Society's Most Scandalous Viscount

by Anabelle Bryant

  At last they arrived and in less than a breath Nyx accelerated to full gallop at the water’s edge, the firmly packed sand echoing the thunder of her hooves. Kell breathed in the salt air, rejoicing at the wind whipping his face, allowing the horse to race at breakneck speed. The gulls overhead squawked their encouragement. They galloped hard for half a mile before he signaled to slow, then slid from the saddle and approached the rocky crag where he’d spotted the mysterious mermaid dancing at the water’s edge the night before. Her image had stayed with him through the night, maintaining clarity as he opened his eyes to the new day.

  His mouth hitched in a half smile, bemused by his foolish mission. Had he expected to find her small footprints indelibly etched in the sand? A strand of spun gold across the rocks or a bit of opalescent seaweed as evidence of her existence? Attentive to this preoccupation, his boots stained from the salty foam, he muttered a well-used expletive and turned to leave, the reflective glint of a sunray beckoning his attention at the last second. With a raised brow, he stepped closer to the nearest rock, flat as a tabletop and the most sensible place to steady a lantern. He expected to find a shard of broken glass. Instead, a small metal key lay wedged between two boulders, safely in wait of his discovery, unwilling to be swept into the sea by the aggressive tide.

  Producing the dagger kept tucked in his left boot—for his right boot housed his pistol—he pried the key free and flipped it into the air, catching it with a chuckle. Under examination it proved no more impressive than a lamp key, but it confirmed, after all, his mermaid’s existence.

  Angelica refilled her grandmother’s cup and then her own. She locked the expensive tea blend of cardamom and dried cherries in the satinwood caddy on the sideboard using the key on a string around her wrist. Despite her father’s shortcomings, financial security was not one. He provided generously for his mother in her quaint Brighton cottage and, therefore, provided for his daughter as she took refuge. Fine carved furniture filled each room and wool carpets were scattered about to chase away any wayward chill. Grandmother decorated in soft tones of honey yellow and leaf green, welcoming the outside world in and creating a home as conducive to soothing comfort as to practicality.

  It was a small miracle Father had allowed her the visit, although on occasion she experienced an unwarranted tinge of guilt at her manipulation of the truth. His demands were irrational. Better to have him believe she wished to spend time with her grandmother before acquiescing to his plans, than have him realize she might never return to London if she did not find peace in her heart.

  “Stop thinking of your father’s intentions,” Grandmother reassured with her usual intuitive sensitivity. She reached across the table and placed her hand atop Angelica’s, the soft whispery skin a reminder of her fragile age and timeless wisdom. “It’s your life to live, not his to dictate.”

  This conclusion prompted unexpected amusement. “I’m afraid your view isn’t an adopted societal belief.” Angelica offered a smile. “I am grateful to have your counsel, but more so your company. Of course you’re right. I shouldn’t think of his newfangled mission when I’m unsure exactly what my future holds.”

  “I experience no such uncertainty, dear one.” Her grandmother ran her thumb across the back of Angelica’s hand before giving it a reassuring squeeze. “Your future will be filled with happiness and love. It’s the path you need to discover, not the outcome.”

  Angelica took another sip of tea and contemplated her grandmother’s confidence. “I hope your words prove true.” Grandmother didn’t reply, as if no doubt existed, but Angelica harbored a well of uncertainty that stretched from her mental considerations to the tips of her fleeing toes. She obeyed her father, although his recent requests befuddled her more than evoked admiration. She missed her mother, but having only the flimsiest memories of her companionship since her death over fifteen years prior, the wound was scarred by despair more than pain. She’d grown under her father’s guidance, deferential and intellectual, and now those same qualities haunted her peace of mind as he wished for her to bow to his dictates. Grandmother knew only an edited version of the truth.

  “Where will the day take you?”

  The direct question scattered her contemplations and confirmed her grandmother’s objective. How deeply Angelica loved this woman.

  “We are almost out of tea.” Her eyes flicked to the box near the cupboard. “I thought a long walk into town would offer distraction and a remedy to the problem.” She sighed, long and thoroughly. Her limited but fitful sleep last night sparked unexplainable anticipation. She’d made the trip to the mercantile shops twice before, walking along the road like any common citizen and not a fine-born lady who should have a footman and driver atop a polished carriage of expensive purchase. The freedom of the action proved exhilarating. Her unadorned day gown, simple in design and function, lacked the constrictive layers beneath, and never raised an eyebrow or a questioning glance. She blended into the crowd and relished the anonymity.

  “Then be off with you. I’ve a bit of embroidery to finish and I’m sure Nan needs help in the yard.”

  Grandmother enjoyed her garden and Nan, the stout, kind-tempered housekeeper and companion, shared the passion, both proud of the plants they nurtured to bloom. At times, the two elderly women discussed vegetables for hours. It was rather endearing to see them huddled over a cabbage or turnip seedling with unabashed pride displayed in their expressions.

  “Bear in mind…” Grandmother offered a comforting nod before she continued “…your father is not a patient man. I fear he may appear on this doorstep any day now, anxious to get on with his plans and unconcerned about what is best for you at this moment or in the near future.”

  “Don’t worry. I’m aware time is scarce.” Angelica pressed a gentle kiss to her grandmother’s cheek and left to change into her walking boots before scurrying down the path leading into town. How perfectly this liberty suited her, no matter that this situation was only temporary. The carefree thought carried her for a good while, the scent of fresh-cut hay and fragrant elderflower filling her senses, the buzz of a dragonfly’s wings and sound of a redstart’s call teasing her ear. London was absent of such pleasures and right now, when she knew not where her future led, the simplicity of these surroundings soothed the ache of fear and uncertainty.

  No one judged her in Brighton. No one trifled with her emotions. Life was simpler, and she needed simplicity with a desperation that reached the depths of her soul—for no other reason than to clear her mind before making the most important decision of her life.

  Continuing her stroll, she nodded in friendly greeting to the workers who set the field for an upcoming fair. In London, introductions and etiquette erected strict division between classes. Here in Brighton societal boundaries existed but with an ease uncommon to the formalities of the city. She swung the basket on her arm with a bit of a flourish. How wonderful to be someone other than herself, Angelica Curtis, daughter of righteous Lord Egan Curtis, Earl of Morton, naysayer of modern thinking, and slave to practicality and his zealous passion for religion. The contradiction of characteristics left her bereft of an acceptable role as daughter or a clear route to her future. Her father wanted many things, all of them convoluted.

  Winding through an arc in the roadway she started at a rider’s approach. The horse, a behemoth animal, thundered the roadway dust into billowing clouds as its fierce hooves pounded the dirt. Atop the animal, a finely dressed, fair-haired man fixed his unwavering focus on her in a manner bespeaking he’d already made her acquaintance or perhaps that he wished she’d move out of the way. She’d never seen the man before and surely would have remembered his mount. The cultivated creature echoed the underlying grace of the rider, their bodies moving in perfect unison, more noticeable now as they slowed. Upon closer inspection she noted the gentleman wore casual clothing, a white linen shirt and buckskin trousers, not the formal wear of a lord. His hair was overlong, unbound and splayed down his back, wind-whipped.
Her heart gave another leap. He appeared refined, yet barbaric, if such a combination existed.

  He couldn’t mean to stop, could he? She barely edged the side of the road, leaving a wide berth for any passerby. Still she watched his procession—the animal fascinating, the distinctive gentleman captivating in kind—and allowed herself the luxury of gawking for no other reason than her anonymity. No one knew her, and she intended to keep it that way. A giddy bubble of laughter accompanied her wanton choice to soak in an eyeful. She may as well throw caution to the wind.

  The rider slowed to cast a discerning glance in her direction. Angelica sensed he would make eye contact with abandoned propriety, but he continued past and she was perplexed that a note of disappointment dampened her awareness. She could only attribute it to her determination to experience all avenues of adventure before falling in line with her father’s view of the future.

  Her steps had stalled considerably, so she picked up the pace, noticing belatedly that the thunder of hooves now approached from behind. Had the gentleman doubled back or did someone else travel near? Her ears were alert to the opportunity, her curiosity mixed with daring. This road was usually quiet and the sound could not be mistaken.

  A looming shadow grew over her shoulder, cast on the dirt road ahead as if an ebony knight poised to advance within a giant’s chess set. The sleek outline of the animal was a remarkable vignette of distinguished horseflesh.

  She cast a glimpse to the left, the horse less than a yard away and gaining, though she adopted an expression of complete calm as if being set upon by a dashing hero astride a mythical beast was an everyday occurrence. She kept her chin high and straightened her posture, prepared to continue toward town without alarm, unable to stop herself from stealing another glance.

  As if worked by magic the rider threw a defined, well-muscled leg over the edge of the saddle and stood beside her in a lethal example of boundless arrogance and elegant grace. Two clicks from his tongue and the horse galloped ahead where it slowed to a trot and set their pace instead of the reverse. It took a moment before she caught her breath.

  “My lady.”

  The tone of the gentleman’s voice sent a frisson of prickling sensation swirling within her, kicking her heart into a gallop as fierce as the animal’s and as wild as the notion he’d doubled back and stopped to speak directly to her. Yet he didn’t say more and while she assessed his chiseled profile, prepared for whatever unexpected and unusual events of the morning were yet to unfold, his face broke into a lopsided grin of pure wickedness.

  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.”