Society's Most Scandalous Viscount (10 page)

“I've encountered a bit of trouble and hoped for your aid.” She delivered her request with practiced, mellifluous ease and, as was her way, she barely took a breath nor waited for accord before continuing her appeal. “It would appear I underestimated the attentions of a particular gentleman acquaintance and he's resorted to forced persuasion, when I sought nothing more than distraction.”

Kell clenched his fists and willed patience. His mother's likely manipulation of the truth came as no surprise. He was forever rescuing her from these
little
transgressions. “So you hold none of the blame?” He almost choked on the irony.

“I don't see how I could. I can hardly take responsibility for an overzealous admirer.” She took a small step closer and shored her position. Now that she had him on the hook, she'd want to reel him in good and tight. “I commissioned Mr. Laurence to paint my portrait, yet somehow he imagined I wanted more from the association.” She paused. It was her way. To administer droplets of the problem, as if by small dose the poison wouldn't prove lethal.

“I am at a loss. If the artist meant to paint your portrait, how would he assume otherwise? Ladies in their finery have their likenesses commissioned often. ” He indicated her elaborate gown with a careless wave of the hand.

She smiled, a tight quirk of the lips, and forced another laugh. Then she fluttered to the sideboard and poured a small glass of sherry.

He waited, although he'd already surmised the explanation. Why he suffered through her whims and antics remained a regret. On some repugnant level, he yearned for parents who believed he mattered. He shook away the uncomfortable conclusion and slanted her an impatient glance.

“It was the manner of the portrait that led him to draw unthinkable conclusions. Laurence is an impassioned artist and believed I would be best portrayed as a Grecian goddess.”

Kell rolled his eyes upward in a show of obvious distaste. “Sans sheet or gown. Then he posed you, touched you, painted you with his tongue?”

“How incredibly blunt.” She looked to the bottom of her sherry glass to avoid his eyes.

“It saves time.” Kell didn't play games. At least not this kind.

She took another sip of sherry. “You have no right to judge me.” She drained the glass and set it aside. “You live life like there are no tomorrows, and rumors abound. Your manner of dress in Brighton is outlandish, and the cost of the well-fitted formal wear you buy when you choose to tolerate society is exorbitant. You demand the rarest brandy, the finest horses, the most beautiful women. So many women—”

“It warms me to hear my mother boast prideful accolades.” His comment sliced the air in a most chilling tone.

“Why shouldn't I experience the same thrill? I thought my assignation with Laurence would end when he completed the portrait, but the blasted man insists he's fallen in love.” This time her laugh sounded nervous more than contrived. “The last thing I desire is another scandal produced by rabid gossipmongers. Your grandfather…” Her voice trailed off on a note of melancholy.

“I've hardly been away from London and you're asking me to return.” This time he visited the sideboard, poured a brandy, and swallowed the amber liquor in one gulp. The welcome burn eased his distemper. “What do you want? Shall I threaten the man? Break his brushes, spill his colors?”

“How dare you make light of this.” Her voice rose and eyes narrowed. “You, the master of aimless pleasure pursuit.”

“I respect all my commitments, every one of them. I'm just more particular and cautious before I give my word. I am loyal to a fault.” He paused, but only for a breath. “Am I an immoral pleasure-seeker? Perhaps. Yet I've never pretended to be anything other. And here you are on my doorstep asking for help. If you're expecting some kind of apology you will leave empty-handed. I am careful in all decisions and therefore never have need of the words
I'm sorry
. I've never said them and never will.” He strode across the room, his steps heavy on the carpet until he towered over her small frame, his anger at the forefront. His parents should beseech him to accept their mistakes, not the other way around.

“You are my son.” She stood her ground, matching his glare with one of her own.

“You are hardly a mother.” He would not acknowledge the ragged regret in his voice.

“Then this shall be the last request I make of you.” She sniffed as if accepting the consequences of her careless behavior. “Mr. Laurence is threatening exposure. He claims if I do not continue our affair he'll inform the rags.”

“You've managed to bear the brunt of societal scandal before, I doubt this artist—”

“He's threatening to confront your grandfather.” This time her words were a vehement whisper, though a thread of desperation penetrated her plea.

The Duke of Acholl would not countenance another scandal. His grandfather had taken his father to task and would do the same to his only daughter were she not more prudent about her decisions. What a hornet's nest his mother had created.

“And what do you propose? That somehow I persuade this fellow that my mother's licentious attentions aren't worth his undying affection?” He found his first smile since entering the house. Love was an emotion entertained by fools, propagated by idiots, and avoided by the intelligent.

“I've found an easier path.”

Every fiber of his being was alerted.

“You excel at the gaming tables and Laurence has a penchant for Hazard—perhaps more akin to an obsession. After our sessions, he plays through the night and laments about the outcome the following day. He rarely wins but he believes his success is imminent, and I daresay he's been bitten, the fever hot in his blood. Unlike your skill with the game, he lacks control, which could explain his exuberant fascination with me. More than once, he's mentioned his desire to improve his skill, but his funds are lacking. I believe he wishes to impress me, or perhaps, acquire enough money to prove he's worthy of my affection.” Her mouth lifted though no true happiness showed. “You could happen upon the table where he's playing, win his every shilling, and then once you hold his vowels, persuade him to abandon his attentions in exchange for the accommodation note.”

“It will become another scandal.”

“Only if you lose and cause a scene.”

“I don't lose.”

“Precisely.” She offered one of her conciliatory smiles.

“You've put a lot of thought into this, haven't you?” He eyed the brandy and considered pouring another glass if for no other reason than to wash away the suspicion in his tone.

“I'd label it consideration.”

“For yourself, no doubt.”

“It's a good plan that leaves all participants unscathed. Laurence will have his debt forgiven and I will avoid censure for an inadvertent assumption. I'm here for one night only. Tomorrow I'll begin travel to London, with or without you.”

Her expression eased and he searched for any sign she regretted her actions. Any of them. But he saw only what she chose to show him. “Hazard is a game of chance. Any money Laurence loses reverts to the house. There would be no opportunity to accept his vowels. Your plan has more holes than a sinking ship.”

“I wouldn't know what happens within hells and pleasure gardens, places men go to ruin their reputations and soil their titles.” She eyed him with a gleam of warning. “But I'm sure you'll contrive a plan to stop Laurence's aggression.”

“And what will I gain for this valiant manipulation?” Sarcasm fell heavily on the last two words.

“My promise to avoid scandal in the future, of course.”

“I've received that promise before and it's never been kept.”

“I can't take responsibility for the unfortunate turn of events that plague me. Your father holds that honor.”

Kellaway was too clever to engage in a debate as to where fault lay in consideration of his parents. His mother had taught him all the wrong emotions and his father had proved them true. Years before he'd reached his majority their deficient guidance fell into obsolescence. He was a self-made man in every respect, whether the qualities proved admirable or reprehensible. He'd assist his mother this final time and then cut loose from the web of lies she'd tangled around their family.

Chapter Nine

Angelica awoke from the dream,
the nightmare
, confused and panicked, her heart thumping a frantic beat. She pushed the coverlet aside with haste and sat up, fumbling for the lantern key on the bedside table, exhaling in relief as the soft glow chased away the remnants of fear and trepidation. It couldn't be late. She narrowed her eyes and focused on the clock on the mantle, measuring her breaths with the mark of passing time. The hands displayed half ten.

She'd gone to bed early and claimed fatigue when Grandmother inquired, simultaneously hiding the truth that she wished to escape the temptation of Benedict's proposition.

If you seek experience, I'll aid you in your quest.

A thrilling shiver passed through her and she pulled the coverlet up to her chin, closing her eyes tight.

I'll show you pleasure, ease your tension. I sense your unrest, see it in every inch of you.

Here was the adventure she wished to embrace, if only she possessed the courage…

Shaking her head, she dismissed her wayward thoughts and focused on the nightmare that had caused her to wake. Her father had been angry, his voice raised and walking stick tapping the floorboards as he demanded she obey. Why wouldn't he listen to her? Why wouldn't he see reason?

He loomed above her, his shadow a portent of misery, and she cowered from his outstretched hand, a silver key on his palm gleaming as she winced at his overbearing demands and refused to accept the key, much to his anger.

Then her sister appeared half hidden by her father's shadow and far in the distance. Helen looked distraught, her voice a haunting echo as she urged Angelica to take the key and run. But still Angelica stayed crouched on the floor near her father's feet, frozen with indecision and kept at bay by the end of that wicked walking stick, prodding the ground as if poking holes in her confidence and resistance.

Slowly the darkness increased, the voices faded, and Helen shrank as their father burgeoned larger. Angelica wavered between the two. Paralyzed and unsure, unable to act, her hands trembling and her heart beating hard. At last, the chaotic emotions of the nightmare startled her awake and set her free.

What did it all mean? Was it her fear of the unknown that consumed her while she slept? Surely it could only be troubled emotions over Helen and the imperious interference of her father that caused the lingering disturbance. The single time she'd forgotten her familial distress and found a semblance of peace was when she'd kissed Benedict.

Benedict.

Even his name sounded like a peaceful prayer and psalm of salvation…a benediction. What harm could be found in one more kiss? If her thoughts were so burdened with worry and apprehension that nightmares prodded her awake, perhaps she needed a talisman to cling to as she navigated her future. She hardly knew him, only a few days, but it would be heavenly to find comfort in his embrace and the strength of his arms as she indulged in one last kiss. It was an act of desperation, she couldn't ignore, the need and unrelenting desire to walk to the beach and into Benedict's arms. It didn't matter he was a stranger she'd never see again. He could offer her a vital memory to cherish in her heart no matter what the future held. Her father might force her to bow to his decision but in this moment, she possessed free will. This was her choice.

With the solidifying realization, all contrariness evaporated. She slid from the mattress and gathered her slippers and wrapper, only pausing to drape the blanket around her shoulders before she tiptoed downstairs.

Kellaway waited in the dark. He'd brought two lanterns, but he hadn't lit them. He'd also brought a blanket. Tonight a full moon graced the sky. He'd indulged in a bit of tranquility with his telescope before coming down to the ocean. The moon's glow lit his path as if it were a beacon to providence. Gypsies considered the full moon a sign of good fortune. Indians likened it to a gold coin and believed it was a sign of prosperity. Kell didn't believe in such omens, singularly appreciative for the light it provided as he made his way to the beach.

He'd downed one drink,
an accomplishment
, after agreeing to his mother's request, then mulled over the proposition that he'd be bound for London come morning. After which he whiled the time in his bedchamber before he yanked the coverlet from the mattress and headed out. Bitters would have many complaints. Perhaps London wasn't a poor choice after all.

Now, he waited. Like much of his life, he bided time. Would the lady appear? Happenstance had provided him three unexpected exchanges with her. It proved pure selfishness to wish for more, but he did. He was a man who wanted what he wanted and at the moment he wanted to kiss a mermaid, if only the lady would appear. Unfamiliar doubt settled with ill ease.

Life hadn't been kind. Past experiences shaped him into an enigma among his peers. Anyone who knew him accepted his shortcomings and thought better than to mention them. A wry smile turned his lips. Returning to London provided him the opportunity to speak to Jasper. He hadn't attended his friend's wedding and harbored deep regret over how he'd handled the discovery Emily Shaw was his half sister. Now Emily was his best friend's wife. He needed to make peace and mend fences.

A whisper in the wind grabbed his attention and he bent to light one of the lanterns waiting in the sand near his boots, discarded as soon as he'd arrived. The soft glow of light did little to reveal who approached until a distinct silhouette came into view.

At first he mistook the stranger for a man, broad shouldered and with a cumbersome gait, but he soon deciphered his mermaid, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, the clumsy addition making her strides uneven as she advanced across the beach.