Society's Most Scandalous Viscount (20 page)

“We have a long ride ahead. If you need to confess the thoughts weighing down your soul, I am ready to listen.”

She managed a curt nod, not trusting herself to speak for fear sentiment would clog her throat and he mistake the sound as repentance. The last thing she desired was a long conversation on preservation of her virtuous soul, but her mind wouldn't settle.

“Mortify therefore your members which are upon the earth; fornication, uncleanness, inordinate affection, evil concupiscence, and covetousness which is idolatry.”

“Colossians 3:5.” The automatic reply came easily, that particular verse one of her father's most preferred, but her thoughts had already wandered elsewhere.

Helen.

How she missed her. And where was she? Was she safe? What had happened after she left London? Why didn't her father care? She flicked her eyes to his profile and then away. She surmised Father was glad to be rid of Helen and the shame he believed she brought to his title, but truly, for all his money and influence he might have secreted her to Scotland or a place designed for the most discreet situations. Angelica knew such homes existed having collected a fair share of gossip from the church's divinity tea socials whenever she'd been forced to attend. Her father feared censure. He loathed his pristine reputation being called into question were it learned one of his daughters had fornicated out of wedlock and found herself with a babe. Wouldn't a devout Christian wish to save the baby? Provide a home? Preach to the mother of repenting her sins?

There were verses aplenty that sermonized benevolence of family, forgiveness, and unconditional love. Why was it her father never spoke of these messages?

Instead he had shunned Helen. Renounced her. Threatened to lock her away somewhere and throw away the key. That evening's argument had become vitriolic and frightening. When Helen had returned to her bedchamber, Angelica had been waiting and together they formulated their hasty plan. How difficult to summon regret over her sister's flight if the alternative would have been their father's dictates.

Her fingers found the silver bracelet around her wrist, and settling her hands in her skirt, she counted the five charms in silence, as if they were beads on a rosary, repeating the process in an effort to calm the storm of emotion brewing within. When she stilled and dropped her eyes, her fingertip rested upon the key charm, its little blue sapphire winking in a glint of sunlight. If only she could find the key to solve all the troubles of her heart.

She'd wanted a private memory to carry forward no matter what fate the future offered, but she hadn't anticipated the pain or simultaneous discovery of hope and possibility, the tortuous wonder of not knowing what might have been. She'd miscalculated in the worst way. Regret flooded her heart in an attempt to drown out loneliness. She'd never anticipated Benedict.

“Flee from sexual immorality. Every other sin a person commits is outside the body, but the sexually immoral person sins against his own body.”

The uncanny ability of her father's moralizing to align with her mental deliberations provoked further ill ease and her pulse lurched. She spat out the anticipated biblical verse, Corinthians 6:18, aware she'd become a hypocrite in myriad ways
.
Absolution required the sinner to feel regret and in that she failed. Placing a gentle touch to her shoulder, she took comfort from the secret drawn against her skin, and she closed her eyes to feign sleep and summon the warmth of Benedict's body within hers.

Hell's Gate comprised a geological oddity at the outer boundary of South Downs, the unusual formation made of solidified silt and fine-grained sandstone, rising in two towering columns before giving way to sand and pebble beds, then a treacherous sheared drop-off beyond. The passage, narrow and jagged, composed the challenge Kell sought to conquer. He eyed the opening, a scant space wider than a stride, and pulled Nyx to rein, aligning the horse with a clear flat path. The Arabian would do whatever he commanded. Kell adjusted his seat in the saddle, bent low over the horse's neck, and kicked Nyx into a high gallop.

Fury drove him hard. Fury, not caused by Angel's unexpected disappearance and the likelihood she deceived him without remorse, although that hurt burned in his gut as hot as the expensive brandy he'd consumed, but fury born from emotion compounded by years of wanting. Wanting better. Wanting more. He'd memorized the list, a litany of unfulfilled dreams. Improved relations with his parents, their genuine concern of his welfare, a typical childhood, and efficacious adulthood. Acceptance from his peers and comrades. Earned respect. A better life.

Not the façade he presented or his controlled demeanor upheld. The man others viewed as accomplished, a player of life, unaffected by controversy and indignity—a rogue often amidst scandal, able to extricate himself from any situation and land on his feet, a wide smile to disguise the empty shell carved deep by too many years of wanting something else.

Years of unfulfilled desire had hardened his heart, but much to his dismay a flicker of hope remained, fanned into full blaze by Angel's affection. It burned in him and drove him now, the want and desire becoming an undeniable polestar. He would find her and have her. He must; no compromise was acceptable.

He kicked his horse into a harder gallop and drew a long inhalation, his heart hammering a frantic beat as Hell's Gate grew large and intimidating in his narrowed vision. Nyx's mane whipped his knuckles and he glanced down, catching sight of the crimson ribbon tied behind the horse's left ear. Did it urge him forward or offer him a lifeline? He'd need to ride faster to outrun emotion and remembrance, to forget disappointment and distance himself yet again.

Too close to flinch now.

No regret.

All commitment.

He lowered his chest atop Nyx, pulling his elbows close to his ribs and flattening his knees against the horse's barrel, tightened on the mare's stomach.

No hesitation.

Refusal impossible.

He released the breath he held and flew through the opening, his yelp of victory echoing against the chalk hills to join with Nyx, who snorted in tandem, her powerful hooves pounding the earth in applause.

But elation proved fleeting as Nyx found a jolting misstep; the earth beyond Hell's Gate was rutted and uneven from the scars of others' failed attempts, their disappointments carved into the landscape. She whinnied, loud and high-pitched, the sound akin to a woman's frantic scream.

Kell flew from the saddle and hit the ground, the wind knocked from his lungs with enough force to jar loose all inner misery. He lay motionless, stunned, a ringing in his ears that faded with equal torpor to the black shapes blurring his vision. At last he found breath, long and thorough, and his mind worked through the result of his victory. Nyx must have hit a rut as she finished through the pass. He exhaled with a cleansing sigh and hoisted himself up on one elbow, a congratulatory grin hitching one side of his mouth. He may have been thrown, but he still cleared the impossible, conquering Hell's Gate at lightning speed, unscathed.

A high-pitched whinny disrupted his silent reverie, the harsh sound an immediate alert that something was wrong. As Kell shifted to gain a better view, the Arabian released a guttural snort and made to stand, collapsing on the ground in a cloud of pebbles and dust seconds later. Kell leapt up, running before he could shake his limbs loose, the bone-jarring fall he'd experienced nothing compared to the difficulty Nyx displayed. A noose of breath-choking fear wrapped around his neck, winding tighter with each step until he stood above his cherished horse, her front right leg bent at an impossible angle, the sight a knife thrust through his heart.

He stared, transfixed in horror, until a third whinny slapped him loose. He dropped to his knees in the pebbles near her leg and gripped her fragile fetlock, the ankle joint broken, rendering Nyx helpless to stand. A cold wave of consequence washed over him as he smoothed his palms along his beloved Arabian's neck, her sharp eyes wild and dilated, her breath in labored bursts that spoke of pain. He threaded his fingers through her mane, bringing his forehead to rest against her cheek as the first tears escaped. Her eyes darted to his as he whispered words of comfort, holding her, his silent apology coursing down his cheeks. The thrum of his heart slowed another notch every time he considered what he'd caused and what he needed to do next.

She thrashed a bit beneath him, the pain intense, and he kissed her muzzle with gentle care before he pulled away. Gritting his teeth, he wiped his face with the back of his hand and removed all emotion, hating the action since every cell in his being screamed in objection. He stuttered another breath and with a pain that sliced through the center of his chest, bent to his right boot. It took two tries to prepare the shot, his hands unsteady as he held paper and powder. Then he whispered his last apology and squeezed the trigger.

Chapter Sixteen

Two weeks later

To London

Kellaway breathed deep and opened the double doors of his bedchambers. He'd dressed, shaved, and gathered his thoughts with an alacrity that had escaped him the past fortnight. Not to suggest the time lay wasted. By no means would he label it so.

Fourteen days provided adequate time to heal. Time enough to suppress the memory found in the shape of a lover's mouth during a breath-stealing kiss. Time to drink in excess, gaze through the telescope, and plot a clearly defined future. Time to break old habits and discard regret as easily as a liquor bottle shattered on the rocks below his terrace.

He stepped into the hallway verbally equipped for any ready objection Bitters might fling in his direction, having not seen the servant for days. All Kell recalled was a blurry glimpse of the man's receding shadow a few nights past. Yet the brandy was always there and some way or another Kell slept in his bed each night.

He took the stairs with determination, not to outrun mordant judgment or trenchant speculation, but to reach his destination all the sooner. Today provided the beginning of opportunity and the devil take anyone who stood in his way.

His trunks were packed and the carriage prepared as per his ordered command through the closed panel of his chambers days earlier. Welcome the execution. Things were about to change in London.

He closed the solid six-paneled door at the front of the house, turned the key, and dropped it into his breast pocket. His waistcoat was freshly pressed and strained against his shoulders. He relished the crunching protestation of the gravel beneath the soles of his boots, an echo of every promise and regret he'd examined and discarded during the fortnight he'd remained shut in. He would have what he wanted. Once and for all.

Reaching the end of the drive he waited, counting an impatient beat before his carriage appeared from the stable. Two well-matched chestnut stallions led the conveyance and his heart winced at the noticeable absence of a particular black mare. He sucked in his despair with a sharp breath and faced Bitters who'd hopped down from beside the driver.

“Why is
he
on the box?” Kell narrowed his eyes and viewed the stout coachman, formally hired as groundskeeper, now dressed in proper livery uniform atop the seat.

“James has taken ill. Moira is a qualified replacement. With the sudden decision to leave—”

A distinct yowl broke the brisk conversation.

“What does Moira have in the basket, Bitters?” The question asked the obvious as the split lid of the wicker hamper cracked open and a paw of furry tangerine swiped the air as if to say:
How dare you question my presence? Now go away, you dreadful man, or at the least get into the carriage so we can be off.

“Moira is taking his possessions and relocating to the city. The feline shan't be any trouble.” Bitters swung the coach door wide and extended the steps.

“If you're wrong, I'll set the cat free and you'll occupy the hamper.” Kell brushed past, conscious of the carriage frame, and lowered his head, folding his physique into the banquette to prepare for the long journey.

“The hair's an improvement as well as the appropriate attire.” Bitters settled on the opposing bench, his expression expectant of a convivial conversation in response to his complimentary remark. “And the new team—”

“Don't speak of it.” The hard edge of his words served as warning.

“I meant to reassure.”

“I have little use for reassurance.” Kell dragged in a long breath. “My entire life I've done without the luxury; I've no need of soft words now.”

“You've experienced the worst.” Bitters nodded in what could only be interpreted as sympathy.

“Spare me the platitudes. I've lost everything important and I'm stronger for having fallen. My family, Nyx, my freedom… The world believes I take what I want and live a satisfied life, but the perception is convoluted, bits and pieces of the truth.” He pinned Bitters with a glare meant to stifle any forthcoming opinions. “For once I know exactly what I need and challenge anyone to counter my success.”

Recognizing love had proven a blind spot. He'd never experienced that kind of emotion. But he'd grown to understand himself better in the last two weeks than during his entire adulthood and nothing would prevent him from finding Angel and confessing his intent. She was meant to be his, owned his heart, lived there still, and he knew without a shred of doubt, whatever kept her from him was not of her doing. She loved him. He saw it in her eyes, felt it in her touch. He wouldn't be wrong this time.

“I am reassured to see you—”

“Cease.” God help Bitters if he uttered another word.

For once, the valet remembered his place.

They rode in silence a great many hours, enduring only unavoidable respite for lunch, water, and necessities. The tabby proved co-operative and likewise Moira handled the carriage well, accomplishing excellent time in their return trip to London. Kell contemplated the order of events he'd perpetuate come the morning. Tonight, he'd settle into his apartments with quiet resolve before braving the tasks he'd set for himself: most importantly, a visit to his grandfather, the Duke of Acholl. His Grace, nearing seventy years, remained as obstinate and opinionated as the collective upper ten thousand, yet everyone endured his temperament in deference to his title. A responsibility that would become Kell's once his grandfather passed. The weight of that reality could sink the strongest.