Society's Most Scandalous Viscount. Anabelle Bryant

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СКАЧАТЬ squawked their encouragement. They galloped hard for half a mile before he signaled to slow, then slid from the saddle and approached the rocky crag where he’d spotted the mysterious mermaid dancing at the water’s edge the night before. Her image had stayed with him through the night, maintaining clarity as he opened his eyes to the new day.

      His mouth hitched in a half smile, bemused by his foolish mission. Had he expected to find her small footprints indelibly etched in the sand? A strand of spun gold across the rocks or a bit of opalescent seaweed as evidence of her existence? Attentive to this preoccupation, his boots stained from the salty foam, he muttered a well-used expletive and turned to leave, the reflective glint of a sunray beckoning his attention at the last second. With a raised brow, he stepped closer to the nearest rock, flat as a tabletop and the most sensible place to steady a lantern. He expected to find a shard of broken glass. Instead, a small metal key lay wedged between two boulders, safely in wait of his discovery, unwilling to be swept into the sea by the aggressive tide.

      Producing the dagger kept tucked in his left boot—for his right boot housed his pistol—he pried the key free and flipped it into the air, catching it with a chuckle. Under examination it proved no more impressive than a lamp key, but it confirmed, after all, his mermaid’s existence.

      Angelica refilled her grandmother’s cup and then her own. She locked the expensive tea blend of cardamom and dried cherries in the satinwood caddy on the sideboard using the key on a string around her wrist. Despite her father’s shortcomings, financial security was not one. He provided generously for his mother in her quaint Brighton cottage and, therefore, provided for his daughter as she took refuge. Fine carved furniture filled each room and wool carpets were scattered about to chase away any wayward chill. Grandmother decorated in soft tones of honey yellow and leaf green, welcoming the outside world in and creating a home as conducive to soothing comfort as to practicality.

      It was a small miracle Father had allowed her the visit, although on occasion she experienced an unwarranted tinge of guilt at her manipulation of the truth. His demands were irrational. Better to have him believe she wished to spend time with her grandmother before acquiescing to his plans, than have him realize she might never return to London if she did not find peace in her heart.

      “Stop thinking of your father’s intentions,” Grandmother reassured with her usual intuitive sensitivity. She reached across the table and placed her hand atop Angelica’s, the soft whispery skin a reminder of her fragile age and timeless wisdom. “It’s your life to live, not his to dictate.”

      This conclusion prompted unexpected amusement. “I’m afraid your view isn’t an adopted societal belief.” Angelica offered a smile. “I am grateful to have your counsel, but more so your company. Of course you’re right. I shouldn’t think of his newfangled mission when I’m unsure exactly what my future holds.”

      “I experience no such uncertainty, dear one.” Her grandmother ran her thumb across the back of Angelica’s hand before giving it a reassuring squeeze. “Your future will be filled with happiness and love. It’s the path you need to discover, not the outcome.”

      Angelica took another sip of tea and contemplated her grandmother’s confidence. “I hope your words prove true.” Grandmother didn’t reply, as if no doubt existed, but Angelica harbored a well of uncertainty that stretched from her mental considerations to the tips of her fleeing toes. She obeyed her father, although his recent requests befuddled her more than evoked admiration. She missed her mother, but having only the flimsiest memories of her companionship since her death over fifteen years prior, the wound was scarred by despair more than pain. She’d grown under her father’s guidance, deferential and intellectual, and now those same qualities haunted her peace of mind as he wished for her to bow to his dictates. Grandmother knew only an edited version of the truth.

      “Where will the day take you?”

      The direct question scattered her contemplations and confirmed her grandmother’s objective. How deeply Angelica loved this woman.

      “We are almost out of tea.” Her eyes flicked to the box near the cupboard. “I thought a long walk into town would offer distraction and a remedy to the problem.” She sighed, long and thoroughly. Her limited but fitful sleep last night sparked unexplainable anticipation. She’d made the trip to the mercantile shops twice before, walking along the road like any common citizen and not a fine-born lady who should have a footman and driver atop a polished carriage of expensive purchase. The freedom of the action proved exhilarating. Her unadorned day gown, simple in design and function, lacked the constrictive layers beneath, and never raised an eyebrow or a questioning glance. She blended into the crowd and relished the anonymity.

      “Then be off with you. I’ve a bit of embroidery to finish and I’m sure Nan needs help in the yard.”

      Grandmother enjoyed her garden and Nan, the stout, kind-tempered housekeeper and companion, shared the passion, both proud of the plants they nurtured to bloom. At times, the two elderly women discussed vegetables for hours. It was rather endearing to see them huddled over a cabbage or turnip seedling with unabashed pride displayed in their expressions.

      “Bear in mind…” Grandmother offered a comforting nod before she continued “…your father is not a patient man. I fear he may appear on this doorstep any day now, anxious to get on with his plans and unconcerned about what is best for you at this moment or in the near future.”

      “Don’t worry. I’m aware time is scarce.” Angelica pressed a gentle kiss to her grandmother’s cheek and left to change into her walking boots before scurrying down the path leading into town. How perfectly this liberty suited her, no matter that this situation was only temporary. The carefree thought carried her for a good while, the scent of fresh-cut hay and fragrant elderflower filling her senses, the buzz of a dragonfly’s wings and sound of a redstart’s call teasing her ear. London was absent of such pleasures and right now, when she knew not where her future led, the simplicity of these surroundings soothed the ache of fear and uncertainty.

      No one judged her in Brighton. No one trifled with her emotions. Life was simpler, and she needed simplicity with a desperation that reached the depths of her soul—for no other reason than to clear her mind before making the most important decision of her life.

      Continuing her stroll, she nodded in friendly greeting to the workers who set the field for an upcoming fair. In London, introductions and etiquette erected strict division between classes. Here in Brighton societal boundaries existed but with an ease uncommon to the formalities of the city. She swung the basket on her arm with a bit of a flourish. How wonderful to be someone other than herself, Angelica Curtis, daughter of righteous Lord Egan Curtis, Earl of Morton, naysayer of modern thinking, and slave to practicality and his zealous passion for religion. The contradiction of characteristics left her bereft of an acceptable role as daughter or a clear route to her future. Her father wanted many things, all of them convoluted.

      Winding through an arc in the roadway she started at a rider’s approach. The horse, a behemoth animal, thundered the roadway dust into billowing clouds as its fierce hooves pounded the dirt. Atop the animal, a finely dressed, fair-haired man fixed his unwavering focus on her in a manner bespeaking he’d already made her acquaintance or perhaps that he wished she’d move out of the way. She’d never seen the man before and surely would have remembered his mount. The cultivated creature echoed the underlying grace of the rider, their bodies moving in perfect unison, more noticeable now as they slowed. Upon closer inspection she noted the gentleman wore casual clothing, a white linen shirt and buckskin trousers, not the formal wear of a lord. His hair was overlong, unbound and splayed down his back, wind-whipped. Her heart gave another leap. He appeared refined, yet barbaric, if such a combination existed.

      He couldn’t mean to stop, could he? She barely edged the side of the road, leaving СКАЧАТЬ