The Viscount's Kiss (17 page)

“I do. And I've never been happier in my life,” she said, meaning it in spite of the undercurrent of sorrow she suspected she'd feel for the rest of her life. “Whatever happens in the future, I'm happier than I've ever been, because you make me so.”

“I don't understand how,” he ruminated aloud, his brows furrowed. “I am not handsome, or charming. Granted, the pleasure of sexual activity is certainly important, but—”

“You
are
handsome, and charming, and kind, as well as exciting. But more than that, you treat me as your equal, even though I'm so ignorant.”

He looked at her with obvious bafflement. “You may not be as well educated—although that is the fault of a society that treats female offspring as incapable of comprehending as well as any male of the species and despite ample evidence to the contrary—but you are as intelligent as anyone I've ever met, male or female, as well as brave and resourceful.”

He gave her a rueful smile. “And I might as well admit everything. You don't make me feel like I'm some sort of oddity because I'm so fascinated by spiders. Although…” He put his hands loosely about her waist and smiled. “I must say I find you infinitely more interesting than spiders.”

She'd never had a more thrilling compliment. “You do?”

“Indeed,” he murmured, leaning down to kiss her again.

The door to the laboratory burst open.

“
Bonjour!
” cried a merry, well-dressed young woman in a frilly, frothy pink gown and pink velvet spencer, as well as a delightful bonnet with a wide pink ribbon and fabric roses around the brim. “Are we interrupting? Should we leave?”

At the sound of Juliette's voice, knowing Drury must not be far behind, Bromwell quickly stepped away from Nell. Meanwhile, the heat of a blush travelled up his face, as if a description of their recent activity had been tattooed on his forehead.

“Sorry for barging in, Buggy,” Drury said as he entered the laboratory behind his wife, who was smiling as genially as if she'd merely intruded on a tea party. “Juliette—”

“I thought you had been chastising and interrogating the
poor girl long enough,” his wife interrupted with a smile, “although I see I was quite wrong.
Bonjour
, Miss Springley. I am Juliette, the wife of Sir Douglas Drury, who has not the manners to introduce me.”

The dark-haired barrister scowled, although his equally dark eyes were far from angry. “Forgive me, Miss Springley. I am Sir Douglas Drury, and this is my charming and headstrong wife, Juliette.”

“He calls me headstrong because I don't obey his every command,” Juliette laughingly confided, “and while I am sorry to have interrupted, it is getting late in the day and unless you want the servants to gossip, we had better go back to the hall.

“Not that I care about gossip,” Juliette said, slipping her arm through Nell's. “I am quite used to it, but dear Buggy is not, and neither, I think, are you.”

As Juliette steered her out the door, Nell didn't even have time to look back as they left the two friends alone.

D
rury turned to Bromwell the moment the women were out the door. “I'm truly sorry we barged in like that, but Juliette was so worried about what you might be saying to Miss Springley, she wouldn't listen. She's a very stubborn woman when she thinks she's right.”

“And yet you love her anyway,” Bromwell noted as he went to his worktable and leaned against it.

“Can't help it,” Drury replied with a smile as he sat in one of the chairs near the hearth. “And I think I'm not the only man here who's in love.”

Bromwell didn't reply directly to that statement as he
ran his fingertips, which had so recently skimmed Nell's warm, soft flesh, over a long scar in the tabletop made when his knife slipped as he was attempting to carve a whistle several years ago. “Miss Springley didn't know her father was alive. She truly believed he was dead.”

Drury's tone was noncommittal when he replied. “And you believed her, so you couldn't be angry with her.”

“You would have believed her, too, if you'd seen her,” Bromwell said, crossing his arms. “It was quite obvious she was shocked, so taken aback she fainted—and it was no false swoon, I assure you.

“I've had plenty of experience with those,” he added, recalling certain episodes with his mother.

“That doesn't, unfortunately, erase the fact that her father is a convicted felon and she's been impersonating Lady Eleanor Springford.”

“Whatever Miss Springley did, she was still attacked and held against her will,” Bromwell replied as he reached for his jacket. “Sturmpole was more guilty of a crime than she. As for impersonating Lady Eleanor, I colluded with her in that, so if she's guilty of a crime, so am I. But there's been no harm done. Nobody knows save my family, and you and Juliette.”

“I fear it may not be so simple. Did I not hear your father's in Bath? Don't you think he'll mention that there's the daughter of a duke visiting his estate?”

Bromwell felt for the bench beside the table and sat heavily. “Oh, God.”

That truly hadn't occurred to him—and it should have.

“I don't want to upset you, Buggy, but we should be prepared. However, since your motive wasn't criminal or malicious and neither was Miss Springley's, it could be
that Lady Eleanor won't prosecute, especially if she remains in Italy.”

“If Lady Eleanor does prosecute, can we count on your representation?” Bromwell asked, trying to think clearly and plan for any eventuality.

“Of course.”

“Thank you.”

“As for Sturmpole,” Drury said, “from what we've learned of the man, I'm fairly confident he can be persuaded not to press charges, so it's not Sturmpole I'm worried about. It's you. Are you still not willing to marry Miss Springley?”

Bromwell tried to mask the pain his question caused. “She must be free when I sail in case I don't come back. I don't have to tell you, Drury, that sometimes when ships go down, it can be years before the crew is considered lost for good. I won't put her through that.”

“So you will break her heart before you sail, and for her own good?”

“If you wish to put it that way, yes,” Bromwell said, heading for the door. “There's no point discussing that particular subject again, Drury. I won't, and that's the end of it.”

Sighing softly, Drury rose and followed him.

 

Nell wished she was alone, or with Justinian, as she walked back to the hall, instead of in the company of a woman she'd only just met and in such a fashion.

“You are very fortunate to have won Buggy's heart,” Lady Drury remarked as she walked beside Nell. “If I had not my Drury, I am sure I would be jealous.”

Nell could hardly deny that there was something of an amorous nature between herself and Lord Bromwell
when she'd been discovered in his passionate embrace, but she wasn't willing to encourage any discussion of the subject, either.

“I liked him much better than Drury when I first met them,” Lady Drury confessed.

That got Nell's full attention.

“Buggy was kind and polite, even though I was only a seamstress and obviously French—both of which made it quite impossible for Drury to even like me, let alone love me, or so we both thought. Our hearts, however, would not listen.”

Nell knew exactly what she meant. If her head could rule her heart, she wouldn't still be here, and she certainly wouldn't ever be alone with Justinian.

“You saw my husband's hands, I'm sure.”

Nell had indeed noticed her husband's gnarled, twisted fingers. “Yes.”

“He was tortured when he was captured in France during the war. By my brother.”

Nell came to an abrupt halt. “Your brother?” she repeated incredulously.

“
Oui
, although it pains me to confess it. After the war, Drury found my brother and killed him for what he had done, not just to him, but others, too.”

Her husband had killed her own brother? “And you still married him?”

“Because I love him more than I could ever hate him, and I could understand why he did what he did. But there was a time I was sure we could never be together, until we realized we loved each other enough to overcome what threatened to keep us apart.”

Nell wondered why Lady Drury was being so forthcoming to a stranger, but it hardly seemed like a question one
could ask. Nor did she wish to speak of her feelings for Justinian, or tell her that her father was a convict in Australia.

“You think I am forward, to tell you these things,” Lady Drury said, answering Nell's silent query as they reached the terrace. “I tell you because I know who you are and what your father did. My husband has no secrets from me. And I speak to you this way, as if we are old and dear friends, because I want Buggy to be happy. I fear you might think your father and your rank mean you are not worthy to be his wife.”

Lady Drury stopped and looked Nell steadily in the eye. “Buggy is not the sort of man who toys with a woman's affections, or makes love with them for sport. If I am any judge, he loves you very much. If he asks you to be his wife and you love him, you should accept him.”

Nell didn't want to hear this. She didn't want to believe Justinian loved her, not when he was going to leave her. When he must leave her.

She turned toward the house. “Thank you for your advice, my lady. I will bear it in mind if he ever asks.”

And for his sake, I will refuse
.

 

Clad in her dressing gown and nightgown, her feet in simple slippers she had knit herself, Nell stood by the window of her bedchamber in Granshire Hall.

Her thoughts were not on the view of the formal gardens below, or the beauty of the clear night sky liberally sprinkled with stars. In her mind's eye, she was seeing her mother at their final farewell, when Nell had not known it would be their last.

Had her mother guessed it might be so? At the time, she had thought her mother's strained expression and tears were
evidence that she would miss her daughter and because their next meeting was likely weeks away. She had even—to her intense regret—been ashamed of her sobbing mother at the main door of the manor house that had become a school, and prouder of her father's cheery manner.

He had always been a jovial, easy-going man. Never had the cares of earning a living seemed to weigh on him as managing the household did to her mother. She had supposed that her mother was simply a more sombre, serious character. It had never occurred to her that perhaps her father ignored their troubles, while her mother could not.

Had it been his idea to find a solution through thievery, a solution that had cost her mother her life, him his freedom and bestowed the stain and shame of their crime on their daughter?

If only she could see him again, to ask him about that, or even just be with him once more.

What might have happened if her mother had lived? Might she have been found innocent? If so, her daughter might not have had to accept employment with Lady Sturmpole and thus find herself deep in a mire of her own.

And yet, Nell mused as the moon rose full and bright over the wood beyond the garden, if she had not taken employment with Lady Sturmpole and been attacked by her husband, if she had not fled, she would never have met Justinian.

That was the one good thing that had happened to her in the past six months—except that the happiness she had experienced would bring her an equal, if not greater, measure of sorrow when it was time for them to part.

But not yet. Not yet.

She lowered her gaze to the dark garden. No light shone upon the terrace. No sound disturbed the silence, save for
the occasional cry of a night bird or an owl swooping down in the darkness to catch a mouse.

Now she could go to him. He might think being together here too great a risk, too likely to cause gossip and scandal. If so, she would leave him, but if not…

Her eyes were already accustomed to the dark, so she needed no candle as she cautiously opened her bedroom door and looked into the empty corridor. Moving quietly, carefully, for old floors could creak—and loudly—she closed her door and made her way to his, easing it open.

She had never been in Justinian's bedroom before. It was a large chamber suited to the heir of a great house, with a huge, curtained bed with a set of bed stairs beside it at the far end. Those curtains were open, as were the draperies and shutters over the two tall, narrow windows that faced the front of the house and the long sweeping drive—the opposite view to hers, and away from his laboratory. Wondering if that was deliberate on the part of his parents, and if he liked to be awakened by the sun, she ventured closer to the bed.

Justinian lay sprawled diagonally on his back, his naked chest visible above the satin coverlet. He had one leanly muscular arm over his chest, the other slung out to the side. The rest of his body was hidden beneath the covers.

As she tiptoed nearer, she noted how Spartan the chamber was. Apart from the bed and a table beside it holding a lamp, there was a wardrobe by the wall to the left. A pedestal table with papers and ink and quills upon it, as well as a Chippendale chair, stood near the window, and a plain washstand and dressing table were half-hidden behind a folding screen. There was no looking glass of any kind, and the dressing table was bare of anything save a brush and shaving items.

Three more steps and she was beside the bed.

How young Justinian looked when he slept, with that lock of hair falling on his forehead! How sweet and innocent and boyish. If this was the way his mother always thought of him, no wonder she was so upset that he would leave England for unknown, dangerous parts of the world.

Yet he was no innocent, naive youth. He was a virile, experienced man who was showing her what true intimacy between a man and a woman could be.

And she wanted to learn more.

Untying her robe, she let it fall open as she took another step closer.

He moved and she froze. Still asleep, he sighed, muttered something and rolled away from her, the coverlet coming with him, but leaving his back exposed.

Three thin, parallel black lines in a pattern of slightly angular concentric circles had been drawn on his back. The majority of the design was still hidden below the coverlet; nevertheless, she could see enough to guess that she was looking at his tattoo and that it was a spider's web.

She should have known.

How low did it go on his body? Was there a spider, too?

Going to the other side of the bed, she took off her robe and laid it on the foot of the bed. Hiking up her nightgown of thin white linen, she climbed onto the high bed, which dipped so much she expected him to wake.

He didn't, so she leaned toward him and slowly pulled the coverlet down, until she could see the whole tattoo. It
was
a web and in the center was a small black spider.

She reached out to trace it, but as she put her fingertip
on his skin, he immediately turned over and she found herself beneath him, with her arms over her head, her wrists held in his vicelike grip. It happened so swiftly, she didn't even have time to suck in her breath.

“Nell!” he gasped, his eyes wide and vibrantly alert.

He let go at once, but didn't move from atop her as he ran his gaze over her. “What are you…?”

He paused when he realized she was wearing only her nightgown, then spoke with measured calm, although he didn't move. “Forgive my extreme reaction. As a result of my voyage and the situations I encountered, I tend to sleep lightly. You must have been very quiet.”

Her breathing quickened when passionate warmth kindled in his eyes as his gaze moved slowly down her body in what was like a leisurely caress. “Or did you come here in a state of undress to alert me to some emergency? Perchance the house is afire?”

“The house is not ablaze, although I am rather…heated,” she whispered in response.