The Viscount's Kiss by Margaret Moore Page B

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.”
    â€œHer 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.
    â€œIndeed,” his father replied, running a measuring, arrogant gaze over Lady Eleanor, who endured his scrutiny with amazing aplomb.
    â€œPerhaps we’d all be more comfortable inside,” she suggested.
    â€œYes, 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.
    â€œAh, Bromwell, here you are!” the earl exclaimed as ifhis 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.
    â€œDid 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?”
    â€œI’m going to visit my godfather, Lord Ruttles.”
    â€œI don’t think so.”
    Lady Eleanor started, as well she might, at his father’s firm response.
    â€œHe’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.
    â€œRutty 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,