The Viscount's Kiss by Margaret Moore

the final course of fruit and chocolate crème had been served, and the ladies left him alone with his father. Instead of returning to politics, however, Bromwell was forced to endure another lecture on his duties as an Englishman, a nobleman and especially the heir of the Earl of Granshire.
    Having been subjected to this harangue several times before, Bromwell allowed his mind to drift to Lady Eleanor, although that proved to be something of a mistake. His imagination immediately conjured the picture of her lithe, graceful body engaged in a hura, the dance done by the women of Tahiti, which was as different from a measured, genteel English ballroom dance as it was possible for a dance to be.
    â€œWell, Bromwell? What do you intend to do?” his father demanded, tugging his mind back to cold reality.
    â€œFor now, join the ladies,” his son replied as he rose and headed for the door.
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    Nell had thought the dinner at the inn had been like trying to make her way through a maze, but that was nothing compared to the tension she experienced in the Earl of Granshire’s dining room. Thanks to her education—which the earl would likely consider a waste of money—she knew what glass to drink from and how to manage the fish bones; otherwise, she felt like the unwilling spectator at a trial, with Lord Bromwell as the defendant and his father both judge and jury. His mother, for all her apparent concern for her son, said nothing in his defence. Instead, she sat as silent as a spirit and picked at her food like a bird.
    No, that wasn’t right, she thought as she sat across from Lady Granshire, who was reclining on the Grecian couchin the drawing room while they waited for the tea. A ghost might have groaned or tipped over a chair to reveal its presence. Lady Granshire simply ate her food, sipped her wine and ignored the conversation around her.
    Perhaps she was used to such conversations between her husband and son, which surely meant they weren’t uncommon. Poor Lord Bromwell! How difficult it must be for him here!
    â€œYou’re shivering,” the countess said with maternal concern. “Shall I have a footman fetch you a shawl?”
    â€œNo, I’m quite all right, thank you,” Nell replied. If anything, the room was rather too warm, for the fire had been built up while they’d been in the dining room, probably for Lady Granshire’s benefit.
    Lord Bromwell and his father would no doubt find the room almost unbearably warm. Of course, having been in such hot climes during his voyage, Lord Bromwell might not find such temperatures uncomfortable, although he might be tempted to remove his coat…
    â€œI do hope you’re not coming down with something. Perhaps I should have Dr. Heathfield see you when he comes for his weekly visit.”
    â€œNo, I’m sure I’ll all right. I must thank you for the loan of this gown and the others.”
    The countess gave her a shy smile that was very like her son’s. “Think nothing of it. I have too many to wear.” She leaned forward and took hold of Nell’s hand with unexpected strength. “You mustn’t mind my husband, Lady Eleanor. He is arrogant and stubborn and easily agitated, but he can be kind and generous, too.”
    â€œIt’s hardly for me to judge him,” Nell protested, taken aback by her fervor.
    Lady Granshire let go of her hand and lay back. “It’s just that he had certain aspirations for his son and Justinian has ignored them and gone his own way.”
    â€œTo great acclaim,” Nell observed.
    â€œYes,” the countess agreed, “but—”
    She fell silent when Lord Bromwell appeared in the door. He nodded a greeting, then went to stand by the window in the same attitude as before, feet planted, hands behind his back, but this time, it looked as if he was preparing himself for a rigorous dressing down, not studying the moon or stars.
    His father