Society's Most Scandalous Viscount (9 page)

He approached Nyx from the opposite angle.

“A little far from the sea today, aren't you?”

She glanced over her left shoulder toward the sloping knoll. It was the general direction of the ocean but if he recalled correctly a small cottage nestled at the foot of the hill—a modest house with a pleasant garden near the main road to town and in walking distance to where they stood. It offered a valuable clue to the lady's identity.

“Even mermaids enjoy exploration now and again.”

She'd been crying, evidenced by her flushed, tearstained cheeks combined with the sullen emotion in her voice. A rush of protectiveness overtook him. What was this unexpected compassion that rose unbidden, prompting him to solve her problem whatever it might be? The reaction surprised him as he was angered by his mother's persistent requests, overwrought with society's obligations, and far from a hero on any level. He lived life selfishly, as no one had spared him a care otherwise and he'd learned to take what he wanted, when he wanted it. And still he didn't matter.

“You've tied my ribbon to your horse. She's a magnificent animal.”

She combed her fingers through Nyx's mane and Kell watched, fixated on how those fingers might feel threading through his hair, gripping his shoulders as they kissed, or better, as she rode upon his lap. “You left without saying goodbye.” His words came out rougher than he intended.

“Were formalities necessary?” She stifled a laugh. “The rain had lessened and I needed to return home.”

So she lived in Brighton. He'd never seen her before. He watched for a trace of revealing emotion, but the lady remained ambivalent. “Benedict Hampton at your service.” He initiated a mock bow. “As formalities go.”

She didn't reply at first.

“Pistol practice?” She nodded toward the targets mounted on the trees and took a few steps nearer the pines.

At last a topic that provided solid ground. “Only in sport. I've never killed an animal and don't care to.” He approached the stump and reclaimed the pistol. “Would you like to take a shot?”

This time she was caught by surprise, her expression a mixture of curiosity and fear and he couldn't contain his chuckle at her widened stare. Her eyes flared in a fascinating flash of blue-green.

“I'll help you, although I can't fathom what you'll need to shoot while cavorting about in the waves.” The image fit. In the pale celadon walking dress, her hair lifting in the breeze, she may as well belong to the sea. Her skin was as perfect as the mother-or-pearl shells he'd collected as a child and her illusive appearance these past two days convinced she was more mystic imagination than reality. Perhaps she'd emerged from the tide the first night he spied her with his telescope. Now he couldn't clear her from his mind.

Again she didn't reply and he steered her toward the target, his fingers gentle against her round shoulders, the brush of her unbound hair like silk across his skin. Desire pushed to the forefront, trampling etiquette and friendship in its bid for attention.

He paused when they'd taken ten paces and placed the pistol into her delicate grasp. It looked incredibly misplaced, her hands unlike the country miss he'd believed her to be, and for a heartbeat he reconsidered his offer. But before he could reason through his doubt, she made an assertive turn and raised the gun to aim at a target tacked to a trunk within the dusky copse. He shadowed her body, his chest against her back, thighs against her skirts and arms perpendicular with her arrowed position. Every cell in his body roared with objection. Were he to close his arms, he'd hold her in a firm embrace as he had done last night. A quick turn and he'd be kissing her before an objection rent the air. His cock encouraged the plan, his brain barely managing a stronghold to thwart the attack.

He leaned closer to deliver instructions and his condition worsened, the shell of her ear hardly a breath from his lips, the subtle scent of cardamom and sweet cherry delightfully present.

This was the path to madness. Yet he needed no hookah pipe to envision her smooth skin, imagine the sound of her sigh as he pleasured her or the height of their rapture as she came beneath him again and again. He remembered the smoke-induced fantasies he'd experienced when traveling among the town dwellers of the Arabian Peninsula. This woman promised all the pleasure with none of the ill aftereffects. In India he'd studied the teachings of Sanskrit literature and learned the practices of the Kama Sutra.

He blinked to regain focus and shifted his gaze to the pistol. Her hands should be shaking from the weight of the weapon as she stood motionless in tune to his command, but she remained steady and it was he who experienced a startling impatience.

“Are you ready?” Good God his question had a hundred interpretations.

“Yes.” One powerful word left her lips.

He drew her closer, needing to kiss her. His lips hovered near the back of her neck. His cock ached. His heart hammered hard. The report would thrust her backward into his chest. Knowing this, he tensed with expectation and together they squeezed the trigger. Everything he anticipated came to fruition. She slammed against his body with enough force to shake common sense loose.

It took several minutes before either of them acknowledged he'd wrapped her tight in his arms, her form captured and held motionless against his heart, his chin buried in her hair, softer than swan's down.

She sought to disentangle herself before he let her go.

“I've missed the mark.” The note of disappointment in her voice helped him regain a shred of control.

“The target, at least.” Had the birds scattered? He didn't remember. With reluctance, he released her, watching the slow sway of her hips as she strode forward. When she continued past the first pine and further into the trees he followed like a sailor lured by a selkie, his strides quickly gaining ground.

Chapter Eight

Distance. She needed distance. Anything to escape the heat of his body against hers. The action evoked an unanswered yearning for which she had no label, the sensation leaving her more confused than assured. Still on another level, she wanted it to continue and missed it as soon as she pulled away. What torture had she inflicted upon herself? Not once but twice, and yet, she'd do it again. This man, Benedict, was placed in her path as if Fate was playing a fickle game, when she hardly knew her own future. Grandmother would label it serendipity. Angelica shook her head as if to erase the ridiculous notion. She sought a memorable adventure, not an experience to cause further turmoil.

In a rush, she continued past a few tall oaks then bent to pluck a violet, out of place on the needle-blanketed ground. She twirled it between her thumb and forefinger in pensive concentration. She could hear the thud of his boots approaching. His shadow blocked any sparse light as he overtook her.

He didn't speak and she dropped the little flower, startled when he grasped her wrist and yanked her forward. Her breasts pressed against his chest as he backed into the trunk of a sturdy tree, hauling her with him.

“What are you about? Running from the cottage and now hurrying into the woods?”

The vibration of his low murmured question radiated through her and it had nothing to do with their proximity or compromised position. Again delicious, unbidden heat, swirled deep in her belly, then settled lower still.

“I…” She hesitated. Why bother with a contrived explanation? Especially when she'd sound foolish? She couldn't fathom what caused her actions of late. “I don't know.” She offered the truth, no matter the clarification was inadequate.

“Do you consider kisses so lightly then?” His eyes lit with contained amusement though his mouth hovered over hers as if he barely restrained himself from capturing her lips.

His question had no easy answer.
Yes
implied his kiss had been meaningful.
No
suggested she gave kisses freely and would gladly welcome another. She made the mistake of inhaling and the scent of his shaving soap evoked the intimacy of the evening before. Embarrassment heated her skin. Or was it desire now that she'd experienced the perfection of his kiss. Her bold request would forever haunt her.

“I don't know. I was curious. I wanted a kiss, nothing more.” Her words whispered out with an unexpected breathlessness, ensuring she sounded a babbling fool. He must have considered her so. His eyes twinkled as he scrutinized her expression.

“If you seek experience, I'll aid you in your quest.” His voice held a definite note of promise, his smile wolfish by half, amplifying his generous offer. “I'll show you pleasure, ease your tension. I sense your unrest, see it in every inch of you. Everyone needs a release from their troubles.”

He traced a fingertip over the furrows in her brow, swept his touch to the shadows above her cheekbones. Somehow this stranger knew the turmoil she battled, the inner struggle to find peace with a future she did not choose…and the yearning for something else, something wonderful and memorable to keep in her heart forever forward.

An unidentifiable emotion vibrated between them. Her breasts remained pressed to the wall of his chest, as solid as the tree trunk at his back. His fingers kept her wrists tight with just enough force to hold her bound. Benedict represented dark, wild danger. Potent and more perilous than any male attention she'd received in London—as unpredictable as the ocean, as parlous as the creatures that lurked in its depths. What could he teach her? How would it feel to surrender to his touch? She'd all but melted against his strength the moment he'd hauled her to his chest. Her pulse leapt with each subsequent conclusion. Fate had placed him in her path to provide her with the one memorable experience she sought to carry with her into an unsure future.

Shame supplied a ready image of Helen, her belly swollen with child, and a swift stab of regret sobered her wandering thoughts, her heart and mind conflicted.

“I could never accept your proposition.” She twisted her wrists and he released his hold. She stepped away in a rush as a different answer pressed at the back of her throat.

“I understand.” He didn't say more, his attention focused on her face, the gleam of an unanswered question in his eyes. “I'll be watching the sea this evening if you have reason to change your mind and you wish another kiss.” He leaned forward and hooked a wayward strand of hair behind her ear, his fingertips trailing across his cheek. Then he walked straight out of the woods.

“Women are a curious species I will never understand.” Kell smiled, despite the fact he hadn't gained the kiss he was after. “And she is a rare beauty.” He offered Nyx's shoulder an affirmative stroke. “Still one never knows what the evening will bring.” He returned his horse to the stable and locked the door, then approached the house with solemn contemplation. His mother would be in high dudgeon, the fault his for having kept her waiting. Bitters likely wished to skin him alive. Still a spark of cautious optimism managed to survive his pessimistic forecast. Perhaps his mother had taken respite after the long carriage ride. One could hope the confrontation wouldn't prove vitriolic.

All expectation was lost the moment he stepped into the sitting room and eyed her stiff profile in an overstuffed chair near the hearth. It wasn't like his mother to remain idle, nor appear out of sorts, yet she was a chameleon at best, possessing the ability to change as needed and disguise true emotion. Nevertheless objectionable concern warned him something was amiss. He didn't want to care, had believed all ability for meaningful affection had been hammered out of him long ago, but the feeling welled in his chest as he approached and noticed the fatigued expression on her face. She caught his assessment, a mask of specious greeting transforming her features into a show of conviviality.

“Son.” She rose and reached for his hands, and he remained motionless. “You look well. As well as one could expect, holed up here at the ocean's edge playing reckless games and chasing adventure.” She forced a little laugh. “Whenever I find you here, I'm reminded of the boy you once were: darkened by the sun, disheveled and guilty of a hundred mischievous sins.” This time she did smile.

“Hello, Mother.” He watched her tuck her hands into her skirt when she realized he would not reach for her touch. Her embellished reference to his pathetic childhood could not endear the effort. “What brings you to Brighton?” He may as well walk straight into the lion's den and be done with it.

“Aren't you glad to see me?”

She voiced the words in a glib tone he knew well. How he'd have relished sincerity instead. And when would he at last suffocate the inkling of hope that surfaced each time he conversed with his mother? He did, indeed, hold her less guilty, his father at greater fault.

Father had ruined any chance of Kell possessing happiness in his life. The man caused his mother repeated and mortified embarrassment, cast as an adulterous jest among the dowagers and a licentious tart among the gentlemen, while his father enjoyed the spoils of philandering prowess with the scantest censure. Kell despised his father, and the emotion fit as comfortably as a pair of well-used leather boots. He wasn't sure how he'd label his feelings toward his mother, the confliction a plague that led to inordinately excessive drinking after her visits.

“I've traveled here for good reason. I need your help. One would think after the messy scandal you caused in London, you'd be more contrite and willing to assist.”

Now she sounded sulky. Oh, how she played with her victim. Point made, the mess left in London had driven Kell to Brighton where he'd hoped to avoid family. His mother had machinated a life of displeasure and petty revenge, hemmed in recrimination and injured pride. Damn the soft spot of his soul that took pity on her.

“What is it?” He tensed, straightening his shoulders in preparation of her wheedling blandishments. He noticed the gleam in her eye, no matter that she held her mouth in a pout of discontent.