Society's Most Scandalous Viscount by Anabelle Bryant

a crack shot, and here in the forest, time stood still. He could temporarily forget his mother’s unexpected arrival or his father’s trail of bastards with a few well-placed marks.
    Anxious to dispel his ill ease, he removed his pistol and emptied his pocket of the powder bag and cloth to a nearby tree stump. The sudden onslaught of supplies disturbing a ladybug who’d made the poor choice to alight and investigate. Wasting no time, he eyed the bull’s eye several paces away. He would polish his abilities this afternoon. Make the distance longer, and challenge his skill. Never mind his mother’s arrival, ever since the interlude on the beach the night prior his emotions lay on edge, a level of unresolved tension ever present.
    He fixed his attention on the tree line, the dense cluster of pines as crowded as a London ballroom, but with the elegant composure absent in the ton. Trees were dignified companions of age and distinction that whispered of beauty and wisdom, instead of scandal and gossip. He preferred their unassuming beauty. A fleeting image of his mermaid rose to mind with breathtaking clarity. The lady embodied uncommon loveliness. Had he not been so shaken by his visceral reaction to her kiss, he might have acquired her name, or better, tasted her skin more thoroughly.
    There was no help for him. He’d gone too long without a woman.
    He removed a strip of leather from his pocket, then swept his palms from temple to neck and secured his hair so it wouldn’t obstruct his vision. Next he rolled his sleeves and formed a small ball of powder in paper before loading the pistol and taking aim. With his stance at the ready, he leveled his arms and rested his finger on the trigger. His mind focused on the center mark. The air stood silent.
    Soon he would enact a change. He’d make a difference. Birds would scatter, leaves would rustle, and the report of his pistol would echo throughout the tranquility of the surrounding weald, relieving the anger, frustration, and pain intertwined in his soul. But now, not even a magpie dared disturb the quiet. His mouth hitched in a shallow grimace at the satisfaction to be wrought. His finger burned on the trigger; still he savored the moment a breath longer.
    Nyx whinnied and the disruption drew Kell’s attention across the field to where the Arabian grazed on grass in the afternoon heat. Curious about the horse’s reaction, he lowered his arms.
    Beyond Nyx stood the kiss giver from the night before. The feminine mystery who offered the pleasure that simmered in his veins still. Her head was bowed as though lost in thought, although her attention veered toward the Arabian now. Kell watched closely as she gained awareness of him, not twenty strides away. He placed the pistol on the same stump that held the bag of powder and turned with a slow smile. She stalled, brushing her fingers over her cheeks as if to freshen her face, the slight rise of her brow the only recognition she offered.
    He approached Nyx from the opposite angle.
    â€œA little far from the sea today, aren’t you?”
    She glanced over her left shoulder toward the sloping knoll. It was the general direction of the ocean but if he recalled correctly a small cottage nestled at the foot of the hill—a modest house with a pleasant garden near the main road to town and in walking distance to where they stood. It offered a valuable clue to the lady’s identity.
    â€œEven mermaids enjoy exploration now and again.”
    She’d been crying, evidenced by her flushed, tearstained cheeks combined with the sullen emotion in her voice. A rush of protectiveness overtook him. What was this unexpected compassion that rose unbidden, prompting him to solve her problem whatever it might be? The reaction surprised him as he was angered by his mother’s persistent requests, overwrought with society’s obligations, and far from a hero on any level. He lived life selfishly, as