The Viscount's Kiss (7 page)

Or perhaps, she silently acknowledged, they had merely learned to hide their fears beneath a mask of stoic acceptance.

She couldn't fault the countess for being worried or Dena for her sympathy for her mistress, especially when she recalled how her own mother had cried before leaving her at school. She, on the other hand, had been too excited by the possibility of making friends to be sad, as Lord Bromwell was no doubt excited by the possibility of making new discoveries.

“He's advancing the cause of science and our understanding of the natural world,” she pointed out in his defence.

The maid's only response was a loud and scornful sniff. Fortunately, Dena had also finished dressing her hair.

“I'll be here to help you when you retire, my lady,” she said, stepping back.

That wasn't exactly cheerful news, but there was no way to refuse, Nell supposed. “Thank you,” she said, rising and leaving the room, heading for the drawing room where, she assumed, the family would be assembled prior to proceeding to the dining room.

This must be how prisoners being taken to the Old Bailey must feel, she thought as she went down the stairs. Afraid, uncertain, worried that every past transgression was going to be used against you…

She hesitated on the threshold of the drawing room and slowly surveyed the grand chamber dominated by an ornate fireplace of marble, wide and with a mantel the height of a man's shoulders. Two figures of women in Greek garments were on either side of the opening, and a large pier glass hung above it. The walls were painted a pea-green, with white plasterwork of Grecian urns and vines around the ceiling. The furnishings were of various gleaming woods, and included several Hepplewhite chairs and a Grecian couch upholstered in green silk, with curving gilded arms and feet. The heavy velvet draperies were still pulled back to allow the last of the daylight to shine into the room, although candles in shining silver holders had also been lit, and a fire kindled in the fireplace. A painted screen stood near it, and there were more paintings on the walls, of men, women and children in sober family groups dressed in the fashions of years gone by. Huge oriental vases full of roses
and hothouse flowers stood on side tables, their scent mingling with beeswax and burning coal from the fire.

It was a lavish, expensively decorated chamber, if not an overly pleasant one.

Nor was it unoccupied.

In evening dress and with his hands behind his back, Lord Bromwell stood by the window, looking rather like a beetle among the butterflies as he stared up at the moon as if contemplating its composition.

W
hat a will of iron must be concealed beneath that handsome, studious, civilized exterior, Nell thought as she studied him, noting his well-cut and immaculate evening attire of dark cutaway coat, gray vest, white shirt and cravat, breeches and silk stockings that proved his calves were as muscular as the rest of him. How dedicated he must be to his chosen field to continue his studies despite his disapproving, critical father and his fearful, anxious mother. She doubted she would have the strength to do what he had done in the face of such resistance. Her parents had always been kind and loving, seeking the best for her, wanting her to be happy.

Which made her crime that much heavier to bear.

She went farther into the room, treading on a dark green carpet that must have cost hundreds of pounds. Looking at him now, in this room and in those clothes, she found it almost impossible to believe that he had danced with wild abandon among heathens.

She might have found it completely impossible to believe if she hadn't felt the unbridled passion in his kiss. Having experienced that primitive desire, feeling her own aroused by his touch, she knew there was a wild, untamed, virile male beneath those expensive, civilized clothes.

Lord Bromwell turned. That lock of hair had fallen over his forehead again, bringing a boyish charm to his otherwise elegant appearance.

He smiled, yet made no move to come any closer. She smiled, too, longing to tell him that, having met his parents, she admired him even more. That he looked breathtakingly handsome in his evening dress. That she wished with all her heart she really was a lady and his equal. That he would kiss her again, and not stop with kissing.

Instead, she seated herself on the edge of the Grecian couch and folded her hands in her lap. “I regret that I haven't yet had the pleasure of reading your book. I was wondering if I could borrow a copy from your father's library to read while I'm here.”

Instead of looking pleased by her request, Lord Bromwell's expression grew decidedly uncomfortable. “Of course, if we can find one. He's probably given away all the ones I gave him.”

Surely a man who could brag for hours about his house and grounds would keep a copy of his own son's bestselling work. “He must have one, at least. Where is the library?”

“This way,” Lord Bromwell said, walking to the door, “but I fear you're going to be disappointed.”

As he must be, if he was right.

Nevertheless, and hoping he was wrong, she followed him out of the drawing room to the library a short distance down the wide, marble-floored corridor with brisk, eager steps.

What if she was wrong, and there was no copy there? What should she do? Console Lord Bromwell? Vilify his father?

She put any thought of comforting him from her mind as they entered a large room with long, narrow windows on the south side and shelves of dark oak on the others. Lord Bromwell went to the hearth and got a brimstone match which he used to light an oil lamp on one of the side tables by the windows.

In the brighter light, she noted one was a chess table, the pieces lined up ready for a game. A picture of a bucolic country scene populated by people clothed in the fashions of the previous century hung over the black marble fireplace. Busts of long dead Romans and Greeks stood on top of the shelves, like so many spirits watching over them. The several volumes on the shelves were leather-covered, and all appeared of recent manufacture.

There was a large Pembroke table in the center of the room, with a single book upon it. Surely if any book deserved pride of place…

She went there at once and soon Lord Bromwell was beside her. He set the lamp on the table, illuminating the cover and title of the book:
Peerage of England, Scotland and Ireland.

Nell didn't dare look at Lord Bromwell and didn't know what to say.
I'm sorry
seemed hardly adequate.

Instead, she set her mind to figuring out where a man as vain and proud as the earl would put his son's book.

“Perhaps it's over here,” she said, heading toward the nearest shelf.

“We shouldn't waste our time,” Lord Bromwell said with quiet resignation. “I'll have one sent to you via your godfather, with my compliments.”

Which meant she would never receive it and he would find out that she'd been deceiving him. Yet what else could she say except, “Thank you.”

“It's no trouble. I have several. Not that I go sending them out to everybody I meet…”

His voice trailed off into an embarrassed silence.

She risked a swift glance at his face, to see that he was blushing from his collar to his hairline and said, “I think you're a very remarkable man, Lord Bromwell.”

“I think you're a rather remarkable woman, to have travelled so far by yourself,” he replied, not meeting her gaze. “For a young woman to even decide to do such a thing, and in the face of parental disapproval, is astonishing.”

“It seems we both have had to disappoint our parents in order to be free.”

Except, in her case, her parents were dead, and she was all alone.

As he was, at least in one way. Even here in the family home, no one understood him or the forces that drove him. The desire to learn. The zeal to discover. The willingness to risk everything in the advancement of science. She didn't fully comprehend what compelled him, either, but she could easily admire him for his dedication and devotion.

As she stood beside him close enough to touch, the glow of the lamp surrounded them, a circle of enveloping
light in the encompassing darkness, as if they were all alone in this vast mansion, this county, this country, the world. An island of sanctuary in a hostile world.

Only the two of them, separate, but not alone. Not anymore.

She could have no hope for any kind of future with him. She was a thief, a fugitive and a liar. She was here under the most false of pretences, taking advantage of his kindness and generosity, and her only hope should be that he never found out the truth.

She parted her lips, ready to say something, anything, to break the spell cast by the lamplight and her admiration and sympathy.

He leaned closer, as if to listen.

Or to kiss her.

“My lord, dinner is served,” the butler announced from the doorway.

 

At Fallingbrook's announcement, Bromwell immediately moved away from the beautiful and far-too-tempting Lady Eleanor.

If she knew the thoughts and images that swirled in his head about her, she would think him the most lascivious libertine in England. She must never know, and he must and would master his desire. He must and would behave as he should, no matter how enticing she was.

She needed his help, not his unwelcome advances.

“Shall we?” he said, politely offering her his arm.

She duly laid her hand upon it and they dutifully and silently proceeded to the dining room.

“Ah, here you are!” his father cried as they entered and his triumphant smile was almost too much to bear in silence.

Almost, for what could he say to his parent that wouldn't alert Lady Eleanor to his father's persistent wishes regarding his future?

Surprisingly, his mother was there, too, looking more alert and healthy than she had in a long time. She had always enjoyed the company of younger women, and he had more than once suggested she have a companion, but that proposal had always been met with her own kind of stubborn resistance. She would say she wouldn't need a companion if her son would visit more often and stay longer.

Since the countess was already seated and made no effort to stand, her son brought Lady Eleanor to her. “Mother, this is Lady Eleanor Springford. Lady Eleanor, my mother, Lady Granshire.”

“Delighted,” his mother murmured as Lady Eleanor dropped her hand from his arm and dipped a curtsy.

His father, meanwhile, nodded at the liveried, bewigged footman, who pulled out a chair that would be to his right at the table.

“My lady,” the earl said, nodding toward the chair.

Again demonstrating her admirable, amiable poise, Lady Eleanor gave her host a pleasant smile, then did as she was ordered and took her seat.

After the earl delivered a grandiose grace as if it were the Sermon on the Mount, supper was served.

Bromwell was well aware he need not be ashamed of any meal in his father's household; unfortunately, the price for such sumptuous fare as turtle soup, turbot with lobster, lamb cutlets, venison, beef, goose, peas, salad, meringues à la crème and chocolate cream was having to listen to his father, who had an opinion, however ignorant and ill formed, on everything.

Lady Eleanor ate as delicately as before and listened politely. She never ventured a remark unless the earl asked her a direct question, an opportunity that came precisely once, when he asked her about the condition of Italian roads compared to English ones. Even then, he didn't really listen to her response. He simply continued to assert his opinion that English roads were in a disastrous state and all those convicts being shipped off to Australia could be put to better use fixing the roads and verges in England.

Having witnessed the disembarkation of men, women and children from a convict ship in Australia, Bromwell didn't disagree. “It might mean more of them survive,” he noted. “The conditions on those vessels—”

“I'm not saying we should keep them here to do them good,” his father cried as if Bromwell had suggested putting them up in hotels, “but as a means of saving the government money.”

“To make them slaves,” Bromwell said. “You've never been to a sugar plantation, or you would realize that slavery—”

“Is not what we're discussing. We were talking about roads—the very roads that nearly got you killed.”

“The accident wasn't that bad,” Bromwell replied, trying to be patient. “We were not in danger of dying.”

“If there had been passengers on top of the coach, though,” Lady Eleanor ventured, “they might have been seriously injured or killed.”

“Ah! There!” his father cried triumphantly. “Exactly my point!”

Bromwell tried not to feel betrayed. “I admit that's true, especially if we'd been going at a faster rate of speed. Nevertheless, I think there's a vast difference between
saying that the roads should be kept in good repair and using slave labor to ensure it.”

“This is what comes of an expensive education,” his father complained to Lady Eleanor. “Theory over practicality every time. Maybe if my son stayed in England instead of haring off after bugs, he'd realize the state this country is in.”

“When you have seen as much of the world as I have,” Bromwell said quietly, thinking of certain images that would be forever burned into his brain, “you can appreciate how fortunate we are, although there is much that could be done to improve England, and the English.”

His father's brows lowered. “Now you sound like one of those damned Frenchmen, spouting off about
liberté
and
equalité
. Look what happened there. Turned the country into a bloody mess.”

Lady Eleanor shifted uneasily in her chair, and his mother looked equally uncomfortable.

“Perhaps we should refrain from political discussion until the ladies have retired to the drawing room,” Bromwell suggested, hurrying on before his father took that as an indication that his son was admitting he was wrong. “Did I not see a new horse in the stables, a very fine black hunter?”

“Yes, you did,” his father replied. “Got it for the new season. Wonderful animal.”

His father proceeded to describe not just the qualities of his latest purchase, but every other horse and hound he possessed. Although changing the subject was precisely the goal Bromwell had hoped to achieve, he subdued yet another sigh as he wondered what Lady Eleanor made of his family.

At last the final course of fruit and chocolate crème had been served, and the ladies left him alone with his father. Instead of returning to politics, however, Bromwell was forced to endure another lecture on his duties as an Englishman, a nobleman and especially the heir of the Earl of Granshire.

Having been subjected to this harangue several times before, Bromwell allowed his mind to drift to Lady Eleanor, although that proved to be something of a mistake. His imagination immediately conjured the picture of her lithe, graceful body engaged in a
hura,
the dance done by the women of Tahiti, which was as different from a measured, genteel English ballroom dance as it was possible for a dance to be.

“Well, Bromwell? What do you intend to do?” his father demanded, tugging his mind back to cold reality.

“For now, join the ladies,” his son replied as he rose and headed for the door.

 

Nell had thought the dinner at the inn had been like trying to make her way through a maze, but that was nothing compared to the tension she experienced in the Earl of Granshire's dining room. Thanks to her education—which the earl would likely consider a waste of money—she knew what glass to drink from and how to manage the fish bones; otherwise, she felt like the unwilling spectator at a trial, with Lord Bromwell as the defendant and his father both judge and jury. His mother, for all her apparent concern for her son, said nothing in his defence. Instead, she sat as silent as a spirit and picked at her food like a bird.