The Viscount's Kiss. Margaret Moore
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men came to him.
He hadn’t even gone to Dover when his son had returned after two years at sea.
“I came to bring you home to your mother,” the earl announced.
As if he were a child who’d run away after a fit of pique, Bromwell thought, his jaw clenching, very aware that Lady Eleanor was watching from the taproom door.
He’d noticed her at once, of course, drawn to her presence like a migrating swallow to Capistrano, feeling her proximity before he saw her. Like his ability to know what time it was without consulting a watch or clock, he couldn’t explain the phenomenon; it simply was.
As she was simply lovely, and exciting, and the most desirable women he’d ever met.
“Your poor mother was beside herself when we received your message about the accident,” his father declared, making Bromwell instantly wish he hadn’t sent it, even if his delayed arrival might cause her to worry.
“Never fear, my dear, I said,” his father continued, raising his hand as if calling upon supernatural powers, “I shall retrieve him!”
Bromwell doubted any actor currently appearing at the Theatre Royal could deliver those lines better. Indeed, at this precise moment, he could well believe his father had missed his true calling.
“I regret giving Mother any cause to worry,” he said. “There really was no need for you to come. I’m quite all right.”
“Perhaps, but it could have been otherwise. That’s what comes of selling your carriage and travelling in a mail coach!”
“Plenty of people travel in mail coaches without mishaps,” Bromwell said, although he suspected it was useless to try to make his father appreciate that such accidents weren’t common.
“Plenty of people are not the heirs of the Earl of Granshire,” his father retorted. “Fortunately, I have come to spare you any further indignities.”
It took a mighty effort for Bromwell not to roll his eyes. “Naturally, I’m grateful. If you’ll wait in the taproom, I’ll settle the bill with Mrs. Jenkins and then we can be on our way.”
The earl’s lip curled at the corner, as if his son had suggested he wait in a cesspool. At nearly the same time, however, a cool breeze blew through the yard and the door of the kitchen opened, sending forth the aroma of fresh bread.
“Very well,” the earl agreed. “Quickly, though, Bromwell. Your mother is prostrate with worry.”
That was likely true, Bromwell thought as he followed his father across the yard. She was probably lying in her chaise longue with a maid hovering nearby.
The earl halted in mid-step at the sight of Lady Eleanor. “Who is that charming creature?” he asked, not bothering to subdue his stentorian voice.
God give me strength! Bromwell thought as he hurried forward to make the introductions, wondering if he should omit the mention of her title, as she had before.
She spoke first, saving him that decision. “I am Lady Eleanor Springford,” she said with a bow of her head, “and I owe my life to your son.”
Bromwell was torn between wanting to admit the situation hadn’t been as dire as Lady Eleanor painted it and kneeling at her feet.
The earl drew himself up and placed one hand on his hip. “I would expect no less of my son.”
“Her ladyship was quite an angel of mercy to the poor coachman,” Mrs. Jenkins interjected, coming up behind her like a large and vibrant acolyte. “They make a lovely couple, don’t you think?”
Bromwell’s heart nearly stopped beating. What the devil had prompted Mrs. Jenkins to make such an observation—and to his father, of all people! It could only have been worse if she’d said it to his mother.
“Indeed,” his father replied, running a measuring, arrogant gaze over Lady Eleanor, who endured his scrutiny with amazing aplomb.
“Perhaps we’d all be more comfortable inside,” she suggested.
“Yes, of course,” the earl agreed. “Justinian, you may attend to your business while I share some refreshments with Lady Eleanor. Come along, my lady.”
With that, he swept her inside, calling for wine as he went, and left Bromwell standing in the yard.
Fearing what his father might say about him in his absence, Bromwell immediately followed them inside and paid Mrs. Jenkins what both he and the lady owed for their night’s accommodation.
It struck him as a little odd that the innkeeper’s wife didn’t make any comment about his payment of both bills, but he was in too extreme a state of agitation to dwell upon it. No doubt she thought he was merely being a gentleman.
That done, he hurried to join his father and Lady Eleanor by the hearth, taking note that there were only two glasses of wine and his father had already finished his.
“Ah, Bromwell, here you are!” the earl exclaimed as if his son had been miles away instead of across the room. “Were you aware that Lady Eleanor’s father is the Duke of Wymerton? I went to school with him, you know.”
No, he hadn’t known that his father and the Duke of Wymerton had been at the same school, although perhaps he should have guessed. His father seemed to have gone to school with eighty percent of the nobility. That might explain why so many were, like his father, woefully ignorant of anything except the classics. Even then, their grasp of those subjects was often rudimentary at best.
“Did you indeed, Lord Granshire?” she asked. “He’s never mentioned it.”
That didn’t please his father, but at least he didn’t accuse her of lying. “What brings you to Bath at this time of year, my lady?”
“I’m going to visit my godfather, Lord Ruttles.”
“I don’t think so.”
Lady Eleanor started, as well she might, at his father’s firm response.
“He’s hunting grouse in Scotland and won’t be back for at least a month,” his father continued.
Unfortunately for Lady Eleanor, that was probably true. His mother had a prodigious correspondence and kept abreast of all the nobility’s comings and goings.
“Rutty always was absentminded,” the earl remarked, then he smiled as if he’d just solved all the world’s ills. “You must come and stay at Granshire Hall until he returns, Lady Eleanor. My wife and I would be delighted to have you.”
Bromwell didn’t quite know how to react. On the one hand, as he himself had said, that would be the safest place for Lady Eleanor. On the other hand, perhaps that wasn’t the best idea after all.
Unfortunately, and despite his best efforts, he seemed incapable of maintaining a due sense of propriety and decorum in her presence. It was as if he imbibed some sort of potent brew that took away all restraint when she was nearby—and it seemed she had a similar reaction to his presence. How else to explain that second passionate kiss? That had certainly been at her instigation, not his, even if he’d been too thrilled and aroused to end it at once.
As he should have.
Lady Eleanor looked equally confused and hesitant. “Oh, my lord, I don’t think I should impose—”
“Nonsense! It’s no imposition at all,” the earl interrupted. “Indeed, you would be doing us a great favor. My son has been too much among sailors and other savages. He needs to spend more time with civilized people and young ladies in particular, or I despair that he’ll ever attract a suitable wife.”
Bromwell nearly groaned out loud. His father had been told more than once that he wasn’t ready to marry and wouldn’t be for years. “Father, it may be that Lady Eleanor would prefer to arrange—”
“You see, my lady?” the earl cried. “His