The Viscount's Kiss (3 page)

Thompkins sighed, then frowned. “You should have heard the way the earl carried on. Any other man might
have been proud of the lad for wanting to try and getting that far, but not him. You'd think young Lord Bromwell'd lost the family estate or murdered somebody.

“The viscount, bless him, told his father he'd forced me to agree to it by saying he'd see I lost my job if I didn't. Well, that was a lie, but he was cool as you please, and damn—pardon me, miss—if his father didn't believe him. And then not another word did young Lord Bromwell say. He just stood there covered in mud from head to toe, and his lip bleeding, too, like the earl was giving a speech in the House of Lords that had nothing to do with him.

“Oh, he's a rum cove, all right, even if he's a nobleman. Have you read his book?”

“I'm sorry to say I haven't,” she replied, wishing that she had.

“To be honest, I ain't read it, either, since I can't read at all,” the driver admitted, “but I heard all about his narrow escape from them savages and the shipwreck, too. And the tattoo, o' course.”

Nell paused in her ministrations. “Lord Bromwell has a tattoo?”

Thompkins grinned and lowered his voice. “Aye, but he ain't never told anybody what it is, or where. Just that he got one. Some of the nobs have made a bet on it and put it in that book at White's, but so far, nobody's collected.”

Nell was aware of the famous betting book at that gentlemen's club, and that men who belonged would—and did—wager on almost anything.

Thompkins looked past her and pointed down the road. “Thanks be to God, here he comes.”

Nell looked back over her shoulder. There was indeed a horse and rider coming toward them, and it was Lord
Bromwell. He still wore no hat, so his slightly long hair was ruffled by the ride, and his coat was as muddy as his formerly shining boots.

“Mr. Jenkins of The Crown and Lion is sending his carriage and a doctor. They should be here soon,” Lord Bromwell said as he drew the brown saddle horse to a halt and dismounted.

Nell discovered she couldn't meet his steadfast gaze as he came toward them. The memory of those moments in his arms and especially of his kiss were too vivid, too fresh, too disturbing. Instead, she continued to wipe Thompkins's forehead, even though the bleeding had stopped.

Lord Bromwell's boots came into her line of sight. “I trust the patient is resting comfortably?”

“Aye, my lord,” Thompkins replied, “although my head hurts like the devil.”

“You're not dizzy or sleepy?”

“Not a bit, my lord. The young lady and I have been having a fine time.”

The toe of Lord Bromwell's boot began to tap. “Have you indeed?”

“Aye. I told her about the time you drove the coach, and we talked about yer book.”

She risked a glance upward, to discover that Lord Bromwell looked even more rakish and handsome with his hair windblown and his shirt still open and the hint of whiskers darkening his cheeks. However, his expression was grave, his blue-gray eyes enigmatic, and his full lips that could kiss with such devastating tenderness betrayed no hint of emotion.

She swallowed hard as she looked back to the driver.

“I wasn't aware you were the famous Lord Bromwell,”
she said, determined that he appreciate that, although what kissing him without the excuse of his fame might suggest about her, she didn't want to consider.

“Forgive me for being remiss and not introducing myself sooner. And you are?”

“Eleanor Springford, my lord,” she lied, hoping he would mistake her blush for bashfulness and not shame.

The driver's eyes twinkled with mischief. “We were talking about yer tattoo, too.”

“It's a common practice among the South Sea islanders,” Lord Bromwell gravely replied, as if it was the polite thing to do, like taking tea. “Ah, here comes Jenkins's carriage.”

With that, he strode off to meet it, leaving Nell to wonder what such a man would make of her if he ever learned the truth.

“
T
he supper will be served in half an hour, my lord,” Jenkins announced from the door of the slightly smaller, more cramped room Bromwell had taken when they returned from the scene of the accident so that Miss Springford could have the better one. “The wife's glad she killed that chicken this afternoon, or she'd be in some state now, I can tell you, what with you here and all.”

“I've been here plenty of times before,” Bromwell replied as he reached for his brush, determined not to look a complete mess when he went below. “She should know I like everything she makes, especially her tarts. When I
was stranded on that strip of sand, I would have sold my soul for one.”

“Tush, now, my lord, that's almost blasphemy, that is!” Jenkins cried, although he beamed as proudly as if he made the tarts. “I'll be telling the wife, though. She'll be pleased.”

“As I am by her tarts,” Bromwell said, bringing his hair into some semblance of order, although it occurred to him that it was in need of a trim.

“Ah, here's Johnny now with your baggage, my lord.”

“Thank you,” Bromwell said as the boy carried in his small valise.

With another nod, Jenkins left him to change, followed by the gaping Johnny, who paused on the threshold to look back and whisper, eyes wide. “Was you really nearly et by cannibals, my lord?”

“I might have been, if they had caught us,” Bromwell replied gravely, and quite truthfully.

The lad's eyes grew even wider.

“If you'll excuse me,” Bromwell said, starting to close the door.

The lad nodded and disappeared.

Bromwell shut the door with a sigh. He was seriously beginning to wish he'd left that part of his voyage out of his book. Everybody asked about it, to the exclusion of many other fascinating events and observations.

Well, in mixed company, at any rate, he thought as he took off his soiled shirt, trousers and stockings. When he was with men after suppers or in the clubs, they wanted to know about the women and sexual practices, waiting with avid and salacious curiosity.

They were inevitably disappointed when he began describing the flora and fauna of the islands, including spiders,
instead. Sometimes, if they listened and were patient, he would describe a
heiva
, a celebration involving dancing, the
otea
done by men, the
upa upa
by couples, and the
hura
, called hula in Hawaii, danced exclusively by women.

Recalling some of those dances and the dancers who'd performed them, he donned a clean white shirt, woollen trousers and stockings. What would Eleanor Springford think of those dances?

What would she think if she knew he'd participated?

Between that, and his insolent kiss, she'd certainly think he was no gentleman, although her response hadn't been exactly ladylike, either.

He suddenly remembered that he'd heard her name before, and his heart began to pound as if he were again participating in an
otea
.
Lady
Eleanor Springford was the daughter of the Duke of Wymerton. She was also one of the many young ladies his mother had mentioned in hopes he would take a wife and stop chasing after spiders.

What the devil was a lady of her wealth and family doing dressed in such plain, inexpensive clothes and travelling alone in a mail coach headed to Bath?

He had no idea, but he doubted it was a pleasure trip.

If she was in some sort of trouble, it was his duty to help her; it would be his duty whether she was twenty and pretty, or sixty and the homeliest woman he had ever met.

Determined to speak with Lady Eleanor and offer her any assistance he could render without further delay, Bromwell hurried down to the dining room.

But when he entered, he found the room full of people he'd never seen before, and he couldn't see the duke's daughter anywhere.

Everyone fell silent when they realized he had arrived,
so he plastered a weak smile on his face and, as he continued to silently search for Lady Eleanor, again damned the fame he'd never wanted.

“Oh, my lord! What a tragedy!” cried an overdressed, middle-aged woman wearing a silk gown overburdened with ruffles and frills, in a shocking combination of orange and pink that wouldn't have looked out of place in a bordello.

She hurried toward him past a group of silent, brawny men. He suspected they were local farmers or tradesmen dragged here to meet the famous naturalist by their wives, many of whom were equally colorfully dressed in the latest styles.

“Indeed, it was a most unfortunate occurrence,” he muttered, unable to look directly at that gown another moment.

“I've been after them to fix that road,” a man growled as he ran a puzzled gaze over Bromwell, thinking, no doubt, that the viscount didn't look like a world-famous explorer.

Bromwell had long since given up trying to explain that he was a different sort of explorer, that his journey had been intended to find flora, fauna, insects and especially spiders, not lands to claim, people to conquer or resources to exploit. “May the local government take heed,” he said politely.

“They will if you write a letter to the
Times
about it,” the man declared as Jenkins appeared, dressed in what was surely his Sunday best.

Bromwell's discomfort increased as Jenkins introduced him to the local gentry like he was some prized possession Jenkins was eager to show off, beginning with the man who'd complained about the roads. Since Bromwell liked Jenkins, he submitted, but he also continued to look for Lady Eleanor, until he decided she must be dining in her room.

This was going to be a long evening, he thought as he stifled a sigh, taking one last survey of the room.

At last he spotted her, crammed into the corner as far as she could get and wearing a flowing gown of pale blue silk like something fairies had cut out of a summer's sky. Unlike the other women's gowns, the cut was simple, with a bodice high in the back, a modest neckline, tight sleeves and only one ruffle at the hem. Her dark brown hair, which had been covered by her simple straw bonnet, proved to be thick and lustrous in the candlelight. It had been done simply, yet elegantly, around her gracefully poised head. In spite of the simplicity of her gown and hair, she was easily the most elegant, best-dressed woman in the room.

Having been blessed with uncommonly good eyesight, however, he immediately noticed something odd. Unlike the clothing she'd been wearing earlier, her gown did not fit properly. It was too large in the bodice, gaping where it should be snug, and tight under the arms. The length wasn't quite right, either, as if it had been made for a slightly taller woman.

Excusing himself from the group surrounding him, he immediately made his way toward her.

“Good evening,” he said with a bow when he reached her and kissed her gloved hand, keeping his attention on her solemn face.

It took every ounce of his self-control not to glance down at that gaping bodice.

He'd want to hit any man who did, even if it was one of his friends.
Especially
if it was one of his handsome, charming, interesting friends.

“Good evening, my lord,” she said, her expression im
passive, her eyes unreadable, as she inclined her head and he realized her gloves didn't fit properly, either.

“How is Thompkins?” she asked as she pulled her hand away.

“Well on the road to recovery,” he replied. “He won't be able to drive for a few days, though.”

“I'm glad to hear he'll suffer no permanent injuries. We shall require a different driver, though. Perhaps you, my lord?” she suggested, giving him a questioning look that both embarrassed and delighted him.

“I've given up my career as a driver. Much too risky.”

Her beautiful eyes widened. “Unlike travelling around the world to all sorts of savage places looking for spiders?”

“Ah, but I don't attempt to captain the vessel. I'm merely a passenger.”

She laughed, a lovely, musical sound that went straight to his heart.

For the first time, he understood how his friends had fallen so deeply in love with their wives, and so quickly. He had always found that baffling, for they had all been men of the world who'd had other liaisons with beautiful women before meeting the women they married. Or in Brixton Smythe-Medway's case, realizing the woman who would make him blissfully happy had been his acquaintance from boyhood.

Not that he was lacking similar worldy experience with women, but when Lady Eleanor laughed and her eyes sparkled as she looked at him, he felt as if she was the only woman he would ever want to be with for any length of time. Ever.

He immediately stepped back. She might be in trouble and he would help her if he could, but he had to be free of emotional entanglements.

“Ah, here's the supper!” Jenkins announced, giving him the opportunity to beat a hasty retreat.

“You sit at the head, my lord,” the innkeeper invited, “since you're the guest of honor.”

Bromwell acknowledged his request with an inclination of his head and took his place, relieved to see that Lady Eleanor was to be seated at the far end of the table covered with a long white cloth and sporting what was no doubt Mrs. Jenkins's best Wedgwood china. He was also asked to say the grace.

Once that was over, he turned his attention to the food.

Or at least he tried to, for despite his wish not to become involved with any woman at this point in his life, as the supper of potato soup, roasted beef, stuffed chicken, boiled vegetables and fresh bread progressed, with wine and ale and fruit, he couldn't ignore Lady Eleanor, even though he was pestered with questions.

They were the same ones he got asked every time he was in company, about the shipwreck and the cannibals. He tried to be patient and emphasize the various new species of plants, animals, insects and spiders they'd found, but nobody seemed very interested in that.

Except Lady Eleanor, whom he caught listening avidly as he described the spiders in Tahiti, although she blushed and looked away when she met his gaze.

He also noticed that Lady Eleanor ate the plain, wholesome, plentiful and delicious food with impeccable manners, as delicately and demurely as a nun, taking tiny bites. Every so often, however, she would lick her soft, full lips, a motion that was more alluring to him than the swaying of a naked Tahitian woman's hips during a
hura
.

What might have happened if they had met in London,
at Almack's, or a ball, or one of Brix and Fanny's parties? Would he have felt the same powerful attraction and found a way to be properly introduced, or would he have thought her simply another rich heiress of the sort his father was forever pestering him to marry, and avoided her completely?

Such speculation was pointless. They had met under very unusual circumstances and he had most insolently and inappropriately kissed her. She must surely think he was a rake, a lascivious libertine.

If he could help her, it might make her think more highly of him and erase the poor first impression he must have made.

Whatever the outcome, he would do all he could to discover if she required his assistance and render any aid he could before he went on to the family estate.

And then he would never see her again.

 

A few hours later, Nell waited anxiously as the full moon rose and shone in through the mullioned window. She was going to have to leave without paying her bill. She had very little money left in her purse and no idea how long it might be before she could earn more.

The bright moonlight would mean it would be easier for someone to notice her as she absconded, but it also meant she would be better able to see where she was going. Since the only mode of transportation she could afford was her feet, she didn't want to fall and injure herself.

What would her parents say if they knew what she'd done today, and yesterday and the day before that? They had tried to raise a good woman, sacrificing much to send her to an excellent school, to learn manners and deportment and etiquette, to be the equal of any well-born gentlewoman.

All for nothing. It was a mercy they were dead, so they would never know what had happened to her, and what she'd done.

Hoping everyone was asleep at last, she rose and, taking her valise in her hand, eased open the door and listened again. She heard nothing, save for the occasional creak of bed ropes from Lord Bromwell's room.

Perhaps he wasn't alone. It had sounded as if he'd come up the stairs by himself after she had retired; nevertheless, she wouldn't be surprised to learn that he had a woman with him—some comely serving maid or one of the women at supper who had been gawking at him. She could well believe women had vied for his favors even before he'd become famous, and he must practically have to beat them off with a stick since his book had been published.

If he had come to expect such a reaction, it was no wonder he'd kissed her and then sought her out before dinner, even though it should have been obvious she didn't want to have anything more to do with him. She couldn't.