The Viscount's Kiss (12 page)

“I wanted to,” she truthfully replied, regretting that she hadn't. “I was afraid to trust anyone.”

“And now?” he prompted.

“Now I can.”

She thought he might embrace her then, or kiss her, but he didn't. He held out his arm with as much formality as if he were about to present her to the Prince Regent. “We should return to the house. I'll find my father and smooth things over with him, then leave for London at once.”

“But you've only just returned.”

“The sooner I see Drury, the sooner Sturmpole can be stopped.”

She could not argue with that, so she took his arm,
gathered up the books from the sideboard and together they went back to Granshire Hall.

 

Dena, her cap and apron white as snow, her serge dress clean as it could be and her expression grim as death, was dusting the bedroom when Nell returned, her lips pursed as if the presence of dust was a personal insult.

The dour maid was one of the last people she wanted to see after the events of the morning, or to have to speak to; however, she supposed she had no choice but to accept her presence.

“I found Lord Bromwell's book in the library,” she said, setting the pair of volumes on the table by the bed. “And
The Castle of Count Korlovsky
, too. I hear it's very good.”

Dena merely sniffed and continued to dust.

“I gather it's rather frightening.”

Dena frowned. “I wouldn't know, my lady. I don't read novels.”

She would have used just that tone if she'd said,
I don't like novels. Bunch of nonsense.

Nell sat on the end of the bed. “Don't you ever feel you want a bit of nonsense?” she asked. “Something to distract you from the cares of the day?”

“Some of us don't have that kind of time, my lady, and would find better uses if we did.”

Nell's nerves were already stretched taut, and the maid's disrespectful manner grated. “I don't know to whom you think you're speaking, Dena, but I suggest you address me with more respect.”

Dena stopped dusting and her face grew red. “Respect?” she repeated. “You expect me to respect a woman trying to seduce Lady Granshire's son?”

Nell could scarcely believe she'd heard aright—except for the look on Dena's face. “I am not trying to seduce Lord Bromwell!”

If there was any seduction here, it was mutual—but she would not enlighten Dena on that point.

“Say what you like, Lord Bromwell will never marry you. He'll see through your snares,” Dena retorted, shaking her dust rag at Nell with every word. “Lady Granshire's son may be odd, but he's no fool.”

“I am
not
trying to trap Lord Bromwell into marriage, or into my bed!”

Dena's expression revealed exactly what she thought of Nell's protest. “You won't be the first who's tried and you won't be the last,” she said firmly. “Batting your eyes and looking at him like that.”

“I do not bat my eyes at him! I admire and respect him.”

“I wasn't born yesterday, my lady.”

“Neither was he,” Nell shot back before she remembered she was supposed to be a lady, and therefore a servant's superior. “How dare you speak to me in this fashion? Who are you to say whom Lord Bromwell should or should not marry?”

The maid balled her dust rag in her work-worn hands. “I'm sorry, my lady, but I'm worried about the countess. She's always been good to me, and she's not strong. Even though the viscount doesn't think she's really sick, she's not really well, either. If Lord Bromwell makes a bad marriage, that'll be as bad as him going on another voyage. I fear either one'll be the death of her.”

Dena might not be the most pleasant of women, but clearly, a fiercely loyal heart beat within that narrow chest.

“Then you may rest easy, Dena, and stay for another
twenty, for I assure you, I wouldn't marry Lord Bromwell even if he asked me.”

The maid's eyes widened as if she couldn't believe a woman would ever refuse the viscount's hand. “Why not?”

“I have no desire to marry a man who will leave me for months and even years at a time to go chasing after spiders,” Nell lied.

“But I thought—”

“What you thought was obviously wrong.”

Her anger diminishing, Nell spoke sincerely. “Even if I wouldn't marry the viscount, I do like him, so there will be one more woman who'll be worried about him when he sails. We shall all have to pray for his safe return.”

“Aye, my lady.”

Nell took a few conciliatory steps toward her. “Perhaps if you don't have any pressing responsibilities, you could stay and help me alter the gown the countess gave me for the ball? I fear it's a bit too long.”

Dena's thin lips twitched up in a smile for a fraction of a second. “I'll be happy to, my lady.”

Then, to Nell's further surprise, her expression grew curious and conspiratorial. “Is it true what they're saying in the servants' hall? Did you really take Lord Granshire to task about his son?”

Nell nodded. “I did, so now I'm also worried he'll send me away.”

“Oh, I wouldn't be concerned about that, my lady,” Dena said with unexpected confidence as she went to the wardrobe and got out the Nile-green silk gown with rounded neck and puffed sleeves. “He may bluster and bellow, but if the countess wants you to stay, you'll stay.”

 

Bromwell strode into his father's study, where Fallingbrook had said he could find the earl. It was a room that Bromwell always entered with trepidation even now, having been forced to endure parental cross-examinations and lectures in this chamber for as long as he could remember.

It didn't help that his father had had the room decorated like some sort of hunting lodge of the damned, with the heads of stags and boars, as well as swords, pikes and crossbows on the panelled walls. A portrait of his grandfather, stern and disapproving, or perhaps suffering from chronic indigestion, gazed down from above the limestone mantel. There were smaller, equally frowning faces of his other ancestors there, too, as if they sat in judgment of the heirs of Granshire and found them all lacking.

A similar expression was on his father's face as he stood by the windows surveying the gardens. Plans for the massive waterworks he was planning to build were spread out on the desk nearby.

“Father, I must speak with you,” Bromwell announced, doing his best to control his tumultuous feelings.

The earl turned to face him, his expression strangely enigmatic. Normally his father's mood and emotions were as easy to read as a book produced with a very large font. “Ah, Justinian. I had heard you were come home. So, she has already complained to you, has she?”

“If you're referring to Lady Eleanor, she's told me what happened between you.”

“Then you are aware that she dared to upbraid me. She
told me, and in no uncertain terms, that I do not sufficiently respect your work and your dedication to it.”

Bromwell still couldn't decipher his father's mood, but his voice was oddly calm, considering what he was describing.

His father's next words took him completely by surprise, making Bromwell feel as disoriented as when the coach had overturned.

“She's right. I don't. I don't understand why a grown man of good breeding and fortune would want to spend his time on a cramped, stinking ship looking for bugs.”

Bromwell subdued a sigh. He should never have entertained any hope that his father would ever appreciate his son's chosen life's work—but at least he'd kept a copy of his book.

It was better, too, that he was annoyed with his son, not Lady…Miss Springley. “I have long since given up expecting you to.”

The earl cleared his throat. “However, she's wrong to think I don't believe you're a fine man and that I'm not pleased with you. I'm proud of your behavior in dire circumstances during your voyage. I respect the fame you've justly earned with your book. You've brought honor to our family's name, Justinian.”

Bromwell hadn't felt this rattled in years, not since he'd realized the ship was going down, so it took a moment for him to be able to speak and he seemed to have developed a lump in his throat.

“Thank you, Father,” he said at last. “That means a great deal to me.”

His father walked toward the desk and began to roll up the plans. “I've always been proud of you,” he said, without looking directly as his son, “and if you'd gone into politics or even the law like that friend of yours…”

He glanced sharply up at his son, then cleared his throat again and looked back at his plans. “Never mind. You didn't, and you could have done worse—and I didn't need Lady Eleanor to point that out.”

Bromwell refrained from noting that apparently he did.

His father set the plans aside and sat behind his desk, gesturing for Bromwell to sit as well, in the sort of overstuffed chair his father preferred.

When he had, the earl looked him straight in the eye. “Lady Eleanor's a remarkable young woman.”

It didn't sound as if his father was angry at her or, he thought with relief, intending to ask her to leave. “Yes, she is.”

“A bit high-spirited, but there's nothing wrong with that in a young woman, especially if she's pretty. She's clever, too, I think.”

Bromwell suddenly realized where this train of thought was heading.

“A man could do a lot worse for a wife,” his father noted, proving that Bromwell had guessed correctly, and it was not a welcome conclusion.

“Lady Eleanor told me about your offer regarding marriage,” Bromwell replied. “I thought I had made it quite clear the last time we spoke on that subject that while I'm not averse to the notion of marriage, I won't take a wife until
I
decide the time has come. Besides, no woman of sense would wish to marry a man who was planning to leave home for several months, if not years.”

Which was another example of Miss Springley's intelligence and good sense.

“Wives of soldiers and sailors put up with such separations all the time,” his father countered.

“Yes, but at least they can expect to have letters and other news.”

“Your voyage depends on getting the money you require. What if you can't?”

“I shall, just as I did before.”

His father crossed his arms. “Since you are so set upon sailing,
I
will pay.”

Bromwell couldn't have been more surprised if his father had declared a wish to accompany him.

“On one condition.”

B
romwell realized he should have known the offer would come with a catch.

“You must marry before you sail,” his father declared. “If you do, not only will I pay the expenses of your expedition, I'll provide your wife with an establishment in London, or anywhere else she chooses, servants, a carriage and an income of five thousand pounds per annum for the rest of her life.”

As shocked as Bromwell was by his father's proposal, it hadn't escaped his notice that his father hadn't stipulated
whom he must marry. The earl would surely feel quite differently if he knew the truth about Miss Springley.

And yet to have such an offer…it was as tempting as Miss Springley. And if he married Miss Springley, that would solve her problems as well as his own.

Except that she had said she wouldn't want to be married to a man who then abandoned her for years, and he still believed it would be wrong to desert a wife so soon after marriage. “Do you have any particular bride in mind?”

His father looked as startled as he had been. “Why, Lady Eleanor, of course. If I am any judge of women, you have only to ask her. Her defence of you was most impressive and impassioned.”

Bromwell got to his feet. “I regret to disappoint you yet again, Father, but in spite of your offer, I will not ask her, or any woman, to marry me before I sail.”

That unfortunately familiar look of exasperation came to his father's features.

“What the devil is wrong with you, Justinian?” he demanded as he, too, rose, so they stood eye to eye. “You want your expedition. Very well. I give it to you—and all you have to do is marry a beautiful woman who cares for you, a woman who will be well taken care of while you're gone.” His father spread his hands. “What more can you want?”

His father would never understand. Never. “I won't be bribed into marriage, Father, and neither will she. I managed to finance my previous expedition without your aid, and I will do so again. If and when I marry, it will be for love, not money, or even to further my work.”

His father sat heavily in his chair. “God save me from foolish young men and their romantic notions!”

Bromwell tilted his head to regard the man who had
sired him and with whom he seemed to have so little in common, except for some physical features like hair and eye color. And yet…“If I am stubborn and romantic in my notions, it's probably because my father is both, as well.”

Lord Granshire couldn't have looked more shocked if Bromwell had struck him. “Romantic? Are you mad?”

Seeing his father with new eyes, Bromwell smiled and gestured at the plans now curling at the edges. “The fountain you're having built—Venus and Adonis are in the center of it, are they not? Only a romantic would choose two lovers for such a centrepiece.

“I think there are other qualities I owe to my parents as well, such as my persistence. My mother continues to hope I can be dissuaded from sailing. And many another father would have thrown up his hands at my refusal to marry years ago. Mine, however, still tries to persuade me.”

His father had apparently been struck speechless, so Bromwell continued without waiting for a response. “I'm going back to London today, Father, and I hope you'll allow Lady Eleanor to remain here until the ball.”

The earl found his voice as he put his hands on his desk and hoisted himself to his feet. “Yes, of course she may stay. I had no intention of asking the daughter of the Duke of Wymerton to leave.”

He regarded his son with a most unusual expression, as if he were still considering what Bromwell had said and attempting to decide if he agreed.

A decision apparently made, he cleared his throat and said, “I have to go into Bath later today. Why don't you join me for that part of your journey? You can tell me all about the paper you're presenting to the Linnean Society.”

That was another surprise that took Bromwell aback. He
glanced at the portrait over the fireplace, half-expecting to see that the mouth of his grandfather's portrait had fallen open with equal shock. “You know about that?”

“I'm not completely in the dark about your activities, my son, even if I don't know the exact subject. Some spider, no doubt. I trust it's an exotic one.”

“The most dangerous specimen yet discovered, the Brazilian wandering spider,” Bromwell replied.

“That should keep 'em all awake. Now come along, Justinian,” his father ordered as he started to the door. “We'd best take our leave of your mother and that young lady whose heart you're going to break.”

Bromwell came to a dead halt. “Do you really think I could do that?”

His father raised a brow. “If I am any judge of women,” he said before continuing out the door.

As Bromwell dutifully followed, his brow wrinkled as he considered a possible—and unwelcome—outcome he had not foreseen.

 

Dena had long since stopped tidying. She now sat by the hearth with Nell, telling stories about Lord Bromwell when he was a boy.

Nell wasn't surprised to learn that he'd always been kindhearted and generous, warm and loving. Unfortunately, he hadn't been a robust child and had spent many days ill in bed with various ailments. Dena told her how it had pained his mother to send him away to school; she'd insisted on getting the opinions of three different doctors before she'd allow it. But not only had Lord Bromwell survived, he'd thrived. He'd even flourished away from his father's overbearing hand and, Nell sur
mised, his mother's watchful, worried eye. He'd made good friends, too, “even if they all seemed like rowdy rascals the first time they came to visit. That Smythe-Medway, for instance. Now there was a boy needed a good thrashing! He put a snake in cook's bed and nearly scared the life out of her.”

How she wished she could have seen Lord Bromwell as a boy, with big bluish gray eyes and tousled hair, studiously staring at a spider's web, or the other boys whose good opinion had meant so much to him.

A knock at the door ended their friendly tête-à-tête. “Oh, dear, I've been here too long!” Dena quietly declared as she hurried to open it.

A footman stood on the threshold. “If you please, my lady,” he said, looking past Dena, “the countess wishes you to join her in her sitting room.”

Nell rose, suddenly tense. What if the countess didn't want her to stay?

She managed to sound calm, however, as she answered. “Of course.”

“Don't worry,” Dena said in a confidential whisper as Nell went past her into the hall. “She likes you.”

Somewhat encouraged but still full of trepidation, Nell followed the footman to the countess's sitting room.

She wasn't sure what to expect when she entered, but she hadn't anticipated finding Lord Bromwell and the earl. The viscount stood by the window, his hands behind his back, while his father was in the same attitude near the hearth.

Then Lord Bromwell smiled, and she immediately felt all would be well—or that at least she was going to be able to stay.

“Ah, my lady, here you are. I need to go to Bath to make the final arrangements for the orchestra for the ball,” the earl announced as if they hadn't met earlier that day. “Since my son's off to London again, we're going to Bath in my coach and have to take our leave.”

“You're welcome to stay here as our guest,” Lord Bromwell confirmed. “My mother is pleased to have your company.”

“Indeed, I am,” Lady Granshire said with a smile, although her eyes were on her son, as if she was afraid she'd forget what he looked like all too soon.

“I shall only be away for a few days,” the earl declared, obviously thinking he would be missed as much, and by both of them. “And my son assures us he'll return in time for the ball.”

“Drury's going to bring me back,” Lord Bromwell supplied, “and you mustn't have any fears for my safety, Mother. Drury hasn't tried to drive since he returned from the war, and I won't, either.”

“Come, Justinian,” the earl said. “We had best be on our way if we're to have a decent supper in Bath tonight.”

The viscount approached his mother and kissed her cheek as she grasped his hand. “Goodbye, Mother. I'll be back before the ball. I promise.”

“Then I know you will be,” she said, dabbing at her eyes with a scented lace handkerchief.

He regarded Nell steadily as he bowed. “I look forward to seeing you again, Lady Eleanor.”

“And I, you, my lord.”

The viscount went to the door while the earl kissed his wife's hand. “Adieu, ladies,” he said, bowing with a flourish before he followed his son out of the room.

After the door had closed, Lady Granshire sniffled into her handkerchief, while Nell stifled a sigh.

At least the countess had the claim of love and family on Lord Bromwell, Nell thought as she walked toward the window that overlooked the drive.
She
could only be grateful that he didn't despise her for her deception, and she admired him all the more for offering to help her in spite of it.

The earl's coach was already waiting, as were the liveried driver and footmen. In a very few moments, the earl and his son appeared. The earl entered first and as the footman waited, Lord Bromwell put his foot on the step, then paused and looked back over his shoulder and upward. He must have seen her, for he gave a brief wave before embarking. The footman put up the step, closed the door and took his place at the back of the coach.

With the crack of the driver's whip, the four well-matched black horses leapt into motion, taking Lord Bromwell and his father away and leaving her alone with his quietly weeping mother.

“Perhaps you'd rather be alone,” Nell said as she turned back into the room, “or would you like me to send for Dena?”

The countess wiped her eyes. “No, please stay. It's a comfort being with someone who shares my distress.”

Nell wondered if she should say she didn't, or at least not to the same degree, but feared the countess would think she was making light of her dismay.

“He won't be gone for very long,” she said, sitting across from Lady Granshire.

“This time,” the countess added mournfully.

What could she say to that? She couldn't promise that her son would always return. “I must thank you again for your kind hospitality.”

The countess waved a listless hand. “It's nothing, and I do like having a young lady nearby, especially one my son so obviously cares for.”

Nell shifted uncomfortably. Clearly she was not doing enough to hide her growing regard for Lord Bromwell if everyone here could see it. She would have to be more careful when he returned. “I hope it doesn't cause you any trouble.”

“Who last protected you, my dear?”

Nell glanced sharply at the countess, unsure how to answer that, or even what she meant exactly. A woman who was a man's mistress was said to be under his protection.

“My parents, of course,” she said after a moment, “but I hope my godfather will come to my aid.”

“And who might he be?”

“Why, Lord Ruttles,” Nell answered, baffled by the question. Had Lady Granshire forgotten what she'd told them? Perhaps she really was ill…

The countess's expression didn't change as she regarded Nell with her son's eyes. “No, he is not, just as you are not Lady Eleanor Springford.”

The breath fled Nell's lungs and her heart started to pound as if she were before a firing squad.

How did the countess know? Or had she guessed? Was it because of something she had said or done? And what should she do now?

Before she could decide, the countess leaned forward and put her hand on Nell's arm.

“Does my son think you're Lady Eleanor, or is he in on the ruse, too?” she asked. She didn't sound angry; she sounded merely curious, which confused Nell even more.

Yet one thing seemed clear—whatever she did and
whatever happened next, there was no need to lie anymore. “He knows who I really am.”

Now
.

The countess nodded, as if this was the answer she'd been expecting. “No doubt my son thought it best to pretend you were a titled woman to ensure that you could stay. Whatever the reason for that deception, however, I'm grateful you've come and have cause to hope I could be more grateful to you yet.”

How could she possibly be grateful after Nell had tried to trick them?

“How long have you been my son's mistress?”

“I am not his mistress!” Nell cried, aghast and determined to make that clear.

“Please, my dear, there's no need to deny it if you are,” Lady Granshire said with that same unexpected equanimity. “My son is comely, well educated and titled. What woman of sense
wouldn't
want him? And I've read my son's book, so I'm well aware that he's a grown man and an experienced one at that. No doubt you aren't his first lover.”