The Viscount's Kiss. Margaret Moore

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      “In the stables, I think, probably looking for another spider.”

      Nell suppressed a shiver as she hurried from the room.

      

      It didn’t take her long to find Lord Bromwell. He was standing by the stables, talking to one of the grooms.

      He still wore no hat, and his hair ruffled slightly in the breeze. He also had on dark trousers, white shirt, light green vest and the same shining boots and well-fitting gloves. He leaned his weight casually on one leg, and she could hear him laughing.

      His laugh was as nice as the rest of him.

      She hoped he never found out the truth about her. That way, he might remember her with affection, as she would certainly remember him.

      Before she could catch his attention, a large black coach with an ornate coat of arms on the lacquered door came barrelling into the yard. The driver, dressed in scarlet and gold livery, shouted and pulled on the reins with all his might to stop the coach, while the footmen at the back held on for dear life as it came to a rocking halt.

      No one in the inn’s yard moved—not even the dogs—or spoke as one of the livered footmen leapt down, staggering a bit as he went to open the door of the coach and lower the step.

      A tall, imposing gentleman appeared, wearing an indigo greatcoat with four capes and large brass buttons. As he stood on the step, his gaze swept over the yard until it came to rest upon Lord Bromwell.

      As if announcing the end was nigh, the man threw out his arms and cried, “My son!”

      Chapter Five

      Of course Drury won the case, as expected. We’re having a little dinner party to celebrate, but nothing that you should mourn to miss.

      I trust you’re handing your pater and mater with your usual savoir faire when you’re not taking refuge in your sanctuary, although how you can concentrate in such surroundings is beyond the limited powers of my comprehension.

      —from a letter to Lord Bromwell from the Honorable Brixton Smythe-Medway

      There had been many times in his life that Bromwell had craved his father’s attention.

      This was not one of them.

      “My lord,” he said, dreading what this sudden, unexpected advent signified as he walked quickly toward the Earl of Granshire, who actually deigned to alight in the yard in spite of the gawking servants, other travellers and the mud.

      Normally his father only left his estate for the opening of Parliament, or if some important business matter made a visit to his banker or solicitor in Bath necessary. Even then, more often than not, such men came to him.

      He hadn’t even gone to Dover when his son had returned after two years at sea.

      “I came to bring you home to your mother,” the earl announced.

      As if he were a child who’d run away after a fit of pique, Bromwell thought, his jaw clenching, very aware that Lady Eleanor was watching from the taproom door.

      He’d noticed her at once, of course, drawn to her presence like a migrating swallow to Capistrano, feeling her proximity before he saw her. Like his ability to know what time it was without consulting a watch or clock, he couldn’t explain the phenomenon; it simply was.

      As she was simply lovely, and exciting, and the most desirable women he’d ever met.

      “Your poor mother was beside herself when we received your message about the accident,” his father declared, making Bromwell instantly wish he hadn’t sent it, even if his delayed arrival might cause her to worry.

      “Never fear, my dear, I said,” his father continued, raising his hand as if calling upon supernatural powers, “I shall retrieve him!”

      Bromwell doubted any actor currently appearing at the Theatre Royal could deliver those lines better. Indeed, at this precise moment, he could well believe his father had missed his true calling.

      “I regret giving Mother any cause to worry,” he said. “There really was no need for you to come. I’m quite all right.”

      “Perhaps, but it could have been otherwise. That’s what comes of selling your carriage and travelling in a mail coach!”

      “Plenty of people travel in mail coaches without mishaps,” Bromwell said, although he suspected it was useless to try to make his father appreciate that such accidents weren’t common.

      “Plenty of people are not the heirs of the Earl of Granshire,” his father retorted. “Fortunately, I have come to spare you any further indignities.”

      It took a mighty effort for Bromwell not to roll his eyes. “Naturally, I’m grateful. If you’ll wait in the taproom, I’ll settle the bill with Mrs. Jenkins and then we can be on our way.”

      The earl’s lip curled at the corner, as if his son had suggested he wait in a cesspool. At nearly the same time, however, a cool breeze blew through the yard and the door of the kitchen opened, sending forth the aroma of fresh bread.

      “Very well,” the earl agreed. “Quickly, though, Bromwell. Your mother is prostrate with worry.”

      That was likely true, Bromwell thought as he followed his father across the yard. She was probably lying in her chaise longue with a maid hovering nearby.

      The earl halted in mid-step at the sight of Lady Eleanor. “Who is that charming creature?” he asked, not bothering to subdue his stentorian voice.

      God give me strength! Bromwell thought as he hurried forward to make the introductions, wondering if he should omit the mention of her title, as she had before.

      She spoke first, saving him that decision. “I am Lady Eleanor Springford,” she said with a bow of her head, “and I owe my life to your son.”

      Bromwell was torn between wanting to admit the situation hadn’t been as dire as Lady Eleanor painted it and kneeling at her feet.

      The earl drew himself up and placed one hand on his hip. “I would expect no less of my son.”

      “Her ladyship was quite an angel of mercy to the poor coachman,” Mrs. Jenkins interjected, coming up behind her like a large and vibrant acolyte. “They make a lovely couple, don’t you think?”

      Bromwell’s heart nearly stopped beating. What the devil had prompted Mrs. Jenkins to make such an observation—and to his father, of all people! It could only have been worse if she’d said it to his mother.

      “Indeed,” his father replied, running a measuring, arrogant gaze over Lady Eleanor, who endured his scrutiny with amazing aplomb.

      “Perhaps we’d all be more comfortable inside,” she suggested.

      “Yes, of course,” the earl agreed. “Justinian, you may attend to your business while I share some refreshments with Lady Eleanor. Come along, my lady.”

      With that, he swept her inside, СКАЧАТЬ