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 commo
n 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.
“We have a long ride ahead. If you need to confess the thoughts weighing down your soul, I am ready to listen.”
She managed a curt nod, not trusting herself to speak for fear sentiment would clog her throat and he mistake the sound as repentance. The last thing she desired was a long conversation on preservation of her virtuous soul, but her mind wouldn’t settle.
“Mortify therefore your members which are upon the earth; fornication, uncleanness, inordinate affection, evil concupiscence, and covetousness which is idolatry.”
“Colossians 3:5.” The automatic reply came easily, that particular verse one of her father’s most preferred, but her thoughts had already wandered elsewhere.
Helen.
How she missed her. And where was she? Was she safe? What had happened after she left London? Why didn’t her father care? She flicked her eyes to his profile and then away. She surmised Father was glad to be rid of Helen and the shame he believed she brought to his title, but truly, for all his money and influence he might have secreted her to Scotland or a place designed for the most discreet situations. Angelica knew such homes existed having collected a fair share of gossip from the church’s divinity tea socials whenever she’d been forced to attend. Her father feared censure. He loathed his pristine reputation being called into question were it learned one of his daughters had fornicated out of wedlock and found herself with a babe. Wouldn’t a devout Christian wish to save the baby? Provide a home? Preach to the mother of repenting her sins?
There were verses aplenty that sermonized benevolence of family, forgiveness, and unconditional love. Why was it her father never spoke of these messages?
Instead he had shunned Helen. Renounced her. Threatened to lock her away somewhere and throw away the key. That evening’s argument had become vitriolic and frightening. When Helen had returned to her bedchamber, Angelica had been waiting and together they formulated their hasty plan. How difficult to summon regret over her sister’s flight if the alternative would have been their father’s dictates.
Her fingers found the silver bracelet around her wrist, and settling her hands in her skirt, she counted the five charms in silence, as if they were beads on a rosary, repeating the process in an effort to calm the storm of emotion brewing within. When she stilled and dropped her eyes, her fingertip rested upon the key charm, its little blue sapphire winking in a glint of sunlight. If only she could find the key to solve all the troubles of her heart.
She’d wanted a private memory to carry forward no matter what fate the future offered, but she hadn’t anticipated the pain or simultaneous discovery of hope and possibility, the tortuous wonder of not knowing what might have been. She’d miscalculated in the worst way. Regret flooded her heart in an attempt to drown out loneliness. She’d never anticipated Benedict.
“Flee from sexual immorality. Every other sin a person commits is outside the body, but the sexually immoral person sins against his own body.”
The uncanny ability of her father’s moralizing to align with her mental deliberations provoked further ill ease and her pulse lurched. She spat out the anticipated biblical verse, Corinthians 6:18, aware she’d become a hypocrite in myriad ways. Absolution required the sinner to feel regret and in that she failed. Placing a gentle touch to her shoulder, she took comfort from the secret drawn against her skin, and she closed her eyes to feign sleep and summon the warmth of Benedict’s body within hers.
Hell’s Gate comprised a geological oddity at the outer boundary of South Downs, the unusual formation made of solidified silt and fine-grained sandstone, rising in two towering columns before giving way to sand and pebble beds, then a treacherous sheared drop-off beyond. The passage, narrow and jagged, composed the challenge Kell sought to conquer. He eyed the opening, a scant space wider than a stride, and pulled Nyx to rein, aligning the horse with a clear flat path. The Arabian would do whatever he commanded. Kell adjusted his seat in the saddle, bent low over the horse’s neck, and kicked Nyx into a high gallop.
Fury drove him hard. Fury, not caused by Angel’s unexpected disappearance and the likelihood she deceived him without remorse, although that hurt burned in his gut as hot as the expensive brandy he’d consumed, but fury born from emotion compounded by years of wanting. Wanting better. Wanting more. He’d memorized the list, a litany of unfulfilled dreams. Improved relations with his parents, their genuine concern of his welfare, a typical childhood, and efficacious adulthood. Acceptance from his peers and comrades. Earned respect. A better life.
Not the façade he presented or his controlled demeanor upheld. The man others viewed as accomplished, a player of life, unaffected by controversy and indignity—a rogue often amidst scandal, able to extricate himself from any situation and land on his feet, a wide smile to disguise the empty shell carved deep by too many years of wanting something else.
Years of unfulfilled desire had hardened his heart, but much to his dismay a flicker of hope remained, fanned into full blaze by Angel’s affection. It burned in him and drove him now, the want and desire becoming an undeniable polestar. He would find her and have her. He must; no compromise was acceptable.
He kicked his horse into a harder gallop and drew a long inhalation, his heart hammering a frantic beat as Hell’s Gate grew large and intimidating in his narrowed vision. Nyx’s mane whipped his knuckles and he glanced down, catching sight of the crimson ribbon tied behind the horse’s left ear. Did it urge him forward or offer him a lifeline? He’d need to ride faster to outrun emotion and remembrance, to forget disappointment and distance himself yet again.
Too close to flinch now.
No regret.
All commitment.
He lowered his chest atop Nyx, pulling his elbows close to his ribs and flattening his knees against the horse’s barrel, tightened on the mare’s stomach.
No hesitation.
Refusal impossib
le.
He released the breath he held and flew through the opening, his yelp of victory echoing against the chalk hills to join with Nyx, who snorted in tandem, her powerful hooves pounding the earth in applause.
But elation proved fleeting as Nyx found a jolting misstep; the earth beyond Hell’s Gate was rutted and uneven from the scars of others’ failed attempts, their disappointments carved into the landscape. She whinnied, loud and high-pitched, the sound akin to a woman’s frantic scream.
Kell flew from the saddle and hit the ground, the wind knocked from his lungs with enough force to jar loose all inner misery. He lay motionless, stunned, a ringing in his ears that faded with equal torpor to the black shapes blurring his vision. At last he found breath, long and thorough, and his mind worked through the result of his victory. Nyx must have hit a rut as she finished through the pass. He exhaled with a cleansing sigh and hoisted himself up on one elbow, a congratulatory grin hitching one side of his mouth. He may have been thrown, but he still cleared the impossible, conquering Hell’s Gate at lightning speed, unscathed.
A high-pitched whinny disrupted his silent reverie, the harsh sound an immediate alert that something was wrong. As Kell shifted to gain a better view, the Arabian released a guttural snort and made to stand, collapsing on the ground in a cloud of pebbles and dust seconds later. Kell leapt up, running before he could shake his limbs loose, the bone-jarring fall he’d experienced nothing compared to the difficulty Nyx displayed. A noose of breath-choking fear wrapped around his neck, winding tighter with each step until he stood above his cherished horse, her front right leg bent at an impossible angle, the sight a knife thrust through his heart.
He stared, transfixed in horror, until a third whinny slapped him loose. He dropped to his knees in the pebbles near her leg and gripped her fragile fetlock, the ankle joint broken, rendering Nyx helpless to stand. A cold wave of consequence washed over him as he smoothed his palms along his beloved Arabian’s neck, her sharp eyes wild and dilated, her breath in labored bursts that spoke of pain. He threaded his fingers through her mane, bringing his forehead to rest against her cheek as the first tears escaped. Her eyes darted to his as he whispered words of comfort, holding her, his silent apology coursing down his cheeks. The thrum of his heart slowed another notch every time he considered what he’d caused and what he needed to do next.
Society's Most Scandalous Viscount Page 15
