Society's Most Scandalous Viscount

by Anabelle Bryant

  All wait over, with effortless grace he bridged her body, the hard press of his erection burning against her thigh to remind her this was what she asked for, what she yearned for, this sensual communion with a man she would never know beyond the brief past they’d created. This relevating moment composed the memory of her heart.

  He claimed her with finesse, coupling with swift need and anxious want, the friction of his body against hers incredible and glorious, and she grew wetter, more anxious, her body adapting to his. Full, so full, and ramped to give pleasure as much as she received. She welled with emotion at this carnal fantasy, and her eyes fell closed, willing her other senses to heightened perception, the musky scent of their joining, the slick smooth press of his muscles against her skin, the brush of his mouth on her neck, the sensitivity of her nipples as they traced against his hard chest.

  She matched his rhythm, learning as he moved, understanding their cadence, until she became swept up in sensation, every inch of her body alive and thrumming with awareness. The rough chafe of his whiskers, the soothing swipe of his tongue, the hard bite of his teeth, all the while he filled her hard and tight with an excellent pleasure-pain she’d never be able to describe, so she locked the sentiment inside.

  That spiraling need, the intense feeling she now knew led to a shattering of all reality, a blissful glorious communion of emotion and prurient sensuality, built to an excruciating crest. And he experienced it too, his thrusts more forceful, less graceful, his muscles corded with strain and restraint. Across his chest, a sheen of perspiration glistened whenever candlelight caught and she angled her hips in an attempt to satisfy his desire, her ankle held fast, heart racing with an impossible rhythm. He spanned her hip with his hand, pulled her higher, offered torture and pleasure, again and again.

  Until nothing else mattered.

  She whimpered, suspended in a moment of pure rapture as her body clenched, shuddered, begged. Lost, she grasped his biceps and shoulders to grip tight, surrendering to the storm of passion as he buried deep his full length and cursed a groan, pulling her into his arms as he spilled inside her.

  Chapter Twenty

  She dressed in silence. The hiss and crackle of the fire in the hearth the only interruption to the sound of her obeisance, the noiseless process of regaining clarity in the wake of their lovemaking empyreal, much the same way a dream dissolves. She blinked back tears and glanced over her shoulder to where Benedict slept in haphazard fashion, bed linens askew, his position in sleep much the same as life: exposed, vulnerable, and devastatingly handsome. She hadn’t revealed her identity from the start and now, standing in his opulent apartments, she realized he’d practiced the same deceit. She could not fault him; his secrets were likely as precious as her own, his reasons equal in value.

  She gathered her slippers, padding to the door in bare feet, loath to disturb his slumber. How she wished she could stay, but her life was already determined and years ago, before she knew of love and desire, she’d realized the futility of wishing and dreaming…and planning.

  The door closed behind her with a definitive click and as she made her way to the front of the house, the tears she’d held at bay spilled over, coasting down her cheeks even though she gritted her teeth and focused on her goal, wiping emotion away with fingers that trembled. She left the apartment and stepped into the waiting carriage, too defeated to question how the little driver knew it was time to leave, too despairing to think beyond the discomposure that voided her heart. But once she settled on the seat, cloaked by darkness and isolated by her decisions, all illusion dissipated and she wept the entire journey home.

  St. Monica’s Priory in Dorset was two days’ travel by carriage if one left London at sunrise. The Earl of Morton awoke before dawn and dedicated an hour to prayer, solemnity, and enriched study of apologetics. He was anxious to fortify his knowledge with reasoned arguments of religious doctrine before breaking his fast. Angelica knew his ecclesiastical habits well and wholly. She stood now at the narrow side window in her bedchamber, contemplating the morning and regretting the birdsong that drifted to her attention from the weeping willow on the front lawn. No one had a right to be cheerful this morning. She’d gained what she’d wanted: a memory to fill her heart, a treasury of them. Alas, she never anticipated the pain.

  With the assistance of Beatrice and Nora, she’d returned from Hay Market undetected though she’d slept little, tormented relentlessly by regret and brokenhearted consequence. Accepting her melancholy as disappointment, neither maid questioned her morose silence, but Angelica knew her pusillanimous effort in attempting to locate Helen had proved shameful. Now her future stared her in the face, bags packed and dreams abandoned, and she didn’t like the view.

  “That’s everything, my lady.” Beatrice entered with a small traveling case, her tone a reflection of her dismay. “The earl awaits in the hall and the carriage has pulled up in front. If only your father would allow me to accompany you. One shouldn’t have to face an unwanted future alone.”

  “Helen…” Angelica attempted a small smile in Beatrice’s direction “…Helen may have sacrificed much but she gained happiness in return. As long as she is safe, protected, and anticipating the birth of her child, she has accomplished more than most. Please promise me you will somehow forward word if you learn anything of her whereabouts. Vow, Beatrice, please. It will be the singular hope that keeps me strong.”

  “You have my word.”

  The maid’s solemn whisper shivered through her. “Then it is time for me to go.”

  Kell awoke in a state of inexorable satiety. He kept his eyes closed, savoring the rare peaceful condition, his body still, not wishing to wake the angel beside him. In an act of indulgence he lived within the dream a little longer, recalling Angel’s soul-shaking kisses, the intemperate caress of her sensual exploration, the depth of genuine emotion in her eyes. It tempted him to believe in love, for he had no other label for the ardent admiration and implacable longing he possessed. The realization fired his blood and his body reacted, his cock hard and ready. He grinned, rolled to his side and opened his eyes.

  Goddamn.

  Sitting up, he yanked his cravat from the bedpost, then dressed and took the stairs, anxious to interrogate Moira if he’d noticed Angel’s departure. Bitters had not been present last evening and the makeshift coachman was his only hope at information. He came up short outside, the stout driver at the foot of the outer steps as if he’d expected Kell’s imminent arrival.

  “Where did she go?” It was more demand than question.

  “I drove the lady to Half Moon Street, my lord.”

  “You allowed an unaccompanied woman to exit the coach on a dark roadway in the middle of London?” He spanned his fingers, fighting the urge to make a fist. He had to find her.

  “She insisted. Something about a dire need for fresh air.”

  Kell inhaled thoroughly. He wouldn’t purge his ire on the driver. Angel had chosen to flee. Again. She’d left. Again. Did their relationship mean so little? Would his affection prove disposable? A flare of unwanted conscience reminded him of the plethora of women in his rakehell past and how he’d practiced similar behavior. And worse.

  He pivoted toward the carriage at the curb and flung open the door, so hard its rebound slapped him in the shoulder to remind him he was every kind of fool. He examined the interior as if she might be sleeping in a corner, but all he found inside was regret and an unbidden memory—vivid and disturbing, ready to snatch away his breath—of Angel straddling his lap and finding her pleasure. He slammed his fist to the floor and meant to do the same with the door when the glint of something shiny reflected below the seat. He reached underneath the left banquette and retrieved a silver charm bracelet. Recognizing the adornment from Angel’s wrist, he started at the piece a beat before he dropped it into his pocket and returned to the apartment posthaste.

  Two hours later, his carriage rattled down Christ Church Road and straight out of London. He’d argued w
ith Bitters when he’d finally showed at the apartments—the manservant indignant and left behind for that very reason. It was times like this Kell wished he’d rolled a six and never won the damned valet in the first place.

  Now, on what seemed like a trip to hell, he hoped to find the old woman in the cottage who claimed Angel’s father had taken her from Brighton. It existed as the only shred of information he possessed although he wondered why he was driven to find someone who purposely ran from him at every opportunity.

  Still, he wanted what he wanted…and he wanted to know why.

  He reached into his pocket, removed the silver bracelet, and scoffed at the absurd notion he should keep it. Disgusted with his irrational behavior, he slid the window glass to the side and threw the bracelet as hard as possible into a grassy field, no more than a blur as the coach rushed on.

  Yet the incautious trip to Brighton proved for naught except to incite further frustration. The cottage stood empty and secured as if no one intended to return for a good length of time, and therefore he gained not a hint. As a result he cursed a long streak, swore he wouldn’t continue his unreasonable rampage, and vowed to forget the emotions Angel forced him to experience.

  “Didn’t I promise the priory supplied a lovely view?” The earl indicated the far landscape with a wide swipe of his walking stick.

  “Yes, Father.” Angelica scanned the hillside in Dorset, though she barely focused on the scenery, her mind at a loss. She’d remained silent for most of the two days’ travel to St. Monica’s Priory and still had little need for conversation. The best she could do was agree in hope her amendable attitude would prompt him to leave, her heart numb with remorse.

  “The perfect view for meditation and prayer.” The earl poked the stick into the moss filling a narrow crack in the slate path and stared down at her, his hands clasped at his waist.

  She raised her eyes but not her chin. How could her father perpetrate such cold-hearted detachment? Religious practices meant to bring about love and communion seemed lost in his convergent mission.

  “I know you struggle with this decision, Angelica, but you must accept what is for the best. When your mother died it was the church that saved me. The toll of childbirth claimed her and our third child, leaving me desolate and in care of two young daughters. Need I remind you that despite the help of servants and teachers, I languished, overcome with grief and responsibility until religious studies transformed my despair into devout dedication? I became enlightened, aware of the higher workings than mankind on this earth. With this new understanding I vowed to repay that debt with my service and my daughters. Now your turn has come.” His voice turned brisk. “You possess a purity of spirit that should not be wasted on social gatherings. I believed Helen to be the daughter most suited for this role, but she proved herself unworthy and unclean.”

  The latter statement was uttered with such vehemence, Angelica started at his quick change in tone. During their trip, the earl had sermonized and rambled, telling stories of her mother and happier times, but slowly his report had degenerated to bitterness and anger. Was it grief over her mother’s death that drove him to these outlandish actions? His bold unexpected threats to cut off grandmother’s annuity and sell her cottage property were Angelica to leave the priory settled like a stone in her heart. She realized now he’d refuse Helen were she ever to return. Perhaps he’d employed help to ensure she never did, this final decision meant to preserve Angelica’s purity. The irony stung. With some convoluted and distorted interpretation of religion, her father sought to guarantee his own forgiveness through sacrifice of her life. He rambled on still.

  “But you remain pure. You are worthy of this spiritual task. And so, you will fulfill the debt brought about by your birth and your sister’s.”

  “Father—”

  “No words can change my mind. Save them for inner reflection. Expurgation of moral offensiveness and purification of the soul are necessary to achieve lustrated acceptance.” He retrieved his stick and stepped down the path, closer to the main house and farther from the carriage, her old life, the click of the metal tip on his cane echoing in the silence. “I have met with the vicar. As I told you, he is in the market for a wife. If you prove compliant, he will accept the proposition. But that is a discussion better attended in the future.” He stopped his progression down the slates and offered what he might have considered a smile. “It is not so awful. I have considered your future and provided a reasonable choice.”

  Angelica glanced backward at the carriage, anxious to end the discussion. “Who will carry my trunks inside?”

  “Foolish child. Haven’t you been listening? You’ve no need for an abundance of material things. Your maid packed them well, which makes their distribution all the easier. Sacrifice. That is a lesson you still need to learn.”

  “What do you mean? I need my clothes, my possessions. What will I wear? How will I live?”

  “Like every other woman here. With modesty and propriety.” He cleared his throat and eyed her sternly. “Whoever seeks to keep his life will lose it, and whoever loses his life will preserve it.”

  Father tapped the tip of the walking stick against the slates in wait but she remained silent, dumbstruck. He stepped closer, his expression became menacing.

  “Whoever seeks to keep his life will lose it, and whoever loses his life will preserve it.” He pressed the end of his walking stick into the toe of her slipper. His eyes bored into hers. His brows rose in anger and expectation, but she remained mute.

  “Luke 17:33. I surmise you know not the verse or the lesson. Study your Bible and improve your mind. Next time I’ll not show such patience.” He took to the path again, offering his back although his voice carried easily. “I am assured the vicar has a stern hand. We will need to discuss your education as well as your contumacious behavior. You shan’t ignore the workings of the lord.”

  “You don’t have to do this. Mother’s death was a tragedy but this doesn’t change—”

  He whipped around and hurried to tower over her, his face a mask of outrage as she continued to rebut his instructions. All the while, Angelica kept a keen eye on his walking stick.

  “Of course I don’t have to do this. I’m an earl. I hold all control. Make no mistake, I want to do this as a conscious act of sacrifice. You will remain chaste until the vicar proposes marriage. Do you understand?”

  She nodded, mute and defeated by his disoriented actions. When mother died Angelica was very young. She’d grown older accepting her father’s distorted vision, unaware of its impact on her future. Through the years he’d insisted on their devout Bible study, hiring stringent tutors, but beyond attendance at church and adherence to his strictures, she’d never seen him so absolute of purpose. Had Helen known he no longer practiced coherent thought and shunned traditional views of relationships? Was that why she deliberately disobeyed? She may have intended to run all along. Angelica clasped her hands together, noticing the bracelet she toyed with in comfort was gone, lost in the series of tumultuous events in the last twenty-four hours. She closed her eyes for a brief moment and recalled Benedict’s kiss. She would draw strength from the memory. Just as she’d planned.

  “And if you think to rebel or disobey, remember what happened to your sister. Cast out and alone. Penniless.” His face expressed repulsion. “Or what could happen to your grandmother whom you love and cherish. How would you ever reconcile that if through your actions you caused her to lose her beloved little cottage and future security?”

  He continued his rant, the main house of the priory standing before them as solemn and depressing as her father’s diatribe.

  “Your grandmother is too old to endure a shock or trauma. It’s the very reason she hasn’t been told fully of Helen’s disgrace. But do not doubt I won’t see her miserable to ensure you comply with my wishes.”

  He shoved at the wooden door with his walking stick and it eased open on silent hinges. She followed him into a bleak whitewashed room a
t the rear of the main house. She was speechless, her mind flooded with distress.

  They reached the back of the building and he stopped to wave her inside with a swish of his cane. The room was one of several identical small chambers. The modest space had but one square window, a cot, and a wooden dresser. By the time she’d turned around, he’d already left, the key in the lock the last noise she heard before she collapsed on the mattress in tears.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  A week had passed but Kell’s distemper barely alleviated. An underlying layer of tension shadowed his every action and, concurrently, the persistent memory of Angel in his arms as they joined in pleasure and forged a bond scratched at his every waking moment.

  And deeper, unwelcomed realizations beleaguered his consciousness. Somehow, free from the constraints of high society, he’d permitted himself to explore emotion and with great surprise, allow precious affection…and fall in love. Somehow with abandoned inhibition, beyond understanding, Angelica had seen beneath his veneer of controlled portrayal, understood his battered heart and filled every void of his careworn soul. She hadn’t dismissed him or requested his help. Instead she’d offered gift after gift with her intelligence, wit, and passion.

  Now as he stood before the door to Jasper and Emily’s apartments, he regretted accepting the invitation. He was prepared to offer Emily the explanation she deserved. That held not the challenge. It was time to set things to rights. Reorder his life. Move on. But the tumultuous result of his newfound emotions left him uneasy.

  He’d invited his grandfather to the selective dinner party and was pleased when he hadn’t received word the old man was dining with Prinny. He watched now as the elaborate coach with the ducal crest emblazoned on the door pulled to the curb and Grandfather exited.