The Viscount's Kiss. Margaret Moore
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Название: The Viscount's Kiss
Автор: Margaret Moore
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Историческая литература
Серия: Mills & Boon Historical
isbn: 9781408930090
isbn:
In the King’s Service #675
A Lover’s Kiss #908
The Viscount’s Kiss #957
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Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Epilogue
Chapter One
It has long been my dream to study these fascinating creatures in their natural habitat, to watch them as they spin their webs and go about the business of living, myself unnoticed save as another species of fauna inhabiting their world.
—from The Spider’s Web, by Lord Bromwell
England, 1820
That man does not belong here, Nell Springley thought as she surreptitiously studied the only other occupant in the mail coach headed to Bath. He’d been asleep when she’d boarded in London, and he was still asleep despite the rocking and jostling of the vehicle, his tall beaver hat tipped over his eyes and his arms crossed over his chest.
He was clearly well-to-do, for he wore a fine indigo frock coat of excellent wool and buff trousers that hugged his long legs. His blindingly white cravat, tied in an intricate and complicated knot, fairly shouted a valet’s skillful expertise. His slender fingers were likewise encased in superbly fitting kid leather gloves and his Hessian boots were so brightly polished, she could see the reflection of her skirts.
Surely a man who could afford such clothes would have his own carriage.
Maybe he was a gamester who had gambled away his fortune. If he was the sort who frequented outdoor boxing matches, that might explain why what little of his jaw and cheeks she could see had been browned by the sun.
Perhaps he’d been in the Navy. She could easily imagine that figure in a uniform, his broad shoulders topped by an officer’s braid, shouting commands and looking very dashing on the quarterdeck.
Or he could be a tosspot sleeping off a night of drunken merriment, having spent the rest of his money on wine. If that were so, she hoped he wouldn’t wake up until they arrived in Bath. She had no desire to be engaged in conversation with a sot. Or anyone else.
The coach lurched over a particularly bone-jarring bump that rattled the baggage in the boot and made СКАЧАТЬ