A Scoundre's Kiss.

By Margaret Moore.

To Karen Solem, with much appreciation for her expertise and sage advice.

Chapter 1.

Continuously, loudly and in a manner completely uncivilized, some lout pounded on the door of Lord Farrington's townhouse.

"I'faith, I'll have that fellow's head displayed upon London Bridge!" the heir to the earldom of Ba.r.r.s.ettshire muttered as he very slowly eased his six-foot frame to an upright position and scratched his chest through his untied shirt.

Then, not a little disgusted by the dry, dead taste in his mouth, he rubbed his bleary eyes and bellowed for the only servant he retained.

What hour of the day was it? Neville wondered as he got to his feet. It could be any time between dawn and the middle of the afternoon, for all he knew.

He staggered to the diamond-paned second-floor window and peered into the street. A group of obviously curious, well-dressed people had gathered in the cobbled street, pointing and sn.i.g.g.e.ring at- A curse flew from Neville's lips at the sight of the familiar coach outside his door. He reeled backward, for a moment entangled in the draperies.

"Jarvis!" he shouted again, this time with urgency and what sounded suspiciously like desperation as he surveyed the paneled withdrawing room littered with empty wine bottles and goblets containing dark-red dregs.

The knocking waned a moment, and Neville held his breath.

Then, to his considerable chagrin, the pounding began anew.

Muttering more curses, he grabbed all the empty bottles he could see and shoved them into the fireplace under the ashes.

"My lord?"

In answer to the Irishman's interrogative mutter, Neville turned to see Jarvis standing in the doorway, his disheveled state not unlike that of his master. His jacket was undone, his breeches half tied and his red hair tousled to a condition of brilliant messiness.

He also looked as stunned as Neville felt.

"Do up your jacket and answer the door!" Neville commanded. "The earl is on the threshold!"

"The earl?" Jarvis asked stupidly, by his foggy tone not yet fully awake.

"Yes," Neville hissed. "The Earl of Ba.r.r.s.ettshire. Your master! My father!"

The words were no sooner out of his mouth than the obviously irate earl began shouting Neville's name in the street, an event which would no doubt provide the neighbors with a choice bit of gossip. Jarvis, meanwhile, had at last come to comprehension, for now he stared as if hearing the Trump of G.o.d.

"Answer the door," Neville repeated deliberately."Oh, yes, at once, my lord!"

Jarvis bowed and hurried away.

What in the name of G.o.d was his father doing in London? Neville wondered as he raked his hand through his unkempt, shoulder-length curls. The room was a shambles, and he little better.

In addition to the dirty goblets, bread crumbs dotted the threadbare Turkey carpet where last night Sir Richard Blythe had brandished a loaf while enacting a scene from his newest play. Neville's jacket lay tossed upon a chair on the other side of the room like half of a corpse, and his proudly plumed hat sat on the floor beside it. His baldric, sheath and sword leaned against the door frame.

Where the devil were his boots?

As he heard his father's familiar, heavy tread approaching the withdrawing room, Neville grabbed the wine goblets by their stems, shoved them into an open writing desk and pushed the lid shut.

"Neville!"

His back still to the door, Neville winced at the sound of his father's stern voice. Subduing his mortification and dismay at this unexpected visitation as best he could, he a.s.sumed a pleasant expression as he turned to face his parent.

Who stood just as Neville might have expected, dressed all in black like a carrion crow, his hands on his hips, his countenance condemning, his pointed goatee quivering like an accusing finger, while his nostrils flared as if he were a stallion about to bolt.

"This room is a disgrace," the earl declared by way of greeting, growing red in the face so that his narrow mustache and trimmed, V-shaped beard seemed all the whiter.

He ran a displeased gaze over Neville, who made no move to tie his gaping shirt or tuck it into his partially unb.u.t.toned breeches. "So are you."

"Good day to you, too, Father," Neville drawled languidly, stifling any faint hope he had harbored that his father would express some pleasure at seeing his only child. "I confess you come upon me unawares."

Rather mysteriously remaining on the thresh-old of the room, his father scowled. "Have you just awakened? It is the middle of the day! And look at this place! How can you let the servants be so remiss in their duties?"

"The servant, Father. I can afford but one."

His father's frown deepened. "Because you drink and gamble and wh.o.r.e too much!"

Neville did not trouble himself to deny the accusation.

"I perceive you continue to abuse my household by living like a pig wallowing in the mud," the earl said.

"If you choose to think so, but I am a very happy swine."

"Until the day you get slaughtered by those around you!"

Neville leaned back against the mantel and folded his arms over his chest. "I am no worse than my fellows.""No, nor no better, either! I suppose I should be grateful I don't find you wearing those ridiculous petticoat breeches," his father growled. "What would prompt a man to wear anything so ridiculously like a skirt?"

"I am surprised you know anything of fashion, living so out of the way as you do."

"I have seen enough on the journey to expect to find you in something similar."

"I understand they are quite comfortable. I've ordered ten pair from my tailor."

This was an outrageous lie, for even if he had been able to afford them, Neville detested the hideously baggy new fashion nearly as much as his father could.

Besides, his legs were nothing to hide, and he knew it.

Again Lord Ba.r.r.s.ettshire scanned the room, his lip curling with displeasure. "Did you not receive my letter telling you of my visit?" he demanded. "Or have you neglected to read it, as you neglect my instructions regarding your duties as the heir to my estate?"

"Now that you remind me, I do seem to recall some mention of a proposed sojourn in your last delightful epistle. Unfortunately, your hand is so poor, I could not make out a date for the happy occasion. To what do I owe the honor of your company? I know it cannot be to see me, and it is no secret that you despise the City."

"I have brought a friend of the family to London."

"I would be charmed to meet the fellow who could patiently listen to your complaints all the way from Lincolnshire," Neville replied truthfully. "I am sure the roads were terrible, the accommodations at the inns repulsive and the food indigestible."

His father did not respond except to glower before he turned and held out his hand.

Neville almost fell over when a woman appeared beside him. She wore a plain cloak with a large hood, so he could not see her face in its shadow.

"Is there an eclipse of the sun?" he asked, suppressing his shock beneath a mask of calm composure.

"Are you drunk? Or is this what pa.s.ses for wit in these degenerate days?"

"I thought some sort of celestial cataclysm might explain this unusual occurrence," he replied, wondering what he would see when the lady in question threw back her hood.

"You are as much a fool as ever," his father growled. "And you wanted to see him," he muttered to his companion.

Who finally, and with fluid grace, pushed back her hood to reveal her features.

Neville had not seen such a fresh-faced, pretty country la.s.s in years. Soft, brown, natural curls framed a dewy, pink-tinged complexion free of any cosmetic addition. He had a glimpse of large blue eyes before she demurely lowered them to gaze at the floor and thick lashes fanned upon her undoubtedly satin-soft cheeks. Below a fine, delicate nose, she had full lips that could have been fashioned by Eros himself, so made for kissing did they seem.

Immediately, Neville contrasted the genuine loveliness of the fair unknown with that of the ladies of King Charles's court. His conclusions would not have pleased the women of Whitehall.Who was she? Where had she come from? How old was she, and was she married or betrothed?

And more important perhaps, how had she endured listening to his father complain all the way from Lincolnshire?

"I doubt you remember Lady Arabella Martin," his father said, his tone implying that Neville, through sheer perverse negligence, could scarcely be counted upon to remember anything at all.

Arabella? This was little Arabella Martin, all grown up? So well grown up!

Neville remembered that afternoon in the garden as if it were yesterday: her blushes, her shy smiles, her admiring eyes.

"She is the daughter of the late Duke of Bellhurst," his father continued.

"Indeed, I do remember her," Neville replied in his most beguiling tones and giving her his most charming smile as he made a low, sweeping bow. "I was simply too surprised and delighted to speak. I am utterly transported to see her again."

"You sound like an imbecile, Neville," his father grumbled, destroying his son's pleasant thoughts as effectively as a splash of freezing water made a man shrivel. "Or a poet."

The earl made the prospect of being a poet sound infinitely worse than being an imbecile.

"What kind of talk is that? Too delighted to speak! Transported!" The earl sniffed dismissively. "I suppose that is how the fools of the court talk to one another." He pointed at an upholstered chair.

"Arabella, sit, if you can find anyplace clean."

His father always ordered everybody about as if they were dogs, Neville thought angrily as he watched Arabella glide across the worn and crumb-covered carpet.

Her expression placid, she looked around the room, then perched herself on the edge of the chair. Her cloak fell open slightly to reveal a plain gown of some stiff-looking dark-gray material, high-necked and horrible, that nevertheless could not disguise a shapely figure.

Neville recalled her father, who had converted to Puritanism after the death of his wife some years before, when Arabella had been a little child. He had been very strict in his religious observance. Perhaps he had managed to subdue Arabella completely.

If so, that would be a great pity.

"This is what comes of spending your time with playwrights," Lord Ba.r.r.s.ettshire observed, using the same tone for playwrights as he might have used for cutthroats and pirates.

His lordship then proceeded to walk to another chair as daintily as if the floor were covered with hot coals instead of crumbs.

"I have only one friend who writes for a living," Neville amended genially. "Sir Richard Blythe."

"Another member of a fine old family gone to ruin!"

"He has had little choice but to earn his living somehow since Cromwell took his family's estate and sold it."

"But that is not an honorable living!"Neville shrugged his shoulders. This was an argument he could not win. Indeed, his father never listened to a dissenting opinion, especially from Neville. Therefore, Neville had concluded, the best thing for all concerned was to keep as much distance as possible between himself and his father. In this, at least, and whether his father realized it or not, he had had great success.

Besides, he would rather look at Arabella.

At that moment, Jarvis entered the room with a tray bearing a bottle of wine and three somewhat clean, if streaky, goblets. He had what had once been a linen napkin over his arm. Its current dingy condition made Neville think Jarvis had lately been using it to clean his boots.

Ignoring everybody-although his grave yet blushing face showed that he was well aware of the earl's censorious presence-the Irishman carefully balanced the tray on one hand and with the other took the rag and thrice slapped the top of the table nearest Arabella's chair, sending motes of dust upward like so much chaff. He coughed slightly, then set down the tray, bowed to the earl and slowly backed out of the room.

"That bogtrotter is the only servant you have managed to keep?" the earl asked indignantly.

"I find his hair color amusing."

Neville glanced at Arabella, wondering what she thought of Jarvis-and him. Their gazes met and held briefly, and he saw condemnation in her blue eyes.

Because the room was untidy? Because he was not in any fit state to receive visitors? He could scarcely demand that they wait outside for him to dress.

Typical of a Puritan to condemn without comprehension or sympathy. What did she know of his life since he had left his unhappy home seven years ago?

"I apologize for the state of the house, my dear," the earl said, interrupting Neville's thoughts.

"I am sure she will find it in her charitable heart to excuse it. This is what becomes of men left to their own devices."

Still she said nothing, merely staring at the floor as if she'd never seen a floor before.

He went closer to her. "Tell me, Father, what tragedy has rendered Lady Arabella mute?"

That made her raise her eyes-eyes flashing with a fiery spark of temper. "I am not mute, my lord," she said in a firm yet delightfully musical voice.

"Ah!" he cried, pleased that he had compelled her to speak. "Then you must forgive me for that mistake."

"You seem to have many faults requiring forgiveness," she replied solemnly.

Surprisingly, her words disturbed him far more than anything his irate father had said.

But then, he quickly reasoned, he was always more susceptible to criticism when it came from such lovely lips.