The Viscount's Kiss. Margaret Moore
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accident,” Bromwell called out to the hostler as the man ran out of the stables, followed by two grooms, a stable boy and a man in livery.
Bromwell slid off the exhausted horse and, after unwrapping the excess length of the reins from around his hands, gave them to the stable boy. Meanwhile, the grooms, liveried fellows, idlers, bootblack and washerwoman gathered around them. “The mail coach broke an axle about three miles back on the London road.”
“No!” the hostler cried, as if such a thing were completely impossible.
“Yes,” Bromwell replied as the inn’s proprietor, alerted by the hubbub, appeared in the door of the taproom. He wiped his hands on the soiled apron that covered his ample belly and hurried forward at a brisk trot that was impressive for a man of his girth.
“Gad, is that you, Lord Bromwell?” Jenkins exclaimed. “You’re not hurt, I hope!”
“I’m perfectly all right, Mr. Jenkins,” the viscount replied, slapping the worst of the mud from his trousers. “Unfortunately, others are not. We need a physician and a carriage, as well as a horse for me, for I fear we won’t all fit in one vehicle. Naturally I shall pay—”
“My lord!” Mr. Jenkins cried, his red face appalled, his hand to his heart as if mortally offended. “Never!”
Bromwell acknowledged the innkeeper’s generosity with a smile and a nod. He’d always liked Mr. Jenkins, which made his father’s disparaging treatment of him even more painful to witness.
“You there, Sam,” Jenkins called to the hostler, “get my carriage ready and saddle Brown Bessie for his lordship—the good saddle, mind.
“Johnny, leave those at the door and run and fetch the doctor,” he said to the bootblack. “Quick as you can, lad.”
The boy immediately did as he was told, while the hostler and grooms returned to the stable, taking the coach horse with them. Adjusting her heavy basket on her hip, the washerwoman started back toward the washhouse and the two idlers returned to their places, where they had a good view of incoming riders and vehicles.
“Come in and have a drink o’ something while they’re getting the horse and carriage ready,” Jenkins offered. “I expect you’ll want to wash, too.”
Bromwell reached up to touch his cheek and discovered he was rather muddy there, too. “Yes, indeed I would,” he replied, following the innkeeper toward the main building, a two-storied, half-timbered edifice, with a public taproom and dining room on the lower level and bedrooms above.
Although Bromwell had lost what vanity he’d possessed years ago, believing his looks nothing to boast of especially compared to those of his friends, as he walked behind Jenkins through the muddy, straw-strewn yard, he couldn’t help wondering what his female fellow passenger had made of his appearance.
More importantly, though, what the devil had possessed him to act like a degenerate cad? To be sure, she was pretty, with the most remarkable green eyes, and he’d noticed her trim figure clad in a plain gray pelisse when she’d briskly approached the coach before getting on in London. But he’d met pretty young women before. He’d even seen several completely naked during his sojourn in the South Seas. Indeed, while he’d found her pretty, he’d had no trouble at all pretending to be asleep to spare himself any conversation before he really had fallen asleep.
If he hadn’t, he might have started to wonder sooner why a woman who spoke with such a refined accent and had such a manner was travelling unaccompanied.
She could be a governess or upper servant, he supposed, going on a visit.
Whoever she was, he should be thoroughly ashamed of himself for kissing her—and he would have been, had that kiss not been the most amazing, exciting kiss he’d ever experienced.
“Look here, Martha, here’s Lord Bromwell nearly done to death,” the innkeeper announced as he entered the taproom and addressed his wife, who was near the door to the kitchen. “The mail coach overturned.”
Mrs. Jenkins, round of face and broad of beam, gasped and bustled forward as if about to examine him for injuries.
“No one has been killed or seriously hurt, as far as I can determine,” Bromwell quickly informed her. “Your husband has already sent for the doctor and has offered replacement transportation.”
“Well, thank God nobody was badly hurt—and ain’t I been sayin’ for years them coaches were gettin’ too old to be safe?” Mrs. Jenkins declared, coming to an abrupt halt and resting her fists on her hips. She frowned at them as if they were personally responsible for the mishap and had the authority to correct everything and anything amiss with the delivery of the Royal Mail.
“Aye, Mother, you have,” her husband mournfully agreed, agreement being the best way to react to Mrs. Jenkins’s pronouncements, as Bromwell had also learned over the years. “Have Sarah bring some wine to the blue room while Lord Bromwell cleans up a bit—the best, o’ course. He’ll need it.”
“There’s clean water there already and fresh linen, my lord,” Mrs. Jenkins said briskly as she turned and disappeared into the back of the inn.
“She’s right, though,” Jenkins said as he continued to lead the way, even though Bromwell was as familiar with this inn as he was with the ancestral hall. “Them coaches are a disgrace, that’s what.”
Bromwell remained silent as they passed through the taproom, although several customers turned to stare at him and excited whispers followed in his wake.
It was not just because of the accident or his dishevelled appearance, for he heard them uttering his name and, as was all too usual, the words shipwreck and cannibals.
He was never going to get used to this sort of curious scrutiny and the agitation occasioned by his mere arrival in a room, he thought with an inward sigh. Although he was glad his book was a success and increasing interest in the natural world, it was at times like these that he longed for his former anonymity.
Had the young lady in the coach known or guessed who he was? Did that account for her heart-stopping, passionate response?
And if so, what should he do when he saw her again? How should he behave?
Jenkins opened the door to the best bedchamber. “There’s clean water in the pitcher, although it’s cold, and linen there,” he said, nodding at the simple white china set and towels on the washing stand.
“Thank you, Jenkins.”
“Sing out if you need anything, my lord.”
“I shall,” Bromwell promised as the innkeeper left the room and closed the door.
The inn’s best bedroom was small compared to his room at his father’s estate or the London town house, but comfortable and snug under the eaves, with inexpensive, clean blue-and-white cotton draperies, linen and basin set. A colorful rag rug lay on the wooden floor that creaked with every move he made, as would the bed ropes if he lay down.
His friend Drury had complained about that when he’d stopped here on his way to spend some time at Christmas a few years ago, Bromwell recalled as he stripped off his mud-spattered jacket and rolled up his sleeves.
He could just imagine the stunned expressions on his friends’ faces if he told them what he’d done today. Not shooting the unfortunate horse—they would expect no less—but that he, good old shy, studious Buggy Bromwell, had kissed a woman whose name he didn’t know and whom he’d only just met. They’d probably be even more shocked if he confided that he wanted very much to do it again.
Several times, in fact.
Of course he knew it was man’s nature to seek sexual gratification and he was not abnormal in this regard (as certain very willing young women in the South Seas could attest), but he had always behaved with due decorum in England.
Until today.
His equilibrium must have been disturbed by the accident,