Society's Most Scandalous Viscount. Anabelle Bryant

against the horse’s neck. He’d gather strength from the animal. He’d draw endurance.

      But instead of his mind combating the numerous conflicts his mother might impose once he entered the house, Kell’s thoughts returned to the kiss he’d shared in the cottage and the mysterious beauty who had startled him into unexpected emotion: a depth of reaction for which he had no label. He lost himself in the sensual pleasures of women whenever he needed release, but this seemed different. This was rare and unsettling, and perhaps a shade dangerous to his well-guarded heart.

      It hardly mattered. In the daylight he had grown less sure that he would see her again. But who was she? A simple miss who lived in Brighton? She couldn’t be. Nothing about her appeared common. Not the multiple shades of gold in her flowing hair or the tide of emotions in her turquoise eyes. He recalled her scent, the sweet softness of her skin and the delicate curve of her waist beneath his palms, and his blood heated with desire. He could find joy in a woman of such tempting beauty. He could forget for a time all the wrongs, and just breathe.

      Something whispered to his soul that there was much more to discover. Their kiss had been powerful and delicate. Exquisite and impactful. A longing for more of her attention pulled at him as surely as a compass needle seeks north. He never developed attachment; a good tumble with an assortment of women composed of all particularities created his past, yet for some unidentifiable reason the mermaid’s kiss lived in him still, unresolved and impatient. He almost chuckled at the irony. Like most of his emotions, the lack of a resolution haunted.

      Another part of him, arrogant male pride perhaps, prodded that he merely needed to lay with any woman to exorcise his idle interest. A smarter man would seek a brothel with haste, but he ignored the notion. He’d come to Brighton to settle his affairs, not be towed under by further instigations.

      A loud yowl disrupted his ruminations and he lifted his head to eye an overfed tabby in the corner of the stable, its back laid level to the ground, its body collapsed as if ready to pounce on an unsuspecting rodent. There was always room for an adept mouser in the stable although the feline hunter reminded him too much of how he’d soon become prey to his mother’s request. As long as this new guest didn’t bother Nyx, Kell had no objection to the intruder.

      He offered the Arabian a final rub and set out on the gravel walk leading away from the house. Let Bitters handle his mother. The thought provoked a wry smile. Kell needed a release and without a comely female to exhaust his energy, he may as well pierce a few targets and hone his skill. He’d gather what he needed from the shed and return for Nyx. One never knew when a precise shot would prove necessary.

       Chapter Seven

      “Father, I didn’t expect you to visit. I thought we’d agreed I would spend time with Grandmother before returning home.” Angelica struggled to keep her tone even, though by the unreadable expression on her father’s face she wondered if she should rail at him in objection to his overbearing countenance or portray the compliant daughter.

      “I am traveling to Spetisbury in Dorset to visit St. Monica’s Priory. An associate suggested I pay call and I’ve accepted the invitation.” He paused as if weighing the remainder of his explanation. “It concerns your sister and our future plans.”

      The words struck her with unexpected hope. Had Father learned something of value? Could she dare believe her sister would be found? And what if Helen was discovered? The complicated tangle of secrets and lies created further confusion as each layer peeled away. “Yes, of course.” The words rushed out on an eager breath though she fought to squelch the simultaneous clash of optimism and distress. How many times had she anticipated success only to be disappointed in the end? And how did one measure victory if it caused a loved one heartache?

      Her father appeared void of the conflicted emotions Angelica harbored.

      “As Brighton is en route to Spetisbury, I couldn’t pass the thoroughfare without seeing how you fared.”

      Assuring himself she resided where she should, no doubt. Checking she hadn’t taken flight. He stated the words as if genuine concern prompted his detour, but Angelica knew better than to mislabel his sentiment as compassion. The earl wished for his plans to proceed uninterrupted and her compliance and obedience were key in his intentions. The same had prompted her trip to Grandmother’s. While she had no desire to run away as Helen had, she wouldn’t commit herself to pious dedication without a firm hold on her emotional future. What was it she wanted from life? And how would it be accomplished while keeping peace with her father? He’d already lost one daughter.

      “I hold hope for encouraging news. I miss Helen dearly.” She didn’t elaborate, the implications of the conversation heavier than her heart. Her father had all but banished Helen when he’d discovered her indiscretion. Angelica had never felt the absence of a mother figure more keenly. Instead, Helen had turned to Angelica for assistance and she’d given her the only advice she could fathom. Flee. Run as far away as possible, although the decision had cost her more than the purse full of coins she’d stolen to abet her sister’s flight. She missed Helen with a bottomless ache she could never express with tears or words. Relationships between sisters, separated by a mere ten months, were profound, intuitive, and theirs was no exception. Helen had won her freedom at a dear price: never returning home to her family. Angelica would lose her freedom and keep the latter. Life proposed a delicate balance, often disrupted by the flow of one’s choices. No matter they were two of a kind; they existed on opposite sides of reality now. The subject remained off limits with Father and Grandmother, so the frank disclosure struck everyone as unexpected.

      “For it is from within, out of a person’s heart, that evil thoughts come—sexual immorality, theft, murder, adultery, greed, malice—”

      Angelica mentally silenced the list of sins, accustomed to her father’s pious lectures.

      “—deceit, lewdness, envy, slander, arrogance, and folly.”

      He paused in his sermon though she knew better than to interrupt.

      “All these evils come from inside and defile a person.” He eyed her, waiting for a response.

      “Mark 7:21.” She begrudgingly answered the unspoken question.

      “Have you come to accept our discussion of your future or are you too preoccupied enjoying the shameful freedom your grandmother allows whenever you visit?” He swept his eyes across the landscape as if they stood in a disreputable back alley instead of a lovely seaside garden. His eyes settled on her neckline, a conservative scoop on an otherwise plain muslin day gown, yet she felt compelled to raise her hand to her throat, as if the censure of his eyes wrapped around her neck and applied pressure. She would get her words out.