Society's Most Scandalous Viscount. Anabelle Bryant

Oh, the lady was no mermaid. Even covered by the thin skirt of her gown, he could tell her legs went on forever, and as he fell in beside her, shortening his stride to keep pace, he took in every nuance of her appearance, his piqued interest evident in the reaction of a distinct part of his lower anatomy.

      She could almost look him in the eye. An untouched beauty was a clever find, but one with height proved a rare treasure. Hair, as golden and lush as he imagined, cascaded down the line of her back in a waterfall of waves and curls kept at bay by a thick ribbon of no particular color. She stood taller than most women, yet remained delicately built, slim aside from ample breasts so high and full his hands grew restless. The slight curve of her hips was visible beneath the slope of her gown. It reminded him of the gauzy nightdress that had silhouetted her round bottom in the moonlight.

      His cock remembered too.

      Her face was one of classic features with high cheekbones, almond-shaped eyes beneath long lashes, and mesmeric irises the greenest blue he’d ever seen, glistening as if they consisted of ocean water teased by the sunlight, alive and turbulent with thoughts and emotions. She hadn’t said a word in response to his intrusion, although he noted a flicker of unease in her face as she raised her gaze. Still she didn’t object to his sudden interruption to her day. Last evening she’d also lacked proper guard of her personal safety.

      Good thing he’d happened along.

      When she made an abrupt stop, he missed a step, lost in his personal reverie. Abbreviating his momentum, he pivoted to walk backwards while she continued forward.

      “My lord.”

      She spoke with inflection on the second word, the utterance more exclamation than greeting. One slender brow rose like an arrow to the sky before she turned to view the road ahead with a bewitching swish of skirts.

      His smile threatened to emerge at her feisty response. Though at first glance she appeared refined, this was no high-born lady. Or perhaps she’d abandoned her pedigree in lieu of a fiery tongue. That idea prompted another smile and this time he allowed it freedom. “May I be of service? Have you lost your way?” He darted a look left and right for added effect.

      “So you’re a rescuer of unaccompanied women?” She eyed his hair, open collar, and lack of cravat with cynical condemnation, and while she didn’t pause to allow his answer, the tilt of her eyebrows expressed volumes. “And here I assumed you a loose-moraled bounder breaking the dawn on a magnificent animal won in a low-profile gaming hell where bored aristocrats waste time and money.” Her eyes moved to Nyx who trotted several yards in front of them.

      When he didn’t respond to her setdown, a peal of merry laughter, brighter than the sun, grabbed his attention and all at once he was focused on her mouth, her lips extremely kissable. “You have it all wrong, although I bow to your opinion of uppers.” He’d be damned to admit his title now. Not when their verbal sparring ignited his curiosity, a trait that had been in danger of death by boredom since leaving London.

      She slanted him a look of disbelief.

      “Do you reside in Brighton?” He flipped a glance to Nyx and back again, determined not to let the lady out of sight.

      “I live nowhere in particular and certainly not here.”

      Her facetious reply warned she was in no mood for conversation, his company as welcome as a mosquito’s, though he swore a glint of amusement danced in her eyes to convince him the sting of her words hid a spark of inquisitive interest. He considered returning the lamp key, but years at the gaming tables had taught him never to tip his hand. Everything presented a gamble in one way or another. It was how one played through that proved exceptional skill.

      “Then I shan’t bother you further.” He winked, encouraged she hadn’t threatened him off after his bold interruption to her morning stroll. He gave a sharp whistle and Nyx returned. Grabbing a fistful of mane, he hoisted himself atop the mare, the animal anxious as it mouthed the bit. He hoped he’d meet this mermaid again, only next time he’d employ a different approach.

      He returned home at a fast pace, clearheaded and energized by the chance meeting, amused more than chagrined. After securing Nyx in the stall with a fresh portion of hay and brief conversation, he entered the manor to idle away his time until the evening hours. Darkness suited him more than daylight.

      He’d barely breached the door before being set upon by Bitters, the multi-purpose servant seemingly agitated if his pinched expression could be trusted.

      “I’ve dispatched Wilton to his familial home in Berkshire. His father’s health has declined and I saw no reason to retain him in the position of groundskeeper when he was distraught and needed elsewhere.” Bitters stood as high as Kell’s shoulder, but his voice boomed in the foyer with the same force as the regent’s herald.

      “Very good. A rare show of compassion, but resourceful all the same.” It cut to the bone that his groundskeeper had a more genuine relationship with his sire than Kell experienced with his own.

      “Further praise is due. I’ve already filled the position.” Bitters paused and Kell remained silent. When it was clear no additional compliment was forthcoming, the servant continued. “No sooner did Wilton depart than a stout man appeared at the doorstep seeking employment. He provided extensive references, listing every position from gardener in Guildford to lamplighter in London, although I daresay what he requires most is a respectable grooming as his outlandish mustache was as long as his extensive referrals.” The latter was stated mostly as an aside. “Still, it’s serendipity, pure and simple. He begins at the end of the week.”

      “Cease.” The command issued clear warning that Kell anticipated the servant’s next words, yet Bitters persevered.

      “I’ve also cleaned the glass and replaced your liquor.” These words came out at a lower tone although the implied message remained clear: “You’re a better man than this.”

      And so to the core of the conversation, more than inessential discussions of servants and their posts. Kell clenched his fists. He’d ordered the man to stop speaking. “As is your responsibility. You are in my employ.” He remained with his back toward Bitters, unwilling to accept chiding or rehash a drubbed subject. He knew society labeled him a debauched outcast. Close on the heels of this fodder was the warning he knew not how to love or be loved, his upbringing having poisoned him to genuine affection. Popular belief upheld the rumors he perpetuated his outlandish folly because at the root of it all, his heart was hollow and his purposes shallow.

      “Drowning one’s sorrows in brandy is rarely a productive alternative. Of late you hardly resemble your title. You’re a viscount, grandson to the Duke of Acholl, and the single legitimate heir.”

      God’s teeth, the man could ignite his temper. Bitters’ tone had transformed to one of concern, but Kell wanted nothing of it. “And you are my steward. One with a long tongue and a short memory. I haven’t requested your counsel. I pay you to replace the liquor when the bottle is empty and clean my mess whenever necessary.” It was either drown in brandy or take a long walk into the sea. Bitters knew better than to poke a stick in a cage built from cruel emotion and broken promises. “It’s incredibly poor form to listen at keyholes and crawl inside escutcheons.”

      “Perhaps.” A few hollow ticks of the clock on the shelf marked an obtrusive lull. “A messenger arrived while you were out. Lords Nicholson and Penwick will pay call for luncheon.”

      Without further comment Kell took the stairs two at a time, entered his study, and slammed the oak panels to punctuate his distemper. Bitters meant well, of that Kell was certain, the servant having witnessed him at his worst when he’d vacated London after a scandalous public scene a few months prior, rife with humiliation and disgraced by common fisticuffs. Tongues likely wagged on with ceaseless speculation. He feared the incident had turned him into a pariah. Kell and his father were renowned for their tumultuous relationship. Having had their personal turmoil displayed in a London square had upped the ante, but if it served to highlight his father’s poor choices, Kell accepted the embarrassment with pleasure.

      And Bitters