Kiss Read online

  “We shouldn’t waste our time,” Lord Bromwell said with quiet resignation. “I’ll have one sent to you via your godfather, with my compliments.”

  Which meant she would never receive it and he would find out that she’d been deceiving him. Yet what else could she say except, “Thank you.”

  “It’s no trouble. I have several. Not that I go sending them out to everybody I meet…”

  His voice trailed off into an embarrassed silence.

  She risked a swift glance at his face, to see that he was blushing from his collar to his hairline and said, “I think you’re a very remarkable man, Lord Bromwell.”

  “I think you’re a rather remarkable woman, to have travelled so far by yourself,” he replied, not meeting her gaze. “For a young woman to even decide to do such a thing, and in the face of parental disapproval, is astonishing.”

  “It seems we both have had to disappoint our parents in order to be free.”

  Except, in her case, her parents were dead, and she was all alone.

  As he was, at least in one way. Even here in the family home, no one understood him or the forces that drove him. The desire to learn. The zeal to discover. The willingness to risk everything in the advancement of science. She didn’t fully comprehend what compelled him, either, but she could easily admire him for his dedication and devotion.

  As she stood beside him close enough to touch, the glow of the lamp surrounded them, a circle of enveloping light in the encompassing darkness, as if they were all alone in this vast mansion, this county, this country, the world. An island of sanctuary in a hostile world.

  Only the two of them, separate, but not alone. Not anymore.

  She could have no hope for any kind of future with him. She was a thief, a fugitive and a liar. She was here under the most false of pretences, taking advantage of his kindness and generosity, and her only hope should be that he never found out the truth.

  She parted her lips, ready to say something, anything, to break the spell cast by the lamplight and her admiration and sympathy.

  He leaned closer, as if to listen.

  Or to kiss her.

  “My lord, dinner is served,” the butler announced from the doorway.

  At Fallingbrook’s announcement, Bromwell immediately moved away from the beautiful and far-too-tempting Lady Eleanor.

  If she knew the thoughts and images that swirled in his head about her, she would think him the most lascivious libertine in England. She must never know, and he must and would master his desire. He must and would behave as he should, no matter how enticing she was.

  She needed his help, not his unwelcome advances.

  “Shall we?” he said, politely offering her his arm.

  She duly laid her hand upon it and they dutifully and silently proceeded to the dining room.

  “Ah, here you are!” his father cried as they entered and his triumphant smile was almost too much to bear in silence.

  Almost, for what could he say to his parent that wouldn’t alert Lady Eleanor to his father’s persistent wishes regarding his future?

  Surprisingly, his mother was there, too, looking more alert and healthy than she had in a long time. She had always enjoyed the company of younger women, and he had more than once suggested she have a companion, but that proposal had always been met with her own kind of stubborn resistance. She would say she wouldn’t need a companion if her son would visit more often and stay longer.

  Since the countess was already seated and made no effort to stand, her son brought Lady Eleanor to her. “Mother, this is Lady Eleanor Springford. Lady Eleanor, my mother, Lady Granshire.”

  “Delighted,” his mother murmured as Lady Eleanor dropped her hand from his arm and dipped a curtsy.

  His father, meanwhile, nodded at the liveried, bewigged footman, who pulled out a chair that would be to his right at the table.

  “My lady,” the earl said, nodding toward the chair.

  Again demonstrating her admirable, amiable poise, Lady Eleanor gave her host a pleasant smile, then did as she was ordered and took her seat.

  After the earl delivered a grandiose grace as if it were the Sermon on the Mount, supper was served.

  Bromwell was well aware he need not be ashamed of any meal in his father’s household; unfortunately, the price for such sumptuous fare as turtle soup, turbot with lobster, lamb cutlets, venison, beef, goose, peas, salad, meringues à la crème and chocolate cream was having to listen to his father, who had an opinion, however ignorant and ill formed, on everything.

  Lady Eleanor ate as delicately as before and listened politely. She never ventured a remark unless the earl asked her a direct question, an opportunity that came precisely once, when he asked her about the condition of Italian roads compared to English ones. Even then, he didn’t really listen to her response. He simply continued to assert his opinion that English roads were in a disastrous state and all those convicts being shipped off to Australia could be put to better use fixing the roads and verges in England.

  Having witnessed the disembarkation of men, women and children from a convict ship in Australia, Bromwell didn’t disagree. “It might mean more of them survive,” he noted. “The conditions on those vessels—”

  “I’m not saying we should keep them here to do them good,” his father cried as if Bromwell had suggested putting them up in hotels, “but as a means of saving the government money.”

  “To make them slaves,” Bromwell said. “You’ve never been to a sugar plantation, or you would realize that slavery—”

  “Is not what we’re discussing. We were talking about roads—the very roads that nearly got you killed.”

  “The accident wasn’t that bad,” Bromwell replied, trying to be patient. “We were not in danger of dying.”

  “If there had been passengers on top of the coach, though,” Lady Eleanor ventured, “they might have been seriously injured or killed.”

  “Ah! There!” his father cried triumphantly. “Exactly my point!”

  Bromwell tried not to feel betrayed. “I admit that’s true, especially if we’d been going at a faster rate of speed. Nevertheless, I think there’s a vast difference between saying that the roads should be kept in good repair and using slave labor to ensure it.”

  “This is what comes of an expensive education,” his father complained to Lady Eleanor. “Theory over practicality every time. Maybe if my son stayed in England instead of haring off after bugs, he’d realize the state this country is in.”

  “When you have seen as much of the world as I have,” Bromwell said quietly, thinking of certain images that would be forever burned into his brain, “you can appreciate how fortunate we are, although there is much that could be done to improve England, and the English.”

  His father’s brows lowered. “Now you sound like one of those damned Frenchmen, spouting off about liberté and equalité. Look what happened there. Turned the country into a bloody mess.”

  Lady Eleanor shifted uneasily in her chair, and his mother looked equally uncomfortable.

  “Perhaps we should refrain from political discussion until the ladies have retired to the drawing room,” Bromwell suggested, hurrying on before his father took that as an indication that his son was admitting he was wrong. “Did I not see a new horse in the stables, a very fine black hunter?”

  “Yes, you did,” his father replied. “Got it for the new season. Wonderful animal.”

  His father proceeded to describe not just the qualities of his latest purchase, but every other horse and hound he possessed. Although changing the subject was precisely the goal Bromwell had hoped to achieve, he subdued yet another sigh as he wondered what Lady Eleanor made of his family.

  At last the final course of fruit and chocolate crème had been served, and the ladies left him alone with his father. Instead of returning to politics, however, Bromwell was forced to endure another lecture on his duties as an Englishman, a nobleman and especially the heir of the Earl of Granshire.
r />   Having been subjected to this harangue several times before, Bromwell allowed his mind to drift to Lady Eleanor, although that proved to be something of a mistake. His imagination immediately conjured the picture of her lithe, graceful body engaged in a hura, the dance done by the women of Tahiti, which was as different from a measured, genteel English ballroom dance as it was possible for a dance to be.

  “Well, Bromwell? What do you intend to do?” his father demanded, tugging his mind back to cold reality.

  “For now, join the ladies,” his son replied as he rose and headed for the door.

  Nell had thought the dinner at the inn had been like trying to make her way through a maze, but that was nothing compared to the tension she experienced in the Earl of Granshire’s dining room. Thanks to her education—which the earl would likely consider a waste of money—she knew what glass to drink from and how to manage the fish bones; otherwise, she felt like the unwilling spectator at a trial, with Lord Bromwell as the defendant and his father both judge and jury. His mother, for all her apparent concern for her son, said nothing in his defence. Instead, she sat as silent as a spirit and picked at her food like a bird.

  No, that wasn’t right, she thought as she sat across from Lady Granshire, who was reclining on the Grecian couch in the drawing room while they waited for the tea. A ghost might have groaned or tipped over a chair to reveal its presence. Lady Granshire simply ate her food, sipped her wine and ignored the conversation around her.

  Perhaps she was used to such conversations between her husband and son, which surely meant they weren’t uncommon. Poor Lord Bromwell! How difficult it must be for him here!

  “You’re shivering,” the countess said with maternal concern. “Shall I have a footman fetch you a shawl?”

  “No, I’m quite all right, thank you,” Nell replied. If anything, the room was rather too warm, for the fire had been built up while they’d been in the dining room, probably for Lady Granshire’s benefit.

  Lord Bromwell and his father would no doubt find the room almost unbearably warm. Of course, having been in such hot climes during his voyage, Lord Bromwell might not find such temperatures uncomfortable, although he might be tempted to remove his coat…

  “I do hope you’re not coming down with something. Perhaps I should have Dr. Heathfield see you when he comes for his weekly visit.”

  “No, I’m sure I’ll all right. I must thank you for the loan of this gown and the others.”

  The countess gave her a shy smile that was very like her son’s. “Think nothing of it. I have too many to wear.” She leaned forward and took hold of Nell’s hand with unexpected strength. “You mustn’t mind my husband, Lady Eleanor. He is arrogant and stubborn and easily agitated, but he can be kind and generous, too.”

  “It’s hardly for me to judge him,” Nell protested, taken aback by her fervor.

  Lady Granshire let go of her hand and lay back. “It’s just that he had certain aspirations for his son and Justinian has ignored them and gone his own way.”

  “To great acclaim,” Nell observed.

  “Yes,” the countess agreed, “but—”

  She fell silent when Lord Bromwell appeared in the door. He nodded a greeting, then went to stand by the window in the same attitude as before, feet planted, hands behind his back, but this time, it looked as if he was preparing himself for a rigorous dressing down, not studying the moon or stars.

  His father entered and posed by the hearth, his elbow on the mantel, shoulders back, chest out, in an attitude that, she suspected, he thought made him look imperial and impressive.

  “What a charming picture!” the earl declared as he regarded them with a condescending smile. “To think I have two of the loveliest women in England in my drawing room!”

  His wife blushed, while Nell gave the supercilious, boastful earl a meaningless smile. At least he wasn’t criticizing his son.

  “And of course, I wish to have two of the loveliest women in England at our hunt ball. You will stay for that, won’t you, Lady Eleanor?”

  She avoided looking at Lord Bromwell. She shouldn’t care what he thought of that suggestion, because she didn’t dare attend. Any such gathering might mean an introduction to someone who knew the real Lady Eleanor.

  “When is it?” Lord Bromwell inquired.

  “Gad, Justinian, you should know. It’s always the first Saturday of November,” his father replied.

  “I was asking for Lady Eleanor’s benefit,” he calmly explained.

  A month. She didn’t dare to remain here a whole month.

  “I suppose you’ve invited the usual set?” Lord Bromwell asked his mother.

  “Of course.”

  “Will Lady Jemisina be attending?”

  Whoever Lady Jemisina was, Nell hated her instantly.

  His mother’s eyes brightened and she darted a swift, thrilled look at her husband. “I’ve already had her acceptance.”

  “And her father?”

  That question doused the happy light in Lady Granshire’s eyes, while Nell felt as if she’d unfairly maligned the harmless Lady Jamesina. “Yes, but Justinian, you must promise me you won’t—”

  “Gad!” his father cried. “Do you hear nothing that I say to you? You will not pester our guests with requests for sponsoring another ridiculous expedition!”

  Nell looked swiftly at Lord Bromwell, expecting him to flush or frown or even leave the room. Instead, he merely raised a brow as he replied, “How do you know that I don’t have something of a more personal matter to discuss with Lady Jemisina’s father?”

  His mother clasped her hands as if she was about to receive her heart’s desire. “You do?”

  In spite of her rational realization that there could be nothing between Lord Bromwell and her, Nell suddenly felt disappointed and dismayed—until Lord Bromwell gave her a swift, inscrutable glance and said, “I may—or I may not. I was merely pointing out to my esteemed parent that since he cannot read my mind, he can only guess at my intentions.

  “Now if I might make a suggestion, I think Lady Eleanor is rather fatigued. Perhaps, my lady, you’d like to retire?”

  “Yes, I would,” she quickly agreed, thinking it best to get away from them all, but especially from Lord Bromwell, before she did something really foolish.

  Like fall in love with him.

  Early the next morning, Nell slipped out onto the terrace and continued into the garden. Wrapping the cashmere shawl Lady Granshire had provided about her shoulders, she kept to the paved walks, for the dew was still sparkling on the grass.

  The yew hedges, shrubs and edges of the walks were all neatly and precisely trimmed. The flower beds were pristine, the plants evenly spaced, the roses expertly pruned. Every portion was formal and clearly planned to the last detail.

  Instead of being impressed, however, as the earl would no doubt expect, the formality and man-made arrangement made her yearn for wild, open country or a forest, where plants and trees grew untended and free.

  Perhaps that was another reason Lord Bromwell had gone to sea, to get away from the constraining regulation of his family’s estate.

  She encountered a ha-ha at the far end of the garden. The sunken fence was in a shallow moat and beyond it she could see a path leading into a wood. Determined to reach that bit of natural nature, she stepped back a few paces, took a deep breath, ran and jumped.

  She almost fell and spent a few frightening moments teetering on the brink of the opposite side before she got her balance. Once she did, she walked briskly along the path into the shadows of the oaks, beeches and alders, feeling triumphant and happy to be away from the stifling formality of Granshire Hall. Large royal ferns, browning with the season, lined the path and carpeted the wood floor, along with wild garlic and campion. Lichen clung to the tree trunks, and years of fallen leaves made her progress silent. She spotted two chaffinches on a branch overhead, their slightly red breasts a bright spot among the yellowing leaves.

  The way was uneven
and a little rocky, and she wasn’t exactly dressed for a long walk, but after a little while, it was as if she’d left the Earl of Granshire’s estate far behind and entered a mysterious, enchanted wood. She wouldn’t have been surprised to come upon a fairy ring, or a centaur, or a unicorn.

  Or a knight on horseback, clad in chain mail and looking like Lord Bromwell.

  She supposed she was running away again, albeit in a less drastic manner. She probably ought to leave Granshire Hall and the viscount and his family—but where exactly was she going to go? Where would she be safe from the law and Lord Sturmpole?

  The memory of that terrible night invaded the peace of the wood. She felt the same horror as she had when she realized Lord Sturmpole had no intention of paying her wages unless she submitted. The struggle that ensued. The locked door. Her escape and fear and flight…

  She paused beneath a willow beside a babbling stream, the leaves a canopy made by Mother Nature, the grass a natural carpet. If only she could stay here forever…

  Something that was most definitely not the stream, or a bird, or the call of an animal, broke the silence.

  Somebody was singing. Or rather, chanting, followed by rhythmic clapping.

  Keeping to the edge of the stream, she slowly followed the sound until she reached an opening where the stream formed a deep pool. There, at the edge, she could see the singer, who was also dancing, or so she supposed the rhythmic steps and arm movements must be.

  It was Lord Bromwell, clad only in dark trousers and boots, chanting in a foreign language and moving his body as she’d never seen a body move, in a dance like no dance she’d ever seen and a very far cry from a quadrille or a waltz.

  Chapter Eight

  The process is both time-consuming and somewhat painful, as I can personally attest. I declined the full tattoo given to adult males, which caused much hilarity among the women, who clearly thought I was admitting I was but a child despite my years and certain other evidence that I was not.