Captivating the Countess

by Patricia Rice

  “I think that very unlikely.”

  A door slammed, a child screeched in rage, and a cacophony of string instruments took up a somber refrain, almost to prove her correct.

  “No wonder the opera singer stayed. The sound transmission in this entry is better than any theater.” She marched off, leaving him with his load of books.

  At least she’d deigned to speak with him. To him. Civilized conversation seemed unlikely. Generally, Rain preferred it that way. Women had nothing to say that he wanted to hear.

  Although he had a niggling suspicion he might enjoy civilized conversation with the countess. But he was long out of practice with exchanging more than formal inanities with the female sex. He didn’t count his sisters among that number. Sisters were a different gender entirely.

  Alicia flounced into his office, uninvited, as Rain set down his books on the desk.

  “I wish to have a house party. A small one, with friends from York, perhaps. Perhaps we could plan a fete for charity. We can invite eligible bachelors and auction off dances. Teddy can sell some of his ugly paintings.”

  “You will not auction off dances. That’s appalling.” As soon as he said it, he knew he’d been manipulated. Before he could protest the house party as well, Alicia leapt into the gap.

  “Fine, then. We’ll discuss other means of raising funds for the poor. Or for hospitals. I’m not sure yet. I’ll ask Mrs. Franklin to open up rooms for a party of forty, I think. Thank you!” She dashed out.

  Rain reached for his barbells.

  It was her house as well as his, he reminded himself as he shrugged out of his coat. Technically, the property was entailed to the duke. As eldest, and only, son, Rainford had been given full use of it once he’d reached his majority. The main ducal estate in Somerset was too ancient for modern entertaining, and the duke hadn’t seen fit to improve it. So the family gathered here in Northumberland. They’d all been given their apartments upon marriage or coming of age—a family tradition Rain was disinclined to end.

  He lifted the heavy weights over his head. He could remove himself and the duke to Somerset, but the journey would be difficult for a man in ill health. And the family really needed to be around him if these were his last months of life.

  So a house party, it was. Perhaps Alicia would invite someone she might marry.

  More likely, she was lining up females for him to choose from. He pumped the weights harder.

  Chatty misses just out of the nursery weren’t exactly his cup of tea. Look at how badly his choice of Araminta had turned out—and she’d been one of the quiet, older ones. Given his heritage, though, he need a woman young enough to bear children until he had a son.

  He set down the weights and reached for his medical books. Keeping his mind occupied helped. He began studying the root cause of fainting. It didn’t take long to realize there was nothing new or useful in discussions of “blood humors” and certainly not in leeching. That was the last thing the woman needed. He should cull the library of this ancient rubbish.

  Remembering a recent journal mentioning experiments with elevated blood pressure in patients with kidney disease, he turned to his shelves of medical journals to learn about blood pressure. He had no means of measuring it, and the countess seemed more anemic than ill—

  Estelle rapped on his door and walked in without asking. She scowled at his dishabille. “A house party is just the thing. I’ll stay and help Alicia plan. I know several widows who might suit better than her young friends. Shall I invite a few of your acquaintances as well?”

  Most of his friends were married these days. “If you can think of any bachelors to match the widows, be my guest.”

  Once upon a time, she would have flung something at him. But his sister was a respectable married lady and mother now. She simply gave him one of those motherly disapproving glares, nodded, and stalked out.

  Rain briefly contemplated kidnapping the countess, running off to Gretna Green, and hiding in her icy fortress in the frozen north. He liked the fantasy a little too much.

  That was a problem. A wife who was unlikely to give him an heir would only postpone his current difficulty.

  If only she were a widow interested in dalliance. . . The notion was far too appealing.

  He gave up on searching his journals, donned his coat, and headed up the stairs to visit his father. Perhaps the duke had some insight into fainting females, especially Malcolm ones.

  Down the family guest corridor, Teddy stood outside the countess’s door, imploring her to sit for him. “Only long enough for me to sketch,” his cousin begged.

  Rain turned that direction instead of following his intended path. She was right. Resting in this household wasn’t likely.

  Teddy was several inches shorter and a stone or two heavier than Rain. Rain grasped his cousin’s collar and yanked him backward, unbalancing him. “The countess is resting.”

  “She is not,” Teddy countered, shaking off Rain’s grip. “She has told me to go to the devil and locked the door. That’s not resting. I just need to explain—”

  “If a lady tells you no, you go away. That’s how it works.” Rain shoved him toward the back stairs, in the direction of his studio.

  Teddy staggered, then straightened and dusted himself off. “You are the one who doesn’t understand. Just because you have no gift doesn’t mean the rest of us are incompetent because we do. I have to capture her spirit. My Muse speaks to me through my work. She’s trying to tell me something.”

  “She’s trying to tell you to save the duke,” the countess called from behind her door. “That’s what my spirit is saying. If you wish to sketch me, you may do so over dinner, while I dine in the company of others.”

  “Thank you, my lady,” Teddy called back. “I have never attempted public sketching, but with your permission, I will experiment.” He happily toddled off.

  Rainford took a deep breath and let his silence speak for him. He’d learned it was a very effective technique. His sisters couldn’t resist questioning him.

  Lady Craigmore could.

  Fine, then, he’d leave her to rest. Except he knew she wasn’t resting, she was reading. He’d find out what later. For now, he’d visit the duke.

  The duke was the one sleeping. At least it was quiet in here. Rain took the bedside chair and opened up a handwritten tome from the side table that he didn’t recognize.

  Inside was a compilation of herbal recipes to aid in various states of anemia and malnutrition, including nourishing broths for pregnant mothers—from the Malcolm midwife who’d just left. Rain recognized most of the recipes, but there were one or two—

  The door opened and the countess entered, looking like a vision in a white and gold dinner gown that left enough of her bosom exposed to show she had a few freckles in places Rain really wanted to taste. He contemplated pounding the book against his head.

  Instead of fleeing, as he expected, she hesitated. He stood and offered her the chair. Probably a mistake, but he couldn’t change who he was. “You are supposed to be resting before preparing for dinner.”

  “I will rest here instead.” She didn’t smile but picked up the book he’d been reading. “Winifred said you might compare these to your own recipes.”

  “There are a few new ideas I could try, but I don’t believe it is lack of nourishment that is his problem. Or it is, but the problem is that he is not absorbing what he eats.”

  She nodded. “He needs a cure that medical science has not yet discovered. I’ve been reading about how Malcolm healers have an energy that seems to reduce pain and promote healing. Would you be interested in experimenting?”

  Rain’s first inclination was a firm Hell, no. But that would require a lengthy explanation of all the times he’d tried and failed. Any healing he accomplished was through pure medical science, which was also failing in his father’s case.

  And then he noticed her hesitation. Lady Craigmore was not precisely a hesitant person. Quiet, yes, hesitant—mos
t definitely not.

  “What do you suggest?” Intrigued, he kept his voice neutral.

  “Holding my hand while you try to use your gift?”

  Eight

  Bell was grateful the duke slept. That prevented his son from shouting his opinion of her inexcusable suggestion.

  At least Rainford didn’t glare and walk out at her presumption, as she’d expected. She didn’t know how one went about asking a gentleman to hold hands, much less ask him to use a gift he may not have. It had been very bad of her.

  “I have to try everything,” she said quietly when he said nothing. “The voice is very insistent and anxious and won’t leave me alone. Enhancing energy is the only ability I might have. It worked a little with Iona. Iona’s gift seems to work better between her and her husband. Or it could just be Iona. I don’t know.”

  That seemed to unbend him a little. “Ives is particularly thick-headed. I should think his bride would have had to slap him a few times before he grasped what she wanted of him.”

  Bell dared a small smile. “I think it was entirely accidental in their case. But Iona and I are twins, you see. If she can enhance his latent talent, perhaps I have the same ability. . . ?”

  “Holding your hand cannot hurt. And if my father sleeps, then we won’t raise his hopes too much. I don’t know what you expect to happen, though.” He lifted her hand and held it.

  She liked the sensation of this connection with the marquess a little too much. He was warm, and his big hand was much tougher than hers. She stared at the hairs covering the back of it while he leaned over his father. Rainford was careful not to wake the duke and left the covers in place while he examined him. She wasn’t certain that simply laying hands on the covers qualified as healing, but she was ignorant on the subject.

  Still, the marquess humored her silly fantasy, which was more than she’d hoped. He must truly be desperate to save the duke.

  She gripped his left hand as he passed his right one over the covers, presumably seeking. . . What did one seek in a healing process? It wasn’t exactly a scientific method, so she supposed the marquess had no education other than what the duke might have taught him.

  Beyond the warmth of physical contact, she felt no special heat or anything that might indicate he was having any success. When he shook his head and drew back his hand, she knew they’d failed.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I just thought we should try everything.”

  He nodded curtly. He had to be even more disappointed than she. She squeezed his hand in sympathy and dropped it.

  She rose to leave, uncertain if Rainford’s silence indicated anger as well as disappointment. She’d probably be angry in his place. It was very hard to have hopes dashed.

  “Rest,” he ordered as she slipped away.

  She wouldn’t, of course. She needed company to assuage her frustration. She’d really hoped she might make a difference—and stop this nag from invading her head. With all the spirits hovering just beyond the veil of the duke’s room, she was amazed they weren’t all clamoring for attention.

  Without Winifred’s accompaniment, Bell felt a trifle awkward entering the drawing room where the family gathered before dinner. She shouldn’t have worried, she realized, when she arrived to find Alicia drawing up one of her lists, with a monkey perched on her shoulder. Teddy waited eagerly with a sketching pad, an elderly hound at his feet. The others entered in pairs, discussing their children and the day’s hunting. Bell was simply one more face to bounce conversation against.

  “Sit over here in the light, my lady,” Teddy ordered, indicating a wing chair beneath a gas sconce. “Dinner won’t be for another half an hour. I can make a nice start.”

  “Behave yourself, Teddy,” Estelle warned, accepting a small glass of lemonade from a maid carrying a tray. “Rain needs a good steward more than you need a model.”

  “You’re jealous that I haven’t asked you to sit for me.” He set up his easel and checked his pencils.

  “You used to paint Estelle all the time,” Lady Delahey reminded him. “I have one of your sketches of her at home. Did you sell them all?”

  “Back then—to her suitors, of course.” Teddy didn’t look the least fazed by the accusation. “My allowance wasn’t nearly enough to keep me in paint and canvas.”

  “You won’t sell this sketch?” Bell asked, alarmed. “I do not wish my countenance on a stranger’s wall!”

  “He’s hoping Rain will pay a pretty price for it.” Alicia sat back with her list and waved it at her older sisters. “Any names I should add or subtract?”

  “Then you will be disappointed,” Bell told the artist. “I thought I was helping you connect with a spirit.”

  “You are. You’ll see. It’s seldom helpful, mind you, but if I capture the phantom on paper, they sometimes go away. And sometimes the person sitting. . . It’s hard to explain. They make realizations or decisions as if the spirit is finally reaching them through the veil to give advice or warnings.”

  Bell grimaced and attempted to sit still as instructed. She watched as the sisters and their spouses passed around Alicia’s house party list and made additions or subtractions. They knew a great many people. Bell knew none.

  Or so she thought until Rain entered, snatched the guest list from Alicia, and perused it. He set it on the mantle, brought out a pencil, and crossed out the first one. “Cross-eyed and bad-tempered.” He continued working through the list with comments like, “Won’t leave her mother, likes to gamble, has the sense of a pea goose. . .”

  He held off Alicia’s attack with one arm as he continued through the list of unmarried ladies.

  “There is nothing wrong with Miss Macleod,” his sister cried, smacking at his hand. “And Lady Emma is a lovely person and my friend.”

  “Susan Macleod?” Bell asked. “About my age?”

  Alicia turned to her eagerly. “Exactly, of the Malcolm Macleods. She is a bit of a bluestocking. . .”

  “But a very sweet person,” Bell agreed. “I went to school with her. Who else is on that list that he’s so viciously maligning?”

  Alicia snatched it away and handed it over. Her handwriting wasn’t wonderfully legible and even less so with pen scratching through it, but Bell managed to recognize one or two more names from her English boarding school. “Even if they are not eligible as marchionesses, they are very nice people, and would make a good addition to any guest list.”

  “Ha!” Alicia glared at her brother. “At least someone recognizes good character.”

  “Explain to my sister that good character is not the only thing a man wishes to find at his breakfast table.” The marquess poured himself a drink.

  “That is extremely rude, Rainford. Go back to your playpen and let us manage the guests.” Lady Delahey hugged Alicia and they returned to the table to repair the list.

  But Bell gathered the gist of his warning. He wasn’t interested in bedding any of those ladies. She didn’t dare tell Alicia that her brother had a very high opinion of himself. He was entitled to that opinion. The marquess was a striking man with a level of intelligence beyond most. Along with the power of his position and his wealth, he should be able to have any woman in the kingdom.

  He’d look for one who would produce an heir, of a certainty. Had the list contained any Ives ladies? She didn’t know any except a few of the married ones.

  Thankfully, the dinner bell rang.

  Rain crossed the room to where Bell sat and offered his arm. “Precedence, my lady.” He glared at his sisters. “Alicia, you can go in with Teddy this evening.”

  “You should seat yourself among the men and leave the ladies to the other end of the table,” Bell murmured as she took his arm and followed him to the dining room. “Your sisters are not about to leave you alone.”

  “They’ve always meddled,” he said dismissively.

  “They love you and want you to be happy,” she corrected.

  “Marriage will not necessarily make me ha
ppy.”

  “Agreed.” She took her seat and said no more. Her mother’s second marriage had made everyone miserable. Bell was still paying for that disaster.

  Rain spent the next week ignoring the house party preparations and trying to forget the mutual experiment in healing. The brief snowstorm and accompanying ice brought a series of broken bones to tend. He persuaded the duke to peruse all their volumes on anything that could be causing the countess’s fainting spells. The list wasn’t long and not particularly useful.

  And he spent an agonizing hour or more composing a letter to Gerard, Earl of Ives and Wystan, inquiring how he and his wife had developed Gerard’s new ability to see history on old stones.

  If Rain were to hold Lady Craigmore’s hand again, he wanted to have good reason. Perhaps it was proximity making him too aware of her, but he caught himself watching for the countess around every corner. That simply wouldn’t do. She was just another petticoat and a totally unsuitable one at that. So he stayed busy.

  He had the kitchen prepare tasty dishes for his father using the herbs and roots recommended in the receipt book. He arranged for those same concoctions to be available for the countess under the theory that any good nutritional food might help.

  If she fainted again, she didn’t do it in his presence. She did leave useful comparison reports on his desk to reassure him that Davis had performed his duties to satisfaction.

  The damned female had agreed with him when he’d said marriage wouldn’t necessarily make him happy. Were women supposed to do that? Weren’t they supposed to flaunt their wiles and assure him that they were the ones who could make him very happy?

  Did he want the countess to flaunt her wiles? Rain had an uneasy suspicion that he did. And he was quite certain that she wouldn’t. The one damned female in the kingdom who stirred his interest was the one he couldn’t have and who didn’t want him. He hadn’t realized he was perverse. He’d always been the steady, level-headed member of the family. Someone had to be.

  The night before the guests were to descend, Teddy declared his sketch of the countess complete and implored her—again—to let him paint her.