“Yes. At first I considered it a small inconvenience that prohibited her from writing, a sickness or house full of visitors, any social obligation, though we never missed, ever, not even on the holidays. We’d become quite close through our correspondence. She even sent me a miniature, drawn by a family friend.” His voice went soft and the table’s participants leaned closer. “She was the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.” Penwick cleared his throat and seemed to mentally reassemble himself. When he spoke again, his usual tenor was restored. “After a while I could no longer sit idle and watch the post, the disappointment too burdensome to bear, so I traveled across England into Shropshire to find her.” Penwick had worked himself into a pelter, and he swallowed the remaining liquor in his glass, fortifying himself for the questions he knew his answer prompted.
“The address was on the envelope?” Oliver’s eyes were wide now.
“Of course. We intended to meet when she was ready. We’d professed our feelings in those letters, at least, I thought we had. It was only distance keeping us apart. Not delicate admiration. I was invigorated to make the trip and finally meet my lady.”
The three men leaned closer still, determined not to miss a word. At the center of a cacophony of male jollity, their collective attention remained frozen in wait of Penwick’s next sentence.
He inhaled, drawing strength from their anticipation, his face a genuine reflection of despair. “When I arrived, I discovered the house had been sold with little trace of where my lady had gone. I gleaned scraps of information from anyone willing to listen to my story, but I’m afraid I appeared so scatter-witted and frantic, I soon earned the reputation of a being befogged and the town folk became guarded more than hospitable. Word spread like the pox and in the length of a hiccup everyone in Shropshire regarded me as a danger, protecting the information they once might have offered willingly had I not behaved in such a distraught manner.
“I returned home to discover I’d inherited a title, the only remaining male in my family lineage, and I made haste for London.” He exhaled heavily. “The rapidity of the events have proven discombobulating though my sentiments for the lady have not dulled in the least. The only way I can think to forget her is to take another, and force the notion that I may still build an acceptable life if I replace her memory…though it is a rare day when I do not see her fair smile in my memory or recall her sensible and sweet conversation.”
Utter silence. At least at their table. No one expected Penwick’s heartfelt tale. Such an unexpected revelation, with palpable sincerity, matched by the expression on his face, one of potent sadness and dejection, humbled everyone to quietude. There would never be a finer transition to Kell’s personal torment. He may as well add to the disconsolate mood.
“I killed Nyx.”
This increased the somber atmosphere and as Kell briefly retold what had transpired, he noticed Jasper staring at his face, able to comprehend much more than the obvious.
“Well that explains the new image. You’re a coxcomb in calf-clingers.” Jasper surveyed him from collar to boots. “No trouble fitting in with the nabobs now. Still, it’s excellent to see you. Emily was disappointed when you didn’t show at our dinner party. A message might have smoothed her feathers.”
“Indeed.” Oliver agreed.
Kell had sunk into the lowest form of self-loathing with Nyx’s death and Angel’s abrupt disappearance. He hadn’t remembered the invitation but now realized he’d dug his debt of repentance deeper. He’d have to make rights with Emily soon. “Inexcusable.” It was the most he could offer at the moment.
“I’ve a beautiful stepper in my stables, Kell, a real sweet-goer among my superior cattle. When you’re ready, that is, I’ve acquired prime horseflesh from Bexhill and I’m anxious to share. We’ll make an appointment.”
“Perhaps.” Kell didn’t wish to discuss Nyx or any other horse beyond the brief explanation he’d offered. A change of subject demanded attention, a change of scenery at the very least. Old habits offered comfort. “We need a distraction from this morose evening. I know a pleasure garden in Vauxhall that can remedy any problem from broken heart to bankruptcy. Penwick? Oliver? I know better than to glance in Jasper’s direction.”
“True enough. I love Emily.”
The unabashed declaration, proud and uncomplicated, sliced Kell through the ribs. He yearned for the same. Better to keep up appearances until he accomplished his goal.
Jasper stood first, as if to distance himself from the trio of rabble-rousers, but much to Kell’s surprise the others also declined the invitation. They tossed their coins on the table and headed into the street, pausing near the fresh burn of a lamppost newly lit by a short fellow, undecipherable under his oversized beaver hat as he passed by whistling a sober tune. It was almost eerie, the way the sadness of the little man’s dirge echoed the lament of the evening.
A cat yowled nearby and pulled Kell’s line of sight to a narrow alley, the feline no more than a blue-black shadow dissolving into the dark. He raised his eyes to the sky, assessing the lack of moonlight and with a few steps detached from his friends’ conversation where Jasper had mentioned something humorous and the others shared a chuckle. Adrift in his thoughts he lowered his gaze to the neat brick building across the street, silent and lonely, despite a white shingle above the door that read Silver Key Inn ~ All Welcome. The establishment appeared shut up for the night though while he watched, a lantern was lit upstairs and a woman came into view as she made to open the window.
Just like that his heart stopped.
Time ceased its eternal march.
He struggled to breathe.
Long shimmering hair framed an angelic face in silhouette. As the woman leaned to grasp the sill, her gown flowed forward, the arch of her pale shoulders catching the lamplight. How could it be possible? She stood as motionless as he, staring into the night as if she searched too. Did she see him? Or was it a case of woebegone wishing on his part? He’d only had one drink after all. Still, his longing remained fathomless.
He swallowed doubt and stood transfixed, waiting. She turned then, the light within the room detailing her profile, outlining the woman’s stomach, round with an expected addition. His heart thumped an empty beat and he dragged in a long breath. An all too familiar ache for family, normalcy and a portrait for the wall over his hearth flooded the void of his soul. What a fool he was, chasing shadows and dreams, believing one week with an angel had somehow resurrected his heart. What was in that ale?
Damn it to hell.
He needed to cleanse his memory because none of it made sense. He’d known her one week. He didn’t need to find her. Should promptly forget her. Still her memory lingered as if she’d shared his whole life, peered into his soul, and understood all his unanswered emotions. The tide of yearning intensified and the temptation to surrender, to drown deeper in her memory, forced him to act. He jerked his attention to the group.
“I’m for the pleasure garden. Anyone joining?” He tugged at his neckcloth, wishing to be free from the linen noose.
When his friends responded in the negative, he waved goodbye and set off around the corner where his carriage waited.
Chapter Eighteen
What a foolish, senseless plan. Angelica shook her head hard, the thick braids buried under the mousy cap slipping forward before she righted them. No one had been willing to talk, aside from the less than polite gentlemen who slung bawdy remarks in her direction as she poked her head into restaurant and tavern in search of Helen. It seemed terribly unlikely her sister would remain in London and take employment with a baby on the way. Then again, very little in her life held reason. Her father’s devout dedication to religion had begun years ago at her mother’s passing, together with the strict, righteous expectations he held for Helen and herself, and now, his intention to shut her away in a convent and preserve her purity, or perhaps to marry the vicar and save face. The idea of preserving her purity rang most outrageous of all. She’d surr
endered her virtue to Benedict and never regretted a moment.
As if wishing somehow created reality, a dissonant stir drew her attention from the shadowed awning where she hid. Across the way, a gentlemen dressed as a dandy rounded the corner toward an elegant carriage, his head low, the darkness concealing his face. Her breath caught and just as well, she never need breathe again.
Benedict.
She would know his profile anywhere, and when he paused to speak to his driver she had a clear view of his handsome face etched in golden lamplight from the post as if a beacon insisted she take notice.
She scurried from under the awning, skimming the brick wall at her back, her fingertips coasting over stone and mortar to guide her as dependably as a map. She didn’t wish to be noticed, couldn’t be discovered, yet she inched closer, the need to do so overwhelming. Her memories were clear and all the better to add more images to the treasury locked in her heart.
On close inspection, she noted his attire. More unsettling was his abandonment of the roguish pirate she’d known in Brighton. Good God…he couldn’t have…no.
Straining to hear his conversation, she dared not exhale or miss a word.
“To Vauxhall, Moira. I have a pleasure garden to visit.”
“’Tis rather late to venture onward.”
“Aah, an incarnate of Bitters has accompanied me this evening. I need not a mother. I already have one of those and let it be noted she’s aware I choose my own bedtime, though my intentions have never mattered.” He chuckled deep though the laugh held no humor.
“As you wish, my lord.”
Benedict climbed into the carriage, a few strides from where she watched in the shadows. Still the coach remained, the driver unsettled on the seat as he paused to rearrange the reins.
She crept closer, no longer in control of her thoughts. She only wished to catch one last glimpse were he to look out the small square window. With silent ease, she aligned aside the carriage unbeknownst to the driver on the box, her shoulders huddled inward to create the smallest version of herself despite standing in darkness toward the rear of the conveyance.
Her heart pounded furiously—in encouragement or objection, she didn’t know—and acting on pure foolishness, she flattened against the carriage as if melding with the wall would somehow enable her to feel his heartbeat and know his warmth again.
The carriage rocked and she started, Benedict settling inside before the trip began, and then the jingle of the harness alerted her the moment would soon be lost. She needed to back away to avoid discovery or worse, injury as the coach pulled into the street, yet she didn’t move…couldn’t move.
Her fingertips rested atop the brass frame of the square window. There was nothing to see, the velvet curtain obscuring the interior, but aware he sat inside somehow made the action necessary. She shifted hardly an inch and placed her palm atop the glass. Her wrist jerked tight to prevent her progress, her charm bracelet snagged on the corner of the elaborate escutcheon framing the lantern. Eyes flared wide, she worked to wriggle the key charm from where it wedged between a crack in the brass, anxious to free herself before the driver whipped the ribbons. If she didn’t untangle herself, she’d be dragged across the cobbles, thrown under the wheels before the driver would become aware. Her heart hammered in her chest, suffocating her lungs with cold panic. When at last she managed to work the charm free, her palm slapped hard against the side of the carriage and in a flash of panic, the velvet curtain inside whipped to the right in response to the unexpected noise. For a timeless moment, she stared directly into Benedict’s confused face before the coach gave a harsh jolt forward.
Setting out in a run faster than she believed possible, Angelica hurried from the street to a nearby alley, almost stumbling over a broken barrel propped at the back door of a tavern, catching a blurred glimpse of a drowsy sot who’d passed out against its other side. Pushing from the wall, she paused to glance over her shoulder, relieved when she didn’t immediately see a pursuer, and then continued down the street at a lesser gait, not wishing to draw further attention.
She kept her chin down, the silence of the streets a reassurance she’d narrowly missed an unexplainable confrontation, no matter that a sob clogged her throat in objection. Benedict had looked shocked and angry, so very angry. She had no other words to describe the glinting flash of betrayal in his eyes. Cautious, as she needed to find a hackney and return home before further disaster struck, she secured the safety of the coins in her pocket and slipped down the closest alleyway where a small lantern protruded from a wall up ahead. She walked toward the sallow light, hopeful it indicated a waiting hackney stand, aware of the danger she tempted, and desperate for the security of her bedchamber.
Footfalls echoed behind her, boot heels on cobbles, hard and fast, and her heart responded with its own panicked tattoo. Thieves, drunkards, and criminals owned the night and now that she’d strayed so far from Hay Market, who knew what terror she’d invited. Her lungs heaved with each exhalation. Still the steps came closer. Whoever had decided to investigate her person wasted no time in the quest. Her slippers couldn’t carry her fast enough. Unencumbered by traditional dress, she was quick to move though the next three steps brought her to a brick wall and an unanticipated dead end. Fear became a stranglehold and with a silent appeal skyward, she prayed for divine intervention, balled her fists tight, and whirled to confront her pursuer.
Only to stop a hairsbreadth from colliding with Benedict.
Benedict.
Immovable, and heavenly.
Hard chest. Hard stare.
Thank God.
“You ran from me?” Accusation lent his words a steely edge, though an undertone of hurt managed to survive.
“You scared me.” Her excuse sounded paltry as it quivered forward.
“You left me.” The slow-spoken indictment threatened as he took one last step, towering over her in the ambient darkness.
Here lay true danger.
“You…” she fought the urge to sag against his chest and press kisses to his face “…cut your hair.” There was no mistaking her despair. She unclenched her fists, all of a sudden undeniably grateful and wanting nothing more than to be cherished in his embrace.
He claimed her mouth, took her words with a kiss, the hard slash of his lips wanting to punish as much as seduce, and she acquiesced, melting into him with equal measure of unleashed hunger.
There was no gentleness, their joining composed of succinct pleasure and raw need, a graceless desire that needed to be satisfied. Fear, turned relief, turned desire. Her mouth opened in welcome, his tongue thrust in with urgency and she moaned her approval, owning her fierce yearning, begging for reprieve from the relentless ache. He dragged his tongue against her lips, tasting and licking, nipping in wholly erotic seduction, and she felt the stroke of his tongue everywhere—the nape of her neck, the tender peaks of her nipples, down deep, between her legs.
She’d lost her breath from running like the wind and seeking escape. She’d regained the same when Benedict gathered her into the shelter of his arms. Yet as soon as his mouth took hers, she became breathless all over again.
He pinned her to the bricks with his body, a solid wall of protection and menace, his hands touching, soothing, seeking to satisfy and tempt. With an artless gesture he removed her cap, the ribbons holding her braids discarded soon after. His nails abraded her scalp as he threaded his fingers and combed through the lengths. And still they continued the kiss, unwilling to shatter the fantasy and expose the truth that they stood in an alley stealing a moment that could never last.
The hour was past, too late for thinking, and for reason and common sense. She wanted him. Needed him, and in a quaking moment of realization, she owned what her heart knew all along. She loved him. Not because of their intimacy. Not the risk or adventure. Nor the vulnerability or peril of her situation. No. It was the undeniable pull that kept her connected to him, no matter if days or weeks passed without contact or conversat
ion. The sense of peace and pride, the belief that with him she could envision a future filled with happiness. It was what she’d sought from the moment she’d vowed to journey to Brighton and experience effortless life. It was more. He was more, and while she knew she could never have him, never make this moment last longer than what it was, she would treasure it, offer herself and drench him in her respect and adoration. Allow him to know how very preciously he’d touched her heart.
“I want you.” She whispered her confession.
He chuckled against her neck, low and husky, as if her admission amused him. Meanwhile his hot breath sent a frisson of anticipation down her spine and she swayed deeper into his embrace.
“No, you don’t. You tried to run away.” His murmur was almost lost in her sigh of pleasure.
He nipped her skin, smoothed her sleeve from her shoulder, and exposed her to the chilled night, only to press heated caresses in the same place, the juxtaposition of sensations enthralling.
“Because I didn’t know what to do. I shouldn’t be here.” She tried to offer explanation though she’d rather not talk at all.
“You needn’t be here.” He paused mid-sentence and traced the same area where he’d painted a design on the exposed skin of her chest.
She almost missed the words, spoken so softly though their meaning rang loud. She might have objected had her mind not fogged with desire and interjected she belonged to no one, but then he finished his sentence and she lost all mind to speak at all.
“Come home with me.”
“Why?” The word possessed every emotion, demanded all her courage, and she stilled, the world slowly returning. He placed a soft kiss to her cheek as she waited.
“You intrigue me.” He stated it as if he’d discovered a rare gem, his voice short of breath, his body strained against hers. He lifted a hand and replaced her sleeve, then cupped her cheek to stare into her eyes with enough emotion to cause her to believe herself precious.
Society's Most Scandalous Viscount Page 18
