Читать книгу Society's Most Scandalous Viscount - Anabelle Bryant - Страница 12

Chapter Three

The devil had a sense of humor. How else could Kell explain this happenstance? Oh, the lady was no mermaid. Even covered by the thin skirt of her gown, he could tell her legs went on forever, and as he fell in beside her, shortening his stride to keep pace, he took in every nuance of her appearance, his piqued interest evident in the reaction of a distinct part of his lower anatomy.

She could almost look him in the eye. An untouched beauty was a clever find, but one with height proved a rare treasure. Hair, as golden and lush as he imagined, cascaded down the line of her back in a waterfall of waves and curls kept at bay by a thick ribbon of no particular color. She stood taller than most women, yet remained delicately built, slim aside from ample breasts so high and full his hands grew restless. The slight curve of her hips was visible beneath the slope of her gown. It reminded him of the gauzy nightdress that had silhouetted her round bottom in the moonlight.

His cock remembered too.

Her face was one of classic features with high cheekbones, almond-shaped eyes beneath long lashes, and mesmeric irises the greenest blue he’d ever seen, glistening as if they consisted of ocean water teased by the sunlight, alive and turbulent with thoughts and emotions. She hadn’t said a word in response to his intrusion, although he noted a flicker of unease in her face as she raised her gaze. Still she didn’t object to his sudden interruption to her day. Last evening she’d also lacked proper guard of her personal safety.

Good thing he’d happened along.

When she made an abrupt stop, he missed a step, lost in his personal reverie. Abbreviating his momentum, he pivoted to walk backwards while she continued forward.

“My lord.”

She spoke with inflection on the second word, the utterance more exclamation than greeting. One slender brow rose like an arrow to the sky before she turned to view the road ahead with a bewitching swish of skirts.

His smile threatened to emerge at her feisty response. Though at first glance she appeared refined, this was no high-born lady. Or perhaps she’d abandoned her pedigree in lieu of a fiery tongue. That idea prompted another smile and this time he allowed it freedom. “May I be of service? Have you lost your way?” He darted a look left and right for added effect.

“So you’re a rescuer of unaccompanied women?” She eyed his hair, open collar, and lack of cravat with cynical condemnation, and while she didn’t pause to allow his answer, the tilt of her eyebrows expressed volumes. “And here I assumed you a loose-moraled bounder breaking the dawn on a magnificent animal won in a low-profile gaming hell where bored aristocrats waste time and money.” Her eyes moved to Nyx who trotted several yards in front of them.

When he didn’t respond to her setdown, a peal of merry laughter, brighter than the sun, grabbed his attention and all at once he was focused on her mouth, her lips extremely kissable. “You have it all wrong, although I bow to your opinion of uppers.” He’d be damned to admit his title now. Not when their verbal sparring ignited his curiosity, a trait that had been in danger of death by boredom since leaving London.

She slanted him a look of disbelief.

“Do you reside in Brighton?” He flipped a glance to Nyx and back again, determined not to let the lady out of sight.

“I live nowhere in particular and certainly not here.”

Her facetious reply warned she was in no mood for conversation, his company as welcome as a mosquito’s, though he swore a glint of amusement danced in her eyes to convince him the sting of her words hid a spark of inquisitive interest. He considered returning the lamp key, but years at the gaming tables had taught him never to tip his hand. Everything presented a gamble in one way or another. It was how one played through that proved exceptional skill.

“Then I shan’t bother you further.” He winked, encouraged she hadn’t threatened him off after his bold interruption to her morning stroll. He gave a sharp whistle and Nyx returned. Grabbing a fistful of mane, he hoisted himself atop the mare, the animal anxious as it mouthed the bit. He hoped he’d meet this mermaid again, only next time he’d employ a different approach.

He returned home at a fast pace, clearheaded and energized by the chance meeting, amused more than chagrined. After securing Nyx in the stall with a fresh portion of hay and brief conversation, he entered the manor to idle away his time until the evening hours. Darkness suited him more than daylight.

He’d barely breached the door before being set upon by Bitters, the multi-purpose servant seemingly agitated if his pinched expression could be trusted.

“I’ve dispatched Wilton to his familial home in Berkshire. His father’s health has declined and I saw no reason to retain him in the position of groundskeeper when he was distraught and needed elsewhere.” Bitters stood as high as Kell’s shoulder, but his voice boomed in the foyer with the same force as the regent’s herald.

“Very good. A rare show of compassion, but resourceful all the same.” It cut to the bone that his groundskeeper had a more genuine relationship with his sire than Kell experienced with his own.

“Further praise is due. I’ve already filled the position.” Bitters paused and Kell remained silent. When it was clear no additional compliment was forthcoming, the servant continued. “No sooner did Wilton depart than a stout man appeared at the doorstep seeking employment. He provided extensive references, listing every position from gardener in Guildford to lamplighter in London, although I daresay what he requires most is a respectable grooming as his outlandish mustache was as long as his extensive referrals.” The latter was stated mostly as an aside. “Still, it’s serendipity, pure and simple. He begins at the end of the week.”

“Cease.” The command issued clear warning that Kell anticipated the servant’s next words, yet Bitters persevered.

“I’ve also cleaned the glass and replaced your liquor.” These words came out at a lower tone although the implied message remained clear: “You’re a better man than this.”

And so to the core of the conversation, more than inessential discussions of servants and their posts. Kell clenched his fists. He’d ordered the man to stop speaking. “As is your responsibility. You are in my employ.” He remained with his back toward Bitters, unwilling to accept chiding or rehash a drubbed subject. He knew society labeled him a debauched outcast. Close on the heels of this fodder was the warning he knew not how to love or be loved, his upbringing having poisoned him to genuine affection. Popular belief upheld the rumors he perpetuated his outlandish folly because at the root of it all, his heart was hollow and his purposes shallow.

“Drowning one’s sorrows in brandy is rarely a productive alternative. Of late you hardly resemble your title. You’re a viscount, grandson to the Duke of Acholl, and the single legitimate heir.”

God’s teeth, the man could ignite his temper. Bitters’ tone had transformed to one of concern, but Kell wanted nothing of it. “And you are my steward. One with a long tongue and a short memory. I haven’t requested your counsel. I pay you to replace the liquor when the bottle is empty and clean my mess whenever necessary.” It was either drown in brandy or take a long walk into the sea. Bitters knew better than to poke a stick in a cage built from cruel emotion and broken promises. “It’s incredibly poor form to listen at keyholes and crawl inside escutcheons.”

“Perhaps.” A few hollow ticks of the clock on the shelf marked an obtrusive lull. “A messenger arrived while you were out. Lords Nicholson and Penwick will pay call for luncheon.”

Without further comment Kell took the stairs two at a time, entered his study, and slammed the oak panels to punctuate his distemper. Bitters meant well, of that Kell was certain, the servant having witnessed him at his worst when he’d vacated London after a scandalous public scene a few months prior, rife with humiliation and disgraced by common fisticuffs. Tongues likely wagged on with ceaseless speculation. He feared the incident had turned him into a pariah. Kell and his father were renowned for their tumultuous relationship. Having had their personal turmoil displayed in a London square had upped the ante, but if it served to highlight his father’s poor choices, Kell accepted the embarrassment with pleasure.

And Bitters knew this well. The steward’s frequent complaints concerning his indulgent habits and pleasure-seeking falderal should be squelched by mere history and understanding. The man was intuitive enough to realize the subject was off limits.

Kell had won Bitters’ employ seven years prior in a high-stakes game of Hazard after rolling a perfect nine. As a result, the man became his personal servant for a month. Once the thirty days was completed, Kell offered him a permanent position and Bitters jumped at the opportunity, eager to leave an employer who recklessly wagered his well-being. Things had progressed into friendship more than servitude, although at times Kell felt impelled to remind Bitters of his station, most especially when the steward persisted with lectures on familial obligation and title. Talk in that vein fell on deaf ears and left Kell wishing he’d rolled a six instead.

And while he acknowledged storming from a conversation, slamming the door to his study, and sulking about his conflicted situation personified every flaw society pinned to his temperament, he knew no other way to react. Communication was not his strong suit and pouring another brandy resembled mockery more than a solution at present. He glanced at the bare stretch of wall above the fireplace. The area was meant to display a revered portrait but remained empty. His father hardly deserved the honor, and the idea of a familial scene evoked a wry, sardonic laugh.

For decades his sire had philandered about England, sullying his mother’s reputation and adding insult to injury by producing by-blow after by-blow: a multitude of bastards who never knew their father, siblings lost to him. His mother wore the disgrace of the scars against her heart, while whispers and rumors flouted through ballrooms just out of earshot.

He shook his head with regret and remorse, pausing as he was reminded there had been one recent note of hope. Directly before leaving London, he’d learned Emily Shaw, now Emily St. David and new wife to his closest friend Jasper, was his half sister, sired by his father during an extended affair. Upon learning the news, he hadn’t accepted the information with acquiescence. Fair enough, he’d come from a scandalous confrontation with his father in the city square where Emily had arrived unexpectedly and discovered their relationship, but the circumstances hardly excused his later actions. Eventually, he’d need to make right where he’d done wrong, not that a visit to London would occur in the near future. With so many problems to solve, his half sister became another addition to a long list.

Again he eyed the empty space above the mantel. One day he would hang a portrait of his own family. A wife and child. Nyx should be in the painting as well, standing in the background with the manor house against the sky. He could create his own life apart and away from the people who perpetrated hurt. The portrait would proclaim he wasn’t tainted by his parents’ infidelity or ruined reputations, but had established his own esteemed place in the world.

It didn’t matter he was emotionally bereft, lacking devotion or commitment, and solely capable of brief liaisons and quick tumbles with opera singers and ambitious widows. Despite thick layers of disdain and rejection, deep within his locked heart, Kell yearned for normalcy: a loving, nurturing relationship with a trustworthy woman interested in equal, honest commitment. She would be the key to his happiness. She would fill the void of resounding emptiness within his soul. She would stop the ache that knelled with lonely insistence the same way blood flowed through his veins. She existed. He just had to find her.

By the time Bitters retrieved him from the study where he’d passed time mulling over correspondence and financial documents, the clock struck midday and his comrades had arrived as planned, deposited in the sitting room. Kell approached with an odd mixture of enthusiasm and reservation. Both men were loyal, dependable gentleman, Oliver Nicholson, his comrade for over a decade. R. James Caulfield, Earl of Penwick, more or less a fresh acquaintance—an association formed through Jasper St. David’s investment business—though the new earl proved an amiable gentleman.

Kell smiled as he made way down the hall. The buffoonish diversion of his friends was welcome, although news from London would need to be approached with caution. Their visit seemed a double-edged sword. Not one to cower from inevitabilities, Kell entered the room and greeted his guests.

“What warrants this unexpected visit?” No need to chase his own tail. He may as well discover why his friends had appeared on his doorstep without advance notice. With a nod for Bitters to enter with refreshments, Kell waited for the servant to vacate the room before continuing. “Not that I’m displeased to see you.” His life was rife with contradictions and perpendicular purpose. As much as he wished to separate from the distraught scene left in London, another part of him yearned for a sense of ordinariness befitting a proper gentleman, instead of the role of an emotional cripple to a bastard-making sire and a mother who knew no love other than of herself.

“Just passing through.” Oliver aimed a conspiratorial wink in Penwick’s direction and selected a sandwich, taking a hearty bite. He chewed for what seemed a ridiculous length of time before he spoke again. “Truth is, Penwick asked me along to Bexhill where he committed to purchase several new horses. We have a stallion with us now and agreed you’d be the perfect person to confirm the grade. The animal waits for your approval in the stable.” He swung his attention to Penwick. “By the by, I’m inviting my older brother Randolph to London next month and I’m certain he’ll need a new mount. Something to keep in mind, along with Kell’s inspection of the newly purchased cattle.” Oliver took another bite of sandwich and settled in his seat, the latter part of the elucidation apparently falling to Penwick.

“I’d appreciate your opinion if it’s not too much trouble,” Penwick appealed with a solemn expression. “It’s the new money and title that has me at crosses. I’m to suddenly fall in line with the loftiest aristocrats when last year I was nothing more than the distant relative of an upper ten.” He stifled a smirk that displayed his discomfort. “I’m not complaining, although the transition has been swift and unsettling. Purchasing a stable of superior horseflesh is both necessary and expected.” Satisfied with his explanation, he too prepared a plate and forked food into his mouth, his expression grim as he took less than enthusiastic bites.

“I’d be happy to examine the animal. What are your future plans? Will you stay through the week then?” The company would be a distraction. Aside from a growing interest to find the lovely miss from the moonlight, Kell had little on his agenda, and a lingering question hung in the air—were his friends here to check on his behavior following his distinct and abrupt exile from London, or were they passing through Brighton in earnest? He wondered for a fleeting moment if by chance Jasper had instigated the visit. St. David was a true and trusted friend. Jasper would be concerned about his welfare.

“Can’t say we will.” Oliver finished chewing. “Penwick’s not just about horses these days so back to the city we go.” He nodded his head toward the window as if London began on the front lawn. “He’s wife shopping too.”

This prompted an unexpected round of chuckles, although everyone seemed uneasy with the suggestion of volunteering for a leg-shackle. A fraught silence followed.

“Jasper appears content despite his new condition.” Kell admired his friend’s risibility, able to approach life with an effortless disposition. “I’ll stick with horses.”

Laughter made another round.

“The delightful Miss Shaw is a rarity and I’m happy for Jasper’s recent marriage.” Oliver replaced his dish on the table and reclined in the cane-backed chair. “May we all be so lucky when the time for betrothal arrives.”

“It is my purpose and next course of action.” Penwick appeared conflicted though his words rang with determination. “A man can plan his future, know when the correct choice lies in reach, yet sometimes Fate interferes.” A cryptic note of inquiry punctuated his admission.

“I doubt the future holds any such munificence.” Kell stated the fact with bald aplomb. He was a man of singular focus and despite his conflicted hopes for marriage he had his reservations about the condition. “Tell me more about your new horse. Can he compare to my Nyx?” The question was posed as a courtesy. No other mount had the stamina, speed, or intelligence of his Arabian. He straightened his shoulders with pride. Damn it, he loved the animal more than he should.

“Nearly as fast, I presume.” Penwick’s enthusiasm revived with the change of subject. “At least that’s what I was led to believe, although if you’re up for it, after lunch we can take them out for a run. It’s why Oliver and I chose to swing our travels to Brighton in the first place.”

The two men exchanged a meaningful stare and Kell again wondered at the level of truth in Penwick’s statement. He’d determine it soon enough. Discarding suspicion, he pursued the equine topic, always a gratifying diversion.

“Excellent. I propose we ride to South Downs. There are miles of flat range before the crest and as long as we avoid the steep escarpment to the north, our horses can race the wind unencumbered by hazard. The only way to determine your mount’s leg is by a good hard sprint.” Kell spent many mornings outrunning the susurration of regret and enduring remorse. Riding Nyx served as joy and release.

“You’re not suggesting a race through Hell’s Gate? Only a fool bent on expediting his journey to the underworld would dare such a feat.” Oliver’s incredulous tone announced his opinion, while Penwick’s head jerked up with mention of the notorious pass.

“Kell’s not so foolish.” Penwick didn’t say more. “The danger involved is out of the question.”

Hell’s Gate consisted of a narrow opening through dual opposing rock formations near the scarped slope of the undulating chalk downlands. Visitors and locals revered the precipitous rocks as a natural wonder, their irregular shape often epitomized in literature and art, although Kell saw it as a challenge waiting to be conquered. He’d often flicked his eyes toward the constricted opening and clenched his fists to tamp down temptation. He held no doubt Nyx could maneuver through the jagged rocks unscathed, as slick as a key turns a lock. It was more a matter of when he’d choose to accomplish the task and revel in yet another fulfillment of the unimaginable. He’d know when it felt right and then he’d accomplish the same.

“We can race wherever you like. Nyx knows the land well while your mount will be at disadvantage. Take a run along the cliffs if you prefer or eliminate all danger and keep to the vast flats. Nyx and I are game for any challenge.”

“You regard your animal as if a relation.” Penwick eyed him with dubious interest.

Kell couldn’t respond with the words that sprang to mind. He had no family. Not any legitimate sibling, although if bastards mattered he likely had a dozen. His horse served as his closest companion and the relationship worked well. Nyx was a confidant and loyal friend.

“I hope to establish a relationship with my mount in the same regard,” Penwick continued, perhaps to fill the silence that had ensued.

“And then with your lady.” Oliver couldn’t resist the jab. “Penwick is going about wife shopping as if he’s purchasing livestock. He asks for recommendations, pedigree information and then reviews the documents in his study while sipping expensive brandy.” He flashed a wide grin before he continued. “He has eliminated any thought of love and wants to focus solely on attributes and redeeming qualities, although no offer has been made. Is that right?”

“None as of yet, no matter Oliver describes it as cold calculation.” Penwick’s objection rang across the room, a note of jovial amusement chasing his words. “My heart was given once, but it bears no consequence. There’s no need to pursue romance when my predicament is that I need to establish a foothold in society and produce an heir. It’s private and complicated. Nothing to discuss at the moment.”

Kell pushed off the back of the wingchair where he’d leaned. “Society and heir-making. Two of my least favorite subjects.” His morose murmur hung in the silence for a while. “I’d rather ride. Let’s change our clothes, gentlemen, and get to it.” He didn’t wait for agreement, turning on his heel and exiting the room.