The Viscount's Kiss (8 page)

No, that wasn't right, she thought as she sat across from Lady Granshire, who was reclining on the Grecian couch
in the drawing room while they waited for the tea. A ghost might have groaned or tipped over a chair to reveal its presence. Lady Granshire simply ate her food, sipped her wine and ignored the conversation around her.

Perhaps she was used to such conversations between her husband and son, which surely meant they weren't uncommon. Poor Lord Bromwell! How difficult it must be for him here!

“You're shivering,” the countess said with maternal concern. “Shall I have a footman fetch you a shawl?”

“No, I'm quite all right, thank you,” Nell replied. If anything, the room was rather too warm, for the fire had been built up while they'd been in the dining room, probably for Lady Granshire's benefit.

Lord Bromwell and his father would no doubt find the room almost unbearably warm. Of course, having been in such hot climes during his voyage, Lord Bromwell might not find such temperatures uncomfortable, although he might be tempted to remove his coat…

“I do hope you're not coming down with something. Perhaps I should have Dr. Heathfield see you when he comes for his weekly visit.”

“No, I'm sure I'll all right. I must thank you for the loan of this gown and the others.”

The countess gave her a shy smile that was very like her son's. “Think nothing of it. I have too many to wear.” She leaned forward and took hold of Nell's hand with unexpected strength. “You mustn't mind my husband, Lady Eleanor. He is arrogant and stubborn and easily agitated, but he can be kind and generous, too.”

“It's hardly for me to judge him,” Nell protested, taken aback by her fervor.

Lady Granshire let go of her hand and lay back. “It's just that he had certain aspirations for his son and Justinian has ignored them and gone his own way.”

“To great acclaim,” Nell observed.

“Yes,” the countess agreed, “but—”

She fell silent when Lord Bromwell appeared in the door. He nodded a greeting, then went to stand by the window in the same attitude as before, feet planted, hands behind his back, but this time, it looked as if he was preparing himself for a rigorous dressing down, not studying the moon or stars.

His father entered and posed by the hearth, his elbow on the mantel, shoulders back, chest out, in an attitude that, she suspected, he thought made him look imperial and impressive.

“What a charming picture!” the earl declared as he regarded them with a condescending smile. “To think I have two of the loveliest women in England in my drawing room!”

His wife blushed, while Nell gave the supercilious, boastful earl a meaningless smile. At least he wasn't criticizing his son.

“And of course, I wish to have two of the loveliest women in England at our hunt ball. You will stay for that, won't you, Lady Eleanor?”

She avoided looking at Lord Bromwell. She shouldn't care what he thought of that suggestion, because she didn't dare attend. Any such gathering might mean an introduction to someone who knew the real Lady Eleanor.

“When is it?” Lord Bromwell inquired.

“Gad, Justinian, you should know. It's always the first Saturday of November,” his father replied.

“I was asking for Lady Eleanor's benefit,” he calmly explained.

A month. She didn't dare to remain here a whole month.

“I suppose you've invited the usual set?” Lord Bromwell asked his mother.

“Of course.”

“Will Lady Jemisina be attending?”

Whoever Lady Jemisina was, Nell hated her instantly.

His mother's eyes brightened and she darted a swift, thrilled look at her husband. “I've already had her acceptance.”

“And her father?”

That question doused the happy light in Lady Granshire's eyes, while Nell felt as if she'd unfairly maligned the harmless Lady Jamesina. “Yes, but Justinian, you must promise me you won't—”

“Gad!” his father cried. “Do you hear
nothing
that I say to you? You will
not
pester our guests with requests for sponsoring another ridiculous expedition!”

Nell looked swiftly at Lord Bromwell, expecting him to flush or frown or even leave the room. Instead, he merely raised a brow as he replied, “How do you know that I don't have something of a more personal matter to discuss with Lady Jemisina's father?”

His mother clasped her hands as if she was about to receive her heart's desire. “You
do?
”

In spite of her rational realization that there could be nothing between Lord Bromwell and her, Nell suddenly felt disappointed and dismayed—until Lord Bromwell gave her a swift, inscrutable glance and said, “I may—or I may not. I was merely pointing out to my esteemed parent that since he cannot read my mind, he can only guess at my intentions.

“Now if I might make a suggestion, I think Lady Eleanor is rather fatigued. Perhaps, my lady, you'd like to retire?”

“Yes, I would,” she quickly agreed, thinking it best to get away from them all, but especially from Lord Bromwell, before she did something really foolish.

Like fall in love with him.

 

Early the next morning, Nell slipped out onto the terrace and continued into the garden. Wrapping the cashmere shawl Lady Granshire had provided about her shoulders, she kept to the paved walks, for the dew was still sparkling on the grass.

The yew hedges, shrubs and edges of the walks were all neatly and precisely trimmed. The flower beds were pristine, the plants evenly spaced, the roses expertly pruned. Every portion was formal and clearly planned to the last detail.

Instead of being impressed, however, as the earl would no doubt expect, the formality and man-made arrangement made her yearn for wild, open country or a forest, where plants and trees grew untended and free.

Perhaps that was another reason Lord Bromwell had gone to sea, to get away from the constraining regulation of his family's estate.

She encountered a ha-ha at the far end of the garden. The sunken fence was in a shallow moat and beyond it she could see a path leading into a wood. Determined to reach that bit of natural nature, she stepped back a few paces, took a deep breath, ran and jumped.

She almost fell and spent a few frightening moments teetering on the brink of the opposite side before she got her balance. Once she did, she walked briskly along the path into the shadows of the oaks, beeches and alders, feeling triumphant and happy to be away from the stifling
formality of Granshire Hall. Large royal ferns, browning with the season, lined the path and carpeted the wood floor, along with wild garlic and campion. Lichen clung to the tree trunks, and years of fallen leaves made her progress silent. She spotted two chaffinches on a branch overhead, their slightly red breasts a bright spot among the yellowing leaves.

The way was uneven and a little rocky, and she wasn't exactly dressed for a long walk, but after a little while, it was as if she'd left the Earl of Granshire's estate far behind and entered a mysterious, enchanted wood. She wouldn't have been surprised to come upon a fairy ring, or a centaur, or a unicorn.

Or a knight on horseback, clad in chain mail and looking like Lord Bromwell.

She supposed she was running away again, albeit in a less drastic manner. She probably ought to leave Granshire Hall and the viscount and his family—but where exactly was she going to go? Where would she be safe from the law and Lord Sturmpole?

The memory of that terrible night invaded the peace of the wood. She felt the same horror as she had when she realized Lord Sturmpole had no intention of paying her wages unless she submitted. The struggle that ensued. The locked door. Her escape and fear and flight…

She paused beneath a willow beside a babbling stream, the leaves a canopy made by Mother Nature, the grass a natural carpet. If only she could stay here forever…

Something that was most definitely not the stream, or a bird, or the call of an animal, broke the silence.

Somebody was singing. Or rather, chanting, followed by rhythmic clapping.

Keeping to the edge of the stream, she slowly followed the sound until she reached an opening where the stream formed a deep pool. There, at the edge, she could see the singer, who was also dancing, or so she supposed the rhythmic steps and arm movements must be.

It was Lord Bromwell, clad only in dark trousers and boots, chanting in a foreign language and moving his body as she'd never seen a body move, in a dance like no dance she'd ever seen and a very far cry from a quadrille or a waltz.

N
ell stared in complete fascination, marvelling at the lithe ease and grace with which Lord Bromwell moved, the undulations of his body, the deep bends and the way he moved his knees back and forth like the wings of a butterfly. She had never seen anything like it, and likely never would again.

He turned, so that he was facing away from her, and she spotted something on his back, slightly visible above the waistband of his trousers. It was a dark mark, like a large birthmark…or a tattoo?

It had to be, she thought as she inched her way forward. What was it supposed to depict? She was too far away to
tell and too much of it was covered by his trousers to guess what it was with any accuracy—and she really shouldn't linger here. Surely he would be mortified if he found her there, as she would be to have him know that she'd been watching him.

Nevertheless, she hesitated, then decided it was worth the risk to listen to his chant and watch him dance like some sort of warrior from long ago calling on his gods.

Until a dog bayed nearby. Loudly.

Lord Bromwell instantly stopped dancing while, with a gasp, Nell began a hasty retreat.

A huge black dog burst through the bushes nearby, growling and baring its teeth as if it was about to attack.

Nell stopped dead, too panicked to scream. The dog stood where it was and began to bark as if to summon an army.

“Quiet, Brutus! Sit!”

Relief flooded through Nell as the dog did as Lord Bromwell commanded, abruptly settling on its haunches, silent and panting, as Lord Bromwell appeared from the trees. He had hastily donned a white shirt that was still half undone and open nearly to his navel, as well as a blue frock coat.

“I'm sorry if he frightened you,” he said, walking up to the huge, slavering dog and patting its head. “The gamekeeper must be nearby. I suspect Brutus thought you were a poacher, but even so, he's all bark, which is why he's an excellent guard dog.”

She sidled closer to the animal and put out a hand to pat him. The dog's tail began to thump as he looked up at her with mild brown eyes.

“See? Now he's a friend for life,” Lord Bromwell assured her, while she tried not to glance at the opening in
his shirt and that expanse of sun-browned naked chest. “What brings you this far from the house, and so early?”

Before she could answer, an elderly man in leather gaiters and a heavy black coat, with a felt hat pulled low on his forehead, stepped out of the trees. His face was nearly as brown as his hat, much wrinkled, and he had the widest mouth she'd ever seen. He also had a shotgun cradled in the crook of his arm.

Although he bobbed his head in greeting, his eyes, shaded by the hat, narrowed when he saw her.

“This is Billings, the gamekeeper, my lady,” Lord Bromwell said before turning to address him. “I'm afraid poor Brutus gave Lady Eleanor quite a scare.”

“He was only doin' his job, my lady,” the gamekeeper said gruffly.

“He has a very loud bark.”

“Aye, like his father—and a good thing Castor were loud, or his lordship here would be nothing but bones.”

“There are some caves nearby and when I was about ten, I decided to go exploring,” Lord Bromwell explained with a rueful grin, reminding her that he was not as old as his fame and accomplishments might lead one to believe. “I got stuck trying to squeeze into an opening and couldn't get out. Brutus's sire found me and the rescue party was able to follow the sound of his barking to get me out.

“It was not,” Lord Bromwell added self-deprecatingly, “my finest hour.”

“Oh, now, I dunno,” Billings replied, tipping back his hat and revealing sparse gray hair. “Come out of it laughing, he did, like it was all just a lark to him.”

“Because I had every faith you'd find me.”

Billings shook his head. “After hours alone trapped in the dark? Enough to give grown men the willies.”

“It wasn't dark the whole time,” Lord Bromwell corrected, leaning his weight on one leg and speaking as if they were at a dinner party. “My candle lasted for most of it and there was a
Meta menardi
to keep me company.”

“That'd be some kind of spider, I suppose,” Billings said.

“The common name is the orb-weaving cave spider,” Lord Bromwell replied.

Billings shook his head as if perturbed, but there was a glint of pride in his dark eyes and the hint of a smile at the corner of his wide mouth. “Most boys go for puppies or ponies. The viscount here goes for spiders. Has he shown you where he keeps 'em? It's not far.”

Nell glanced at Lord Bromwell, who was swiftly buttoning up his shirt as if he'd suddenly realized he'd been exposing a rather vast amount of skin. “I don't think she'd be interested in my specimens, Billings.”

“Oh? Scared of spiders, are you?”

“Not unless they're very close to me,” she replied.

“They're all dead,” Billings assured her.

“Except for the harmless sort who usually inhabit such buildings,” Lord Bromwell amended.

“Not that we let folks know that,” the gamekeeper said with a wink. “Haven't had a poacher on the place since his lordship come back because they think he might have brought some poisonous ones back with him and let 'em loose.”

“I'd very much like to see Lord Bromwell's collection,” Nell said honestly. After all, they would be dead.

“Well, then, since I've already seen 'em, Brutus and me'll be off,” Billings said.

He slapped his hand against his thigh, and the dog rose
and trotted toward him. Then, giving the viscount a nod of farewell, and Nell a grin, the gamekeeper disappeared back into the trees with his dog.

“Do you really want to see my collection?” Lord Bromwell asked shyly when they were alone. “I won't be offended if you'd rather not.”

Suddenly, the risk of being alone with him seemed far less important than learning about the subject that interested him so much that he would take such risks to collect specimens and bring them home. “Yes, I do.”

He smiled with delight and the warmth of it seemed to heat her down to her toes before he turned and pointed at a brown stone building a little way in the distance. She hadn't seen it before because it was half-hidden by shrubs and ferns and surrounded by thick trees, and she had been too busy watching him dance.

“Billings started that rumor about poisonous spiders himself, to keep poachers away,” the viscount said as he led the way. “He thought it would be more effective than laying traps.”

“Apparently it works.”

“Apparently,” Lord Bromwell said, sliding her another boyish grin, and her heartbeat seemed to skip.

Reaching the small stone structure, he leaned forward and pushed down on the latch, then shoved open the rough wooden door before stepping back to let her enter ahead of him. “Welcome to my idea of heaven, Lady Eleanor.”

She moved past Lord Bromwell into the dim building that was about twenty feet wide and thirty feet long. The only illumination came from two wide, square windows that were half-shuttered and a small fire in the hearth at the other end of the room. There were shelves to her right
bearing several glass jars with objects floating in them and a large, cluttered table of scarred oak in the center. On the table were the remains of a candle in a simple pewter holder in addition to an oil lamp, as well as some papers and what might be a box of pencils of the sort artists used. Beside the rough stone fireplace was a wooden cabinet with wide, narrow drawers. Shelves above it held a few books. There was also an assortment of what looked like cooking utensils, a kettle, plates, cups and cutlery, along with some other things she couldn't begin to name, on an ancient sideboard on the other side of the hearth. A cabriole sofa with a sagging seat was along the wall to her left, with a pillow and rumpled blanket at one end.

Lord Bromwell squeezed past her and went to fold the blanket. “Forgive the disarray. Normally nobody comes here except me. The servants won't set foot in the place. Sometimes I sleep here when I'm working on a paper, as I was last night.”

The blanket folded, he hurried to the hearth and took a brimstone match from a container on the unfinished wooden mantel. He put it into the fire, then used it to light the oil lamp. As it glowed into life, she could see what floated in the jars.

Spiders. Large ones, small ones and several sizes in between. Some were dark, some colourful, one or two were completely black.

No wonder the servants wouldn't come here, she thought as she wrapped her arms around herself. “I didn't realize they could get so big,” she murmured, staring at one particularly enormous specimen.

“Oh, they can,” Lord Bromwell replied. “I have other specimens, too, in the drawers.”

He nodded at the cabinet. “It pains me to have to kill
them, but there is no other way to bring them home for further study.”

He reached for one of the bottles. “This fellow is the same kind that gave you such a turn in the coach,
Tegenaria parietina,
also known as the cardinal spider because Cardinal Wolsey apparently shared your reaction to them.”

“It's a common reaction to spiders, of course,” he continued as he regarded his collection. “Even the daughter of one of the first men to write well of them seemed to have had a similar response. Her name was Patience.”

He slid Nell a sidelong glance. “Perhaps you've heard of her? Her father was Dr. Thomas Moufet.”

“Little Miss Muffet?” Nell cried. “She was a real person?”

“So it seems,” he said, grinning, “although I don't know who came up with the rhyme.”

He moved further down the shelf and pointed at another specimen. “And this beauty is a tarantula from Italy. Its poisonous bite is supposedly cured by music and wild dancing.”

She thought of
his
wild dancing, the memory so vivid and exhilarating she doubted she would ever forget it. “You don't believe that?” she asked, for his expression was decidedly amused.

How would he look if he'd known she'd seen him when he thought he was alone?

“No,” he replied with a shake of his head, “although it's an interesting notion. Inhabitants of the same regions where this spider dwells used to hold rites dedicated to Bacchus. I suspect the bite of the tarantula is merely an excuse to continue similar unbridled excess and all manner of…”

He cleared his throat and immediately went to the next species. “This is a spider that I found near Kealakekua Bay, in Hawaii, where Captain Cook was killed.”

As he continued describing his collection, he became more enthused and entertaining, and less the serious scholar.

She'd never met a man so keen on his profession, so thrilled by his work, so excited by his studies. So handsome and charming, so modest and yet so heroic. So lean and yet so muscular….

“Am I boring you? I can get quite carried away, I know,” Lord Bromwell asked, obviously misinterpreting the far-off look in her eyes.

“Not at all,” she answered. What would he think or do if she confessed she'd just been imagining him without any clothes on?

“Would you like some tea? I have some, and there's water in the kettle. Unfortunately, I don't have any milk or sugar.”

“A cup of tea would be lovely,” she said, “if you think we can spare the time.”

He stepped briskly toward the fireplace. “My mother never comes down to breakfast and my father's never been an early riser.”

“Then please, let's have some tea.”

Nodding, he hung the kettle from a pot crane and moved it over the flame. He fed more wood into the fire and got two cups and spoons and a tin from the sideboard. “I'm aware spiders aren't as attractive as butterflies or flowers, but they're still worthy of study. For instance, their webs are amazingly strong for their size and weight. Just think what we could do if we could figure out how to imitate the properties of spiders' silk! Unfortunately, not many share my opinion. Mostly they, like my father, consider my devotion to the study of spiders a waste of time.”

“Which makes your dedication that much more impressive.”

“Do you really think so?” he asked eagerly, turning so quickly toward her that the stray lock of hair fell over his forehead again.

“I do,” she confirmed, moving closer to the table and leafing through some sketches there. They were very good, proving that Lord Bromwell was a man of many talents.

“My father has never understood me at all,” Lord Bromwell said with a sigh. “I was a great disappointment to him as a child. I wasn't a particularly robust boy, and I preferred reading to riding and hunting.

“I became interested in spiders when I was recovering from scarlet fever. A cardinal spider inhabited a corner of my room across from my bed and when I had no new books to read, I would watch it.

“The maids kept destroying its web, but the spider always returned and built another. I was fascinated by both the web, and the creature's persistence.”