The Viscount's Kiss (19 page)

“Perhaps he has reconsidered and will sponsor your expedition,” Juliette said hopefully.

Bromwell glanced at Nell before shaking his head. “I highly doubt it. It's probably something about the ball.”

He started to bow in farewell, until Juliette grabbed her husband's arm and started to pull him toward the terrace. “Come along, my love. Let us leave them to say goodbye alone.”

“As you see, Buggy, you aren't the only one who gets ordered about,” the barrister remarked as he allowed his wife to lead him away.

With Bromwell's silent gratitude. He would much prefer to say goodbye to Nell in private.

“Since time is short, let's walk to the stables together,” Nell proposed.

Bromwell nodded his acquiescence, remembering a part of the garden in that vicinity where they could take their leave without being seen.

“Is it really true that Lady Drury was a seamstress?” Nell asked as Drury and his wife disappeared behind a yew hedge.

“Yes, and living in deplorable conditions the first time we
met,” Bromwell replied. “She saved Drury's life by hurling a basketful of potatoes at men who were attacking him.”

“I can believe she's not afraid of anything.”

“Like everyone, she has her moments of doubt and fear, although she hides them very well. She certainly did the first time we met, after Drury sent her to fetch me. She had to come get me at Sir Joseph Banks's house, and I'm sure that wasn't easy for her, and then Drury was remarkably rude to her.” He smiled at Nell. “Afterward, I realized he'd been rude because he was so intrigued by her.”

“He didn't do anything so insolent as kiss her, did he?” she asked archly, with the sparkle of mischief that he adored in her eyes.

“No,” Bromwell said softly as they reached the little nook in the shrubbery. “Even though he hated the French, he wasn't
that
impolite, whereas I…” He gathered her in his arms and kissed her gently. “Find I have no memory…” She wrapped her arms around him and sighed as he kissed the lobe of her ear. “Of rules of etiquette and proper deportment…” Then her neck. “When I am with you.”

“Clearly, my lord,” she murmured as she relaxed against him, her body leaning into his, “I forget how a young woman ought to act with a gentleman when I'm with you.”

He caught her mouth with his, and kissed her deeply. “I don't want to go,” he whispered as he slid his mouth to her soft cheek, “not even for a single night.”

“I don't want you to go,” she murmured as he caressed her. “Not even for an hour.”

They kissed again, deeply, passionately, as desperately as if this were their final parting, until he broke the embrace and stepped back, flushed and breathless. “If we don't stop now, I'm going to make love with you right here.”

Exhilaration took hold of Nell as she spotted the back of the stables out of the corner of her eye, a place sheltered from the yard and the rest of the garden.

“Not here—there,” she whispered.

Yearning to be with him intimately today if she couldn't be with him that night, she took his hand to lead him. He resisted a little, but not for long, as she pulled him toward the shadowed, sheltered spot.

Her back to the wall, she turned, to be engulfed in his embrace. “I'll miss you,” she gasped as he spread kisses over her face and neck.

He regarded her with primitive, primal greed. “Promise me you'll wait. Promise me you'll wait for me to come back.”

Was he speaking of this brief sojourn, or his longer voyage? Whichever one he meant, her answer was the same. “Yes!”

As if that single word released him from all restraint, he pushed her back against the wall and kissed her with fervent, heated ardour. As his hands boldly caressed her, he spread her knees with his. She thrilled to the pressure of his limb and leaned against it as she slid her tongue into his hot mouth.

With a low growl, he reached down to lift her gown and soon he was stroking her most private place with growing need as he kissed her, making her moist and ready while she ran her hands beneath his vest and shirt. The drawstring of her pantelettes snapped, then his hand slipped within.

All too soon he withdrew and she whimpered with the loss, until he cupped her buttocks and lifted her, so that she could hold him around the waist with her legs.

She wanted him with every fiber, every particle, of her body and her heart. “Yes, oh, yes,” she hissed as she
worked at the buttons of his trousers with one hand, the other around his neck, until he was free.

Holding him, she shifted, while he positioned himself. Then he was inside her.

This was no gentle lovemaking, no tender contact. He took her with primal, swift and hungry need as she responded, until he groaned and filled her, while she pressed her lips together to stifle her own triumphant cries of release.

Sated, panting, his head in the crook of her neck, he leaned against her. She slowly lowered her legs, only now aware of the rough brick behind her and that her pantelettes were that pile of white linen on the ground.

“Oh, God,” he muttered as he moved back and his head bowed as he buttoned his trousers, raising remorseful eyes to look at her. “We shouldn't…” He shook his head. “I was too overwhelmed to stop.”

She was as aware of that as he as she picked up her undergarment. “I've heard a woman can't get pregnant the first time,” she said, hoping to lessen his obvious remorse because she felt none, except for his sake. To bear his child, whatever happened, no longer seemed a fate to be avoided.

“I fear that's an old wives' tale,” he said as he tucked in his shirt.

“Sometimes those old wives were right, weren't they?”

“Perhaps. Let us hope so. But now I have to go. The groom will be looking for me.”

“Justinian, I meant what I said,” she replied, wanting him to know how she felt, needing him to, whatever happened. “I'll wait for you, wherever you go and however long it may be.”

He simply nodded once and left her.

“A
h, Bromwell, here you are at last!” his father cried from an upper window of The King's Arms when his son rode into the yard beneath the high arched gate. “Hurry! The banker has been waiting for over an hour.”

Bromwell did as his father bid and soon entered a wainscoted, comfortably appointed upper room where the remains of a large luncheon sat upon the table. A man who looked every inch the prosperous, if somewhat unfashionably attired, middle-aged man of finance and who'd been seated by the fireplace, rose when Bromwell entered. His father, meanwhile, assumed his usual commanding pose by the fireplace, one arm draped over the mantel.

“This is Mr. Denby, my banker,” the earl announced.

“I'm honored to meet you, my lord,” Mr. Denby said, bowing. “Your book was wonderful, quite wonderful!”

“Thank you.”

“Sit down, Mr. Denby, and you, too, Justinian,” the earl commanded.

Bromwell obeyed, and when he did, he saw a copy of the
Bath Crier
near the bucket of coals on the tiled hearth, obviously intended to be used to help light the fire. It was open to the society column.

Then it was as if the bottom had fallen out of Bromwell's chair, for there, in the bottom paragraph, he read, “
Lately returned to London and reputed to be coming soon to our fair city, the Duke of Wymerton and his family. His musical daughters are sure to be a welcome addition to social gatherings in the weeks to come
.”

Had his father seen that?

He couldn't have, or he surely would have said something at once, Bromwell realized with relief. He immediately and surreptitiously shoved the paper beneath the bucket with his foot. His father would never stoop to lighting a fire, so as long as the paper was beneath the bucket, he wouldn't see it…although his father was going to have to learn the truth about Nell soon. After all, she was going to be his daughter-in-law.

Of course he must and would marry her now. He had asked her to wait and she had agreed. How could he expect her to do that unless they wed? And she must have the protection of his name and rank if she got with child. He would never leave her here to bear his child out of wedlock.

And yet leave her in England he must. He couldn't take her with him, no matter how much he loved her. A voyage such as he planned might be the death of her, and he would die himself before he would put her in such danger.

“Well, Denby, give my son the documents,” his father impatiently ordered.

The earl gestured at the table beside the hearth. In addition to several papers of legal size, there was a jar of ink, a quill pen, and some sand for blotting. Clearly his father had been signing papers of some sort, or preparing to.

“If you will be so good as to sign here, my lord,” Mr. Denby said, presenting Bromwell with a raft of papers and pointing to the bottommost line, beside the current date.

“What is this?” Bromwell asked, flipping the pages held together with ribbon.

“Your father is giving you ten thousand pounds for your expedition, on the understanding that you will avail yourself of certain expertise I possess. I deal with many merchants who ship goods all over the world.”

Bromwell couldn't quite believe what he was hearing. He turned his questioning gaze to his father. “You're giving me ten thousand pounds for my expedition? And all I have to do is avail myself of your banker's experience?”

“I'd rather be spending it purchasing a London establishment for you and a wife,” his father growled, “but since you seem resolved to sail off again, you might as well go as soon as possible, so you'll be back all the quicker.”

Bromwell put down the papers and faced his father. “Thank you,” he said, overwhelmed and grateful—but not as happy as he thought he'd be.

As he would have been before he met Nell.

“However, no matter what reason you give for your generosity,” he continued, determined to remind himself of the reason he had to leave her, “you aren't just helping me, you're contributing to the understanding of—”

“I'm upsetting your mother, that's what I'm doing,” the earl declared, scowling. “She's going to faint when she hears what I've done.”

“I'll try again to make her appreciate why I must go,” Bromwell vowed, “and I'll send letters home whenever I can.”

“Just come back safe and healthy,” his father said gruffly. “And when you do, for God's sake, get married and make us grandparents.”

“I will,” Bromwell promised with every intention of fulfilling that vow. “Thank you.”

Even as he said it, the vocal expression of his gratitude seemed far too cold and formal, so Bromwell did something he'd never done in his life.

He went to his father and embraced him.

Even more surprising, his father hugged him back.

After a moment, Bromwell pulled away and cleared the lump from his throat while, swiping at his eyes, his father strode to the window.

“I'd like to ask Mr. Denby to make an addition to the papers, if I may,” Bromwell said.

His father, once more composed, turned to look at him.

“I want the funds to be a loan, not a gift, and one that I'll gladly repay.” He addressed the banker. “Can we not set up a system whereby some of the royalties from my book can go to my father as repayment?”

Bromwell held up his hand when his father looked about to protest. “I insist, Father. And don't think it's going to be so very much. I daresay it won't even be enough to pay for the new fountain you want to put by the terrace.”

He thought of something else Mr. Denby could do with another portion of the income from his royalties.

But that must wait until later, after he'd asked Nell to marry him.

And provided she said yes.

 

The next day, in her pelisse and with her shawl wrapped around her for extra warmth, Nell walked briskly along the fern-bordered path from the garden to Justinian's laboratory. Overhead, a wren flitted amid the branches of a lichen-coated ash surrounded by birch and alder trees. The day was cool, but no clouds threatened rain and the air was still, unlike her tumultuous mind. She wanted to be alone, away even from Sir Douglas Drury and his wife.

It was not that they were unpleasant, and it had been tempting to ask all sorts of questions about Justinian, but she found their mutual happiness and obvious love difficult to endure. It was too much a reminder of what she couldn't have with Justinian.

She wouldn't think about that, she told herself. She would think of something else. His father's summons, for instance. Justinian had clearly been taken aback by the earl's request for consultation.

She still couldn't understand how his father could have had so little regard for his son's intelligence in the past. On the other hand, she had never known Justinian as a child, and it might be difficult for some parents to see their child as an adult.

Her parents had only ever known her as a child. What would they think of the woman she'd become? What would they say if they knew she'd been so intimate with a man who was not, and never would be, her husband?

She'd accepted that as part of the price for being with him, and while she'd been thrilled he'd asked her to wait for him and she had every intention of doing so, there had been no talk of marriage.

They would be apart for so long, and there would be
many days she would never know how he was, or if he was well, or if he was even still alive. More and more she was sympathizing with the countess, and more and more she was tempted to beg him to stay.

“Well, well, well, who have we here?”

Nell's breath froze in her lungs as she spun around, to see Lord Sturmpole standing on the path.

How had he come there? Why had she not heard or seen…?

“You don't look happy to see me, my dear.”

“I'm not,” she retorted, backing away toward the laboratory. “What do you want?”

“Why, you, of course. It wasn't very sporting of you to run away like that.”

“Sporting? You attacked me and then locked me in a room.”

“Attacked? Ye gods, that's a bit strong for the demonstration of my affections.”

She desperately wondered where Billings and Brutus were, and if they were within call. The gardeners wouldn't be so very far away, either. “If you don't leave, I'll scream!”

“I don't think so, not unless you wish to appear before the magistrate in Bath. There is the matter of the money and clothes you stole, not to mention impersonating Lady Eleanor Springford.”

Of course if he knew where she was, he must have learned who she was pretending to be.

“So unless you wish to be arrested, you will do exactly as I say.”

“How did you find me?”

“I was approaching the house on horseback to see if my suspicions were correct when I saw you cross the garden
and come this way. You certainly didn't waste any time enticing another man after you left me, did you?”

His lips curved up in that familiar, terrible leer. “You can stop staring at me like that, milady. I wouldn't dream of preventing you from playing whatever game it is you're playing with that fool of an earl and his no doubt equally foolish son.”

“Then what
do
you want?”

“What you wouldn't give me before, that's all. Just once, and I'll be satisfied, and we can call what you took payment for services rendered.”

“That's…?” She couldn't call it
all
; to let him do what he would with her was very far from nothing.

His thick lips curved up. “Yes, my dear, that's all. Just once, and then I'll be on my way back to Staynesborough.”

“Why?” she cried. “Why do you want me? What am I to you?”

“You're the little whore who dared to say no—to
me!
”

“But there are other women!”

“You underestimate your appeal.”

“Or is it because I wounded your pride? I got away, so your arrogant conceit demands you come after me.”

“Who do you think you are, to refuse me?” he retorted. “You are nothing—little better than a servant!”

Yet she was enough for Lord Bromwell to love, and that gave her confidence and the determination to stop Sturmpole from ever attacking another woman in his employ.

“Have me arrested if you will, but if you do, I shall charge you with attempted rape and assault.”

His eyes flared with anger even as he laughed with scorn. “Who do you think the authorities will believe?”

She put on a smile as false as his laugh. “Me, because
I shall have Sir Douglas Drury as my advocate, and he never loses.”

To her surprise and growing dread, Sturmpole didn't look impressed. “You speak as if I would have the case tried in London. It would, of course, be heard in Staynesborough, and there I
own
the magistrate.”

It was possible that he did, at least in a sense.

Her throat dry, Nell could think of only one thing to do—she had to get help. Find Billings or Brutus, or run back to Granshire Hall.

Shouting for the gamekeeper and his dog, she broke into a run, heading for the garden.

But Sturmpole had anticipated her flight and he caught the back of her pelisse, then jerked her back to him.

“I don't think so,” he growled as he roughly grabbed her arms and spun her around to face him, his breath reeking of stale wine. “One way or another, I'll have you. I didn't come all the way from Staynesborough for nothing.”

“You did, you disgusting degenerate!” Nell cried, hitting him.

Holding her tight, he started dragging her toward the laboratory. “No woman says no to me. No woman refuses and robs
me!
”

“Billings! Brutus!” she shouted as she dug in her heels.

His face contorted with rage, Sturmpole struck her hard across the mouth, knocking her to the ground. Regardless of the pain, she scrambled to her feet, trying to run, but the ground was damp and muddy and she slipped.

“Shut your mouth!” Sturmpole ordered as he pulled her to her feet. “If you're calling the gamekeeper, he's on the far side of the estate. I saw him.”

“You didn't—you're lying!” Nell retorted, hoping she
was right, her cut lip throbbing as blood trickled down her chin and onto her torn and muddy pelisse. “Lord Bromwell will kill you if you hurt me!”

“When he finds out the trick you've played, he'll be calling for your head,” Sturmpole charged as he shoved open the door of the laboratory with his shoulder.

She grabbed the door frame with both hands. He pulled hard, forcing her to let go. Holding her with one hand, he raised the other to strike—then stopped and stared as he caught sight of the jars upon the shelves.