Captivating the Countess

by Patricia Rice

“I’ll tell the librarian to give you a key. Our former steward preferred that orders come from me. To be frank, the constant interruptions were a bloody nuisance, excuse my language. I’ll let the Franklins know that you speak for me, within reason, of course. Ordering extravagant expenditures is relegated to my family.” His tone was desert dry.

  Bell thought she detected the slightest whisper of humor, but she was nervous and refrained from judging someone she barely knew. “Thank you, my lord. I’ll expect a salary commensurate to the one you paid Davis.”

  “You are female and uneducated,” he countered. “That is unheard of. Davis was family and had to support—”

  “I support an entire village. If I can do the work he did, I should be paid equally.” She’d spent the night working up that argument.

  He glowered. Bell thought it was more because he liked to have the upper hand. He was wealthy enough that a few pounds more or less should make little difference.

  “I expect you to earn that sum, my lady. I have no obligation to pay someone who cannot perform their duties.” On that happy note, he swung around and walked out.

  Bell smoothed out the anguished note her predecessor had attempted to write.

  I owe you too much to allow you to make the mistake of marrying a faint-hearted miss like Araminta. She suits me better than you. . .

  Ink and tears blotted the rest of the sentence.

  After a morning of checking mending bones and administering poultices and remedies for the usual winter maladies—while listening to his patients extol the virtues of his father at his age—Rain wished for nothing more than a round in the ring or a good romping ride across the fields.

  His brothers-in-law made poor sparring partners, and it had started to snow.

  The house was an uproar of his sisters demanding to depart immediately and the older children clamoring for sleds. Rain caught one of the small ones by the back of his wool coat before he could plunge out the front door ahead of his harried nanny.

  He lifted up his nephew until they were face to face. “Behave.”

  The boy crinkled up his small nose. “Yes, sir.”

  “Yes, my lord,” the nanny corrected in a whisper, taking the whelp once Rain lowered him to the ground again.

  The child would only have to learn to say your grace in a few months or more, but Rain didn’t impart that depressing thought.

  The strong foundation of education, training, and confidence he’d always relied on was developing unhealthy cracks he couldn’t reveal to his family. Rain was fairly certain he shouldn’t even notice the cracks, except he was a bloody sensitive Malcolm—a heritage a man of authority needed to overcome.

  His new countess steward arrived from the back of the house, looking like a ray of sunshine despite her dreary habit. She brightened at sight of the children, then turned wary upon seeing him. Curtsying and catching a runaway toddler in the same motion, she turned the bundle of pink in the right direction, then vanished into the breakfast room where the staff left hot tea and cold comestibles for those who skipped breakfast or couldn’t wait for dinner.

  Famished, Rain wanted to follow her, but he had to address the concerns of his sisters about the weather and the state of the roads and other mundane matters that reassured them that all was well. After the mob bustled out he escaped, only to find Lady Craigmore had quietly slipped away, back to her cubbyhole. He liked that about a woman, he told himself. He needed peace and silence.

  He grabbed a plateful of meats, cheese, and bread and settled into his study to finish a paper while stillness reined, however briefly.

  A column of figures in a neat hand awaited him, attached to a note in a simple copperplate script. All wages have been paid, along with the annual bonus, and the cash box is reconciled to the journal.

  A mountain of tension melted away. He really hadn’t wanted to believe that his cousin might steal from him, but the fear had been there. He hoped Davis had enough savings to treat Araminta with respect until they were married.

  He jotted a note to his bankers and another to Lady Rutledge to give to her husband when he returned. That was not correspondence he’d have anyone else handle.

  He still had to apply himself to the task of finding a bride, sooner rather than later. Not an easy assignment if they were about to be snowed in. He consulted his list for ones who might live in York, which would at least be accessible by train, and grimaced at the familiar choices.

  He’d rather find ways to keep his father alive.

  Remembering he’d promised his new steward a key to the library, he checked his watch to see if he still had a little time, then strolled down to the library wing. His elderly librarian reluctantly surrendered one of his spare keys. The man had reason to fret over who had access to the immense chamber. Teddy had once managed to knock down an entire section of shelving, and Alicia had a tendency to leave books scattered all over the house, other people’s houses, and occasionally, the stable.

  “Tell the countess she must sign out the books she takes,” the librarian insisted worriedly. “I’d rather they didn’t leave the room at all.”

  “I’ll tell her. If we can trust Lady Craigmore to pay wages, I think we can trust her to return books.” He hoped. It wasn’t as if he knew a great deal about her, except that he’d met her at an Ives’ wedding and had found her odd and untouchable. And his Ives’ relation had married her twin, so presumably the family was respectable—except for the stepfather. The Earl of Ives and Wystan had taken care of that minor problem.

  Rain carried the key back to the steward’s office, drawn by curiosity more than a need to deliver a key.

  The lady sat with head bent over journals, a cup of tea steaming in the chilly air, and a heaping plate of sandwiches at her side. She didn’t seem to have an eating problem. A few glowing coals heated the grate but were no defense against the freezing weather leaving icicles on the windowpane. Rain tossed more coals on the fire, bringing her head up in startlement.

  As he’d noticed on other occasions, the little color she possessed drained from her cheeks, and she swayed. The chair threatened to wheel backward, until she caught herself on the desk. As she composed herself, Rain observed old ledgers had been stacked under the desk to rest her feet on.

  Then she took a deep breath that drew his gaze to delectable curves, and it was only her silence that brought his eyes back to her frown.

  “Coal is expensive, my lord,” she reminded him.

  “I own coal mines, my lady,” he drawled in mockery. “And if you catch pneumonia in this cave, I lack my father’s healing skills to aid your recovery. I don’t have time for you to be ill.”

  She almost managed a smile. “I grew up in Inverness, my lord. I am seldom ill, certainly not from cold weather. Although I am considering asking for lined draperies for the window. It’s a lovely view but my back is to it, and the wind rattles the panes.”

  “That’s a worthy expenditure that will reduce the immense waste of coal.” He knew she didn’t deserve his sarcasm, but he had to treat her like a man or she’d turn his head. “I’ll have the carpenter saw off the chair legs to a better height.”

  “Only after you decide I will suit,” she countered with a hint of her own mockery. “Although eliminating the wheels might be simpler.”

  Remembering why he was here, he set the key on the desk. “The librarian wants you to sign out any books you remove. He’d really rather you brought down your pillow and slept with them in the library instead of taking them out, but I vetoed that suggestion some years ago.”

  She did smile then. “If you have a family of readers, that could have led to some interesting slumber parties.”

  Rain shuddered. “No, thank you. My sisters rattle half the night as it is.” He nodded at her plate of sandwiches. “You are entitled to take time to eat. You needn’t work at your desk all day.”

  “I’d rather work at my desk, thank you. I find numbers peaceful. If you knew how much I learn about you and your
habits just by reading the numbers, you’d send me packing.”

  “If all you wish to know about me is how much wine I drink and my taste for fish instead of fowl, then I’m not particularly concerned. I need to return to my office. You should leave yours a little early if you work through meals like this.”

  “I think I should like to watch the children play instead. I noticed they can be seen from the conservatory. If you don’t mind?”

  “That’s an excellent notion. You might even thaw out since the gardeners keep it warm. I’m going that direction. I’ll escort you. Take your tea tray. There is a table there.”

  Rain knew he was off his head to pay attention to a woman who heard ghosts and kept his books, but she was a lady, he was a gentleman, and habit was ingrained. It took every ounce of concentration not to remove the tray from her hands.

  Today she wore a dowdy gray gown with none of the frills and furbelows and artificial protuberances that fashion demanded. She almost looked like a servant with only a single skirt and petticoat. The realization that she wasn’t wearing an acre of underpinnings caused him to step back and admire her sway as she proceeded him down the corridor. He was fairly certain if she wore a corset, it wasn’t a rigid one.

  He did not dally with the servants, he reminded himself fiercely.

  But as he held the door open for her, the fresh scent of rosemary and proximity of feminine charms left him aroused and wanting a great deal more than her company.

  She set her tray down on the wrought iron table and smiled at him dismissively. “Thank you, my lord. This is perfect. You should hurry back to your patients.”

  A snowball smacked a glass pane, and she dropped like a rock.

  Seven

  Bell woke up on a cushioned, wrought iron lounge with snow beating against the window panes and the most gorgeous man in existence kneeling beside her, rubbing her wrist.

  “Your pulse stopped,” he said accusingly.

  Oh, right, she had a spirit in her head shouting Save my son. She rubbed her temple to dispel any trace of the nag. “I should ask the duke about his mother. She seems to be a very. . . forceful. . . presence.”

  The marquess scowled and stood to tower over her. “Your heart stops beating and you have hallucinations.”

  Refusing to be cowed, Bell swung her legs off the comfortable cushions. “No, I’m very sure I don’t. It would be lovely to explain away the spirits as a physical anomaly, but they’ve always been there. I’ve not died of heart failure. And a time or two, they’ve even been helpful.”

  “One of these times, you won’t wake up.” He sounded furious.

  “Well, there isn’t much I can do about it. I try not to be easily startled so they can’t invade. I seek quiet. But I cannot live in a tomb. May I speak to the duke about his mother?” Tugging her shawl around her, Bell took the chair at the tea table overlooking the children frolicking in the snow.

  Rainford clenched his fists, even though his features were perfectly composed. “My grandmother was from Norway. She died when my father was only twelve or so. He can’t tell you anything. I’ll send a maid to sit with you.”

  Norway? The woman in her head was Norwegian? That almost made sense. Living in Inverness, Bell’s family had accumulated a great deal of Norse blood over the centuries. Like called to like?

  She glared at him. “I’ll not have a maid. As you see, I recover quickly. A maid is most likely to give me fits and starts with her chatter and squirming.”

  “Fits and starts! Is that what you call a serious medical condition? Perhaps if it’s loud noises that startle you, you should stuff cotton in your ears!”

  Bell knew he was being sarcastic, but she seriously considered the notion. “I can try that. I’m not sure it will muffle sound much, but it should be an amusing experiment. Don’t you want to tell me to loosen my corset? That’s the usual medical advice.”

  He clenched and unclenched his fists as if he’d throttle her. “You are naturally slender and have no need to tighten your corset. In fact, you need to eat more.”

  She bit into a sandwich and eyed him warily as she chewed. That seemed to calm him more than her perfectly rational verbal responses.

  “You could be reacting to a lack of proper food. Did you eat breakfast?”

  “I’m sure you have patients waiting for you, my lord. I’m not one of them. Go away. Let me enjoy my tea before it cools.”

  Perverse as she was, she actually enjoyed Rainford’s attention. She hadn’t had anyone fretting over her since her mother died nearly a decade ago. It was rather pleasant knowing a handsome lord was concerned about her welfare. But she was quite certain he had better things to do.

  He found a blanket in a cabinet and threw it over her lap. “Stay warm. Eat. I’ll check on you later.”

  She sighed in regret as he stalked out, spine stiff as if she’d offended him. The gentleman had shoulders wide enough to fill a doorway.

  Basking in the warmth and greenery of the conservatory’s unusually lovely and overgrown jungle, Bell nibbled at her food and watched the children play. She’d guess the eldest to be ten or so, the youngest barely able to walk. Since she didn’t dare have children of her own, it would be nice to watch these grow up—

  If the marquess didn’t fling her out on her ear, a very real possibility. She couldn’t help the duke unless she knew more about him, and Rainford didn’t seem eager to allow her to do so.

  Surely his ghostly grandmother couldn’t expect Bell to heal anyone. That was Rainford’s—

  Rainford had said he wasn’t a Malcolm healer! So he couldn’t heal his father. No wonder he was like a lion with a sore paw. And the spirit wished Bell to fix the situation? How?

  She had better write the Malcolm librarians for advice—but she already had a niggling notion she’d rather ignore.

  Iona had magnified her husband’s Malcolm ability by touching him. Her twin had hinted that the marital bed had enhanced this gift even more.

  When consulted, the librarians had told them there were other incidences of Malcolms uncovering latent gifts, all involving. . . physical. . . activities. Lydia had explained that some Malcolms were like tuning forks, emitting just the right vibrations to focus the energy of people receptive to their gift.

  If there was any chance that the Librarian was right—Bell had to persuade the arrogant marquess to hold her hand while he attempted to heal his father.

  If he had a healing gift. She might make a fool of herself for nothing and get herself thrown from the castle if he had no healing power. Still, she had to try.

  Rainford was nearly gnashing his teeth by the time he’d bandaged the last patient and sent them into the winter gloom. At least the snow had stopped.

  He needed to search his medical journals for incidences of erratic heartbeats. He’d write Viscount Dare as well. His sister’s heart had been damaged by fever, but they found a solution. Perhaps he could send the countess to Dare’s sanitarium—

  The countess couldn’t pay and wouldn’t go. Perhaps it was a simple matter of diet and exercise. He’d consult with his father. The duke didn’t have the strength for hands-on healing anymore, but he still had knowledge.

  Plotting his course, Rain strode down the office corridor, half-afraid he’d find the countess dead on the floor.

  He wasn’t completely relieved when he found her wrapped in a heavy cloak and preparing to lock up with an armload of ledgers weighing her down. He removed the ledgers and flung them back on the desk. “They’ll still be there tomorrow. You are to rest before dinner.”

  “I will go to the library before dinner,” she said coolly. “I should like to meet your librarian and assure him that I will not abscond with his precious volumes.”

  Women were supposed to be pretty ornaments who nodded agreement when he told them what to do. As his guests, his sisters attempted to humor him by staying out of his way—as they always had. He returned the favor, and the house was happier for it.

  But he ha
d to consult with his steward regularly. Perhaps he should begin looking for a new—male—one.

  He would have no molars left at all. “Since I have a book I need, I’ll escort you there. And then to your room. If you do not stay there and rest, I’ll have a footman follow you everywhere.” He had some expectation of his staff following orders.

  She stiffened and shot him a miffed glare. “Really, my lord, I cannot like this excessive interest. I’m merely a servant. You must have better use for your time.”

  “Riding herd on my siblings? Listening to my father’s complaints? I’m sure I have no end of fascinating tasks. A trip to the library is the one I have chosen.”

  He had no idea why he was fretting over the damned woman, but he may as well have chosen a trip straight to hell as to escort her anywhere. She turned up her pert little nose and froze him out in icy silence—a blessing in this household—as he led her down the long, drafty corridor to the library wing. Since the books didn’t mind the cold and the upper story housed an empty ballroom, this wing wasn’t heated to any great extent. The librarian had a grate in his office.

  The countess huddled in her cloak as she greeted the crotchety old man and asked for an explanation of his filing procedures. Of course, she’d once worked for a librarian. She knew about catalogs and shelving.

  Rain left her to the librarian while he hunted down the tomes he needed. Arms loaded, he waited for the lady to record the volumes she’d chosen, then escorted her back to the main part of the house. He didn’t dare ask to carry her books for fear she’d bite off his nose. Or ear.

  He'd noticed she’d removed several from the medical shelves. He’d have to go back and see which ones.

  As they reached the marble entry stairs, he signaled a footman. “Carry Lady Craigmore’s books to her room and send up a maid with tea and a beef broth.”

  She tried to cut him dead with her topaz glare, but Rain was impervious to female wrath. “If you should sleep through dinner, I’ll have the staff carry up a tray later.”