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The Viscount's Kiss
Margaret Moore
Lord Bromwell is used to breaking the Ton's rules, but even he is shocked when he meets the beautiful but guarded "Lady Eleanor Springford" and they share a soul-searing kiss!Bromwell has a strong sense of duty and when he realizes she's fleeing a desperate situation, the only honorable thing he can do is offer her refuge at his country estate. Except he has no idea Eleanor is really plain Nell Springley, an impoverished lady's companion on the run, and their fledgling relationship is a scandal-in-the-making. . . .



“Are you all right?” Nell asked.
Lord Bromwell studied Nell in a way that sent the blood throbbing through her body as even the tipping coach had not.
“I believe I am undamaged. I wonder…?”
“Yes?”
“I wonder if I should attempt an experiment….”
“Experiment?” Nell repeated quizzically, having some difficulty following Lord Bromwell’s line of reasoning and, at that particular moment, not really sure what an experiment was.
With no further warning, without even knowing her name, let alone being properly introduced, the gentleman raised his head.
And kissed her.
The pressure of his lips was as light and beguiling as the brush of a moth’s wing, as delicious and welcome as warm bread and hot tea on a cold day, and more arousing than anything she’d ever experienced….

The Viscount’s Kiss
Harlequin
Historical

Praise for USA TODAY bestselling author MARGARET MOORE
“Moore continues to captivate with her latest historical.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews on A Lover’s Kiss
“Drury and Juliette will charm their way into readers’ hearts.”
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“A suspenseful, tragic romance of the first order! I recommend A Lover’s Kiss especially to readers who enjoy the Regency period.”
—Romance Reader at Heart on A Lover’s Kiss
“Margaret Moore knows how to serve up the perfect medieval tale.”
—A Romance Review on Knave’s Honor
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—The Romance Readers Connection on The Notorious Knight
“Filled with fast-paced dialogue and historical details that add depth and authenticity to the story. Readers will be well entertained.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews on My Lord’s Desire
“Colorful and compelling details of life in the Middle Ages abound.”
—Publishers Weekly on Hers To Command
“She convincingly transports you to an era of daring heroes and the women who tame them.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews

USA TODAY Bestselling Author

MARGARET MOORE
The Viscount’s Kiss


For my Dad, Clint Warren,
a hero and father who taught by quiet example

Available from Harlequin
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#266 FRANCESCA—Sylvia Andrew
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Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Epilogue

Chapter One
It has long been my dream to study these fascinating creatures in their natural habitat, to watch them as they spin their webs and go about the business of living, myself unnoticed save as another species of fauna inhabiting their world.
—from The Spider’s Web, by Lord Bromwell
England, 1820
That man does not belong here, Nell Springley thought as she surreptitiously studied the only other occupant in the mail coach headed to Bath. He’d been asleep when she’d boarded in London, and he was still asleep despite the rocking and jostling of the vehicle, his tall beaver hat tipped over his eyes and his arms crossed over his chest.
He was clearly well-to-do, for he wore a fine indigo frock coat of excellent wool and buff trousers that hugged his long legs. His blindingly white cravat, tied in an intricate and complicated knot, fairly shouted a valet’s skillful expertise. His slender fingers were likewise encased in superbly fitting kid leather gloves and his Hessian boots were so brightly polished, she could see the reflection of her skirts.
Surely a man who could afford such clothes would have his own carriage.
Maybe he was a gamester who had gambled away his fortune. If he was the sort who frequented outdoor boxing matches, that might explain why what little of his jaw and cheeks she could see had been browned by the sun.
Perhaps he’d been in the Navy. She could easily imagine that figure in a uniform, his broad shoulders topped by an officer’s braid, shouting commands and looking very dashing on the quarterdeck.
Or he could be a tosspot sleeping off a night of drunken merriment, having spent the rest of his money on wine. If that were so, she hoped he wouldn’t wake up until they arrived in Bath. She had no desire to be engaged in conversation with a sot. Or anyone else.
The coach lurched over a particularly bone-jarring bump that rattled the baggage in the boot and made the guard riding outside the coach curse. Nell, meanwhile, grabbed the seat as her poke bonnet slipped over her eyes.
“Bit of a rough spot,” a deep, genial male voice noted.
Shoving her bonnet back into place, Nell raised her eyes—and found herself staring at the most handsome young man she’d ever seen. Not only was he awake, his hat was now properly situated on his head, revealing amiable blue-gray eyes separated by a narrow nose bordered by angular cheekbones. He was young, and yet there were wrinkles at the corners of his eyes that suggested he’d had vastly more experience of the world than she.
But then, most people had more experience of the world than she.
Nell blushed as if she’d been caught eavesdropping and immediately clasped her hands in her lap and lowered her eyes.
As she did, out of the corner of her eye she spotted something moving on the fawn-colored, double crimson-striped seat beside her.
A spider! A big, horrible brown spider—and it was headed right for her!
Gasping, Nell lunged across the coach—and landed on the lap of the young man opposite, knocking his hat from his head.
“Steady!” he warned, his upper-class accent providing more proof he was from a well-to-do household.
Blushing even more, she immediately moved to sit beside him. “I—I beg your pardon,” she stammered, feeling hopelessly foolish, while noting that one stray lock of brown hair had tumbled over his forehead, making him look rather boyish and far less intimidating.
“There’s no need to be frightened,” her companion said. “It’s only a Tegenaria parietina. They’re quite harmless, I assure you.”
Now completely humiliated by her childish reaction, Nell didn’t know what to say. Instead, she smoothed out her skirts and glanced at the seat she had so abruptly vacated.
The spider was gone.
“Where is it?” she cried, gripping the seat and half rising regardless of the swaying motion of the coach. “Where’s the spider?”
The young man held up his hat. “In here.”
He had it in his hat?
He gave her an apologetic smile. “Spiders are of particular interest to me.”
However handsome he was, however gentlemanly, he was definitely eccentric and possibly deranged.
“Please keep it away from me,” she said, inching as far away from him and his hat as she could get. “I hate spiders.”
The young man heaved a heavy sigh, as if her common aversion was a very serious failing. “That’s a pity.”
Considering everything she’d done in the past few days, to be condemned for disliking spiders struck Nell as completely ridiculous.
“Most spiders are harmless,” the young man continued, peering into his hat as if the spider were a cherished pet. “I’m aware that they aren’t as beautiful as some insects can be, like butterflies, but they are as useful in their way as butterflies or bees.”
He raised his eyes and smiled, and she was immediately sure he never lacked for partners at a ball. “However you feel about spiders, you must allow me to introduce myself. I’m—”
With a loud crack, the coach flew up as if it were alive before coming down with a thunderous thud that sent Nell tumbling from her seat. Her companion reached for her, pulling her against his body, as horses shrieked and the driver shouted and the coach began to tip sideways.
It fell over, landing with another thud, and Nell found herself sprawled on top of the young gentleman and hemmed in by the seats.
He studied her in a way that sent the blood throbbing through her body as even the tipping coach had not. “Are you all right?”
She didn’t feel any pain, only an acute awareness of his body beneath her and his protective arms around her. “I think so. And you?”
“I believe I am undamaged. I suspect something went wrong with a wheel or an axle.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” she murmured. She could feel his chest rising and falling with quick breaths, as rapid and ragged as her heartbeat, even though the immediate danger had passed.
“I should investigate and ascertain what has happened.”
She nodded.
“Right away,” he added, his gaze locked onto hers and his handsome, sun-browned face so very close.
“At once,” she whispered, telling herself to move yet making no effort to do so.
“I may be of assistance.”
“Yes, of course.”
“I wonder…?”
“Yes?”
“If I should attempt an experiment.”
“Experiment?” she repeated quizzically, having some difficulty following his line of reasoning and, at that particular moment, not really sure what an experiment was.
With no further warning, without even knowing her name let alone being properly introduced, the young man raised his head.
And kissed her.
The pressure of his lips was as light and beguiling as the brush of a moth’s wing, as delicious and welcome as warm bread and hot tea on a cold day, and more arousing than anything she’d ever experienced—completely different from that other unexpected kiss only a few short days ago that had ruined her life.
As he was different from the arrogant, domineering Lord Sturmpole.
This was what a kiss should be like—warm, welcome, exciting, delightful…as he was.
Until, with a gasp like a drowning man, he broke the kiss and scrambled backward as far as he could go, so that his back was against what had been the floor of the coach.
“Good God, forgive me!” he cried as if utterly horrified. “I can’t think what came over me!”
She just as quickly scrambled backward between his legs, until her back was against the coach’s roof.
“Nor I,” she replied, flushing with embarrassment and shame, for she did know what had come over her—the most inconvenient, ill-timed lust.
This was hardly the way to travel unnoticed and unremarked!
“It must have been the shock of the accident,” he offered as he got to his feet, hunching over in the small space and blushing as if sincerely mortified. “If you’ll excuse me, I shall inquire as to our circumstances.”
He reached for the handle, which was now over his head and without any further ado shoved the door open and hoisted himself up and out as if he were part monkey.
Crouching on the pocket of the door in the side of the coach, Nell straightened her bonnet and took stock of the situation. She was in an overturned coach. She was unhurt. Her clothes were disheveled but not torn or muddy. Her bonnet was mostly unscathed, while the young gentleman’s hat had been crushed beneath them, along, no doubt, with the spider inside it.
She had also kissed a handsome stranger who seemed to feel genuine, heartfelt remorse for that action, despite her obvious—and incredibly foolish—response.
She must be jinxed, born under some kind of ill omen. What else could explain the difficulties that had beset her recently? Her employment as companion to Lady Sturmpole had seemed a stroke of good fortune, then turned into an unmitigated disaster. She had been relieved to catch this coach at the last minute, only to have it overturn. She had been glad she would have to share the journey with only one other traveller, and he was asleep—but look how that had turned out.
As abruptly as he’d departed, the young man’s head reappeared in the opening. “It seems the axle has broken. It will have to be fixed before the coach can be righted, so we shall have to find an alternate means of transportation. If you’ll raise your hands, I’ll pull you out.”
She nodded and obeyed. “I’m afraid your hat is ruined and the spider dead.”
“Ah,” he sighed as he reached down for her. “Poor creature. Perhaps if I had left it alone, it would have survived.”
Or perhaps not, she thought as she put her hands in his.
He pulled her up with unexpected ease, proving that he was stronger than he looked. It seemed his apparel, unlike many a fashionable young gentleman’s, was not padded to give the appearance of muscles he didn’t possess.
Once she was out of the coach, the soft light of the growing dawn illuminated the burly coachman, dressed in the customary coachman’s attire of green coat and crimson shawl. He was lying on the verge, a bloody gash in his forehead and his broad-brimmed brown hat a short distance away. His red coat splattered with mud, the guard held the reins of the four nervous horses that had already been unharnessed from the coach. He also held a rather ancient blunderbuss. One of the horses had clearly broken a leg, for its left rear hoof dangled sickeningly. Thankfully, no passengers rode atop the mail coach; if they had been in a crowded stagecoach, people might have been seriously injured or killed.
The young man climbed off the coach painted maroon on the lower half, black above, with a red undercarriage, and the Royal cipher brightly visible on the side, then reached up to help her down.
She had no choice but to put her hands on his shoulders and jump. He placed his hands around her waist to hold her, and again she felt that unaccustomed warmth, that inconvenient lust, invade her body.
He quickly let go of her the moment she was on the ground, suggesting he was no lascivious cad and had been truly distressed by his kiss in the coach.
“Since you’re not hurt, I should see to the driver,” he said, giving her a short bow that wouldn’t have been out of place at Almack’s, before going to the driver and kneeling beside him.
After the young gentleman removed his soiled gloves, he brushed back the driver’s gray hair and examined the wound in his scalp with a brisk, professional manner.
Perhaps he was a doctor.
“Am I dyin’?” the driver asked anxiously.
“I very much doubt it,” the young man replied with calm confidence. “Scalp wounds tend to bleed profusely with very little provocation. Have you any other injuries?”
“Me shoulder. Just about twisted off when I was trying to hold the horses.”
The young man nodded, then proceeded to test the area around the coachman’s shoulder, making him wince when he pressed one particular spot.
“Ah,” the young man sighed, and the driver’s eyes opened wide. “What?”
The young man smiled. “Nothing serious, Thompkins. You’ve strained it and shouldn’t drive a team for a while, but I don’t believe there’s been any lasting damage.”
“Thank God,” the driver muttered with relief.
Then he frowned, anger replacing anxiety. “There was a damn dog in the road. I should have just run the bloody thing over, but I tried to turn the horses and hit a rock and—”
“Thompkins, there is a young lady present, so please refrain from profanity,” the doctor gently chided as he got to his feet.
The driver glanced her way. “Sorry for my choice o’ words, miss.”
“Is there anything I can do to help?” she asked, not the least offended by his words, given the circumstances.
The young man untied his cravat and held it out to her. “You can use this to clean the wound, if you will—provided the sight of blood doesn’t make you ill?”
“Not at all,” she replied, taking the cravat, which smelled of some exotic scent she couldn’t name.
“Then I’ll see to the horses,” the young man said as he absently unbuttoned the collar of his shirt, exposing his neck and some of his chest. Both were as tanned as his face.
Perhaps he was a doctor on a vessel.
The driver started to sit up. “Maybe I’d better—”
“No, you should rest,” the young man ordered. “Enjoy having such a charming and pretty nurse, Thompkins, and leave the horses to me. Tell her about the time I tried to drive your team and we wound up in the ditch.”
The driver grinned, then grimaced. “Aye, my lord.”
My lord? A noble physician? That was very interesting…except that she should be thinking about how they were going to get to Bath and what she should do when they got there.
“First, I need a few words with your nurse,” the nobleman said, taking her arm and drawing her a short distance away.
Concerned the driver was more seriously injured than he had implied, she ignored the impropriety of his action and tried to ignore the sensations it engendered, like little flames licking along her skin.
“Is the driver seriously hurt after all?” she asked anxiously.
“No, I don’t believe Thompkins has a serious concussion,” he said, to her relief. “However, I’m not a doctor.”
“You’re not?” she blurted in surprise. His examination had certainly looked like that of a medical man.
He gravely shook his head. “Unfortunately, no. I have a little medical training, so I know enough to be aware that he should be kept conscious, if at all possible, until we can fetch a physician. Can you do that while I see to the injured horse and ride to the next inn on one of the others?”
“Yes, I think I can keep him awake.”
The young gentleman’s lips flicked up into a pleased smile that again sent that unusual warmth thrumming through her body. As she returned to the driver and tried to soothe her nerves, he started toward the guard holding the horses.
She heard the nobleman ask the guard where the pistols were as she began wiping the blood that had slowed to a trickle.
“Under my seat,” the man nervously replied, glancing at the high backseat at the rear of the coach, for mail coach guards generally carried pistols as well as a blunderbuss, to fend off highwaymen.
“I’ll hold the horses while you put that poor beast out of its misery,” the young gentleman offered.
“What, you want me to shoot it? I couldn’t!” the guard protested. “I can’t be destroyin’ government property! It’d be my job. Besides, I’m to look after the mail, not the animals.”
“Surely an exception can be made if a horse has broken its leg,” the young man replied.
“I tell ya, I’m supposed to guard the mail, not take care o’ the horses!”
“I will not allow that poor animal to suffer.”
“You won’t? Who the devil are you?”
“Shut yer gob, Snicks,” the driver called out. “Let the viscount do what has to be done.”
He was a viscount? A viscount had kissed her?
“I’ll pay for the horse if need be,” the young nobleman said as he marched toward the overturned coach with such a fiercely determined look on his face, he hardly seemed like the same man.
The guard scowled but said no more as the viscount found the pistol which, like the blunderbuss, looked as if it had been made early in the previous century.
With the gun behind his back, murmuring something that sounded like an apology, the viscount approached the injured horse. Then, as the guard moved as far away as he could, the nobleman took his stance, aimed and shot the horse right between its big, brown, limpid eyes.
As the animal fell heavily to the ground, the viscount lowered his arm and bowed his head.
“Couldn’t be helped,” the driver muttered roughly. “Had to be done.”
Yes, it had to be done, Nell thought as she returned to dabbing the driver’s wound, but she felt sorry for the poor horse, as well as the man who had to shoot it.
The viscount tucked the pistol into the waist of his trousers before returning to Nell and the driver. Between the pistol, his sun-darkened skin, open shirt and disheveled hair, he looked like a very handsome, elegant pirate.
Pirate. The sea. A viscount who liked spiders who’d gone to sea…
Good heavens! He had to be Lord Bromwell, the naturalist whose book about his voyage around the world had made him the toast of London society and the subject of many articles in the popular press. Like so many others, Lady Sturmpole had bought his book and talked about his remarkable adventures, although she didn’t bother to actually read The Spider’s Web.
No wonder he could be calm in a crisis. Any man who’d survived a shipwreck and attacks by cannibals could surely take an overturned coach in stride. As for that kiss, he must often be the object of female attention and lust. He probably had women throwing themselves at him all the time and assumed she was another who was intrigued and infatuated by his looks and his fame.
And because he was famous, the press might take an even greater interest in a mail coach overturning, perhaps noting that Lord Bromwell had not been the only passenger and asking her name and her destination and why she was in the coach….
With a growing sense of impending doom, wishing she’d never caught the coach, never gone to London, never decided to go to Bath and, most of all, never met him, Nell watched as the handsome, renowned naturalist swung himself onto the back of one of the horses and galloped down the road.

Chapter Two
Fortunately, I have been blessed with a practical nature that allows me to take immediate action without the burden of emotion. Thus, I was quite calm as the ship was sinking and my concern was to help as many of my shipmates as possible. It was after the ship had gone down and the storm had abated, after we had managed to retrieve some items necessary to life and found ourselves on that tiny slip of sand seemingly lost in the vast ocean, that I laid my head on my knees, and wept.
—from The Spider’s Web, by Lord Bromwell
As Lord Bromwell—known as Buggy to his closest friends—had expected, the sight of a dishevelled, hatless, cloakless man mounted on a sweat-slicked coach horse charging into the yard of The Crown and Lion caused quite a stir.
A male servant carrying a bag of flour over his shoulder toward the kitchen stopped and stared, openmouthed. Two slovenly attired men lounging by the door straightened. The washerwoman, an enormous basket of wet linen in her arms, nearly dropped her burden, while a boy carrying boots paid no heed where he was going and nearly ran into one of the two idlers, earning the curious lad a cuff on the side of the head.
“There’s been an 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, he decided as he splashed cool water over his face, then picked up a towel and vigorously rubbed his face. Men could act very differently under duress, as he’d seen more than once on his last voyage. Some of the men who could be courageous on land had become whimpering and helpless during a storm at sea and the men he’d been sure would flee at the first sign of trouble had stayed and fought for their companions’ safety.
“I’ve got yer wine, my lord,” Mrs. Jenkins declared behind the door, taking him out of his brown study or, as his father would say, “another of your damn daydreams.”
“Come in,” he called as he rolled down his wrinkled sleeves.
The woman entered the chamber with the force of a strong wind, a wineglass held out to him.
“It’s a miracle and a mercy nobody was killed,” she declared, her buxom body quivering with indignation while Bromwell downed the excellent wine in a gulp. “I’ve been telling Jenkins for years some of them coaches weren’t fit to be on the road. You ought to get your friend Drury to sue. He never loses, I hear.”
“Drury only handles criminal cases,” Bromwell replied as he set down the glass and picked up his jacket. “This was an accident, caused by a stray dog and Thompkins’s decision not to run it over. I won’t go to court over that.”
He put on the soiled jacket that his former valet would have wept to see. Not knowing how long he would be at sea, or if he would even return, he’d given Albert a well-earned reference and paid him an extra six months’ salary before dismissing him. Since his return, he hadn’t bothered to hire another, much to the dismay of Millstone, the butler at his father’s London town house, even though Millstone had to admit Bromwell had learned to tie his cravat like an expert, having spent several hours practicing when there was nothing else to do at sea.
What would Millstone make of this latest mishap? Probably he’d just sigh and shake his head and comment that some men led charmed lives, although his lordship really ought to buy a new carriage. He could certainly afford it.
So he could, if he wasn’t planning another expedition.
If he told Millstone about kissing the young woman, the poor man would likely drop down in a faint, as shocked and surprised as his friends would be—as shocked and surprised as he had been when it finally dawned on him that he shouldn’t be kissing a woman he’d only just met.
Perhaps, as his father complained, he’d been too long away from England.
“Are the horse and carriage ready?” he asked Mrs. Jenkins, who seemed rather keen to linger.
“They should be by now, my lord.”
“Good.” He looked out the window at the sky gray with thickening clouds. “If you’ll excuse me, Mrs. Jenkins, I must be on my way.”
She smiled. “Always the perfect gentleman, my lord!”
Not always, he thought as he hurried past her.
Not always.

Bunching the cravat tighter in her hand, Nell glanced up at the sky. The gray clouds were definitely thickening, and moving closer.
“Never fear, lass,” the driver said, wincing as he shifted. “Lord Bromwell’ll be back with help soon. That lad can ride like the wind.”
She gave the driver a smile, but her eyes must have betrayed that she wasn’t completely reassured, for he patted her hand as his eyes drifted closed. “I’ve known him since he was six years old. Might not look like it, but he’s the finest horseman I’ve ever seen. Brave, too.”
“But not, perhaps, a competent mail coach driver?” she suggested, trying to keep Thompkins awake.
To her relief, he opened his brown eyes again. “Well, to be sure, that wasn’t his finest hour, but he was only fifteen at the time.”
“Fifteen? He could have been seriously hurt, or even killed!”
The driver frowned. “Don’t you think I knew that? O’ course I refused the first time he asked, and lots o’ times after that, but he wouldn’t let up till I gave in. And he had his reasons all worked out, logical-like, beginning with his skill and how far he’d go—only a mile or so. But that wasn’t why I finally gave in. I knew he wanted something to brag about when he got back to school, so his friends would think he was as good as they were—although he’s worth the lot of them and always has been and I said so at the time. But he got this look in his eyes, and well, miss, I didn’t have the heart to refuse him. We didn’t have any passengers that day and if the road hadn’t been so slick in that one place, it would have been all right.
“Should have seen him at the start,” Thompkins continued, grinning at the memory. “Like one of them Roman charioteers, standing up and working the reins like an old hand until we hit that slick spot and went into the ditch. But no damage to the coach and we was only a little late. Not that it made a mite of difference to his father, though, when he found out what’d happened.”
Thompkins sighed, then frowned. “You should have heard the way the earl carried on. Any other man might have been proud of the lad for wanting to try and getting that far, but not him. You’d think young Lord Bromwell’d lost the family estate or murdered somebody.
“The viscount, bless him, told his father he’d forced me to agree to it by saying he’d see I lost my job if I didn’t. Well, that was a lie, but he was cool as you please, and damn—pardon me, miss—if his father didn’t believe him. And then not another word did young Lord Bromwell say. He just stood there covered in mud from head to toe, and his lip bleeding, too, like the earl was giving a speech in the House of Lords that had nothing to do with him.
“Oh, he’s a rum cove, all right, even if he’s a nobleman. Have you read his book?”
“I’m sorry to say I haven’t,” she replied, wishing that she had.
“To be honest, I ain’t read it, either, since I can’t read at all,” the driver admitted, “but I heard all about his narrow escape from them savages and the shipwreck, too. And the tattoo, o’ course.”
Nell paused in her ministrations. “Lord Bromwell has a tattoo?”
Thompkins grinned and lowered his voice. “Aye, but he ain’t never told anybody what it is, or where. Just that he got one. Some of the nobs have made a bet on it and put it in that book at White’s, but so far, nobody’s collected.”
Nell was aware of the famous betting book at that gentlemen’s club, and that men who belonged would—and did—wager on almost anything.
Thompkins looked past her and pointed down the road. “Thanks be to God, here he comes.”
Nell looked back over her shoulder. There was indeed a horse and rider coming toward them, and it was Lord Bromwell. He still wore no hat, so his slightly long hair was ruffled by the ride, and his coat was as muddy as his formerly shining boots.
“Mr. Jenkins of The Crown and Lion is sending his carriage and a doctor. They should be here soon,” Lord Bromwell said as he drew the brown saddle horse to a halt and dismounted.
Nell discovered she couldn’t meet his steadfast gaze as he came toward them. The memory of those moments in his arms and especially of his kiss were too vivid, too fresh, too disturbing. Instead, she continued to wipe Thompkins’s forehead, even though the bleeding had stopped.
Lord Bromwell’s boots came into her line of sight. “I trust the patient is resting comfortably?”
“Aye, my lord,” Thompkins replied, “although my head hurts like the devil.”
“You’re not dizzy or sleepy?”
“Not a bit, my lord. The young lady and I have been having a fine time.”
The toe of Lord Bromwell’s boot began to tap. “Have you indeed?”
“Aye. I told her about the time you drove the coach, and we talked about yer book.”
She risked a glance upward, to discover that Lord Bromwell looked even more rakish and handsome with his hair windblown and his shirt still open and the hint of whiskers darkening his cheeks. However, his expression was grave, his blue-gray eyes enigmatic, and his full lips that could kiss with such devastating tenderness betrayed no hint of emotion.
She swallowed hard as she looked back to the driver.
“I wasn’t aware you were the famous Lord Bromwell,” she said, determined that he appreciate that, although what kissing him without the excuse of his fame might suggest about her, she didn’t want to consider.
“Forgive me for being remiss and not introducing myself sooner. And you are?”
“Eleanor Springford, my lord,” she lied, hoping he would mistake her blush for bashfulness and not shame.
The driver’s eyes twinkled with mischief. “We were talking about yer tattoo, too.”
“It’s a common practice among the South Sea islanders,” Lord Bromwell gravely replied, as if it was the polite thing to do, like taking tea. “Ah, here comes Jenkins’s carriage.”
With that, he strode off to meet it, leaving Nell to wonder what such a man would make of her if he ever learned the truth.

Chapter Three
I believe it is an intense curiosity and an unwillingness to simply accept the world without further explanation that separates the scientist from the general population. It is not enough to see a thing; the scientist seeks to find out the how and why it works, or in the case of the natural world, how and why a creature does what it does.
—from The Spider’s Web, by Lord Bromwell
“The supper will be served in half an hour, my lord,” Jenkins announced from the door of the slightly smaller, more cramped room Bromwell had taken when they returned from the scene of the accident so that Miss Springford could have the better one. “The wife’s glad she killed that chicken this afternoon, or she’d be in some state now, I can tell you, what with you here and all.”
“I’ve been here plenty of times before,” Bromwell replied as he reached for his brush, determined not to look a complete mess when he went below. “She should know I like everything she makes, especially her tarts. When I was stranded on that strip of sand, I would have sold my soul for one.”
“Tush, now, my lord, that’s almost blasphemy, that is!” Jenkins cried, although he beamed as proudly as if he made the tarts. “I’ll be telling the wife, though. She’ll be pleased.”
“As I am by her tarts,” Bromwell said, bringing his hair into some semblance of order, although it occurred to him that it was in need of a trim.
“Ah, here’s Johnny now with your baggage, my lord.”
“Thank you,” Bromwell said as the boy carried in his small valise.
With another nod, Jenkins left him to change, followed by the gaping Johnny, who paused on the threshold to look back and whisper, eyes wide. “Was you really nearly et by cannibals, my lord?”
“I might have been, if they had caught us,” Bromwell replied gravely, and quite truthfully.
The lad’s eyes grew even wider.
“If you’ll excuse me,” Bromwell said, starting to close the door.
The lad nodded and disappeared.
Bromwell shut the door with a sigh. He was seriously beginning to wish he’d left that part of his voyage out of his book. Everybody asked about it, to the exclusion of many other fascinating events and observations.
Well, in mixed company, at any rate, he thought as he took off his soiled shirt, trousers and stockings. When he was with men after suppers or in the clubs, they wanted to know about the women and sexual practices, waiting with avid and salacious curiosity.
They were inevitably disappointed when he began describing the flora and fauna of the islands, including spiders, instead. Sometimes, if they listened and were patient, he would describe a heiva, a celebration involving dancing, the otea done by men, the upa upa by couples, and the hura, called hula in Hawaii, danced exclusively by women.
Recalling some of those dances and the dancers who’d performed them, he donned a clean white shirt, woollen trousers and stockings. What would Eleanor Springford think of those dances?
What would she think if she knew he’d participated?
Between that, and his insolent kiss, she’d certainly think he was no gentleman, although her response hadn’t been exactly ladylike, either.
He suddenly remembered that he’d heard her name before, and his heart began to pound as if he were again participating in an otea. Lady Eleanor Springford was the daughter of the Duke of Wymerton. She was also one of the many young ladies his mother had mentioned in hopes he would take a wife and stop chasing after spiders.
What the devil was a lady of her wealth and family doing dressed in such plain, inexpensive clothes and travelling alone in a mail coach headed to Bath?
He had no idea, but he doubted it was a pleasure trip.
If she was in some sort of trouble, it was his duty to help her; it would be his duty whether she was twenty and pretty, or sixty and the homeliest woman he had ever met.
Determined to speak with Lady Eleanor and offer her any assistance he could render without further delay, Bromwell hurried down to the dining room.
But when he entered, he found the room full of people he’d never seen before, and he couldn’t see the duke’s daughter anywhere.
Everyone fell silent when they realized he had arrived, so he plastered a weak smile on his face and, as he continued to silently search for Lady Eleanor, again damned the fame he’d never wanted.
“Oh, my lord! What a tragedy!” cried an overdressed, middle-aged woman wearing a silk gown overburdened with ruffles and frills, in a shocking combination of orange and pink that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a bordello.
She hurried toward him past a group of silent, brawny men. He suspected they were local farmers or tradesmen dragged here to meet the famous naturalist by their wives, many of whom were equally colorfully dressed in the latest styles.
“Indeed, it was a most unfortunate occurrence,” he muttered, unable to look directly at that gown another moment.
“I’ve been after them to fix that road,” a man growled as he ran a puzzled gaze over Bromwell, thinking, no doubt, that the viscount didn’t look like a world-famous explorer.
Bromwell had long since given up trying to explain that he was a different sort of explorer, that his journey had been intended to find flora, fauna, insects and especially spiders, not lands to claim, people to conquer or resources to exploit. “May the local government take heed,” he said politely.
“They will if you write a letter to the Times about it,” the man declared as Jenkins appeared, dressed in what was surely his Sunday best.
Bromwell’s discomfort increased as Jenkins introduced him to the local gentry like he was some prized possession Jenkins was eager to show off, beginning with the man who’d complained about the roads. Since Bromwell liked Jenkins, he submitted, but he also continued to look for Lady Eleanor, until he decided she must be dining in her room.
This was going to be a long evening, he thought as he stifled a sigh, taking one last survey of the room.
At last he spotted her, crammed into the corner as far as she could get and wearing a flowing gown of pale blue silk like something fairies had cut out of a summer’s sky. Unlike the other women’s gowns, the cut was simple, with a bodice high in the back, a modest neckline, tight sleeves and only one ruffle at the hem. Her dark brown hair, which had been covered by her simple straw bonnet, proved to be thick and lustrous in the candlelight. It had been done simply, yet elegantly, around her gracefully poised head. In spite of the simplicity of her gown and hair, she was easily the most elegant, best-dressed woman in the room.
Having been blessed with uncommonly good eyesight, however, he immediately noticed something odd. Unlike the clothing she’d been wearing earlier, her gown did not fit properly. It was too large in the bodice, gaping where it should be snug, and tight under the arms. The length wasn’t quite right, either, as if it had been made for a slightly taller woman.
Excusing himself from the group surrounding him, he immediately made his way toward her.
“Good evening,” he said with a bow when he reached her and kissed her gloved hand, keeping his attention on her solemn face.
It took every ounce of his self-control not to glance down at that gaping bodice.
He’d want to hit any man who did, even if it was one of his friends. Especially if it was one of his handsome, charming, interesting friends.
“Good evening, my lord,” she said, her expression impassive, her eyes unreadable, as she inclined her head and he realized her gloves didn’t fit properly, either.
“How is Thompkins?” she asked as she pulled her hand away.
“Well on the road to recovery,” he replied. “He won’t be able to drive for a few days, though.”
“I’m glad to hear he’ll suffer no permanent injuries. We shall require a different driver, though. Perhaps you, my lord?” she suggested, giving him a questioning look that both embarrassed and delighted him.
“I’ve given up my career as a driver. Much too risky.”
Her beautiful eyes widened. “Unlike travelling around the world to all sorts of savage places looking for spiders?”
“Ah, but I don’t attempt to captain the vessel. I’m merely a passenger.”
She laughed, a lovely, musical sound that went straight to his heart.
For the first time, he understood how his friends had fallen so deeply in love with their wives, and so quickly. He had always found that baffling, for they had all been men of the world who’d had other liaisons with beautiful women before meeting the women they married. Or in Brixton Smythe-Medway’s case, realizing the woman who would make him blissfully happy had been his acquaintance from boyhood.
Not that he was lacking similar worldy experience with women, but when Lady Eleanor laughed and her eyes sparkled as she looked at him, he felt as if she was the only woman he would ever want to be with for any length of time. Ever.
He immediately stepped back. She might be in trouble and he would help her if he could, but he had to be free of emotional entanglements.
“Ah, here’s the supper!” Jenkins announced, giving him the opportunity to beat a hasty retreat.
“You sit at the head, my lord,” the innkeeper invited, “since you’re the guest of honor.”
Bromwell acknowledged his request with an inclination of his head and took his place, relieved to see that Lady Eleanor was to be seated at the far end of the table covered with a long white cloth and sporting what was no doubt Mrs. Jenkins’s best Wedgwood china. He was also asked to say the grace.
Once that was over, he turned his attention to the food.
Or at least he tried to, for despite his wish not to become involved with any woman at this point in his life, as the supper of potato soup, roasted beef, stuffed chicken, boiled vegetables and fresh bread progressed, with wine and ale and fruit, he couldn’t ignore Lady Eleanor, even though he was pestered with questions.
They were the same ones he got asked every time he was in company, about the shipwreck and the cannibals. He tried to be patient and emphasize the various new species of plants, animals, insects and spiders they’d found, but nobody seemed very interested in that.
Except Lady Eleanor, whom he caught listening avidly as he described the spiders in Tahiti, although she blushed and looked away when she met his gaze.
He also noticed that Lady Eleanor ate the plain, wholesome, plentiful and delicious food with impeccable manners, as delicately and demurely as a nun, taking tiny bites. Every so often, however, she would lick her soft, full lips, a motion that was more alluring to him than the swaying of a naked Tahitian woman’s hips during a hura.
What might have happened if they had met in London, at Almack’s, or a ball, or one of Brix and Fanny’s parties? Would he have felt the same powerful attraction and found a way to be properly introduced, or would he have thought her simply another rich heiress of the sort his father was forever pestering him to marry, and avoided her completely?
Such speculation was pointless. They had met under very unusual circumstances and he had most insolently and inappropriately kissed her. She must surely think he was a rake, a lascivious libertine.
If he could help her, it might make her think more highly of him and erase the poor first impression he must have made.
Whatever the outcome, he would do all he could to discover if she required his assistance and render any aid he could before he went on to the family estate.
And then he would never see her again.

A few hours later, Nell waited anxiously as the full moon rose and shone in through the mullioned window. She was going to have to leave without paying her bill. She had very little money left in her purse and no idea how long it might be before she could earn more.
The bright moonlight would mean it would be easier for someone to notice her as she absconded, but it also meant she would be better able to see where she was going. Since the only mode of transportation she could afford was her feet, she didn’t want to fall and injure herself.
What would her parents say if they knew what she’d done today, and yesterday and the day before that? They had tried to raise a good woman, sacrificing much to send her to an excellent school, to learn manners and deportment and etiquette, to be the equal of any well-born gentlewoman.
All for nothing. It was a mercy they were dead, so they would never know what had happened to her, and what she’d done.
Hoping everyone was asleep at last, she rose and, taking her valise in her hand, eased open the door and listened again. She heard nothing, save for the occasional creak of bed ropes from Lord Bromwell’s room.
Perhaps he wasn’t alone. It had sounded as if he’d come up the stairs by himself after she had retired; nevertheless, she wouldn’t be surprised to learn that he had a woman with him—some comely serving maid or one of the women at supper who had been gawking at him. She could well believe women had vied for his favors even before he’d become famous, and he must practically have to beat them off with a stick since his book had been published.
If he had come to expect such a reaction, it was no wonder he’d kissed her and then sought her out before dinner, even though it should have been obvious she didn’t want to have anything more to do with him. She couldn’t.
Sighing, Nell crept cautiously into the hall and closed the door behind her. The hall was as dark as pitch. Putting her hand to the wall, she carefully made her way toward the stairs.
“The coach isn’t due to depart for some hours yet.”
There was no mistaking Lord Bromwell’s voice.
Nell turned. Although she couldn’t see his face clearly in the dark, his body was as close as it had been in the coach, and if she could only see the vague outline of his body, she could feel his warmth as if he were embracing her.
Fighting to calm her racing heart, she gave him the excuse she had prepared. “I couldn’t sleep, so I thought I’d see if I could find some wine.”
“You felt it necessary to wear your pelisse and bonnet, as well as take your baggage, to get a nocturnal beverage?”
“I was afraid I might be robbed if I left my valuables in my room.”
He stepped closer and she could see him better now, although it was still dark. He wore only his boots, buff trousers and shirt open at the neck. “You must have a lot of valuables.”
“No, but I can’t afford to lose what little I have. I’m sorry if I disturbed you,” she said, continuing toward the stairs.
He put his hand on the wall ahead of her, so that he blocked her way. “Something is wrong,” he said, his voice gentle but firm. “I wish to be of service, if I can.”
He wanted to help her? He sounded genuinely sincere, yet how could she trust him? How could she trust anyone?
Besides, she’d lied to him about who she was. “The only thing amiss, my lord, is that you won’t let me pass. Let me go or I shall call for help.”
His voice dropped even lower. “No, you won’t.”
Sweet heavens, had she completely misjudged him? Was he a man to be feared after all?
But she didn’t dare rouse the innkeeper or other guests, either, so she kept her voice low as she commanded him again to let her pass.
A door opened below and heavy footfalls sounded on the wooden floor of the taproom, then started toward the stairs.
She mustn’t be found here, especially with him, especially dressed as he was.
She turned and ran back to her room. He followed and before she could get the door shut, he was inside the room, closing it behind him.

Chapter Four
Someday, we may learn what forces move the salmon to make that dangerous journey upstream to spawn, or why a dog will sit for hours by the bed of its deceased master. Yet for now, there remain instincts and emotions, reactions and defensive intuitions, unknown and mysterious, that govern every living creature upon the earth.
—from The Spider’s Web, by Lord Bromwell
Panting, aghast, Nell’s whole body shook as she faced him. Yet in spite of her distress, she stayed silent, for the footsteps came up the stairs, then past the room. Another door opened farther along the corridor. Mrs. Jenkins’s voice mumbled a sleepy greeting to her husband, who muttered something about a sick horse before the door shut again.
“Get away from the door,” Nell ordered with quiet ferocity, gripping the handle of her valise, prepared to swing it at Lord Bromwell’s head. She had been trapped by a man before and fought her way free, and she would do it again if necessary.
Unlike Lord Sturmpole, however, the viscount addressed her not with arrogant outrage, but as calmly as if they were conversing in a park on a summer’s day. “Are you planning to walk to Bath in the dead of night?”
His tone and his distance were a little reassuring, but she wasn’t willing to trust him. “I’ve told you what I’m doing. Now let me pass!”
“There’s no need to be frightened,” he said, still not moving any closer. “I won’t hurt you. I’m hoping I can be of service to you.”
Service? What kind of service did he have in mind? Lord Sturmpole had claimed she would benefit from his attentions—and suffer if she refused.
Yet there was one important difference between her situation in Sturmpole’s study and this. She had been horrified by Lord Sturmpole’s advances; she had not been by Lord Bromwell’s.
Nevertheless, she wasn’t about to let him know that, or to have anything more to do with him. “Perhaps my impulsive reaction to your impertinent embrace has given you the wrong idea, my lord. I assure you that I do not go around kissing men to whom I’ve not been introduced. Or those to whom I have been introduced, either,” she added.
“I’m delighted to hear it, but the service I wish to offer is not the sort you seem to be assuming. Despite my lapse of manners earlier today, I’m not a cad or scoundrel who seeks to take advantage of a woman. It’s obvious something is amiss here, and my only intention is to find out what it is and help you if I can.”
“By holding me prisoner?”
He ignored her question. “If all is quite well, why are you travelling alone, wearing gowns that don’t fit properly and neglecting to use your title? And why, my lady, are you attempting to leave this inn in the middle of the night?”
It felt as if the room had grown very cold. “I am not a lady.”
“You’re not Lady Eleanor Springford?”
Nell struggled to hide her growing panic. She wasn’t Lady Eleanor, or any kind of lady. She’d heard that name in school, from one of her fellow students who was forever bragging about her lofty, if distant, relations. Nell had thought it wise to use a name similar to her own because it would be easy to remember.
That seemed the most ridiculous of reasons now.
But surely if he had met Lady Eleanor, he would have known at once that she was an impostor and said something before this, or summoned the law.
“No, I’m not and I never said I was,” she replied, wary and determined to reply with more care. “Nor am I running away. I’m going to visit my uncle in Bath. As for my gown, I thought you were an expert on spiders, my lord, not ladies’ fashions.”
“It is my nature to be observant.”
“My modiste had a terrible seamstress in her employ. Unfortunately, there was no time to find or hire a better one before my departure.”
She crossed to the window and turned with an indignant huff, despite her trembling legs and the trickle of perspiration down her back. “There is the door, my lord. Now that I’ve explained, please use it.”
He planted his feet and crossed his arms. “Not until I’m sure you’re not in trouble.”
Oh, God help her. She believed he meant that, and that he had no selfish, licentious motive—but why did she have to encounter a chivalrous gentleman here, and now? “Your aid is quite misguided, my lord. I am in no trouble.”
“Then, unfortunately, I must assume you’re attempting to renege on the payment of your night’s accommodation.”
She stared at him, aghast, her mind working quickly. He was right, after all, but of course she couldn’t admit that.
She thought of one excuse he might accept. “There may be another explanation for my wish to leave this room, my lord.”
He raised a querying brow.
“Has it not occurred to you that I might be afraid to be sleeping so near the man who so impertinently kissed me? Who can say what else you might be capable of, as your presence in this chamber attests?”
His eyes widened. “You fear I would attack you?”
“Why should I not believe you are capable of such an act? You did, after all, embrace me without my consent or invitation, accost me in the corridor, follow me into this bedroom and you refuse to leave.”
“I’m a gentleman, as my friends and associates will tell you, or the Jenkinses.”
“I don’t call your behavior today very gentlemanly.”
He ran his hand through his hair before he answered. “Nor can I,” he admitted. “However, it is not unknown for people to behave under duress as they never would otherwise. I believe it was so in my case. I was not quite myself after the carriage overturned.”
Neither was she.
Still, she wasn’t going to let him think he could behave any way he would, and she would accept it. “The women on that island you were describing at supper—would they consider you a proper gentleman, if they knew what behavior was expected of one?”
“Yes, they would,” he firmly replied. “I acted in complete accordance with their customs and beliefs.”
“As I have done nothing wrong.”
“Perhaps not,” he replied, “but either you are some kind of cheat or criminal, or you’re running from someone or something. If it is the former, I am duty-bound to hold you here. If it is the latter, I ask you again to allow me to be of assistance. But whatever your answer, I’m not going to allow you to go wandering about the countryside at night. It’s too dangerous and I would never forgive myself if something happened to you.”
Whether he was genuinely concerned for her safety or not, she could see his determined resolve and realized he wouldn’t leave until she gave him an explanation that was both feasible and believable.
She would have to come up with one.
Remembering what the driver had told her about Lord Bromwell’s father and the way he’d chastised his son, she put down her valise, which contained her clothes, her toilet articles and three of Lady Sturmpole’s gowns.
Spreading her arms in a gesture of surrender, she spoke as if reluctantly revealing the truth. “Very well, my lord. You are quite right. I am Lady Eleanor Springford and I am running from someone—my parents and the Italian nobleman they’re trying to force me to marry. The count is rich and has three castles, but he’s old enough to be a grandfather and lecherous into the bargain. He has twice as many mistresses as manors and, despite his age, gives no sign of wishing to be loyal to a wife. That’s why I ran away and have no maid or servant to accompany me.”
“This is the nineteenth century, not the Dark Ages,” Lord Bromwell said, his brow furrowed. “Surely you could simply refuse the betrothal rather than running away alone and putting yourself in danger.”
She walked to the washstand and toyed with the end of a towel. “I suppose one can’t expect a man who’s been free to travel the world to understand the pressure than can be brought to bear upon a woman to marry, especially if the groom is a very wealthy aristocrat and her family not as rich as people believe.”
“Actually, I can,” Lord Bromwell said from where he still stood by the door. “My parents were far from pleased with my choice of career and my mother begged me not to go on my last expedition, so I do know something about parental expectations and coercion. Yet surely they would have relented in time. I daresay they’re frantic with worry about you now.”
“Perhaps. I’m unfortunately certain they’re searching for me, although I hope they’re still looking in Italy.”
“You’ve come all the way from Italy by yourself?” he asked with undisguised awe.
She’d really come all the way from Yorkshire, but she couldn’t admit that, either. “Yes, our family went there for my father’s health.”
That was what Letitia Applesmith had told them and Lady Sturmpole had confirmed during an afternoon of gossip with a friend that Nell had dutifully endured.
Lord Bromwell’s frown deepened and she wondered if he knew something she didn’t about the Duke of Wymerton or his family, until he said, “Yes, I believe my mother mentioned that.”
“Travelling alone wasn’t as difficult as I feared,” Nell said, relieved. “Most people were very kind, especially the women, who guessed, I think, that I was fleeing an unhappy domestic situation. Sometimes a man made an unwelcome remark, but no one touched me until…well, until you, my lord.”
He blushed like a bashful boy, and she hurried on, not wishing to dwell on that encounter. “It must have been the shock of the accident that made me tell you my real name and I beg you not to reveal it. You’re so famous, the press is bound to hear about the coach overturning, and perhaps learn who was with you. I’m hoping to get to the home of my godfather, Lord Ruttles, in Bath as quickly as possible. He will take my side and protect me, I’m sure.”
“I see,” the viscount said, regarding her with such genuine, kind sympathy, she felt like the worst, most degenerate criminal in the world. “Do you have any money? Or is the lack of it the reason that you’re sneaking out?”
Trying to ignore his sympathetic expression, she said, “I have a little money left, but not enough to pay for this room.”
“I shall gladly assume that cost.”
She was sure he could afford it, so she didn’t protest. “Thank you, my lord.”
“Despite your success thus far, I am not comfortable allowing you to continue your journey alone and short of funds. Would you consider accepting an invitation to my family’s estate? It’s a few miles outside Bath. You’ll be safe from pursuit there, and you can send a message to your godfather to come to you there.”
His cheeks colored and his gaze drifted to the floor. “You need not fear that I shall attempt to take advantage of the situation, or of you.”
Recognizing his generosity for the disinterested kindness it was, she was grateful, even if she couldn’t accept his offer. “Thank you, but I couldn’t impose and I think it would be better if I don’t involve you or your family in my troubles, my lord.”
“As you wish,” he replied, his disappointment obvious, although his tone was still kind and concerned. “However, you must allow me to pay for your room tonight and provide you with sufficient funds for the rest of your journey.”
He reached into his trouser pocket and produced a wallet of thin, soft leather. He opened it and drew out several ten-pound banknotes.
She didn’t want to accept, but she needed the money. “Thank you, my lord,” she said, taking the bills he held out to her and folding them in her hand. “I shall never forget your generosity.”
Or your kiss.
“I shall repay you as soon as I can.”
Whenever, if ever, that might be possible, and provided she wanted him to learn that she had deceived him.
He smiled, looking incredibly handsome and virile in the moonlight. “I must say I didn’t expect to have such an exciting, eventful coach ride to Bath.”
“Neither did I. I don’t know what we would have done after the coach overturned if you hadn’t been there.”
“I’m sure you would have managed. You’re obviously an intelligent, resourceful woman.”
Coming from another man, that might not have seemed a compliment. Coming from him, however, she was sure it was. “As you are a most courageous, chivalrous man.”
He began to walk closer. She waited, holding her breath, expecting—hoping for—another kiss.
Until he immediately halted a few feet away. “I had best get back to my room before I’m discovered here and explanations are required. I wouldn’t want our reputations to be ruined, although mine is already subject to some speculation.”
Tucking the notes into her bodice, she followed him to the door, sorry for the lies, wanting him to know she was truly grateful, because she would never be able to repay him. After tomorrow, she would never see him again. “I really do appreciate your kindness and generosity, my lord.”
A cock crowed in the yard below and he gave her a wry little smile as he eased open the door. “Good day, my lady.”
“Wait!” she cried softly.
He turned back, his blue-gray eyes wide with query.
She couldn’t help it. She had to do it.
She grabbed the front of his shirt, pulled him forward and kissed him. Not lightly and tenderly, as he had kissed her in the coach, but passionately, fervently, as her desire demanded.
Lord Bromwell stiffened, motionless with either shock or dismay. For a terrible instant, she thought he was going to push her away—but then his arms went around her and he held her close, deepening the kiss, his tongue probing until she parted her lips. She relaxed against him, her knees soft as pudding, her breasts pressed against his hard, muscular chest.
How he could kiss! Excitement ran along her veins, her flesh, setting it tingling with need. She had recoiled from her former employers’ unwelcome embrace with all the force of her outrage, but she wanted nothing more than for Lord Bromwell to pick her up in his strong arms and carry her to the bed and lay her down and…
As if he could read her mind, Lord Bromwell moved farther into the room, taking her with him and shoving the door closed so that her back was against it. Still kissing her, he slid his hand around her side to cup her breast through her pelisse and gown.
Her breathing quickening, her body warming, she slipped her hand under his shirt, feeling his heated skin, the muscles bunching beneath. She had never been this intimate with a man, had never wanted to be, but every part of her mind urged her to tear off his shirt and press her lips to his naked skin.
She began to bunch the tail of his shirt in her hands and lift it until, with a gasp, he broke the kiss and stepped back, his eyes wide in the dawning light.
His chest heaving, his brow furrowed with scholarly concentration. “Once again, forgive me. Being a civilized human being, I should be able to overcome my primal urges.”
His primal urges? This time, she had been the one to act upon hers.
He put his hand on the latch. “I wish you well, my lady.”
“And I, you, my lord,” she whispered as he slipped out of the room.

Nell moved away from the door toward the bed. She had never been more ashamed, not even when she was stealing from Lord Sturmpole.
What came over her when she was with Lord Bromwell? How could she behave with such wanton disregard for the risk she was taking, and that his fame engendered?
She had barely sat on the end of the bed before Mrs. Jenkins blew into the room carrying a steaming pitcher of hot water.
“Good morning,” she said as she set it on the washstand. “All ready for an early start, I see. It’s a fine day for travelling, I must say. Breakfast will be ready shortly. I’ll just make up the bed, if you don’t mind.”
Nell quickly went to wash.
“Quite a fine fellow, isn’t he?” Mrs. Jenkins asked.
“Who?” Nell asked, although she was sure she knew to whom Mrs. Jenkins referred.
“Why, Lord Bromwell, o’ course,” the woman replied as she plumped the pillow. “You’re a very lucky woman, my dear.”
“We were fortunate he was with us with the coach overturned. We might have worsened Thompkins’s injuries if he’d not been there to tell us not to move him.”
“That’s not what I meant. I wasn’t born yesterday, my dear,” the innkeeper’s wife replied.
“He’s never brought a woman here before, though, nor have any of his friends,” she continued as she worked, “and a fine lot of scoundrels they can be, or so I’ve heard, all but the lawyer. He’s as grim as a ghost, that one. Hard to believe he’s married now, but then, I’d have said I’d never see the day Lord Bromwell would bring his—”
“I fear you’re under a misapprehension, Mrs. Jenkins,” Nell interjected, wondering why she’d let the woman go on for so long. “Lord Bromwell didn’t bring me and I am not his anything. I was merely a passenger in the same coach.”
Again, Mrs. Jenkins straightened, but this time she frowned. “Say what you like, my girl, but the floors creak something fierce. You weren’t alone in this room.”
“I was upset after the accident and couldn’t sleep. You simply heard me moving about. By myself.”
Mrs. Jenkins shook her head. “There’s no point lying to me. I’ve never seen Lord Bromwell look at anything the way he looked at you last night, ’cept the time he caught the biggest spider I ever laid eyes on in the stable.”
“I hardly think it’s a compliment or a sign of affection if he regards me as he would a spider,” Nell retorted in her best imitation of a haughty young lady. “If indeed, he does regard me with anything more than mild interest.”
“You sound just like him, too, when he’s going on about his spiders,” Mrs. Jenkins said with a sigh, apparently not the least put off by Nell’s imperious manner. “Can’t follow the half of it. He’s got a lovely voice, though, ain’t he?”
He did, but Nell wasn’t going to agree in case the woman took that for additional confirmation of her suspicions.
The innkeeper’s wife fixed her with a worldly-wise eye. “And then, I saw him leaving your room.”
That wasn’t so easy to explain. Nevertheless, she tried. “He merely wished to ascertain if I had been able to sleep despite the accident.”
“You’re a smooth one, I must say,” Mrs. Jenkins replied with a wry shake of her capped head as she wrestled the featherbed back into place. “But there’s no need to lie to me. I don’t blame you a bit, even if others might. Why, if I was twenty years younger and unmarried, I’d be the first to…”
She cleared her throat and her broad cheeks pinked. “Well, I’m not, so never mind. I just wanted to say this before you go. He’s a good man, and a kind one, so I hope you won’t break his heart.”
“I am in no position to do so,” Nell firmly assured her, “nor will I ever be and I say again that he came to my room only to ascertain if I was all right.”
“Have it your own way then,” Mrs. Jenkins replied, clearly still not believing her explanation.
This situation was getting worse and worse, Nell thought with dismay. She was a decent, respectable young woman—or had been until six days ago. Now she could be branded a thief and immoral into the bargain, especially if Lord Bromwell paid for her accommodation.
On the other hand, Lord Sturmpole would never suspect the woman he was chasing was the same woman others believed to be the mistress of the famous Lord Bromwell.
“Have you informed Lord Bromwell of your conclusion?” she asked.
“If it was anybody else,” the innkeeper’s wife replied, “I’d have thrown them out the minute I realized what was goin’ on. Jenkins and I run a respectable inn, we do.”
So she had kept her suspicions to herself, which was a relief. “Thank you for your kindness and discretion,” Nell said. “Lord Bromwell and I are most grateful, especially if you’ll continue to keep our secret.”
“Worried about losing sponsors for his next expedition if word gets out, is he?” Mrs. Jenkins asked with triumphant satisfaction.
Nell hadn’t known the viscount intended to sail again, but she hid her surprise and nodded, for a scandal would surely hamper such efforts despite his previous success.
“Well, my dear, you can count on me. But mind what I said about breaking his heart, or you’ll have me to reckon with!”
“I shall,” Nell promised, even as she noted the good woman didn’t seem to care about the state of her heart. Perhaps Mrs. Jenkins considered her simply mercenary, with no heart to break. “Do you know where Lord Bromwell is now?”
“In the stables, I think, probably looking for another spider.”
Nell suppressed a shiver as she hurried from the room.

It didn’t take her long to find Lord Bromwell. He was standing by the stables, talking to one of the grooms.
He still wore no hat, and his hair ruffled slightly in the breeze. He also had on dark trousers, white shirt, light green vest and the same shining boots and well-fitting gloves. He leaned his weight casually on one leg, and she could hear him laughing.
His laugh was as nice as the rest of him.
She hoped he never found out the truth about her. That way, he might remember her with affection, as she would certainly remember him.
Before she could catch his attention, a large black coach with an ornate coat of arms on the lacquered door came barrelling into the yard. The driver, dressed in scarlet and gold livery, shouted and pulled on the reins with all his might to stop the coach, while the footmen at the back held on for dear life as it came to a rocking halt.
No one in the inn’s yard moved—not even the dogs—or spoke as one of the livered footmen leapt down, staggering a bit as he went to open the door of the coach and lower the step.
A tall, imposing gentleman appeared, wearing an indigo greatcoat with four capes and large brass buttons. As he stood on the step, his gaze swept over the yard until it came to rest upon Lord Bromwell.
As if announcing the end was nigh, the man threw out his arms and cried, “My son!”

Chapter Five
Of course Drury won the case, as expected. We’re having a little dinner party to celebrate, but nothing that you should mourn to miss.
I trust you’re handing your pater and mater with your usual savoir faire when you’re not taking refuge in your sanctuary, although how you can concentrate in such surroundings is beyond the limited powers of my comprehension.
—from a letter to Lord Bromwell from the Honorable Brixton Smythe-Medway
There had been many times in his life that Bromwell had craved his father’s attention.
This was not one of them.
“My lord,” he said, dreading what this sudden, unexpected advent signified as he walked quickly toward the Earl of Granshire, who actually deigned to alight in the yard in spite of the gawking servants, other travellers and the mud.
Normally his father only left his estate for the opening of Parliament, or if some important business matter made a visit to his banker or solicitor in Bath necessary. Even then, more often than not, such 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 manners are distinctly wanting. You must come to Granshire Hall and stay for as long as you like. Summon your maid and have her bring your baggage. Bromwell, see to it, will you?”
As was usually the case, there was no room for discussion, not even for Lady Eleanor.
Giving in to the inevitable, Bromwell dutifully started to stand while the earl hoisted himself to his feet. “On second thought, if I want it done properly, I had better attend to it myself. We wouldn’t want my coach to tip.”
Bromwell did not point out to his father that he had had no part in causing the accident, either through the improper storage of baggage or the mail, or by driving. Nor had he damaged the axel, put out the rock, or sent the dog running across the road.
“But I don’t…have a maid,” Lady Eleanor finished in a murmur as the Earl of Granshire marched out of the taproom like a soldier bound on an errand vital to the government of the realm.
Bromwell let out his breath in a sigh. “As you may have noticed, my father is the sort of fellow who won’t take no for an answer. If you don’t give in, he’s liable to demand why not and attempt to persuade you for the better part of the day.”
Lady Eleanor clasped her hands in her lap, looking pretty and vulnerable and uncertain all at once. “Since my godfather is gone from Bath, I’m grateful for his offer and gratefully accept.”
She flushed. “I hope you don’t think me a sinful wanton because of…because I…When you were leaving the room this morning, I thought we’d never see each other again.”
“Of course I excuse you,” he said. After all, how could he not, without condemning himself, too? “Just as I hope you don’t consider me a rakish cad.”
“No, and I’m sorry I said those things to you. Sadly, there are too many bad men in the world, and I was afraid to trust you.”
“And now?”
“And now, I believe I can.”
Feeling as if he was back on solid ground after being suspended and twisting in the wind, Bromwell smiled with relief. “Then let us assume our unusual behavior was due to the accident and begin anew.”
When she smiled in return, his body’s immediate and powerful response made a mockery of his determination to maintain his emotional distance. But he must, so he would, no matter how stimulated he was by her presence.
Her smile drifted away and a vertical line of worry creased her brow. “Unfortunately, there is one other problem, my lord. I don’t have a maid, or even proper clothes. Perhaps I should explain my circumstances to your father.”
“I think not,” Bromwell firmly replied even as he wondered what it would be like to try to kiss away that little wrinkle. “My father would no doubt say it’s your duty to obey your parents and write to your father at once. And as it happens, a friend of mine faced a similar situation not long ago, when the lack of a maid could have led to awkward questions and explanations. We shall tell my father that your maid has run off and taken most of your clothes with her.”
“You’d lie to your father?”
“In this instance, yes.” For your sake.
She didn’t seem quite convinced. “Won’t your father expect the authorities to be summoned if he thinks there’s been a robbery?”
“Not if I offer to take charge of the investigation. Even if he doubts my competence, he’ll be happy not to be bothered with such matters.”
She stared at him with wide-eyed surprise. “Surely he can’t doubt your competence after all you’ve done, the places you’ve been, the dangers you’ve faced and survived?”
He was pleased that she was so surprised and thought so highly of him; even so, he answered honestly. “As you heard, he can and he does. However, the important thing is that you’ll be safe at Granshire until your godfather returns.”
Her green eyes sparkling like emeralds, Lady Eleanor finally acquiesced. “Very well, my lord. I shall accept your father’s generous invitation and—woe is me!—my abigail has run off with my clothes!”

Riding in the earl’s fine coach should have been enjoyable, for the weather was fine, the vistas lovely, the coach well sprung and the seats upholstered in thick silk damask and cushioned with horsehair. Nell had a whole side to herself and, with Lord Bromwell across from her, the journey could even have been quite entertaining. She’d always liked to read histories of Britain, and she was sure a learned man like Lord Bromwell could tell her even more about this part of the country, and the Roman settlement and spa so close to Stonehenge.
Unfortunately, Lord Bromwell’s father was also in the coach. Worse, he apparently felt silence in a coach some kind of sin, so he talked the whole way while they were forced to listen, trapped like flies in a web. He complained about the sorry state of the roads, the exorbitant cost of building supplies, the inefficiency of the mail, the generally terrible government and the difficulty in finding good servants.
Once she caught Lord Bromwell’s eye and gave her companion-in-captivity a sympathetic smile, but that proved to be something of a mistake, for his eyes brightened and his full lips began to lift, instantly reminding her that he was a very attractive man who kissed with passionate, consummate skill.
Blushing yet again, ashamed yet again of her wayward, lascivious thoughts, she turned her attention back to the boastful earl, who had now moved on to the subject of the renovations to his estate and his hall.
“The very finest situation in the county since I’ve rebuilt the house,” the voluble earl noted, as if he’d personally laid every brick. “The gardens were designed by Humphrey Repton. Cost a fortune, but worth every penny, I think you’ll agree.
“Nothing but the best for the earls of Granshire and their heirs, my lady. Yes, it’ll be a lucky young woman who marries my son, provided he can be persuaded to stop gallivanting all over the world after those insects.”
“As I’ve explained to you before, Father,” Lord Bromwell said with an air of long-suffering patience, “spiders are not insects.”
“All right, spiders,” the earl said. “Disagreeable things they are, too.”
Lord Bromwell opened his mouth, then closed it again and gazed silently out the window.
“While they can be a little unnerving up close,” Nell said, coming to their defence for his sake, “I understand most of them are harmless—and I’d rather come upon a spider than a wasp.”
She had her reward when Lord Bromwell looked at her as if she’d just announced she was Mother Nature and going to provide him with a sample of every spider in existence.
His father’s expression was only slightly less impressed. “So, you like spiders, my lady?”
While she was happy to help Lord Bromwell, or at least defend his interest, there was a significance in his father’s look and manner that was all too easy to understand, and that ought to be nipped in the bud.
“I can’t say I like them as much as your son,” she admitted with a bland smile, “but I suppose most people don’t like them as much as your son.”
“No, they do not,” the earl replied, as if Lord Bromwell wasn’t there. “He’d spend hours staring at them spinning webs in the stable or outbuildings when he was a boy. His mother and I thought he’d ruin his eyes.”
“Obviously he didn’t,” she said.

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