The Viscount's Kiss. Margaret Moore

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      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!”