Society's Most Scandalous Viscount. Anabelle Bryant

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СКАЧАТЬ curious stunned silence stretched between them. Yet his pulse, and worse, his raging erection, ceased to calm and he turned toward the hearth to prod at the burning wood and present a façade of necessary fire tending.

      God’s teeth, he should leave, ride straight to a brothel and cure this irrational reaction. The idea provoked humor more than rational thought. In Brighton, he knew little relief other than the most hospitable serving miss at the local town tavern. And that was more habit than anything else.

      Perhaps upon morning he’d summon one of his mistresses to visit. Damn Bitters for complaining about his company and damn himself for taking heed. Inhaling deeply and exhaling in measure, he willed his body to relax, the turnaround fueled more by anger and frustration than unrelenting desire. He stood, smoothing his palms down the legs of his breeches, fully aware he remained with his back to the lady, but the action served a dual purpose. No doubt, she needed a few composing moments to recover her dignity in kind.

      Aiming for sangfroid, he pivoted; a practiced smile in place, but the room stood empty, the door slightly ajar. His grin dropped away. It mattered little how long he’d bent near the fire trying to order his thoughts and begging his body to calm. The lady had disappeared as if she’d never existed.

      A hearty chuckle forced his shock to fade. Had he met his match—a mermaid who possessed the elusive cunning of a pirating rogue? She’d slipped from his grasp, yet confidence assured him the situation remained temporary. Their meeting again was as inevitable as the ocean and sky married on the horizon.

       Chapter Six

      Angelica woke the next morning, swiftly left bed, and padded to the washstand to splash cold water on her face. It was a dream, most certainly. She hadn’t kissed a devastatingly handsome man, composed of solid muscle and irresistible charm. She hadn’t allowed his arms to wrap around her nor had she nestled closer to his very hard body. She gasped and sputtered, water trickling into her mouth to bring with it a rush of similar circumstance, the rain pebbling her face last night, her heartbeat thrumming an erratic rhythm in kind to her fists against his back as he carried her across the beach. Surely, it was a dream. Otherwise the truth that she’d allowed a stranger to fondle her, kiss her, to rub his tongue against her—

      She grabbed the towel from the stand and pressed it to her face with fierce pressure, biting into the linen as if to prove she was awake, alive, and in clear reason. She dropped the cloth soon after, discarding it to the floor without a care, and shot her chin upward to view her reflection in the oval cheval glass hanging on the wall.

      She looked much as she always did. She leaned the slightest bit closer. Nothing appeared amiss, aside from faint violet shadows under her eyes, evidence of lack of sleep and reckless midnight jaunts. She bent to retrieve the towel, ordering the room as she would order her thoughts, and her gaze fell to her day gown crumpled in a heap near the corner of the bed. Lifting the garment by the shoulders, she held it at arm’s length, her scrutiny honed to the collar where only one crimson ribbon dangled, the other sliced clean.

      A disquieting flutter echoed within her stomach. She’d known all along last night had been real, but here was proof she couldn’t deny, confirmation of her wanton adventure. After hanging the gown on a wall hook, she perched on the corner of the mattress, her arm wrapped around the thick bedpost as if it were a supportive friend. Her temple rested against the wood. She closed her eyes and summoned the memory that had carried her into sleep the night before.

      She had promised herself an adventure and she’d found one on the beach. The pirate’s kiss had been nothing she’d expected and something she’d never forget, and it lived within her still. Oh, she’d fled the groundskeeper’s cottage thinking to abandon the consuming heat of passion found in the pirate’s arms, but running had not extinguished the incredible pleasure and overflow of emotion. The kiss ruined her for any future her father had planned, but that was the point wasn’t it? To capture a moment and cherish a memory. She hadn’t intended to permit the tall stranger such intimacy, but wrapped tight in an unexplainable nuance of circumstance, she’d allowed it and didn’t regret it now.

      With a long sigh, she smiled and rose to ready for the day. What time was it anyway? Sunlight danced through the narrow gap of the drapery. The single window allowed an abundance of light only to have the curtains confine and narrow the offering. An apt example of before and after, a glaring reminder that soon her life would change.

      She glanced to the small clock on her three-drawer chest and noted it was almost noon. Good heavens, she’d become a slugabed. It didn’t matter she’d returned home in the wee hours, hurrying down the length of beach and up the short trail to her grandmother’s cottage. She’d only stumbled twice in the dark as she brought herself home, safe if one could consider her conflicted heart and mind of that category.

      Thank God no one had discovered her late-night strolls. Grandmother would never excuse blatant careless behavior, no matter that they shared the same impish spirit. This crossed the line. Adventurous or not, she’d be concerned for her granddaughter’s safety, and how could Angelica argue with sound reasoning? Her father? Well that didn’t bear exploring. He’d have her shipped to a convent before she could gather her slippers and bonnet. Banishment. The word brought with it a rush of definition.

      Dressed and prepared to fabricate an excuse for sleeping late, Angelica left her bedchamber and went downstairs to find the cottage empty. The only activity was the dust motes afloat in a ray of light through the kitchen window—neither Grandmother nor Nan inside.

      She selected a plum from the wooden bowl on the table and bit into the fruit before moving to the window to peer into the backyard. Perhaps Grandmother and Nan worked with their plants. The day seemed fine for gardening tasks. She chewed and swallowed thoughtfully as she considered the explanation.

      With surprise she spied her father walking the length of the yard aside her grandmother. For the second time this morning her breath snagged; albeit now there was no satisfying memory to accompany this disruption.

      Lord Egan Curtis, Earl of Morton, stood nearly six feet tall, his narrow frame ramrod straight, his elongated stature in parallel to the thin black walking stick he used at all times. He didn’t need the stick for support as much as for effect. Angelica couldn’t remember a time when he hadn’t carried it, the threat of being whacked with it across her bottom for some disobedience in character sufficient to instigate her observance of its existence at all times.

      As a child she’d imagined its demise in a variety of vivid scenarios: secretly placing it in the hearth to burn, dropping it down the well, or burying it behind the hillock of walnut trees at the north edge of the property. These fantasies jockeyed for popularity among her thoughts. Didn’t he know how much it stung to be struck across the shins? Surely if he did, he would refrain.

      As an adult she realized her fantasies were futile. Father likely had a plenitude of sticks at the ready. Were a tragedy to befall one he’d only have to reach into the closet for another. Once she’d grown to a mature age he’d refrained from the threat of punishment, confident he’d rid his daughters of all rebellion, and instead, he’d adopted the habit of punctuating sentences with a severe stab to the floorboards in equal proclivity. At times he emphasized his point with a sharp swing. The stick had become another appendage, a part of his presence as much as his short clipped beard—which he wore in spite of the fashion to be clean-shaven—and perspicacious surveillance. In all her memories, she’d never suffered overlong from that walking stick, but the threat of the damage it could inflict were she to disobey kept her tied to a narrow path of sensible decision, which enhanced the smallest freedom whenever she visited Grandmother in Brighton.

      Now mother and son stood in deep conversation and Angelica СКАЧАТЬ