“I doubt that,” he said, reaching out to take her cup and setting it beside his on the sideboard. “I am a titled man with a mania for spiders who happened to write a book that, for now, is popular. Next year, next month, someone else will be the toast of London, and I’ll merely be an eccentric nobleman, the same as I was before.”
“You are more than that,” she protested, upset that he so obviously believed what he’d just said, no doubt the legacy of the censure and ignorance of others, especially his father. “You’re a kind, generous, heroic man any woman would be proud to marry.”
He tilted his head and studied her as if she were one of his specimens. “Would you marry me if I asked?”
He wasn’t really proposing and even if he did, she could never be his wife. He deserved a rich, titled woman who could support his scientific endeavors as much as he deserved the respect and praise of his family and peers. She knew it as surely as she drew breath and he liked spiders, no matter how much she wished it could be otherwise.
Nevertheless, she answered honestly. “I believe any woman would be happy to be your wife.”
“Any woman?” he asked quietly, moving closer.
“Any woman,” she confirmed.
It was time to leave, before she said or did something she would regret. “We should go, my lord.”
He nodded and didn’t move.
She waited, scarcely breathing.
He took a step closer.
So did she.
For she could bear it no longer. Although it would be wrong and foolish and might lead to more trouble, she couldn’t help it. She had to give in to her longing.
So she rose up on her toes, and kissed him.
Chapter Nine
Every culture and every species has its own unique mating rituals, but all lead to the same end: procreation. It is one of nature’s strongest urges, as great as the need for food and water, shelter and warmth.
—from The Spider’s Web, by Lord Bromwell
For a horrible moment, Nell feared that she’d made another terrible mistake, until Lord Bromwell put his arms around and responded with passionate fervor as if he’d been waiting for this since that other kiss. Angling himself closer, he pressed his tongue against her closed lips and it seemed the most natural thing in the world to part them.
Yet even that close contact was not enough. She wanted to be more intimate, to feel his skin beneath her hands, to let him feel hers.
Leaning into him, she pulled his shirt free of his trousers and slipped her hands beneath, revelling in the sensation of his hot flesh beneath her fingertips as she tentatively, gently, slid her hands upward. She laid a palm over his taut nipple while his own hands glided up her back. Her knees seemed soft as melting butter, and in one swift, fluid motion, he picked her up and carried her to the worn sofa where he laid her upon it as if she were Sleeping Beauty.
Then he stood back and looked at her. At that moment, he was no restrained Englishman, his actions ruled by man-made rules of etiquette. He was a hero, a warrior, a man who had been tested and proven by trials she could scarcely imagine.
Yet he was also a man of flesh and blood, whose storm-gray eyes bespoke the needs of that longing flesh, that heated blood.
His chest rose and fell rapidly as he tore off his jacket and tossed it aside before joining her on the sofa, covering her body with his.
She rejoiced in the weight of him, the length and strength of his body, as she hurried to undo his shirt. He kissed her cheek, her jaw, and then her neck, his mouth working its way lower and lower, until he reached the rounded softness of her breasts.
Here, for now, she no longer cared that he was a lord who thought she was a lady. That he was as far beyond her as the moon was from the earth. That he had seen and done so much, and she had done so little, and not all of it good.
When she had all the buttons undone, she pushed him back a little and he laughed deep in his throat as she shoved his shirt from his shoulders, revealing his chest completely. He was leanly muscular, more like a young farmhand than the half-naked prizefighter she had once seen at a fair.
Kneeling, he put his arms around her and pulled her so that she was sitting up, her breasts against his chest as he began to undo the hooks at the back of her gown.
Society would say she should be appalled and demand that he stop. Her heart and her body said otherwise, and to them she listened, kissing his shoulder as her hands ventured to the waistband of his trousers.
The back of her gown opened and his hand slithered inside, loosening her bodice still more. “Let me,” she murmured, lying back and tugging the sleeves down. Her bodice followed, until only her thin chemise covered her breasts.
“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, gazing at her with desire-darkened eyes.
“So are you,” she whispered, reaching for him again.
“I should stop now, before—”
She raised herself and silenced him with another passionate kiss. He said no more, but kissed with swift, fierce passion, as if his desire had finally escaped. Or been set free.
His hands moved over her, gliding, stroking, caressing, arousing. She reached for the buttons of his trousers, but he caught her hand. “Not yet,” he whispered as he kissed her earlobe. “Not yet.”
She gasped when he sucked her earlobe into his mouth and stroked it with his tongue. Where had he…in the South Seas…?
Soon she neither knew nor cared where he’d learned what he did as his lips and tongue moved elsewhere on her body. He teased her nipples, the pleasure unlike anything she’d ever known, and her desire bloomed like a flower after a drought, unfurling and yet there was a tightness, too, like a piece of yarn being stretched nearly to breaking.
She raised her knees and brought her hips closer to his. Her skirts were between them, but she could feel his hot arousal. She knew what that boded, and was eager, not afraid.
She reached for his buttons again, and this time, he didn’t stop her. His breathing grew more erratic, more rushed, as she felt his hand on her leg, raising her skirt, feeling for the drawstring of her pantelettes, pulling it until the knot was undone and he could insinuate his hand inside.
She gasped when he touched the moist hair and moaned when he pressed the heel of his hand against her, while his fingers moved with delicate determination.
She had no idea that…that she…
She tugged down his trousers, freeing him, boldly running her hand over his smooth, hardened length.
“I want you,” she whispered. “I want you to make love with me.”
“I want you, too,” he panted as his finger slid inside her.
That wasn’t what she meant…but it felt so good….
She instinctively grasped him a little tighter and ran her hand over him. A low groan escaped his lips, encouraging her, exciting her.
He pressed the heel of his hand against her again and a second finger joined the first, making her gasp. And the tightness grew.
“Please…” she murmured, shifting, trying to make him see that she really did want to love him. That she was anxious to love him.
He pushed once more with his hand and the tension snapped. Crying out, she half rose with the strength of her release, gasping and grabbing his shoulders, her toes clenching.
As the powerful throbbing passed, she fell back and heard his hoarse breathing. She had had relief, but he had not. She raised her arms and pulled him down to kiss, sliding her body toward him, wanting to give him the only thing of value she possessed—her body.
“No,” he gasped, abruptly pulling away and tucking himself back into his trousers. “As tempted as I am, I won’t. No matter how I feel. I won’t marry or ask for a promise of marriage before I sail, and there mustn’t be a child.”
His words were like a bucket of cold water on her head. And yet how could she blame him? He was both right and wise.
As he got off the sofa and reached for his jacket, she pulled her bodice back up and her skirts down.
“I understand, my lord,” she said, his title a fitting reminder that whatever their feelings, they could never share a future.
“I—I’m sorry,” he stammered, walking across the room toward the shelves before he turned to face her. “I have not behaved like a gentleman.”
“Nor I like a lady,” she said quietly, reaching back to try to hook her gown.
“I was planning to go to London today and I believe it would be best if I stayed there until I must return for the ball. My self-control is not what I thought it was.”
Neither was hers and no doubt he was right to stay away, for if she felt so dismayed by this parting, how much worse would she feel if they’d given in to their desire?
Perhaps it was time she left Granshire, too.
As if he’d read her mind, he said, “You should stay here until your godfather returns to Bath.”
In response to the letter she hadn’t written, and never would, although she’d say she had. “I don’t want to impose upon your parents.”
“Trust me, my lady, it would be no imposition. Indeed, you would be doing them a kindness. My father is happy to entertain the daughter of a duke, and my mother will be better for the company.”
Since he put it that way, and because she had little money and would be safe from Lord Sturmpole here, she said, “Very well, my lord, and thank you.”
“There’s no need for thanks,” he replied brusquely.
“If you don’t mind, I require your assistance on another matter,” she said, determined to be calm and composed.
He raised his brows.
She turned her back to him. “I cannot hook my gown.”
“Ah.”
He came behind her and she could hear his soft breathing as he did up the hooks he had so recently unclasped. She wouldn’t think about his lean, deft fingers that had stroked and caressed her and aroused her, or the end of that act. She wouldn’t imagine what it would be like to be with him without it being wrong and a mistake.
Because it was, and there was nothing that could change that.
“Now you had best return to the hall,” he said when he was finished. “I’ll follow in a little while.”
A few minutes later, Bromwell watched as she hurried away along the path. Then he closed the door and leaned back against it, his eyes closed.
He had always sought knowledge, craved it as other men did wine or wagering, never minding hardship or difficulty if it was in service of that goal. But here, at last, he had found something that threatened, as nothing else ever had, the course he had been so determined to tread since he’d watched that single spider spin its web in the corner by his bed when he was six years old.
“Back so soon, my lord?” Mrs. Jenkins cried later that afternoon when Lord Bromwell strolled into the nearly empty taproom of The Crown and Lion.
The only other inhabitants at that hour of the day were two farmers quaffing some ale near the kitchen, and another traveller sitting on the settle near the hearth.
“I’m going back to London for a few days,” Bromwell replied. “How’s Thompkins? Doing well, I hope?”
“Well enough. He went to London the day after you left—the doctor thought he could and he wanted to rest in his own bed.”
“As long as the doctor approved,” Bromwell said, not worried if that was the case. The driver hadn’t seemed that badly hurt to him, either. “He didn’t try to drive, though, did he?”
“Lord love you, no! He went inside the coach.”
Smiling at the mental image of Thompkins seated inside the coach instead of atop it, no doubt criticizing the other driver the whole way back to London, Bromwell rubbed his hands, which were still a little chilly from the ride. “Now that my mind is at ease about his health, I’ll have one of your tarts while the hostler saddles a fresh horse for me.”
“O’ course! Moll, one of the apple tarts for his lordship! And tea. Be quick, girl!” Mrs. Jenkins called as she hurried off to the kitchen.
Meanwhile Bromwell sat at a table beside one of the windows overlooking the yard.
Although the interior of the inn was relatively calm and quiet, the yard was busy with grooms and stable boys and servants going about preparing to receive the next stage. It was due at any moment, Bromwell knew from his own particular interior timepiece, but whether it would actually arrive at the appointed hour was subject to conjecture. That was one reason he preferred the mail coach when he didn’t ride.
A harried-looking female servant with cap askew appeared with a tray bearing the aforementioned tart, as well as a teapot, cup and saucer. Mrs. Jenkins took the tray from the woman’s hands and carried it toward the viscount as if bearing a gift to Caesar.
“Here you are, my lord. Just baked this morning,” Mrs. Jenkins said, placing the tray before him. “All by yourself, are ye, then?”
“Yes,” he replied, distracted by the aroma of the sweet-smelling tart. When he’d been shipwrecked, he would have sold his soul to have one bite of a tart like this.
“The young lady’s well, I hope? Not suffering any troubles after the accident?”
The tone with which Mrs. Jenkins asked her question and the sly inquisition in her friendly eyes caused Bromwell to leap to a conclusion he should have considered before, and for some reason had not.
“She was quite well the last time I saw her,” he replied, making it sound as if that was days ago, before he finished the last of the excellent tart.
Wiping his mouth with the napkin, he got to his feet. “Good day to you, Mrs. Jenkins. Commend me to your husband, will you?”
“I will, my lord,” she said, her brow furrowing as she picked up the tray and watched him stroll out again.
“Tell me, Mrs. Jenkins, who was that fine young fellow?” the stranger sitting on the settle asked, nodding at the door through which the viscount had exited.
“That’s Lord Bromwell, the naturalist,” Mrs. Jenkins replied.
“The one who was nearly eaten by cannibals?”
“Aye, that’s him,” she replied proudly. “He always stops here when he’s going between his family’s estate and London.”
“But not always alone, eh?” the man asked with a knowing smile.
“He’s a gentleman, the viscount is,” Mrs. Jenkins huffed like an irate mother hen. “The young woman we was referring to came in the same coach as him the last time, that’s all.”
“The mail coach that overturned? I heard about that at the inn I stopped at last night. It was quite fortunate no one was injured. Who was the young woman? A friend of the viscount’s?”
Mrs. Jenkins frowned. “She’s a lovely, modest young lady, that’s what,” she snapped before she bustled off to the kitchen as if something of great import required her attention.
“Pardon me, I’m sure,” the traveller muttered insincerely as he rose and went to the window, where he watched the famous Lord Bromwell ride out of the yard.
Chapter Ten
What could I say to him? That he should give her up and let her go? That if he loved her, he should try to win her heart, even if it meant forgoing his expedition?
What if he listened and then his decision proved to be a mistake? I nearly destroyed my own chance for happiness; I wouldn’t wish to be responsible for destroying his.
—from the journal of Sir Douglas Drury
“Drury!”
Sir Douglas Drury, baronet and barrister, gowned and bewigged, came to a startled halt outside the Old Bailey. Spotting Bromwell’s familiar face in a hackney cab, he smiled and, with his ruined hands clasped behind his back, made his way across the busy street.
“I must protest being accosted in that insolent manner, my lord,” Drury said with mock severity as Bromwell pushed open the door for him to enter. “I am not a peddler.”
“I most humbly beg your pardon,” Bromwell replied with equally feigned remorse. “However, I feared a silent wave of my hand would fail to capture your notice. Deep in thought over a case, were you?”
&nbs
p; “Actually, no,” Drury admitted. “Juliette’s been a little unwell.”
“Nothing serious, I hope?” Bromwell asked, his own dilemma momentarily forgotten in his concern for his friend’s wife.
“No, I don’t believe so,” Drury replied with an expression that assuaged Bromwell’s dread. “What brings you back to London? Business, pleasure or spiders?”
“Spiders, mostly. I’m presenting a paper to the Linnean Society on the Brazilian wandering spider,” Bromwell said. “However, I’d also like to ask your advice on a legal matter.”
Drury regarded his friend with genuine surprise. “Don’t tell me you’ve done something illegal?”
“It’s nothing of a criminal nature.”
“Thank God. But if it’s not criminal, you would likely be better off consulting a solicitor. I’m sure Jamie St. Claire would be happy to help you,” Drury said as he settled back against the squabs and hit the roof to signal the cabbie to drive on.
“If you think that best,” Bromwell replied, “although I’d like to keep it as private as possible.”
Drury’s eyes flared with surprise, which he quickly and effectively masked. “If you tell me, I can present the facts to Jamie without involving you or mentioning any specific names.”
“I’d prefer that,” Bromwell said, thinking Lady Eleanor would probably prefer that, too.
“There was a woman in the mail coach with me on the way to Bath,” he began as the cab lurched over a rut in the street, “and there was an accident. The coach overturned—nobody was seriously injured,” he hurried to assure his startled friend.
“Thank God,” Drury muttered. “Continue.”
“We were quite literally thrown together, and…”
This was likely not a good time to mention the kiss. If there ever would be a good time.
The Viscount's Kiss Page 10