Society's Most Scandalous Viscount

In contrast, his parents had created a lifestyle that resembled a poorly acted theatrical drama. Their petty squabbles and humbling adulterous escapades added fuel to a fire that needed to burn out. Worse, his mother played Kellaway to her advantage, asking him to resolve differences and intercede, sometimes to appeal to his father, which instigated further acts of inconsequential revenge. The entirety damaged Kell’s reputation as much as his sire’s. Had his grandfather not interfered and taken Kell’s father to task, who knew to what length his parents would have carried their immature squabbling?

Kell shook his head in despair. He’d come to Brighton to escape the familial mess that had plagued him since his early twenties. A decade of endurance seemed penance enough.

He fetched a brush from the tack room, lit a lantern, and began Nyx’s grooming ritual. He enjoyed tending the Arabian in the same fashion he’d cared for her during their return travels to England. No stable hand would ever attend Nyx as Kell did. And in truth, more evenings than not, the organized practice of grooming soothed Kell’s mood in equal measure, the scent of leather, fresh hay, and barley a predictable comfort. Theirs was a silent understanding—one of loyalty and respect.

He worked the brush in strong circular movements across the horse’s flank, his mind as busy as the tool. His mother would want a favor. And she would ask for it prettily, veiled in panoply of inventive promises, and he would comply in an objectionable tendency that caused him to drink in excess after she’d departed. The reality of the exchange darkened his soul. He was a grown man inclined to react when his mother pulled the leading strings. Alas, the heated exchange with his father and their last scene brought it all to the square in public display. Perhaps that explained his mother’s unannounced arrival and, further, this week of unexpected visitors.

The horse nickered as if to indicate Kell had come full circle in his thinking. True enough the singular incident drove him to Brighton in the first place.

When Kell was younger he’d wished, hoped, prayed for parents who took the slightest interest in his affairs. Parents who would attend his graduation, acknowledge his accomplishments—he’d scored double firsts at Oxford in a bid for their approval—but that was not to be. He’d learned independence and self-sufficiency at the ripe age of twelve, experienced a whore’s pleasure at thirteen after winning an unseemly wager in the back room of a St. Giles gaming hell. He’d frequented every place a lofty aristocrat shouldn’t and hardened his heart along the way, somehow maintaining a barely respectable presence in society while simultaneously seeking pleasure and pursuing challenges whenever the opportunity presented itself.

The elite viewed him as privileged, the heir to a fortune, a title, and moniker that would serve him through life, but the opposite proved true. Any monies set aside for his future gathered dust in the bank. Kell made his way by intelligent wager and shrewd investment, amassing his fortune by ingenuity and design, beholden to none. And his title? His familial ties to the Duke of Acholl? Perhaps it had aided his path at times, but never let it be said Kellaway depended on his relations. He’d learned all too quickly he was of no true importance aside from his legitimacy. With a caustic scoff, he tossed the brush aside and discarded the bitter memory.

“I can’t fathom what she’ll ask of me now, though only a fool would trust the verity of her request.” He grasped Nyx by the bridle and lowered the Arabian’s head before he retrieved the crimson ribbon from his pocket and double knotted the length in the horse’s mane. Releasing the leather strap he rubbed a palm over Nyx’s muzzle, leaning in to rest his head against the horse’s neck. He’d gather strength from the animal. He’d draw endurance.

But instead of his mind combating the numerous conflicts his mother might impose once he entered the house, Kell’s thoughts returned to the kiss he’d shared in the cottage and the mysterious beauty who had startled him into unexpected emotion: a depth of reaction for which he had no label. He lost himself in the sensual pleasures of women whenever he needed release, but this seemed different. This was rare and unsettling, and perhaps a shade dangerous to his well-guarded heart.

It hardly mattered. In the daylight he had grown less sure that he would see her again. But who was she? A simple miss who lived in Brighton? She couldn’t be. Nothing about her appeared common. Not the multiple shades of gold in her flowing hair or the tide of emotions in her turquoise eyes. He recalled her scent, the sweet softness of her skin and the delicate curve of her waist beneath his palms, and his blood heated with desire. He could find joy in a woman of such tempting beauty. He could forget for a time all the wrongs, and just breathe.

Something whispered to his soul that there was much more to discover. Their kiss had been powerful and delicate. Exquisite and impactful. A longing for more of her attention pulled at him as surely as a compass needle seeks north. He never developed attachment; a good tumble with an assortment of women composed of all particularities created his past, yet for some unidentifiable reason the mermaid’s kiss lived in him still, unresolved and impatient. He almost chuckled at the irony. Like most of his emotions, the lack of a resolution haunted.

Another part of him, arrogant male pride perhaps, prodded that he merely needed to lay with any woman to exorcise his idle interest. A smarter man would seek a brothel with haste, but he ignored the notion. He’d come to Brighton to settle his affairs, not be towed under by further instigations.

A loud yowl disrupted his ruminations and he lifted his head to eye an overfed tabby in the corner of the stable, its back laid level to the ground, its body collapsed as if ready to pounce on an unsuspecting rodent. There was always room for an adept mouser in the stable although the feline hunter reminded him too much of how he’d soon become prey to his mother’s request. As long as this new guest didn’t bother Nyx, Kell had no objection to the intruder.

He offered the Arabian a final rub and set out on the gravel walk leading away from the house. Let Bitters handle his mother. The thought provoked a wry smile. Kell needed a release and without a comely female to exhaust his energy, he may as well pierce a few targets and hone his skill. He’d gather what he needed from the shed and return for Nyx. One never knew when a precise shot would prove necessary.

Chapter Seven

“Father, I didn’t expect you to visit. I thought we’d agreed I would spend time with Grandmother before returning home.” Angelica struggled to keep her tone even, though by the unreadable expression on her father’s face she wondered if she should rail at him in objection to his overbearing countenance or portray the compliant daughter.

“I am traveling to Spetisbury in Dorset to visit St. Monica’s Priory. An associate suggested I pay call and I’ve accepted the invitation.” He paused as if weighing the remainder of his explanation. “It concerns your sister and our future plans.”

The words struck her with unexpected hope. Had Father learned something of value? Could she dare believe her sister would be found? And what if Helen was discovered? The complicated tangle of secrets and lies created further confusion as each layer peeled away. “Yes, of course.” The words rushed out on an eager breath though she fought to squelch the simultaneous clash of optimism and distress. How many times had she anticipated success only to be disappointed in the end? And how did one measure victory if it caused a loved one heartache?

Her father appeared void of the conflicted emotions Angelica harbored.

“As Brighton is en route to Spetisbury, I couldn’t pass the thoroughfare without seeing how you fared.”

Assuring himself she resided where she should, no doubt. Checking she hadn’t taken flight. He stated the words as if genuine concern prompted his detour, but Angelica knew better than to mislabel his sentiment as compassion. The earl wished for his plans to proceed uninterrupted and her compliance and obedience were key in his intentions. The same had prompted her trip to Grandmother’s. While she had no desire to run away as Helen had, she wouldn’t commit herself to pious dedication without a firm hold on her emotional future. What was it she wanted from life? And how would it be accomplished while keeping peace with her father? He’d already lost one daughter.

“I hold hope for encouraging news. I miss Helen dearly.” She didn’t elaborate, the implications of the conversation heavier than her heart. Her father had all but banished Helen when he’d discovered her indiscretion. Angelica had never felt the absence of a mother figure more keenly. Instead, Helen had turned to Angelica for assistance and she’d given her the only advice she could fathom. Flee. Run as far away as possible, although the decision had cost her more than the purse full of coins she’d stolen to abet her sister’s flight. She missed Helen with a bottomless ache she could never express with tears or words. Relationships between sisters, separated by a mere ten months, were profound, intuitive, and theirs was no exception. Helen had won her freedom at a dear price: never returning home to her family. Angelica would lose her freedom and keep the latter. Life proposed a delicate balance, often disrupted by the flow of one’s choices. No matter they were two of a kind; they existed on opposite sides of reality now. The subject remained off limits with Father and Grandmother, so the frank disclosure struck everyone as unexpected.

“For it is from within, out of a person’s heart, that evil thoughts come—sexual immorality, theft, murder, adultery, greed, malice—”

Angelica mentally silenced the list of sins, accustomed to her father’s pious lectures.

“—deceit, lewdness, envy, slander, arrogance, and folly.”

He paused in his sermon though she knew better than to interrupt.

“All these evils come from inside and defile a person.” He eyed her, waiting for a response.

“Mark 7:21.” She begrudgingly answered the unspoken question.

“Have you come to accept our discussion of your future or are you too preoccupied enjoying the shameful freedom your grandmother allows whenever you visit?” He swept his eyes across the landscape as if they stood in a disreputable back alley instead of a lovely seaside garden. His eyes settled on her neckline, a conservative scoop on an otherwise plain muslin day gown, yet she felt compelled to raise her hand to her throat, as if the censure of his eyes wrapped around her neck and applied pressure. She would get her words out.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.