Society's Most Scandalous Viscount (2 page)

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

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.