Society's Most Scandalous Viscount. Anabelle Bryant
didn’t dislike peers, born a lady by way of her father’s lineage, she despised pretentious displays of wealth, as she surmised was the intention of the well-built country manor near the jetty, perched high above the ocean like a king on his throne, glaring down on everyone and everything below it. Tonight, she’d been the recipient of its condescending stare, no matter that it was desolate and silent. Her grandmother’s quaint cottage certainly had imposing company, even though the manor stood unoccupied.
She replaced the brush on the vanity and climbed between the sheets as her thoughts flittered to her father’s most recent letter imploring her to return to London. Not enough time had passed. It was still too fresh, too painful, and she hadn’t experienced sufficient freedom before confining herself to the reality that waited in the city. When she’d boarded her carriage and directed the coachman to Brighton, she’d vowed to live an alternate life. To take more chances, make daring choices and, above all else, experience life in ways that would soon become impermissible. There was no need for anyone to know her real name in Brighton. She would be gone before her identity mattered. And with the intent to stay at her grandmother’s cottage a short time and no longer, what difference could it ever bear on her future?
She’d find a handsome man and grant him a kiss. She’d walk through the market free of a footman or maid. She’d dance on the sand near the ocean’s edge without worry her nightdress became transparent from the mist and her hair tangled into a salty, knotted mess. She’d taste freedom and relish it, fully knowing the experience was fleeting and temporary.
Good heavens, she’d just turned two and twenty. A whole world lay before her, an entire life to lead, or so she’d once believed. Now if she could manage to experience the wonders of spontaneity for a few weeks, she’d have accomplished her goal and would be resolved to a future she had no power to change.
Her deep exhalation was one of compromise and contentedness, the exact prescription needed to cleanse her soul and solidify her will before returning to London. With that reassuring resolution, she fell asleep with ease.
Brilliant sunlight sliced across Kell’s brow and caused him to wince as he strode through the wicket and down the gravel drive to the stable, a good distance from the house. The after effects of last night’s brandy loitered on the edges of his lucidity. Nothing cleared the mind like a bracing ride and Nyx would be equally anxious for their early morning jaunt. The animal was in tune to his master’s rhythm and routine as if they shared one mind and purpose. Nyx was sired by a historic lineage similar to Kellaway; possessed an instinctive restlessness, which required frequent exorcising similar to Kellaway; and exhibited sharp reflexes, exacting skill, and unending endurance similar to Kellaway. The combination of their two spirits would prove lethal someday, but that was the way of things. No one’s tomorrow was guaranteed. One needed to live for the moment.
Reaching the immaculate stable, Kell paused to admire his superior mount. He’d traveled to the Arabian Peninsula to purchase the animal, the journey long and grueling, filled with unexpected events, but it was worth every pound to claim Nyx as his own. With a different language precluding conversation as he traipsed across the barren continent, the horse became his confidant and ally—their mutual respect having intensified over the years.
With an abject note of disconsolation, Kell realized he’d be lonely without the horse. His fondness made their relationship seem more like companionship than owner and animal. Dispelling these thoughts, he picked up the boar’s hair brush and set to the Arabian’s grooming. After a time, as was natural habit, he began a one-sided conversation.
“We’ll have a run on the beach this morning. I’d like a look at the jetty.” He tossed the brush into the box near his feet and gave the horse’s muzzle a quick rub. “I doubt I’ll find any trace of her, but I’ll not be satisfied until I look.” He hoisted the saddle over the blanket spread across the Arabian’s elegant back. Kell was taller than most, standing above six feet, but Nyx was not to be defeated and claimed a height of sixteen hands. Her glossy coat reflected every nuance of light in its blue-black sheen and her thick mane, wild and tousled from between her ears well back into the withers, declared she was a figment of one’s imagination more than an actual being. Nyx snorted as if she granted approval of the morning plan.
“She was a pretty bit of muslin.” He didn’t bother with further explanation or preparation. Once the leather straps were buckled, he grabbed a handful of mane and with a high leap off the grooming box, hoisted into the saddle and settled. The horse hardly sidestepped, waiting for a command.
With a sharp click of the tongue and pressure from his knees, Kell issued his instructions and they exited the stable to follow a dirt road leading away from the coast. There was only one safe access route to the beach from the formidable height of East Cliff and despite impulsive and, at times, reckless ventures on foot down the embankment at the rear of the house, Kell would never risk the same with the Arabian, so they rode at an easy gallop and only slowed as they approached a grassy clearing not far from the main road.
It appeared a fair was to be erected in the coming weeks as a cluster of wagons and tilts were unpacked, the merchant stands assembled by a group of workers. Annual events were habit of the townspeople though Kellaway rarely merged with the population other than an occasional visit to the tavern or necessary trip to the mercantile shops. And perhaps a trip or two into town in search of warm company.
He scanned the field with a sharp eye, observing the activity before he continued down the sloping roadway adjacent to the shoreline. The road progressed in a series of wide arcs, lined with heath and bilberry, and offered a circuitous decline to the beach below despite the fact that it took additional maneuvering. This location, away from the fishing village and apart from where travelers frequented to partake of the salt air and seawater’s curative benefits, offered rare privacy.
At last they arrived and in less than a breath Nyx accelerated to full gallop at the water’s edge, the firmly packed sand echoing the thunder of her hooves. Kell breathed in the salt air, rejoicing at the wind whipping his face, allowing the horse to race at breakneck speed. The gulls overhead squawked their encouragement. They galloped hard for half a mile before he signaled to slow, then slid from the saddle and approached the rocky crag where he’d spotted the mysterious mermaid dancing at the water’s edge the night before. Her image had stayed with him through the night, maintaining clarity as he opened his eyes to the new day.
His mouth hitched in a half smile, bemused by his foolish mission. Had he expected to find her small footprints indelibly etched in the sand? A strand of spun gold across the rocks or a bit of opalescent seaweed as evidence of her existence? Attentive to this preoccupation, his boots stained from the salty foam, he muttered a well-used expletive and turned to leave, the reflective glint of a sunray beckoning his attention at the last second. With a raised brow, he stepped closer to the nearest rock, flat as a tabletop and the most sensible place to steady a lantern. He expected to find a shard of broken glass. Instead, a small metal key lay wedged between two boulders, safely in wait of his discovery, unwilling to be swept into the sea by the aggressive tide.
Producing the dagger kept tucked in his left boot—for his right boot housed his pistol—he pried the key free and flipped it into the air, catching it with a chuckle. Under examination it proved no more impressive than a lamp key, but it confirmed, after all, his mermaid’s existence.
Angelica refilled her grandmother’s cup and then her own. She locked the expensive tea blend of cardamom and dried cherries in the satinwood caddy on the sideboard using the key on a string around her wrist. Despite her father’s shortcomings, financial security was not one. He provided generously for his mother in her quaint Brighton cottage and, therefore, provided for his daughter as she took refuge. Fine carved furniture filled each room and wool carpets were scattered about to chase away any wayward chill. Grandmother decorated in soft tones of honey yellow and leaf green, welcoming the outside world in and creating a home as conducive to soothing comfort as to practicality.
It was a small miracle Father had allowed her the visit, although on occasion she experienced an unwarranted tinge of guilt