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
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Epilogue
Brighton
Benedict Hampton, Viscount Kellaway, reached across the bed in search of warm luscious curves only to discover the cool linen sheets void of his desire. He flicked his eyes open with an appalled jolt of reality. He hadn’t enjoyed the company of a generous widow or obliging mistress last evening. Struggling through the haze of lingering imbibement, he recalled choosing brandy for a bed partner instead. As if to assure himself he wasn’t dreaming, he slued his eyes to the side table where a near-empty bottle stood as evidence of his recently formed conclusion. He exhaled his disappointment and sat upright.
Night reigned, though he had no clue as to the hour—the clock on the mantle indistinguishable, the fireplace abed with embers. Moonlight cast fickle shadows through the gauzy curtains framing the open French doors that led to his terrace. A slight breeze provoked an eerie undulation of fabric as if ghosts stood sentry, daring him to approach and breach the night. Few things pleasured more than a good challenge and having already ascertained no woman awaited his attention, he rose. He nabbed the brandy as he strode toward the terrace in trousers, his pants further confirmation he hadn’t sunk into a willing female. Kell usually slept in the nude.
Casting a sardonic glance toward the apparitional curtains, he advanced to the stone terrace, the marble cold against the soles of his feet. Stars littered the night, diamonds on velvet, and after a short swig, he put the bottle aside and spun his telescope to the sky. With a curt toss, he forced his hair over his shoulder, the length grown long since he’d left London three months earlier. He wore it outside fashion, tied neatly in a queue whenever forced to bow to society, but here in Brighton in a home he’d created as an escape and sanctuary, he could do anything he bloody well chose. Society be damned.
He gazed through the eyepiece of the telescope, his mind anxious to resurrect the reason he’d left London, his heart refusing the argument. Instead he made a slight adjustment to the lens and admired the heavens, lost in the resplendent beauty of the constellations until a bright streak of light dissected his view. With innate efficiency, he traced the shooting star’s path, watched as it dimmed, fell, faded toward the ocean waters in a flash of muted golden fire, dropping from the sky in a nuance of beatific light, burning itself out, reminding him of all the bridges he’d burned of late. He kept his scope poised on the exact location where the star had ceased to exist, all too aware of the irony—extinguished like his hope for happiness, faded as his ability to love, lost as his vitality for life.
Again the bite of his father’s recriminations threatened to surface and Kell successfully tamped them down, swinging the scope toward the coastline where the waters scoured the sands, their tumultuous assault to defeat the solidity of the shore relentless. He remained as strong. The past would not defeat him, no matter how determined its attempts to erode.
Mesmerized by the motion of the tide, he might have missed the glimmer of light caught in the periphery of the lens, but no, a tiny glow existed on the sands. A lantern? At this hour?
It burned with surety as if the lamp was set securely on the face of the rough jutting shoreline. He’d purchased this land and erected the manor house on the farthest jetty of the East Cliff where the English Channel drained from Wellesbourne. The location guaranteed privacy, the rock-strewn landscape too steep and dangerous for fishermen, bathers, or other interlopers. Yet without a doubt, that flicker of light proved his fortress was not impregnable.
He chuckled, low and throaty, amused by the mystery. Reaching for the brandy, he backed away from the telescope to drain the last swallow, the empty bottle objecting with a hollow sound when placed near his feet.
Returning to the view, his breath caught.
Mystery solved.
A woman, dressed in a thin garment as ethereal as his curtains, stood on the beach, her shadowy profile near indecipherable were it not for the bright moonlight and sharp focus of his lens. Long golden hair whipped behind her slim form, waves of spun silk as they danced on the wind, holding him captive until a strong gust applied the flimsy gown to her curvaceous figure, evoking the fanciful notion he witnessed a mermaid come ashore for a moment’s respite. His attention was riveted to her every movement.
Could he be caught in a liquor-induced dream? Would he wake to find himself abed, only the sketchiest memory of the beautiful specter teasing his brain? He watched as she bent to the water, her round bottom and generous breasts outlined by the wind. His cock twitched in answer. Indeed, this was real.
She couldn’t mean to enter the ocean—the temperature inhospitable this time of year—no matter that to swim at night was to invite danger. Lest she truly proved a mermaid, only a fool would breach the high tide. Perhaps that explained it. Was she addled? By the position of the moon, it was well past the witching hour, yet the woman stood alone, trespassing on his land, seemingly without fear for her safety in the dead of night. Were he more clear minded, he would saddle Nyx and investigate, but the rocky terrain of the decline from his estate to the waterline proved treacherous even in the brightest daylight.
He continued to watch, caught in a spell, as the woman stared into the ocean in kind to the manner he looked toward the sky; such a vast span of universe, one could only hope somewhere answers lurked. Captivated, his breathing evened. The tense energy that had prodded him awake dissolved into nothingness. Long minutes passed until she must have reclaimed her lantern, the dot of light now unsteady, bobbing in retreat. He swung the telescope to follow her departure and his foot struck the brandy bottle, causing it to fall and shatter.
Bitters would complain.
Damn Bitters.
He behaved more like the master of the house than a servant. Insolent son of a bitch and loyal comrade. Kell chuckled at the man’s admirable irascibility. Aside from Nyx, Bitters was his only friend at the moment—all London companions left behind in a tangle of emotion and misery.
Unwilling to dwell on the unresolved problems simmering with persistence below his veneer of calm, Kell abandoned the terrace and returned to bed, his body begging for a release the alcohol hadn’t provided. The image of an angelic mermaid was vivid in his mind as he privately pursued his pleasure.
Angelica Curtis slipped
