Книга - Society’s Most Scandalous Viscount

Society's Most Scandalous Viscount
Anabelle Bryant


When rules are made to be broken…Viscount Kellaway may sound like a gentleman, but he doesn’t act like one. As far as Kell is concerned, drink, women and the wrong side of the law are much more attractive indulgences than could be found in polite society – much to the scandal of the ton.With all of Brighton’s women to choose from, Kell has never settled for one – and his devilish good looks have meant he’s never had to. But when he spies Angelica Curtis walking on the beach by moonlight, the living vision of a familiar dream, all that changes.Suddenly, Kell finds himself craving the touch of a single woman…and it just so happens that the woman in question won’t have him! But if Kell’s bad ways have taught him anything, it’s that nothing is truly out of bounds…Fans of Regency romance will adore Anabelle Bryant’s Regency Charms series:1. Defying the Earl2. Undone by His Kiss3. Society’s Most Scandalous Viscount4. His Forbidden DebutantePraise for Society’s Most Scandalous Viscount‘Anabelle Bryant is a genius. Her characters, language and expression make her a master of the written word and leave you wishing for your own happily ever after. A definite must read for all historical and romance lovers. – ’Cindy von Hentschel‘Absolutely fantastic read. Anabelle Bryant has done it again. I love her stories and they just keep getting better and better and better with each book she puts out. Highly recommend.’ – Kristina O’Grady, author of the Copeland Ranch Trilogy‘Regency Romance readers will absolutely adore Kell and Angelica’s story, it has all the passion, mystery and love that any of us could wish for in an Historical Romance.’ – Marsha @ Keeper Bookshelf, via Amazon







When rules are made to be broken…

Viscount Kellaway may sound like a gentleman, but he doesn’t act like one. As far as Kell is concerned, drink, women and the wrong side of the law are much more attractive indulgences than could be found in polite society – much to the scandal of the ton.

With all of Brighton’s women to choose from, Kell has never settled for one – and his devilish good looks have meant he’s never had to. But when he spies Angelica Curtis walking on the beach by moonlight, the living vision of a familiar dream, all that changes.

Suddenly, Kell finds himself craving the touch of a single woman…and it just so happens that the woman in question won’t have him! But if Kell’s bad ways have taught him anything, it’s that nothing is truly out of bounds…


Also by Anabelle Bryant (#ua991b158-90c8-5511-ad0b-8a2b31a74ddf)

Three Regency Rogues

To Love a Wicked Scoundrel

Duke of Darkness

The Midnight Rake



Regency Charms

Defying the Earl

Undone By His Kiss


Society’s Most Scandalous Viscount

Anabelle Bryant






www.CarinaUK.com (http://www.CarinaUK.com)


CARINA™

Society’s Most Scandalous Viscount

Copyright © 2015 Anabelle Bryant

Published in Great Britain (2015)

by Carina, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

CARINA™ is a trademark of Harlequin Enterprises Limited, used under licence.

ISBN: 9781474035934

Version: 2018-01-23

www.CarinaUK.com (http://www.CarinaUK.com)


ANABELLE BRYANT began reading at age three and never stopped. Her passion for reading soon turned into a passion for writing and an author was born. Happy to grab her suitcase if it ensures a new adventure, Anabelle finds endless inspiration in travel; especially imaginary jaunts into romantic Regency England, a far cry from her home in New Jersey. Instead, her clever characters live out her daydreams because really, who wouldn’t want to dance with a handsome duke or kiss a wicked earl?

Though teaching keeps her grounded, photography, running, and writing counterbalance her wanderlust. Often found with her nose in a book, Anabelle has earned her Master’s Degree and is pursuing her Doctorate Degree in education. She proudly owns her addiction to French fries and stationery supplies, as well as her frightening ineptitude with technology. A firm believer in romance, Anabelle knows sometimes life doesn’t provide a happily ever after, but her novels always do. She enjoys talking with her fans. Visit her website at AnabelleBryant.com (http://www.AnabelleBryant.com).


Much gratitude to my clever editors, Clio and Nicky, who truly understand my voice. Heartfelt appreciation to everyone at Carina/Harlequin/HarperCollins for my gorgeous cover and dedicated hardwork bringing this novel to completion.

And thank you, to every reader, blogger, and reviewer, who has taken the time to let me know they enjoy this series! I love you all!


For my dearest friends.

Like the charms on the Regency bracelet, I value you all, each possessing a happiness of spirit, encouragement and joy that you graciously share with me.

I’m so lucky to have such a valuable treasure in my life.


Contents

Cover (#ubb60aa03-e7f1-579d-b185-9af65844850d)

Blurb (#uf9a42088-8627-5b49-aca0-9d01c34ffbb3)

Book List

Title Page (#ucc879aec-e82c-5485-825f-80bc446336dd)

Author Bio (#ueeec32e6-4d83-5e9a-9081-13b60c36243b)

Acknowledgement (#ud1c3d6ff-bdd9-541d-9dcc-a020f6e566fe)

Dedication (#u49ee0442-0701-5c0f-819e-15c9f9ff5261)

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

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Epilogue

Copyright (#u77c42403-1d6b-5d8c-ad4f-aa818303288d)


Chapter One (#ua991b158-90c8-5511-ad0b-8a2b31a74ddf)

Brighton

Benedict Hampton, Viscount Kellaway, reached across the bed in search of warm luscious curves only to discover the cool linen sheets void of his desire. He flicked his eyes open with an appalled jolt of reality. He hadn’t enjoyed the company of a generous widow or obliging mistress last evening. Struggling through the haze of lingering imbibement, he recalled choosing brandy for a bed partner instead. As if to assure himself he wasn’t dreaming, he slued his eyes to the side table where a near-empty bottle stood as evidence of his recently formed conclusion. He exhaled his disappointment and sat upright.

Night reigned, though he had no clue as to the hour—the clock on the mantle indistinguishable, the fireplace abed with embers. Moonlight cast fickle shadows through the gauzy curtains framing the open French doors that led to his terrace. A slight breeze provoked an eerie undulation of fabric as if ghosts stood sentry, daring him to approach and breach the night. Few things pleasured more than a good challenge and having already ascertained no woman awaited his attention, he rose. He nabbed the brandy as he strode toward the terrace in trousers, his pants further confirmation he hadn’t sunk into a willing female. Kell usually slept in the nude.

Casting a sardonic glance toward the apparitional curtains, he advanced to the stone terrace, the marble cold against the soles of his feet. Stars littered the night, diamonds on velvet, and after a short swig, he put the bottle aside and spun his telescope to the sky. With a curt toss, he forced his hair over his shoulder, the length grown long since he’d left London three months earlier. He wore it outside fashion, tied neatly in a queue whenever forced to bow to society, but here in Brighton in a home he’d created as an escape and sanctuary, he could do anything he bloody well chose. Society be damned.

He gazed through the eyepiece of the telescope, his mind anxious to resurrect the reason he’d left London, his heart refusing the argument. Instead he made a slight adjustment to the lens and admired the heavens, lost in the resplendent beauty of the constellations until a bright streak of light dissected his view. With innate efficiency, he traced the shooting star’s path, watched as it dimmed, fell, faded toward the ocean waters in a flash of muted golden fire, dropping from the sky in a nuance of beatific light, burning itself out, reminding him of all the bridges he’d burned of late. He kept his scope poised on the exact location where the star had ceased to exist, all too aware of the irony—extinguished like his hope for happiness, faded as his ability to love, lost as his vitality for life.

Again the bite of his father’s recriminations threatened to surface and Kell successfully tamped them down, swinging the scope toward the coastline where the waters scoured the sands, their tumultuous assault to defeat the solidity of the shore relentless. He remained as strong. The past would not defeat him, no matter how determined its attempts to erode.

Mesmerized by the motion of the tide, he might have missed the glimmer of light caught in the periphery of the lens, but no, a tiny glow existed on the sands. A lantern? At this hour?

It burned with surety as if the lamp was set securely on the face of the rough jutting shoreline. He’d purchased this land and erected the manor house on the farthest jetty of the East Cliff where the English Channel drained from Wellesbourne. The location guaranteed privacy, the rock-strewn landscape too steep and dangerous for fishermen, bathers, or other interlopers. Yet without a doubt, that flicker of light proved his fortress was not impregnable.

He chuckled, low and throaty, amused by the mystery. Reaching for the brandy, he backed away from the telescope to drain the last swallow, the empty bottle objecting with a hollow sound when placed near his feet.

Returning to the view, his breath caught.

Mystery solved.

A woman, dressed in a thin garment as ethereal as his curtains, stood on the beach, her shadowy profile near indecipherable were it not for the bright moonlight and sharp focus of his lens. Long golden hair whipped behind her slim form, waves of spun silk as they danced on the wind, holding him captive until a strong gust applied the flimsy gown to her curvaceous figure, evoking the fanciful notion he witnessed a mermaid come ashore for a moment’s respite. His attention was riveted to her every movement.

Could he be caught in a liquor-induced dream? Would he wake to find himself abed, only the sketchiest memory of the beautiful specter teasing his brain? He watched as she bent to the water, her round bottom and generous breasts outlined by the wind. His cock twitched in answer. Indeed, this was real.

She couldn’t mean to enter the ocean—the temperature inhospitable this time of year—no matter that to swim at night was to invite danger. Lest she truly proved a mermaid, only a fool would breach the high tide. Perhaps that explained it. Was she addled? By the position of the moon, it was well past the witching hour, yet the woman stood alone, trespassing on his land, seemingly without fear for her safety in the dead of night. Were he more clear minded, he would saddle Nyx and investigate, but the rocky terrain of the decline from his estate to the waterline proved treacherous even in the brightest daylight.

He continued to watch, caught in a spell, as the woman stared into the ocean in kind to the manner he looked toward the sky; such a vast span of universe, one could only hope somewhere answers lurked. Captivated, his breathing evened. The tense energy that had prodded him awake dissolved into nothingness. Long minutes passed until she must have reclaimed her lantern, the dot of light now unsteady, bobbing in retreat. He swung the telescope to follow her departure and his foot struck the brandy bottle, causing it to fall and shatter.

Bitters would complain.

Damn Bitters.

He behaved more like the master of the house than a servant. Insolent son of a bitch and loyal comrade. Kell chuckled at the man’s admirable irascibility. Aside from Nyx, Bitters was his only friend at the moment—all London companions left behind in a tangle of emotion and misery.

Unwilling to dwell on the unresolved problems simmering with persistence below his veneer of calm, Kell abandoned the terrace and returned to bed, his body begging for a release the alcohol hadn’t provided. The image of an angelic mermaid was vivid in his mind as he privately pursued his pleasure.

Angelica Curtis slipped through the back door of the picturesque cottage she shared with her grandmother and eased the lock closed, careful to set the lamp on the table in a soundless motion and noticing too late she’d lost the key to douse the flame. Fumbling near the cupboard, she located another lamp, borrowed the key and completed the task until she stood in near darkness among the muted rays of slanted moonlight stealing through the narrow kitchen window.

With great care, she approached the backstairs, desperate not to wake her grandmother or the housekeeper with her late-night flight of fancy. These jaunts were the only way to harness her restlessness since she’d invited herself to Brighton. Months earlier, she’d fled London and left behind too many poor decisions to confront in the light of day or middle of the evening. Avoidance seemed the smartest path for the time being.

At the least she wouldn’t unburden her inner turmoil on the only relative who understood her heart. Her grandmother never questioned. Somehow, they shared the same spirit. It had always proven true.

Accomplishing the backstairs without rousing anyone, Angelica moved down the hall on padded feet and slipped into her modest room, closing the door and changing her clothes in a rush to prepare for sleep. It was another foolish decision in a long mental list, to venture outdoors, but how she needed the freedom. To breathe the salt air, gaze at the stars, and watch the rush of waves cleared her mind and soul of the harsh decisions daylight determinedly kept ever present. Somehow at night, things became a little easier.

Tonight she’d walked farther than ever before, across the rocky crag at the beach’s end and along the shoreline adjacent to the private property of some long-nosed aristocrat intent on ruining the landscape with a monstrous house, likely occupied less than two months a year. She’d eyed the estate on her daily walks since appearing on her grandmother’s doorstep, and it always stood empty and dark. And while she didn’t dislike peers, born a lady by way of her father’s lineage, she despised pretentious displays of wealth, as she surmised was the intention of the well-built country manor near the jetty, perched high above the ocean like a king on his throne, glaring down on everyone and everything below it. Tonight, she’d been the recipient of its condescending stare, no matter that it was desolate and silent. Her grandmother’s quaint cottage certainly had imposing company, even though the manor stood unoccupied.

She replaced the brush on the vanity and climbed between the sheets as her thoughts flittered to her father’s most recent letter imploring her to return to London. Not enough time had passed. It was still too fresh, too painful, and she hadn’t experienced sufficient freedom before confining herself to the reality that waited in the city. When she’d boarded her carriage and directed the coachman to Brighton, she’d vowed to live an alternate life. To take more chances, make daring choices and, above all else, experience life in ways that would soon become impermissible. There was no need for anyone to know her real name in Brighton. She would be gone before her identity mattered. And with the intent to stay at her grandmother’s cottage a short time and no longer, what difference could it ever bear on her future?

She’d find a handsome man and grant him a kiss. She’d walk through the market free of a footman or maid. She’d dance on the sand near the ocean’s edge without worry her nightdress became transparent from the mist and her hair tangled into a salty, knotted mess. She’d taste freedom and relish it, fully knowing the experience was fleeting and temporary.

Good heavens, she’d just turned two and twenty. A whole world lay before her, an entire life to lead, or so she’d once believed. Now if she could manage to experience the wonders of spontaneity for a few weeks, she’d have accomplished her goal and would be resolved to a future she had no power to change.

Her deep exhalation was one of compromise and contentedness, the exact prescription needed to cleanse her soul and solidify her will before returning to London. With that reassuring resolution, she fell asleep with ease.


Chapter Two (#ua991b158-90c8-5511-ad0b-8a2b31a74ddf)

Brilliant sunlight sliced across Kell’s brow and caused him to wince as he strode through the wicket and down the gravel drive to the stable, a good distance from the house. The after effects of last night’s brandy loitered on the edges of his lucidity. Nothing cleared the mind like a bracing ride and Nyx would be equally anxious for their early morning jaunt. The animal was in tune to his master’s rhythm and routine as if they shared one mind and purpose. Nyx was sired by a historic lineage similar to Kellaway; possessed an instinctive restlessness, which required frequent exorcising similar to Kellaway; and exhibited sharp reflexes, exacting skill, and unending endurance similar to Kellaway. The combination of their two spirits would prove lethal someday, but that was the way of things. No one’s tomorrow was guaranteed. One needed to live for the moment.

Reaching the immaculate stable, Kell paused to admire his superior mount. He’d traveled to the Arabian Peninsula to purchase the animal, the journey long and grueling, filled with unexpected events, but it was worth every pound to claim Nyx as his own. With a different language precluding conversation as he traipsed across the barren continent, the horse became his confidant and ally—their mutual respect having intensified over the years.

With an abject note of disconsolation, Kell realized he’d be lonely without the horse. His fondness made their relationship seem more like companionship than owner and animal. Dispelling these thoughts, he picked up the boar’s hair brush and set to the Arabian’s grooming. After a time, as was natural habit, he began a one-sided conversation.

“We’ll have a run on the beach this morning. I’d like a look at the jetty.” He tossed the brush into the box near his feet and gave the horse’s muzzle a quick rub. “I doubt I’ll find any trace of her, but I’ll not be satisfied until I look.” He hoisted the saddle over the blanket spread across the Arabian’s elegant back. Kell was taller than most, standing above six feet, but Nyx was not to be defeated and claimed a height of sixteen hands. Her glossy coat reflected every nuance of light in its blue-black sheen and her thick mane, wild and tousled from between her ears well back into the withers, declared she was a figment of one’s imagination more than an actual being. Nyx snorted as if she granted approval of the morning plan.

“She was a pretty bit of muslin.” He didn’t bother with further explanation or preparation. Once the leather straps were buckled, he grabbed a handful of mane and with a high leap off the grooming box, hoisted into the saddle and settled. The horse hardly sidestepped, waiting for a command.

With a sharp click of the tongue and pressure from his knees, Kell issued his instructions and they exited the stable to follow a dirt road leading away from the coast. There was only one safe access route to the beach from the formidable height of East Cliff and despite impulsive and, at times, reckless ventures on foot down the embankment at the rear of the house, Kell would never risk the same with the Arabian, so they rode at an easy gallop and only slowed as they approached a grassy clearing not far from the main road.

It appeared a fair was to be erected in the coming weeks as a cluster of wagons and tilts were unpacked, the merchant stands assembled by a group of workers. Annual events were habit of the townspeople though Kellaway rarely merged with the population other than an occasional visit to the tavern or necessary trip to the mercantile shops. And perhaps a trip or two into town in search of warm company.

He scanned the field with a sharp eye, observing the activity before he continued down the sloping roadway adjacent to the shoreline. The road progressed in a series of wide arcs, lined with heath and bilberry, and offered a circuitous decline to the beach below despite the fact that it took additional maneuvering. This location, away from the fishing village and apart from where travelers frequented to partake of the salt air and seawater’s curative benefits, offered rare privacy.

At last they arrived and in less than a breath Nyx accelerated to full gallop at the water’s edge, the firmly packed sand echoing the thunder of her hooves. Kell breathed in the salt air, rejoicing at the wind whipping his face, allowing the horse to race at breakneck speed. The gulls overhead 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 a wide berth for any passerby. Still she watched his procession—the animal fascinating, the distinctive gentleman captivating in kind—and allowed herself the luxury of gawking for no other reason than her anonymity. No one knew her, and she intended to keep it that way. A giddy bubble of laughter accompanied her wanton choice to soak in an eyeful. She may as well throw caution to the wind.

The rider slowed to cast a discerning glance in her direction. Angelica sensed he would make eye contact with abandoned propriety, but he continued past and she was perplexed that a note of disappointment dampened her awareness. She could only attribute it to her determination to experience all avenues of adventure before falling in line with her father’s view of the future.

Her steps had stalled considerably, so she picked up the pace, noticing belatedly that the thunder of hooves now approached from behind. Had the gentleman doubled back or did someone else travel near? Her ears were alert to the opportunity, her curiosity mixed with daring. This road was usually quiet and the sound could not be mistaken.

A looming shadow grew over her shoulder, cast on the dirt road ahead as if an ebony knight poised to advance within a giant’s chess set. The sleek outline of the animal was a remarkable vignette of distinguished horseflesh.

She cast a glimpse to the left, the horse less than a yard away and gaining, though she adopted an expression of complete calm as if being set upon by a dashing hero astride a mythical beast was an everyday occurrence. She kept her chin high and straightened her posture, prepared to continue toward town without alarm, unable to stop herself from stealing another glance.

As if worked by magic the rider threw a defined, well-muscled leg over the edge of the saddle and stood beside her in a lethal example of boundless arrogance and elegant grace. Two clicks from his tongue and the horse galloped ahead where it slowed to a trot and set their pace instead of the reverse. It took a moment before she caught her breath.

“My lady.”

The tone of the gentleman’s voice sent a frisson of prickling sensation swirling within her, kicking her heart into a gallop as fierce as the animal’s and as wild as the notion he’d doubled back and stopped to speak directly to her. Yet he didn’t say more and while she assessed his chiseled profile, prepared for whatever unexpected and unusual events of the morning were yet to unfold, his face broke into a lopsided grin of pure wickedness.


Chapter Three (#ua991b158-90c8-5511-ad0b-8a2b31a74ddf)

The devil had a sense of humor. How else could Kell explain this happenstance? Oh, the lady was no mermaid. Even covered by the thin skirt of her gown, he could tell her legs went on forever, and as he fell in beside her, shortening his stride to keep pace, he took in every nuance of her appearance, his piqued interest evident in the reaction of a distinct part of his lower anatomy.

She could almost look him in the eye. An untouched beauty was a clever find, but one with height proved a rare treasure. Hair, as golden and lush as he imagined, cascaded down the line of her back in a waterfall of waves and curls kept at bay by a thick ribbon of no particular color. She stood taller than most women, yet remained delicately built, slim aside from ample breasts so high and full his hands grew restless. The slight curve of her hips was visible beneath the slope of her gown. It reminded him of the gauzy nightdress that had silhouetted her round bottom in the moonlight.

His cock remembered too.

Her face was one of classic features with high cheekbones, almond-shaped eyes beneath long lashes, and mesmeric irises the greenest blue he’d ever seen, glistening as if they consisted of ocean water teased by the sunlight, alive and turbulent with thoughts and emotions. She hadn’t said a word in response to his intrusion, although he noted a flicker of unease in her face as she raised her gaze. Still she didn’t object to his sudden interruption to her day. Last evening she’d also lacked proper guard of her personal safety.

Good thing he’d happened along.

When she made an abrupt stop, he missed a step, lost in his personal reverie. Abbreviating his momentum, he pivoted to walk backwards while she continued forward.

“My lord.”

She spoke with inflection on the second word, the utterance more exclamation than greeting. One slender brow rose like an arrow to the sky before she turned to view the road ahead with a bewitching swish of skirts.

His smile threatened to emerge at her feisty response. Though at first glance she appeared refined, this was no high-born lady. Or perhaps she’d abandoned her pedigree in lieu of a fiery tongue. That idea prompted another smile and this time he allowed it freedom. “May I be of service? Have you lost your way?” He darted a look left and right for added effect.

“So you’re a rescuer of unaccompanied women?” She eyed his hair, open collar, and lack of cravat with cynical condemnation, and while she didn’t pause to allow his answer, the tilt of her eyebrows expressed volumes. “And here I assumed you a loose-moraled bounder breaking the dawn on a magnificent animal won in a low-profile gaming hell where bored aristocrats waste time and money.” Her eyes moved to Nyx who trotted several yards in front of them.

When he didn’t respond to her setdown, a peal of merry laughter, brighter than the sun, grabbed his attention and all at once he was focused on her mouth, her lips extremely kissable. “You have it all wrong, although I bow to your opinion of uppers.” He’d be damned to admit his title now. Not when their verbal sparring ignited his curiosity, a trait that had been in danger of death by boredom since leaving London.

She slanted him a look of disbelief.

“Do you reside in Brighton?” He flipped a glance to Nyx and back again, determined not to let the lady out of sight.

“I live nowhere in particular and certainly not here.”

Her facetious reply warned she was in no mood for conversation, his company as welcome as a mosquito’s, though he swore a glint of amusement danced in her eyes to convince him the sting of her words hid a spark of inquisitive interest. He considered returning the lamp key, but years at the gaming tables had taught him never to tip his hand. Everything presented a gamble in one way or another. It was how one played through that proved exceptional skill.

“Then I shan’t bother you further.” He winked, encouraged she hadn’t threatened him off after his bold interruption to her morning stroll. He gave a sharp whistle and Nyx returned. Grabbing a fistful of mane, he hoisted himself atop the mare, the animal anxious as it mouthed the bit. He hoped he’d meet this mermaid again, only next time he’d employ a different approach.

He returned home at a fast pace, clearheaded and energized by the chance meeting, amused more than chagrined. After securing Nyx in the stall with a fresh portion of hay and brief conversation, he entered the manor to idle away his time until the evening hours. Darkness suited him more than daylight.

He’d barely breached the door before being set upon by Bitters, the multi-purpose servant seemingly agitated if his pinched expression could be trusted.

“I’ve dispatched Wilton to his familial home in Berkshire. His father’s health has declined and I saw no reason to retain him in the position of groundskeeper when he was distraught and needed elsewhere.” Bitters stood as high as Kell’s shoulder, but his voice boomed in the foyer with the same force as the regent’s herald.

“Very good. A rare show of compassion, but resourceful all the same.” It cut to the bone that his groundskeeper had a more genuine relationship with his sire than Kell experienced with his own.

“Further praise is due. I’ve already filled the position.” Bitters paused and Kell remained silent. When it was clear no additional compliment was forthcoming, the servant continued. “No sooner did Wilton depart than a stout man appeared at the doorstep seeking employment. He provided extensive references, listing every position from gardener in Guildford to lamplighter in London, although I daresay what he requires most is a respectable grooming as his outlandish mustache was as long as his extensive referrals.” The latter was stated mostly as an aside. “Still, it’s serendipity, pure and simple. He begins at the end of the week.”

“Cease.” The command issued clear warning that Kell anticipated the servant’s next words, yet Bitters persevered.

“I’ve also cleaned the glass and replaced your liquor.” These words came out at a lower tone although the implied message remained clear: “You’re a better man than this.”

And so to the core of the conversation, more than inessential discussions of servants and their posts. Kell clenched his fists. He’d ordered the man to stop speaking. “As is your responsibility. You are in my employ.” He remained with his back toward Bitters, unwilling to accept chiding or rehash a drubbed subject. He knew society labeled him a debauched outcast. Close on the heels of this fodder was the warning he knew not how to love or be loved, his upbringing having poisoned him to genuine affection. Popular belief upheld the rumors he perpetuated his outlandish folly because at the root of it all, his heart was hollow and his purposes shallow.

“Drowning one’s sorrows in brandy is rarely a productive alternative. Of late you hardly resemble your title. You’re a viscount, grandson to the Duke of Acholl, and the single legitimate heir.”

God’s teeth, the man could ignite his temper. Bitters’ tone had transformed to one of concern, but Kell wanted nothing of it. “And you are my steward. One with a long tongue and a short memory. I haven’t requested your counsel. I pay you to replace the liquor when the bottle is empty and clean my mess whenever necessary.” It was either drown in brandy or take a long walk into the sea. Bitters knew better than to poke a stick in a cage built from cruel emotion and broken promises. “It’s incredibly poor form to listen at keyholes and crawl inside escutcheons.”

“Perhaps.” A few hollow ticks of the clock on the shelf marked an obtrusive lull. “A messenger arrived while you were out. Lords Nicholson and Penwick will pay call for luncheon.”

Without further comment Kell took the stairs two at a time, entered his study, and slammed the oak panels to punctuate his distemper. Bitters meant well, of that Kell was certain, the servant having witnessed him at his worst when he’d vacated London after a scandalous public scene a few months prior, rife with humiliation and disgraced by common fisticuffs. Tongues likely wagged on with ceaseless speculation. He feared the incident had turned him into a pariah. Kell and his father were renowned for their tumultuous relationship. Having had their personal turmoil displayed in a London square had upped the ante, but if it served to highlight his father’s poor choices, Kell accepted the embarrassment with pleasure.

And Bitters knew this well. The steward’s frequent complaints concerning his indulgent habits and pleasure-seeking falderal should be squelched by mere history and understanding. The man was intuitive enough to realize the subject was off limits.

Kell had won Bitters’ employ seven years prior in a high-stakes game of Hazard after rolling a perfect nine. As a result, the man became his personal servant for a month. Once the thirty days was completed, Kell offered him a permanent position and Bitters jumped at the opportunity, eager to leave an employer who recklessly wagered his well-being. Things had progressed into friendship more than servitude, although at times Kell felt impelled to remind Bitters of his station, most especially when the steward persisted with lectures on familial obligation and title. Talk in that vein fell on deaf ears and left Kell wishing he’d rolled a six instead.

And while he acknowledged storming from a conversation, slamming the door to his study, and sulking about his conflicted situation personified every flaw society pinned to his temperament, he knew no other way to react. Communication was not his strong suit and pouring another brandy resembled mockery more than a solution at present. He glanced at the bare stretch of wall above the fireplace. The area was meant to display a revered portrait but remained empty. His father hardly deserved the honor, and the idea of a familial scene evoked a wry, sardonic laugh.

For decades his sire had philandered about England, sullying his mother’s reputation and adding insult to injury by producing by-blow after by-blow: a multitude of bastards who never knew their father, siblings lost to him. His mother wore the disgrace of the scars against her heart, while whispers and rumors flouted through ballrooms just out of earshot.

He shook his head with regret and remorse, pausing as he was reminded there had been one recent note of hope. Directly before leaving London, he’d learned Emily Shaw, now Emily St. David and new wife to his closest friend Jasper, was his half sister, sired by his father during an extended affair. Upon learning the news, he hadn’t accepted the information with acquiescence. Fair enough, he’d come from a scandalous confrontation with his father in the city square where Emily had arrived unexpectedly and discovered their relationship, but the circumstances hardly excused his later actions. Eventually, he’d need to make right where he’d done wrong, not that a visit to London would occur in the near future. With so many problems to solve, his half sister became another addition to a long list.

Again he eyed the empty space above the mantel. One day he would hang a portrait of his own family. A wife and child. Nyx should be in the painting as well, standing in the background with the manor house against the sky. He could create his own life apart and away from the people who perpetrated hurt. The portrait would proclaim he wasn’t tainted by his parents’ infidelity or ruined reputations, but had established his own esteemed place in the world.

It didn’t matter he was emotionally bereft, lacking devotion or commitment, and solely capable of brief liaisons and quick tumbles with opera singers and ambitious widows. Despite thick layers of disdain and rejection, deep within his locked heart, Kell yearned for normalcy: a loving, nurturing relationship with a trustworthy woman interested in equal, honest commitment. She would be the key to his happiness. She would fill the void of resounding emptiness within his soul. She would stop the ache that knelled with lonely insistence the same way blood flowed through his veins. She existed. He just had to find her.

By the time Bitters retrieved him from the study where he’d passed time mulling over correspondence and financial documents, the clock struck midday and his comrades had arrived as planned, deposited in the sitting room. Kell approached with an odd mixture of enthusiasm and reservation. Both men were loyal, dependable gentleman, Oliver Nicholson, his comrade for over a decade. R. James Caulfield, Earl of Penwick, more or less a fresh acquaintance—an association formed through Jasper St. David’s investment business—though the new earl proved an amiable gentleman.

Kell smiled as he made way down the hall. The buffoonish diversion of his friends was welcome, although news from London would need to be approached with caution. Their visit seemed a double-edged sword. Not one to cower from inevitabilities, Kell entered the room and greeted his guests.

“What warrants this unexpected visit?” No need to chase his own tail. He may as well discover why his friends had appeared on his doorstep without advance notice. With a nod for Bitters to enter with refreshments, Kell waited for the servant to vacate the room before continuing. “Not that I’m displeased to see you.” His life was rife with contradictions and perpendicular purpose. As much as he wished to separate from the distraught scene left in London, another part of him yearned for a sense of ordinariness befitting a proper gentleman, instead of the role of an emotional cripple to a bastard-making sire and a mother who knew no love other than of herself.

“Just passing through.” Oliver aimed a conspiratorial wink in Penwick’s direction and selected a sandwich, taking a hearty bite. He chewed for what seemed a ridiculous length of time before he spoke again. “Truth is, Penwick asked me along to Bexhill where he committed to purchase several new horses. We have a stallion with us now and agreed you’d be the perfect person to confirm the grade. The animal waits for your approval in the stable.” He swung his attention to Penwick. “By the by, I’m inviting my older brother Randolph to London next month and I’m certain he’ll need a new mount. Something to keep in mind, along with Kell’s inspection of the newly purchased cattle.” Oliver took another bite of sandwich and settled in his seat, the latter part of the elucidation apparently falling to Penwick.

“I’d appreciate your opinion if it’s not too much trouble,” Penwick appealed with a solemn expression. “It’s the new money and title that has me at crosses. I’m to suddenly fall in line with the loftiest aristocrats when last year I was nothing more than the distant relative of an upper ten.” He stifled a smirk that displayed his discomfort. “I’m not complaining, although the transition has been swift and unsettling. Purchasing a stable of superior horseflesh is both necessary and expected.” Satisfied with his explanation, he too prepared a plate and forked food into his mouth, his expression grim as he took less than enthusiastic bites.

“I’d be happy to examine the animal. What are your future plans? Will you stay through the week then?” The company would be a distraction. Aside from a growing interest to find the lovely miss from the moonlight, Kell had little on his agenda, and a lingering question hung in the air—were his friends here to check on his behavior following his distinct and abrupt exile from London, or were they passing through Brighton in earnest? He wondered for a fleeting moment if by chance Jasper had instigated the visit. St. David was a true and trusted friend. Jasper would be concerned about his welfare.

“Can’t say we will.” Oliver finished chewing. “Penwick’s not just about horses these days so back to the city we go.” He nodded his head toward the window as if London began on the front lawn. “He’s wife shopping too.”

This prompted an unexpected round of chuckles, although everyone seemed uneasy with the suggestion of volunteering for a leg-shackle. A fraught silence followed.

“Jasper appears content despite his new condition.” Kell admired his friend’s risibility, able to approach life with an effortless disposition. “I’ll stick with horses.”

Laughter made another round.

“The delightful Miss Shaw is a rarity and I’m happy for Jasper’s recent marriage.” Oliver replaced his dish on the table and reclined in the cane-backed chair. “May we all be so lucky when the time for betrothal arrives.”

“It is my purpose and next course of action.” Penwick appeared conflicted though his words rang with determination. “A man can plan his future, know when the correct choice lies in reach, yet sometimes Fate interferes.” A cryptic note of inquiry punctuated his admission.

“I doubt the future holds any such munificence.” Kell stated the fact with bald aplomb. He was a man of singular focus and despite his conflicted hopes for marriage he had his reservations about the condition. “Tell me more about your new horse. Can he compare to my Nyx?” The question was posed as a courtesy. No other mount had the stamina, speed, or intelligence of his Arabian. He straightened his shoulders with pride. Damn it, he loved the animal more than he should.

“Nearly as fast, I presume.” Penwick’s enthusiasm revived with the change of subject. “At least that’s what I was led to believe, although if you’re up for it, after lunch we can take them out for a run. It’s why Oliver and I chose to swing our travels to Brighton in the first place.”

The two men exchanged a meaningful stare and Kell again wondered at the level of truth in Penwick’s statement. He’d determine it soon enough. Discarding suspicion, he pursued the equine topic, always a gratifying diversion.

“Excellent. I propose we ride to South Downs. There are miles of flat range before the crest and as long as we avoid the steep escarpment to the north, our horses can race the wind unencumbered by hazard. The only way to determine your mount’s leg is by a good hard sprint.” Kell spent many mornings outrunning the susurration of regret and enduring remorse. Riding Nyx served as joy and release.

“You’re not suggesting a race through Hell’s Gate? Only a fool bent on expediting his journey to the underworld would dare such a feat.” Oliver’s incredulous tone announced his opinion, while Penwick’s head jerked up with mention of the notorious pass.

“Kell’s not so foolish.” Penwick didn’t say more. “The danger involved is out of the question.”

Hell’s Gate consisted of a narrow opening through dual opposing rock formations near the scarped slope of the undulating chalk downlands. Visitors and locals revered the precipitous rocks as a natural wonder, their irregular shape often epitomized in literature and art, although Kell saw it as a challenge waiting to be conquered. He’d often flicked his eyes toward the constricted opening and clenched his fists to tamp down temptation. He held no doubt Nyx could maneuver through the jagged rocks unscathed, as slick as a key turns a lock. It was more a matter of when he’d choose to accomplish the task and revel in yet another fulfillment of the unimaginable. He’d know when it felt right and then he’d accomplish the same.

“We can race wherever you like. Nyx knows the land well while your mount will be at disadvantage. Take a run along the cliffs if you prefer or eliminate all danger and keep to the vast flats. Nyx and I are game for any challenge.”

“You regard your animal as if a relation.” Penwick eyed him with dubious interest.

Kell couldn’t respond with the words that sprang to mind. He had no family. Not any legitimate sibling, although if bastards mattered he likely had a dozen. His horse served as his closest companion and the relationship worked well. Nyx was a confidant and loyal friend.

“I hope to establish a relationship with my mount in the same regard,” Penwick continued, perhaps to fill the silence that had ensued.

“And then with your lady.” Oliver couldn’t resist the jab. “Penwick is going about wife shopping as if he’s purchasing livestock. He asks for recommendations, pedigree information and then reviews the documents in his study while sipping expensive brandy.” He flashed a wide grin before he continued. “He has eliminated any thought of love and wants to focus solely on attributes and redeeming qualities, although no offer has been made. Is that right?”

“None as of yet, no matter Oliver describes it as cold calculation.” Penwick’s objection rang across the room, a note of jovial amusement chasing his words. “My heart was given once, but it bears no consequence. There’s no need to pursue romance when my predicament is that I need to establish a foothold in society and produce an heir. It’s private and complicated. Nothing to discuss at the moment.”

Kell pushed off the back of the wingchair where he’d leaned. “Society and heir-making. Two of my least favorite subjects.” His morose murmur hung in the silence for a while. “I’d rather ride. Let’s change our clothes, gentlemen, and get to it.” He didn’t wait for agreement, turning on his heel and exiting the room.


Chapter Four (#ulink_dd25cfac-1d92-538e-866c-65f553449aee)

Angelica dared a glance over her shoulder as she locked the cottage door and slipped the cord and key around her wrist. Midnight silence met her ears and she relished the tranquility of the evening. A cricket stopped its eager chirp as she neared, her skirts brushing against the low-lying boxwood hedges framing the slate walk. As if they regretted her departure, the hedges tugged on her gown to remind her that these late-night jaunts were perilous and foolish.

Ever since her chance meeting this morning with the stranger on his horse, an unanswered current of anticipation and curiosity piqued her interest. She wished she’d asked his name, learned more of his person before she’d dismissed him. Perhaps she played her game of plain country miss too well, at a loss for the formality of introduction and etiquette found in high society. Here in Brighton, London seemed a continent away.

Anxious to relish the sand beneath her toes and lose her concerns to the tide’s roll and retreat, she commenced a brisk walk along the same path as the evening prior, her aim the water’s edge. She had no intention of straying as far as before, knowing she should never have trespassed onto the private property near the jetty. Too much contemplation led to a loss in direction. How terribly contradictory. Tonight heavy thoughts muddled her mind in the same fashion. A letter had arrived from Father this afternoon, insisting she return to London with haste. He had plans for her future, his future too, and he wished to confer. A cynical smile twisted her lips. Somehow she doubted her input or objection would be valued enough to cause impact. Her father, a notable scholar and religious enthusiast, held distinct views on most all subjects.

Reaching the beach, she bent to remove her slippers and sighed long and thoroughly at the caress of soft sand beneath her soles. A rush of pleasant memories bombarded her, pushing away former contemplations. When Angelica was a child, Grandmother would bring her to the beach often, and allow her to run and splash in a manner unbefitting an earl’s daughter. Grandmother harbored a delightful rebellious stripe to her character, wishing for her granddaughter to experience the pleasurable joys of life without the constraints of formality and propriety. Oh, the secrets they shared. Adventures they referenced with a carefully chosen word or discreet flick of the eyes, grins to smother whenever someone mentioned a key element of a long forgotten hush-hush activity, forbidden by her father, only permitted during the summer months when she visited her grandmother.

Deep inside Angelica harbored that untamed ribbon of freedom still—thus her wish for adventure before acquiescing to her father’s sedate intentions. It was a private plan and clandestine goal to acquire a memory of absolute abandon: a single transcending experience to keep locked in her heart. She’d draw strength from the experience when she needed courage or regretted her forlorn lot.

At times it was difficult to rationalize how her father had grown through childhood in these surroundings with a mother who tried hard to conceal a mischievous glint in her eye but didn’t quite succeed. Still, Father was straight as an arrow, a humorless analytical thinker.

She glanced to the left, scanning the landscape where the beach curved toward the rocks, the dark looming manor house perched above. As usual it was solemn and quiet. An unexpected shiver rippled through her despite the warm air. She stalled in place to run her palms over her upper arms and stare at the sea. A smarter person would have brought a shawl or pelisse instead of wearing a thin day gown to traipse about in the night hours. She laughed low. Truly, she was hopeless, but at least she’d enjoy these moments. She wouldn’t dare oppose her father’s wishes even though they didn’t align with her view of the future. She needed to grit her teeth, bear his decision, and remain hopeful she’d find happiness in the life he’d planned for her.

Moving along near the water, careful to avoid the edge of lacy foam that washed near her feet, she tried with desperate measure to reassure herself all would turn out right, while she twisted the ribbon dangling from her collar into a frayed tangle. The next time she checked her progression, she stood not ten feet from the rocks she’d visited the night before.

The very devil. Despite her best intentions, she’d arrived at the same spot she’d sworn to avoid. She placed the lantern in a safe position and shook her head at the hypocrisy of it all. Wealthy aristocrats built huge houses and kept them locked up tight. Scholarly lords abandoned knowledge and pledged allegiance to indoctrinated religion. High-born ladies fled to Brighton to avoid their obligations. Children obeyed their parents or were forever cast off.

Still she had until the end of the week to make her decision. She had this evening to be free. She wriggled her toes deeper into the sand and relished a delighted shiver.

“I’ve discovered a mermaid come ashore.” Kellaway grinned when she started, his presence undetected against the rocks where he leaned, her surprise worth his weight in gold. A breeze caught the edge of her skirt, the hem rippling as if it waved him closer, and he obliged, taking two long strides and emerging from obscurity into the gleam of the lantern. The pale light enhanced her skin with a luminescence that indeed convinced him that here stood a breathtaking enchantress, a woman on the edge of reality as if she were a fantastic dream he’d craved so desperately he’d wished it to life.

She regained her composure despite his speculative assessment and eyed him with clever interest.

“And I’ve happened upon a pirate.”

Her voice had a husky quality, likely from the late hour and lack of use, each syllable passing through him to resonate in his groin. He chuckled, the sound captured and washed away with the onslaught of waves against the rocks. Perhaps he appeared piratical, his collar agape and shirt tails pulled free atop his tight fitted breeches and tall boots. He hadn’t bothered with a queue and his hair whipped in the wind as recklessly as hers.

“Aren’t you concerned you’ll be caught trespassing on this stretch of land?” He swept his hand to the left in a careless motion.

What was it about this woman? She possessed rare, ethereal beauty, yet showed strength of character, not at all threatened while speaking to a stranger or repentant in her actions. Females usually simpered when he cast an eye in their direction, vying for an indication they stood a chance of warming his sheets.

The mental visualization of the lovely nymph in his bed, eager and waiting, raised his interest another notch. Damn his lust. He enjoyed a casual tumble. That was all. Emotion was complicated and time-consuming, and this woman intrigued him beyond comprehension. The dangerous notion warned he tread with care.

“Aren’t you?” Her brisk retort snared his return to their conversation.

Excellent. She had no notion of his identity, nor did she care. “I rarely worry myself with aristocratic concerns.” That was a lie—his title and lineage sharp thorns in his side.

She darted her eyes to the house behind him, high on the cliff, pitch black aside from the lanterns Bitters had lit in the front rooms when his friends departed, undetected from where they stood on the beach. The cliffs climbed their steep ascent, so high even he had to extend his neck to follow her line of vision. Goddamn, his house looked like a fortress, locked up tight, sealed from the world of emotion that waited outside. Dark, like his soul. Empty, like his heart.

“You should.” Her mouth hitched in a delightful half smile. “The lofty lord who owns this monstrosity would justly see us jailed for treading on his land. Perhaps he’s counted every grain of sand, every ripple of water that washes ashore.” The last remark held an acidic note of disdain. “I left on an evening walk, but never meant to wander this far. I’m not usually of a reckless nature.”

At last she realized the danger of her actions, but truly she’d be smarter to worry about his intentions than the master of the house, even with her blatant dislike of titled peers.

“Not of a reckless nature? I am.” That was a truth.

When she flicked her eyes to his, caught in the net of interest he’d cast, he elaborated. “At least many believe it true as they assess my staggering wagers with critical speculation, label my phaeton races as harrowing and mad, and hold me responsible for each dangerous liaison when it’s the women who should know better than to tempt me. I’m often accused of recalcitrance for what is more boredom than interest, and yet my absent conscience enamors the gossips into spinning rumors of legendary scandal.” He watched for her reaction.

“And you’re proud of this reputation?”

She appeared unaffected by his lengthy description of imprudent character and unrepentant debauchery, yet he couldn’t be certain.

“More a relaying of facts.” That was the second lie. Stories of his actions and relationships were greatly exaggerated to provide lascivious storytelling. The threads of truth were there, for he enjoyed all the aforementioned disreputable habits in moderation, but the mongers of gossip had woven his exploits into a colorful tale—simultaneously providing him the armor necessary to live with the choices of his parents’ indiscretions. It proved a convenient dual relationship.

A distant boom of thunder drew her attention and he used the distraction to step closer.

Her hair looked as golden as fresh straw, her skin creamy soft, and her body, silhouetted by the wind’s persistence to mold her diaphanous gown to curves in all the right places, offered promises of exquisite pleasure. He wondered for a fleeting moment if he was lost in some strange hallucination, the likes of which he hadn’t experienced since his jaunt through Arabia and his wild decision to smoke from the pipe offered.

But no, this midnight beauty was real.

“And what would cause a mermaid to leave the safety of the sea and run the risk of confronting an incorrigible pirate?” He cast his eyes to the moon, noting a brisk roll of cloud cover racing across the sky.

Her brows shot straight to the heavens. “I’m restless more than reckless, I suppose.”

She didn’t reveal more, perhaps believing her answer sufficient, and he leaned a little closer, catching the scent of fresh cardamom and sweet cherries. The exotic fragrance jolted to the forefront, a rush of memories from sultry past travels. Perhaps he dreamed, after all.

Again a baritone of thunder sounded. A streak of lightning rent the sky soon after. Her eyes flared and, sensing she might slip away before he learned how to find her again, he took one final step.

“With the weather threatening, will you once again slip into the waves, a sea nymph dissolved into gossamer mist?”

She smiled and his heart thumped a heavy beat. The wind scattered clouds to obscure the remaining moonlight and cobalt shadows slid across the rocks, the steady ebb and flow of the waves mimicking the rhythm of their conversation.

“And what would a nefarious pirate do when confronted with a mermaid seeking adventure?”

Her eyes ran over him from top to bottom and his skin heated under her scrutiny. Was she encouraging his attention? He was both confident and unsure, while her bold, flirtatious inquiry caught him off guard and elevated their conversation to an acute physical level. He knew with certainty what he wanted to do. Lower her to the sand, strip her bare, and drive into her luscious warmth. But what could the woman be after? He’d never felt so unbalanced when dealing with a female, still nothing satisfied like a quest or challenge.

With the next gust of wind the clouds broke, releasing a drenching rain that doused the lantern to a gleaming sputter. Without hesitation, he captured her around the waist to sweep over his shoulder in true pirate fashion, as if he’d plundered for booty and now stole the treasure. His long strides carried them to the groundskeeper’s cottage across the beach, partially hidden by a rock formation jutting a line between the coastline and house. It offered a wall of protection and a tangible landmark in the pitch-blackness. Her surprised laughter beat against his back in time with her small fists, and the novelty of her rebellion provoked him to grin.

Shifting to cradle her in his arms, he deposited her with care beneath the eaves of the cottage, then swept a palm across his brow to slick back the lengths of hair fallen forward, both of them soaked to the bone and reclaiming breath, her from amusement and him from the sprint across the sand. He eyed her, not at all sure if she would scream her discontent or lash him for his outrageous endeavor, but she remained quiet.

The downpour transformed into a steady rain, dripping from the eaves to form a curtain of water that secluded them from where they once stood. A palpable tension took hold. They were wet. They were strangers. And each lightning strike ensured they were trapped together for the time being.


Chapter Five (#ulink_10b178bf-2ded-5ad5-a400-b29f2723f667)

Angelica eyed the handsome pirate who’d captured her attention and absconded with her person. His deep tenor caused a pleasant prickling of gooseflesh to dot her arms, while her mind raced with the current predicament. Here she stood in the middle of the night, hardly able to see the man beside her though she could feel the heat from his nearness, sense his potent masculinity, hear each exhalation. When he’d set her down, his hands had grasped her waist with strength and gentle agility. A flutter of excitement coalesced with fear and anticipation to send her pulse into a mad race. He may have carried her across the beach, but it was her heart that pounded in response. His body hard as stone beneath her stomach as he’d moved them to shelter, the shifting tension of his muscles against the thin barrier of her wet gown difficult to ignore.

She’d wished for some kind of adventure. Akiss from a stranger. A boldflirtation. They were guiltless wants. Indulgences before she returned to London and accepted her father’s decisions. Now serendipity offered a chance to grasp hold of an adventure, to create a memory that bespoke of freedom and choice…and pure pleasure.

Something about the man, his large stature and visceral command, intrigued her on a level she’d never experienced. He drew her to the situation as if she clung to a rope and he merely wound her closer. Deeper and tighter, pulling her into conversation, illicit and rich with innuendo, and though she knew it unseemly, she’d enjoyed it. Worse, she went willingly, any voice that warned she flirted with danger or tempted fate was silenced by her desire to see what might happen next. What he would say or how he might behave. He was tall, strikingly handsome, and absolutely forbidden. Virility rolled off him in waves. She should have a care. She knew better. Still that ever-present undercurrent of wild curiosity suffocated any suggestions made by common sense.

While she contemplated her reckless not restless behavior, he lit the lantern on the hook by the door and bathed them in the soft glow of the lamp.

“We need to dry off.” He said the words as if they were an edict to be obeyed, and she nodded her agreement although how they were to accomplish the task remained unknown.

He wriggled the knob on the door and patted his pocket, although she couldn’t imagine why. Only the groundskeeper and the owner of the manor would retain a key. Then he raised his boot and before she could summon an objection, kicked in the cottage door with a dull thud. He grabbed the lantern from the hook and preceded her, glancing over his shoulder and offering a winsome smile to imply she should follow inside.

She swallowed audibly. What was she doing? This was insane, yet she’d never felt so enthralled. Some unspoken sensation she couldn’t explain assured she was in no peril, but still how could one be certain? If he desired, this stranger would overpower her with ease proving only a fool should enter the cottage. A rumble of thunder concurred, underscoring her decision to depart. She managed one step backward before his hand shot through the doorframe, captured her wrist, and tugged her into the dry shelter of the room.

Once inside she barely moved, though he busied himself with an ease that exuded well-worn confidence. The steady rain on the roof seemed to count the seconds, measure her exhalations. She strove to regain a normal breathing pattern. He made a fire in the hearth, lit another lantern, and gathered towels from a closet near the cupboard. For all intents, he did not appear a sex-crazed ravisher who’d lured her inside with the intent to force his advantage and steal her virginity. For some peculiar reason the rash thought hitched her emotions higher and her pulse raced in response, making her head swim with indecision.

Indeed, she required composure gathering, but the concept was near impossible to fathom. Now that they had light, she noticed every firm muscle outlined through his sodden linen shirt. Her gaze drifted upward over his biceps and broad shoulders to his collar where droplets of rain flicked from the lengths of his long hair to the floor with each movement. He possessed startling handsomeness, his hard-etched features profiled in the glow of firelight, the growth of new whiskers evident on his chin, acting the hero and looking the part, yet one carved of stone. Perfect in almost every way, but not quite alive. The thought struck her as odd, but she had no time to consider it.

“Dry off or you’ll catch a chill.”

Another command and she, who usually had a witty retort or friendly reply on the tip of her tongue, accepted the towel and did as she was told, no matter the deep timbre of his voice sounded more brusque than concerned. When at last she’d accomplished the best result possible, he came to stand before her and she stared at the flesh exposed by the absence of a cravat, his collar plastered to his shirt, almost translucent, the pale linen several shades lighter than his skin, which was darkened to a medium brown from sunshine and negligence.

He stood close. Too close. The hairs on the back of her neck rose in objection, warning that were she to tilt her eyes upward she would be as near to a man, as near to a kiss, as she’d ever been. Her breathing went shallow as if she feared a deep inhalation would overtake the gap between them and somehow close the scant distance separating their bodies.

Still, she didn’t even know his name. This pirate who’d somehow inserted himself into her plan for carefree adventure and tempted too many things to consider. She should return to the beach and find her way home. If only the weather would ease a bit.

She didn’t raise her chin. She couldn’t look at him. To look would be dangerous. How easy to get lost in his eyes. What color were they anyway?

She wouldn’t succumb to the charming tenor of his voice and fall prey to the seduction of his words. He swallowed and she watched the movement of his throat, felt the warmth of his breath against her temple. She thought he might speak, but the moment stretched, bristling with a shared energy, an unknown frisson of tension and potent untapped emotion that radiated between them with unexplainable heat.

Her body reacted.

She should feel chilled—damp layers of clothing clung, her hair dripped, her skin cooled—yet instead, warmth drenched her core. A tingling rise of sensation was alive within, ricocheting from point to point, swirling and settling low in her belly with a tremulous tension as if she’d drawn back a harp string and held it extended, taut and stretched tight, quivering, begging to be released but unable to do so, not knowing how. Was this prurient desire? Men of his ilk likely experienced it all the time.

She had little knowledge of it.

Not even one kiss worth.

The realization spurred her to action. To look into his eyes might prove her downfall, but she raised her gaze to his.

He matched her curiosity. His eyes a rich shade of mahogany, framed by long thick lashes. A flicker of amusement gleamed in their depths and her heart squeezed with panic. What was she doing? Had she lost all sense?

“I need to leave.” She managed the words despite her constricted throat. “I shouldn’t be here with you.”

A shadow of some unidentifiable emotion passed over his brow. “The cottage is empty and you can’t leave in this weather.” His reply sounded calm and even, unlike hers. “Aside from the downpour, the lightning is dangerous, and there’s no way you can find your way home in the darkness. I’m not about to venture outside until the rain lessens.”

His words were reasonable, but her pulse hitched another notch. She had no rebuttal other than a silent wish that he didn’t stand so close or smell so intriguing. The rain brought out a subtle masculine scent, leather and shaving soap, that permeated her memory ensuring she’d never forget the detail. Her eyes skimmed over the whiskers at his chin, blunt and bristly. How would they feel against her fingertips? Her neck? The forbidden thought did little to settle her composure.

“Perhaps I’ll stand near the fire.” The words escaped as a husky murmur.

“You may move wherever you wish.” He stepped away to enable her to pass, despite his words issuing a challenge.

As she did so, she was rewarded with a smile, a flash of white teeth, straight and even. She slanted him a sideways glance, aware of the gleam in his deep brown eyes. For him this seemed a game. A wave of foolishness swamped her, the necessary elixir to at last restore her heart to a normal rhythm. She busied herself with arranging her skirt before the flames, rubbing her hands together and making a show of gathering warmth. Had the downpour lessened? The rain on the roof seemed lighter, softer, unless it was her own heartbeat in her ears that hampered the sound.

“Are you warm then?”

His question sounded genuinely curious. Here was no ravisher of women, stalking the night hours in search of prey to capture. She almost laughed aloud at the ridiculous notion she’d conjured.

“Would you like some tea?”

He would make her tea? La, definitely not the action of a depraved seducer. Her pulse calmed considerably.

“It would warm me, no doubt, but I can’t possible stay. I shouldn’t be here and the rain has reduced to a drizzle. I shan’t melt if I leave to find my way home.”

“I can’t allow you to slip into the night unescorted. Who knows what mischief you may encounter next?” He paused and she didn’t miss the implication of his question. “Where do you live? I’ll return you once the weather abates.”

He approached the fire to stand beside her and again she looked away. She had the niggling feeling that to look at him overlong would be to succumb altogether. He possessed a carnal attractiveness that was absent of the gentlemen in London—a virile, sensual quality that caused her to blush when she considered it. Good God, to experience his kiss.

The wild notion took hold and anchored her resolve, securing her disinclination and transforming it to reticence. This was the adventure. This was the moment she craved. One kiss and then she’d dash out the door, a mystery, unable to be found. Forever changed.

She turned to face him where he’d approached from behind. “That sounds a logical plan.” She clenched her still-damp skirts to calm her trembling hands. “How can I thank you?”

“There is no need. A mermaid and a pirate are kin to the ocean.”

He curled a sincere smile and she experienced the full force of his handsomeness. Pirate, prince, pauper…it didn’t matter. His gaze, as intoxicating as brandy, warmed her from the inside out.

“Perhaps a small token.” He reached forward to raise a curl between them, caressing the lock of hair between his thumb and forefinger. “Something to remind me I haven’t drunk too much liquor and imagined this little nighttime escapade.”

She almost laughed. How was it he read her thoughts, peered into her heart and realized her secrets? “Of course.”

He bent to his left boot and removed a dagger that quickly caught the firelight on its blade. Her breath snagged, realizing late she’d been far too trusting and more than foolish. Perhaps her father was right of mind to secure her a future where she would never be tempted by wanton adventure. This remembrance prodded her to act, mindful of the scarcity of her time in Brighton. While she considered this, he sliced through the crimson ribbon at her collar, removing the length to twist tight with a strip of leather meant for his hair. He tucked it into his pocket, the gesture confusing and…intimately romantic.

Sudden heat consumed her. She must be too close to the fire. Again, she caught the scent of his shaving soap and breathed deep, wanting to keep the memory. She watched his face in the enveloping silence, his smoldering gaze, golden brown, fixed as if she were his only focus, as if he memorized her somehow, etching a permanent picture or wishing to divine her intentions. Indeed, this man likely gained anything he wished for. He exuded confidence and strength—a man who conquered those around him, allowing little disruption, akin to a captain who commanded his crew and the high seas.

The crack and sizzle of fresh wood in the hearth overrode the sound of raindrops on the roof. Perhaps the weather cleared at last. The breath-robbing realization that she’d no longer have an excuse to stay cozied in this cottage took hold. A ridiculous, addled thought. What was she about anyway, every thought a contradiction?

A hot spike of desire reminded her that she sought a kiss this evening. Her eyes dropped to his lips, full and sensual, crafted by the devil for kissing and seduction, and she grasped hold of her adventure with both hands, her fists clenched in her skirt with determined vehemence.

“I, too, have a request.” Her voice sounded unlike her own. Who was this bold woman who dared ask for kisses?

“I will escort you home. There is no need—”

She stayed him with a raised hand, her now steady palm lowered flat to rest on his chest, the linen against her fingertips soft and damp, the muscles beneath hard and smooth.

“I want a kiss.” Her voice almost quavered. In an unexpected twist of circumstances, she swore she saw his eyes widen before his puzzled expression transformed into one of assured complacency. When she spoke, he placed a fingertip over her mouth to stall her words. He tugged softly on her bottom lip, dragging his touch to trace over the fullness to the arch of her upper lip and delicately across her skin, down again, the subtle pressure of his caress resonating through her body instead of solely where they connected.

He swept his palms across her cheeks, brushed his knuckles down her neck and rested his palms on her shoulders. His hands were firm, possessive, and at once her body responded, full-knowing every action beyond this point was new territory, long wished for and much desired.

The warmth of his exhalation against her temple signaled he’d stepped closer, yet his hands still rested against her nape as if waiting for her to bolt, measuring whether she’d change her mind and scurry from his clutches. There was no chance of that.

She didn’t know his name and didn’t need to. She hadn’t planned on this kiss, but she wanted it nonetheless. Nothing could remove her from this moment. It was the one lifeline she’d treasure when her future changed altogether.

A kiss? Kellaway knew women. All kinds. And although the young miss in front of him had a bolder approach than the trussed-up ladies in London, he could easily decipher she was out of her depth. And scared. She trembled beneath his touch and it wasn’t from his intimate attentions. He had no doubt he could bring her to such a point, but that wasn’t important. At least not now.

She appeared too innocent to be accustomed to the predicament of requesting a kiss from a man, gathering the affection as one might collect rare coins or decorative salt spoons. He’d have much preferred to participate in the first kiss of her life, but why would he deserve the right? He’d kissed a shameful amount of females in his lifetime. Debutantes and virgins excluded, and rightly so.

Her expression shifted to one of discomfort. Gone was the valiant confidence, replaced by a glimmer of panic in her eyes, her mouth pressed tight as if she suffered from a debilitating bout of collywobbles. He almost laughed. Best be done with her request quickly.

The rain subsided, a noticeable hush enveloping the cottage as the patter of a light drizzle tiptoed across the roof, the perfect weather for tarrying in bed. He should grant her the boon and see her home otherwise he’d be tempted to invite her to his chambers, as even the weather conspired with his lust.

Unsettled by her reaction, he searched her face for any clue as to why she would wish to proposition a complete stranger, but Lord, desire won out. This was no time for intelligent deliberation.

He took her mouth with anxious intent, unwilling to allow doubt or some other emotion to change her mind before he tasted her lips and discovered her flavor. How much could a man endure? At first sight of her in the moonlight his body had reacted. The drenched image of her now, wet and gleaming from the sudden rain, convinced him he wanted to devour her more than anything else.

He held her firmly, his mouth sealed to hers, unable to pull away, somewhat bewitched and bedeviled. Somehow the controlled favor he meant to deliver quickly unraveled into something else altogether…an unknown entity, a spell of pleasure. He had no explanation other than he wished it would never to stop, whatever it was. This kiss proved life wasn’t all regret and resentment; it assured a sliver of hope prevailed. He’d gone overlong without genuine affection and, somehow, this kiss offered the very comfort absent in his soul.

Yet too soon the carnal physicality of her soft curves chased away unexpected notions. Lust reigned.

His hands settled at the slope of her waist, his thumbs pressed against the soft underside of her breasts. His muscles tensed. A rush of heat flooded his veins and his cock grew hard. Without thought, he pulled her against his length, relishing her gasp. Her lips parted, stunned by the strong demand of his desire and he used her subtle surprise as his entry to taste. His tongue found hers—timid at first, so he rubbed and twined in an invitation to pleasure. She hesitated, one heartbeat, two, before she acquiesced and the leash on his desire snapped. He licked across her bottom lip before his tongue plunged inside her hot wet mouth, sliding with sensual friction against her tongue, boldly meeting his stroke with one of her own.

This was fragile bliss. That rare phenomenon believed only by the foolish or otherwise affirmed. Kismet: he’d heard it whispered in Arabia, a force beyond anyone’s control, an enlightenment elusive and precious, unlike anything he’d experienced in his jaded twenty-nine years.

He slid his hands down her arms and across her ribs to lock her closer. His mouth broke free to allow a singular chance to object, the thought of stopping an aching impossibility. Instead her head tipped back in surrender, exposing a tender length of neck inviting his attention, her skin smooth as expensive silk. He didn’t refuse and traced kisses across her jaw, nipping her chin in his hurry to her nape. Her breath rushed out and he inhaled her scent, his lips hot against the pulse below her ear.

He was caught in some unfathomable spell, all equilibrium lost, and simultaneously driven to continue. One word pounded relentlessly in his brain. More. More. More. But she hadn’t asked for more. Hadn’t offered. He’d be every kind of libertine society believed if he pressed the lady. If he ground his groin against her sweet curves or fondled her lush bosom…if he lowered her neckline and rubbed his thumb across her tight nipples…if he flicked his tongue there next.

What the hell was wrong with him? What happened to his control?

He jerked back as if knifed in the heart, the motion enough to jar loose the peculiar sensation in his brain, similar to a muted joy or otherworldly effect experienced as one fell into a dream. He was a man of vast life experience. He’d never been caught so off guard or unprotected.

He searched the lady’s face for any sign she’d encountered the same. Her slim brows were pulled together in a troubled vee—a reflection of the 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 (#ulink_6bcce1be-e52f-53aa-96d8-e0368b360caa)

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 wondered of the exchange, unable to decipher their expressions from the distance. Should she move to the door? Crack it open and attempt to hear crumbs of conversation? The risk of detection rooted her to the floorboards, a shadow of disappointment stifling her mood. She exhaled thoroughly and placed the plum on the counter, no longer interested in the fruit.

She had hoped to finish the week in Brighton before her return to London. It was somewhat of an agreement, never solidified as her father freely changed his mind and expected her to accept his contrariness without objection, but implied nonetheless. After the tumultuous confrontations in their past, Angelica had wisely approached her father with an attitude of compliance, though a slice of injustice urged she leave through the front door and not look back. She discarded the foolish notion as soon as it formed. There was much to weigh in concern of her future and she wasn’t a coward. Failure was not an option.

Returning her eyes to the garden, Angelica watched her father command the conversation, the words overflowing as he jabbed at the ground with punctilious gesticulation. A nearby sparrow took wing to avoid being skewered. Father pivoted and advanced a few steps and Grandmother followed. The conversation had seemingly progressed to a more heated level if their expressions were any indication. Grandmother didn’t approve of Father’s dedicated zeal for religion and Angelica wondered if Father had shared his plan and thus prompted the switch in congenial discussion to vehement diatribe. Her father screwed his face into a scowl of condemnation she’d come to know well. His steps stalled a second time. How could he behave so to his mother?

Angelica loved her grandmother above all else. Her affection was the only maternal influence she’d experienced. Her grandmother’s nature was in contrast to her father’s, a strict pious man who raised his daughters with reserved obedience.

The fleeting image of Helen flittered to mind and Angelica allowed the forbidden memory to settle in her heart with a hollow ache. Would she ever see her sister again? Why must everything be so complicated? Perhaps her father preferred it this way. One daughter proved easier to handle than two, especially when every proposition was met with opposition.

With renewed anger tipping the scale, Angelica strode through the door and out into the sunlight. She’d face her father and see why he’d arrived on short notice. She owed that much to Helen and there was no other way for her to plan her future or escape if she didn’t assemble as much information as possible. She wouldn’t repeat Helen’s mistake. The realization pricked like a thorn on the stem of a rose. Angelica would design a better plan, conspire smarter, otherwise how else would she ever honor her sister’s memory?

Kellaway secured Nyx in his stall and eyed the gilt carriage parked against the far wall. A beat of anger drummed to life, for he knew the carriage as his mother’s. The conveyance, one of elegant lines and crafted design, was expensive and refined, in juxtaposition to his mother’s true character. The persistent serration of conflict that accompanied thoughts of a new altercation with her gained strength. He was a good son, at least by most measures. He wished to honor his mother, and protect her, but the foolish societal mayhem she perpetuated in response to his father’s indiscretions rubbed him raw. Kell preferred to keep his private life just that, under lock and key where no one could turn a critical eye.

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 (#ulink_b9bee862-96a7-5301-adb1-1be5348d44a5)

“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.





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