Society's Most Scandalous Viscount (19 page)

“You must be proud.” Her smile was evident in her voice.

“Something like that.” He exhaled long and thoroughly.

“Was it terrible when they marked you?”

She felt his grin against the back of her ear. “You're very curious about my tattoo, aren't you?” He shifted and reached for the lantern while she tumbled to her back, watching his movements with rapt attention.

“I'm fascinated by the strength it took for you to endure the pain and remain still.” Her voice lowered to a hush, emotion adding a tinge of reverence to her curiosity.

He smiled slightly before answering. “The pain was temporary, while the sentiment and acceptance extended to me remain everlasting. It is not something to take lightly and many believe it a great honor.”

“Of course. It serves as a constant reminder of that moment in your life. I admire your bravery.” She could never reveal her level of cowardice, her admiration for Helen's fortitude in kind to her esteem for Benedict.

“Physical wounds heal easily.” He released a long breath as he continued. “Yet words are somehow more indelible.”

“You speak from experience again.” It was more a statement of fact than a question.

He didn't comment. Instead he opened the glass, careful not to disturb the candle, and rubbed his pointer finger in the black ash gathered at the bottom of the tray.

“What are you doing?” What purpose could he have for the residue left behind by dissolved candle and wick?

Again he didn't answer and instead with his left hand lowered her sleeve. He repeated the motion with her chemise until the skin above her breast was bared. She watched intently as he drew a sun over her heart, the ash staining her in identical fashion to his tattoo.

“Now you're marked just as the tribesman marked me. You possess the same inner strength and experienced none of the pain.”

She looked at him with wide eyes. She remembered his story, each entrancing word, and how the tattoo signified ownership, belonging, and eternal welcome. Did he mean to express these sentiments as he recreated the same image on her skin? Her heart thudded a heavy beat. He made her feel precious, almost fragile, and at the same time acknowledged her strength of courage.

This time tomorrow he would forget her or worse, remember, only to discover her forever gone. It wasn't fair, this selfish game she played.

“I should go.” She offered a half smile and righted her gown, careful not to smear the ash. “It's too late.” Sad how a few words could ruin the beauty of everything they'd shared, but Benedict didn't notice.

“Take the lantern so you can make your way.” He helped her stand and handed her the closed lamp. “I'd like to walk you back but I have the distinct feeling your answer will be the same as before.” He waited. “Another time then.”

She smiled in way of confirming his suspicion and did not correct his assumption, although a swift stab of regret pierced like an arrow through the heart.

“Then let me at least keep you warm.” He leaned in, capturing her mouth in a slow kiss, composed more of seduction than farewell.

When she pulled away, he considered her face for several long beats of her heart, his expression at odds as if he wanted to say something but was unsure whether or not to do so. At last she broke contact, holding the lantern ahead to lend its light, refusing to look back over her shoulder.

Benedict found sleep easily, his slumber heavy with dreams. Old memories of his travels coalesced with images of Angel as they made love. Childhood antics blended with accomplishments through adulthood where he'd experienced pride and hope. He woke feeling satisfied and fulfilled, the uncommon feeling at first unsettling, as if it were a new-tailored garment that needed to be worn to adjust to the fit.

He dressed and breakfasted with efficiency, ignoring Bitters' snappish remarks and rebuking them with a rare grin. There was little to upset him this morning. He'd made love to an angel, a mermaid of his fantasies, and the first woman who'd touched his heart. How could he voice a complaint when none lived in him?

He entered the stable, the tack room rich with the scent of leather and hay, but he only smelled sweet cherry and spice. Making quick work to prepare for his morning ride, he bridled Nyx and gathered the saddle, sparking their morning conversation in a jovial tone.

“At last I have a reason to stay forever in Brighton.” He centered the pad behind the Arabian's withers and slid it down swiftly to ensure the horse was comfortable. “To hell with my parents and expectation, gossip, and scandal. I'd trade it all for blessed quiet and the touch of an angel.” He buckled the cinch and checked to the strap to ensure Nyx was comfortable. Then he took his seat and led Nyx from the stable with the pressure of his knees.

They followed the usual route, the well-traveled path to the beach, passing the fairgrounds where gypsies packed their carts and readied to take leave. He held Nyx to a trot, admiring the scenery: a nearby fence grown thick with woodbine and convolvulus, a blackbird singing its morning song, and he recalled when he'd come upon Angel walking the same roadway. He smiled with the memory, amused and otherwise lighthearted.

At last he took to the sand, allowing Nyx to gallop the length of the beach for the pure joy of rogue freedom, the wind whipping though his unbound hair, pasting his shirt to his chest as they raced the tide. Then went on that way for some time: Nyx streaked with sweat from exertion, Kell invigorated by the ride. When they approached South Downs he paused to cast a glance in the direction of Hell's Gate, the rock formation a dare he couldn't resist much longer. Perhaps today was the day.

He steered Nyx off the beach to a narrow path that led to the cottage where he suspected Angel lived. It only made sense.

He tethered his horse to a tree, adjusted his shirt in a brief effort of reassembly, and followed the slate stones to the front door. It was early morning, yet the door appeared locked tight. He dropped the knocker and waited, expecting someone would answer promptly.

And someone did.

A stout housekeeper, or so he presumed from the white apron pinned to her serviceable ocher day gown. She opened the door wide enough to assess his person, as any reliable servant should, except this woman furrowed her brow in a blatant expression of disapproval.

“Who's there, Nan?” A second woman appeared at the door, her years in kind to the housekeeper's, who continued to eye him with skepticism. “It's barely noon. I've had my fill of visitors for the day.”

The housekeeper's face fell in emphatic agreement and then she stepped aside, relinquishing control of the situation to the white-haired lady who seemed the head of the house.

“May I assist you?”

This woman also displayed a suspicious expression, as if she suspected he'd lost his way from the gypsy caravan leaving the fairgrounds and wanted to sell her an enchanted potion.

“I realize the irregularity of this call, but I had no other means to speak to the young lady who lives here.” Kell drew back his shoulders and offered his most charming smile.

A flash of surprise flickered in the woman's eyes. From his words or his grin he wasn't certain, although it soon gave way to genuine sadness. She looked over his shoulder toward the roadway and back again.

“Two elderly genteel ladies live here. You must be mistaken.”

Her reply held a definite note of finality, yet as delightful as the old biddy presented, she was not a very good liar.

“No young lady? Tall, slender, hair like spun gold? A woman beyond beautiful?” Each description caused the old woman further anguish. He leaned a little closer as if imparting a secret. “Your eyes are the palest shade of turquoise, but I would wager they were once as vivid as the sea.”

She clucked her tongue in disapproval. “Your charms won't work here, young man. Don't mistake my modest home as an indication I'm not well versed in disingenuous balderdash. My son is an earl and I don't care who you are or why you're here. I've offered my answer and you have no choice but to accept it. Perhaps you should pose your questions to the superfluous fool on the cliff.”

She nodded toward
his
home.

“Angel told me she lived here,” he lied then reconsidered, his statement not truly a falsehood. She'd indicated the information through action.

This bit of news transformed the elderly woman's disposition.

“Well, she doesn't live here anymore. As expected, her father arrived this morning and whisked her away.” A forlorn note laced the bitter whisper.

“Gone?” Disappointment was shoved aside by an urgency to discover where Angel might be headed. “Dorset? Surrey? London? Bound for where?”

“Bound for the altar, off to the convent, so you'll need to look elsewhere for a lady's company.” She slammed the door to punctuate her statement.

Caught unawares, it took time to absorb the words and recover his equilibrium. It couldn't be true, didn't make sense, and as he backed away from the cottage and claimed Nyx, he told himself there had to be a misunderstanding, for if any quality shone bright in Angel's luminous eyes, it was unadulterated honesty.

Still, the longer he rode, the more he questioned his logic. What did it matter anyway? He was a viscount and she an earl's daughter, except she'd somehow touched his soul in a manner like no other woman. He expelled a gruff breath. What had he expected? He'd bedded so many females, what was one more apathetic tumble? He'd gone so long refusing to allow himself to feel perhaps it was inevitable. He could return to that state of being. A numbed existence. He could move through his days without allowing one ray of sunshine to light his path.

He would.

His thoughts turned to vows and despite racing the wind anxious to outrun questions that had no answers, Nyx's hooves pounding the earth as if a second heartbeat, the hollow ache of discontent knocked around his ribs and settled in his soul.

Locked in his misery, he slowed when his horse showed signs of exertion. He was never careless with the Arabian and they moved to the edge of the downs and waited. The ocean was an unfathomable silver line on the horizon. How many times had he viewed the same through his telescope and considered a walk into the ocean? Something stopped him. That damned blank wall over the hearth. The desire to hang a family portrait there.

Christ.

He was a hopeless son of a bitch.

Why did she leave?

All during last night she must have known she'd be gone come morning, yet she said not a word.

He searched his mind for clues but his memories were all fragments and emotions. He could see her smile, hear her laughter, yet he didn't know her full name. She'd played her little game of anonymity well. Perhaps she'd been mythical, a figment of his depraved imagination. He had no way to prove she existed. Nothing more than the everlasting impression of her kiss upon his mouth and the sensual echo of her whisper in his ear.

He shook his head in disgust.

That's how she'd wanted it. Planned it. And he was too lost in her wondrous cerulean eyes to take note.

Christ.

He laughed, the self-deprecating sound anything but amused, and then nudged Nyx away. Hell's Gate awaited, now as good as time as any to accept the challenge and conquer the unknown. He had nothing to lose.

Chapter Fifteen

“Do you wish to punish me with this oppressive silence, Angelica?” Father faced her across the barouche and tapped his walking stick on the leather banquette to her right. “You knew this day approached. You chose to squander the week with your grandmother. You requested the time and I acquiesced. Dare you regret the decision now? Such a lament mocks my decision to allow you extravagance. I'm certain your grandmother indulged you in excess. No doubt she took you to that common fair in a gasconade of negligence. You are above the common pastimes found in Brighton.”

Her eyes flared, her silent objection quick to catch his interest.

“Of course.” He settled back against the bolster, satisfied temporarily. “Never assume I'm unaware of what occurs.” He paused, the rattle of wagon wheels against the rutted roadway jarring the coach as if shaking loose her confidence. Still her father continued.

“Although something else about you has altered. I dislike the look in your eye. You were meant to spend this week in preparation for your future endeavors and resolving any unrest left in your spirit. I'm unsure what it is exactly.”

He continued to scrutinize her person and Angelica laid her palm across her shoulder in a protective measure, as if gleaning strength from the mark hidden beneath multiple layers of muslin and cotton. She wore a proper gown this morning with all the required undergarments, yet it wasn't enough to confine her regret or erase her remembrance. She'd watched Benedict trace over her skin, his fingertip designing the sun against her heart. The memory brought with it the heat of his kiss, the pressure of his mouth upon hers, the possessive hold of his hands as they claimed her. She blinked wildly, fearing a rise of color would incite her father to further circumspection.

She must think of something else.

London awaited. The reality caused a hitch in her breathing. London, with its meticulously groomed drawing rooms, trite conversation, and unreasonable expectations. The city paled in comparison to the beauty of Brighton and the man she left behind. Again her exhalation stuttered.

Had Benedict discovered she'd left by now or would he wait for her on the beach this evening, only to realize she'd never appear? How foolish her choices. Had she enough courage, like Helen, she might have confessed it all and asked for his help, or if not running into his arms for refuge, running away from the future that awaited after London. The thought was enough to halt her breathing altogether.

When she didn't reply to her father's pestering inquiries, he narrowed his eyes and leaned closer as if to examine her soul for making the effort.