The Earl's Countess of Convenience

by Marguerite Kaye

  ‘And he liked it?’ Kate asked drily. ‘And he wanted more?’

  ‘No. No, he doesn’t want more.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I don’t understand what the problem is, then.’

  ‘The problem is that I do!’ Eloise exclaimed wretchedly. ‘I know it is wrong of me. I know that it is the one thing I didn’t want from marriage. And I know that it’s the last thing that Alexander wants. We talked about it. We agreed. We have an excellent arrangement, it would be folly to jeopardise it.’

  ‘Would it be such a tragedy if you consummated your marriage—if that’s what you are asking me?’

  ‘It is not possible. I’m not asking you that. I’m asking you how you—are you happy, being a wife without—without a husband in the fullest sense?’

  Kate coloured slightly. ‘The circumstances are very different. Daniel and I have never shared a roof, never mind a bed.’

  ‘And you are content with the situation?’

  ‘I have made my choice and I am happy to live with it.’

  There was something in her tone that gave Eloise pause, but Kate never lied, and Eloise had her own concerns to worry about. ‘Would it be better if Alexander hadn’t kissed me?’

  ‘But he has kissed you. And you liked it, and that has unsettled you. You are going to have to find a way to live without kisses.’

  ‘As you have? Do you ever wish...?’

  ‘No.’ Kate began to stack the tea things. ‘I never wish for what I cannot have. I already have more than I dreamt of. As do you. It is enough, Eloise, if you make it enough,’ she said, giving her a quick hug. ‘Trust me.’

  * * *

  Almost two weeks had elapsed since he had written to his mother, but as yet Alexander had received no reply in answer to his request to visit. With Eloise away, despite the constant clattering of tradesmen, Fearnoch House seemed empty, and with the work on his own particular project there complete, he was at a loose end. Sick of kicking his heels at the Admiralty all day, he had taken to wandering the streets of London, and when that had palled, had started driving out, further and further afield each day. July remained hot and oppressive, the constant threat of thunder to clear the air never materialising.

  ‘I see you are in your now customary foul temper,’ Sir Marcus said, entering the room which Alexander had purloined without knocking. ‘What on earth is wrong with you, man?’

  ‘This damned weather.’

  ‘Then take your new wife to the country, as everyone else does. Or take a wedding trip further afield. Paris, perhaps? No, perhaps not. Paris at the height of summer can be unbearable, remember?

  ‘Especially if you are forced to hide in blanket boxes on a Calais-bound coach. How could I forget?’

  Sir Marcus took the chair on the other side of the desk, carefully smoothing out the non-existent creases in his pantaloons. ‘Yes, that mission certainly had its moments but all’s well that ends well. Anyway, you know you love it, dear boy. Have you told her?’

  ‘What? Who?’

  ‘Your wife, Alex. Have you told her who you are? What you do?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘She struck me as a very observant young woman. Are you sure you’ve not given yourself away?’

  He was not at all sure. Eloise had asked him any number of pointed questions, and though he’d deflected them, or fed her half-truths, he was not convinced she believed him. ‘She has said nothing to make me think I have,’ Alexander said casually.

  He should have known better than to play Sir Marcus at the game he had taught him. He pursed his lips, crossing his legs. ‘What happens if you don’t come back from the next mission? What happens if you’re captured? Or killed? Or executed?’

  ‘What happens? What do you mean, what happens? You will inform her of my tragic death in some sort of accident, as is the way with these things.’

  ‘Lady Fearnoch is a very attractive woman. Intelligence, wit and beauty are a rare combination in a woman. I have heard from several sources that you are a most devoted couple.’ Sir Marcus treated him to another of his innocuous smiles.

  Alexander smiled blandly back. ‘I am delighted to hear that. It means our charade has been successful.’

  ‘You’ve worked for us for fourteen years now. You are one of our most valuable assets, Alex, I hope you know that. I appreciate that it’s a lonely life. We do not expect our agents to be monks.’ Sir Marcus’s expression hardened. ‘But we do expect them to distinguish between—let us say the satisfaction of their more basic urges, and any more profound emotion.’

  ‘You do not have to remind me of that. I will never forget...’

  ‘I would hope not.’ Sir Marcus took out a clean white square of linen and dabbed delicately at his brow. ‘I hesitate to remind you of what can only be a very painful subject.’

  Alexander’s hands curled into fists. ‘There could be none more painful.’

  ‘I am sorry to contradict you, Alex, but you’re wrong.’

  ‘I don’t see...’

  Sir Marcus held up his hand. ‘This is a delicate matter. I would rather not speak of it, but we have known each other a long time. You are not only one of my best men, I consider you a friend. Two years ago, that affaire in Madrid almost destroyed you.’

  ‘I am not the one who paid the highest price.’

  ‘No, indeed not. No. Forgive me, but I must be frank. Your ability to do your job, your judgement, were wholly compromised by the presence of Señora Claudia Palermo. That is why we do not permit our agents to form attachments.’

  ‘I am aware of that, and I—’

  ‘But you were not particularly attached to her, were you, Alex?’

  The harsh, pitiful truth, but the one fact he thought he’d kept hidden. Alexander felt as if he’d been punched hard in the gut.

  ‘I am sorry to be so blunt, but it is imperative you understand, this is no time for Embassy-speak,’ Sir Marcus said, with a ghostly smile. ‘You risked your life and you risked the whole operation in your attempts to extricate that young woman from a situation which should not have arisen. She shouldn’t have been there. It was your fault that she was. You took it upon yourself to try to rescue her. You put her first, Alex. Even though you didn’t particularly care for her, you cared enough to jeopardise everything.’

  ‘I don’t know what the hell you’re implying. If you’re thinking that I would be damned fool enough to bring my wife on a mission...’

  ‘Don’t be so ridiculous. What I’m trying to say is that when you care for someone it makes you vulnerable as well as them. You put your country before your own life on a regular basis. You do that, not only because you love your country, that goes without saying, but because you don’t and never have placed a particularly high value on your own life.’

  For the second time in a matter of minutes, Alexander felt as if he’d sustained a punch to the gut. He opened his mouth to deny the fact, met Sir Marcus’s eye, and closed it again. ‘I prefer to think of it as living life as if every day was my last.’

  ‘If you let yourself care too much for that wife of yours, you’ll stop thinking that. You’ll find yourself in the middle of nowhere in a tricky situation, and instead of thinking what is best for the mission, you’ll think about how best to preserve your hide lest you ruin her life. And that’s before any children appear on the scene.’

  ‘There’s no possibility of that!’

  ‘I sincerely hope not. Because it would be bad enough to make a widow, but to leave a child fatherless—’

  ‘You go too far.’ Alexander got to his feet, white with fury. ‘I broke the rules once. Not a day goes by when I don’t regret that. To imagine that I would repeat the mistake...’

  ‘That’s not what I’m worried about.’

  ‘No, you’re worried that I’ll become some sort of lovelorn coward.’

>   ‘That is not what I said. Alex—’

  ‘Enough! You’ve said more than enough. My desire to continue to serve is undiminished.’

  ‘That is good to hear.’

  ‘In fact, I have decided that it is time to return to active service. More than enough time has passed for us to have fooled the world into thinking us a most devoted couple. I have some matters concerning the estates to resolve, but once that is attended to, I will be, as I have always been, at my country’s service.’

  ‘I did not intend to offend you, Alex.’

  He was furious, but he was utterly determined not to betray himself. ‘You have merely reminded me of the rules. It was unnecessary, but I have taken no offence.’

  ‘Good. Give my regards to Lady Fearnoch.’ Sir Marcus got to his feet, holding out his hand.

  Hesitating only for a second, Alexander shook it. ‘I will be in touch.’

  The door closed. Alexander strode to the window of his stuffy, temporary office, and hauled it open, only to be assaulted with the pungent smell of horses parading below. The sun was a haze in the sky, which was more grey than blue. Sweat trickled down his back. He closed the window and poured himself a glass of water. It was tepid. Ice was in short supply.

  This damned weather was making him ill-tempered. He threw himself into his chair and stared gloomily at his empty desktop. Though he was loathe to admit it, Sir Marcus’s accusations were not without substance. He had not come close to loving Claudia. Had his guilt over his lack of feeling fuelled his single-minded determination to save her? He knew it had. He had compromised the mission and himself. But devil take it, he wasn’t about to embroil Eloise in any way. He wouldn’t dream of putting her life in danger. Look how he’d completely overreacted to her risking her own neck when she’d climbed that tree!

  But wasn’t that evidence that he was already in danger of becoming too fond of her, Alexander wondered uncomfortably. On the other hand, it was only natural that he should have a duty of care towards the woman he’d married. Besides, there was no chance of him getting too attached. He was not such a fool.

  Eloise was coming back to London tomorrow. He smiled to himself, thinking of the surprise he had organised for her. He would arrange to have a bottle of her favourite champagne to be waiting when he showed her around. She’d been away over a week. She would be so eager to tell him all her news that she would hardly draw breath between her various tales. She would get halfway through one, become side-tracked to another, then cover her mouth, her eyes sparkling with laughter as she tried to pick up the thread of the first story.

  He would order one of her favourite dinners to be served in the breakfast parlour. Afterwards, they would sit together with the doors open to the garden, because she’d want to be able to view her gift. She’d kick off her slippers, her feet tucked up under her. And Fearnoch House would come to life again.

  Alexander looked at the clock. It was only three, but he had no reason to hang around here. He’d go home and set about making everything perfect for his wife’s return.

  * * *

  Eloise had come back from Elmswood Manor a day early, having said her tearful goodbyes, promising to have the twins to stay soon. Tuesday was the allotted day off for the senior servants of Fearnoch House. Though she had become accustomed to having a dresser, Eloise preferred to take care of her wardrobe herself, sewing buttons and beads back on, repairing tears, fixing hems and darning holes in her stockings, and this was what she spent a large part of each Tuesday doing. It amused her, that her maid must think her clothes remarkably resilient. Or perhaps it amused her maid to play along with her mistress’s foible, she thought today, as she finished her unpacking and set about stitching some petticoat lace back into place.

  The house was very quiet. It was lovely and cool here in her bedroom, with a zephyr of a breeze wafting through the open windows, stirring the voile curtains which she had chosen to replace the heavy damask. She finished the petticoat and folded it neatly before putting it back in the cupboard. Her foot hit against something hard, which turned out to be the large box from Mrs Harman, the stay-maker, which she had completely forgotten about.

  Placing it on the bed, she opened the lid. The array of undergarments contained within was a veritable treasure trove of silks and ribbons, delicate lace, soft cambric, such a decadent contrast to what she was wearing. The only time she’d tried any of these beautiful things on, weeks ago, she had worried she might turn out like her mother. She knew better now, and it was a shame to have them hidden away, unworn.

  She picked up a set of emerald-green stays trimmed with black lace. The silk was like a cool ripple of water against her cheek. Quickly divesting herself of her muslin afternoon gown and various plain white undergarments, Eloise stepped into a pair of pantalettes in mint-green cambric, tied with black velvet ribbons and trimmed with black lace. Rummaging around inside the box, she found a chemise in the same colour, and pulled it over her head. It was a very simple garment, designed, she could see as she stood in front of the mirror, to allow the pantalettes beneath to be visible. Black stockings were next. Why was it that plain black looked positively sinful, compared to white? Next came the stays, which fastened at the front. Convenient, she remembered Mrs Harman saying, for a less experienced hand. Or a less female hand. A husband’s hand. Alexander’s hand?

  Standing in front of the mirror, Eloise pulled the ribbons tight, making her breasts swell, her waist shrink. She looked voluptuous. She tugged the pins out of her hair. Against the green, it was a blaze of red. She stared at her reflection, waiting for shame to envelop her, but what she saw excited her. She was a sophisticated, dangerous version of herself. A woman who relished the way she looked, and who happily flaunted it. She flicked out her hair, smiling at the effect as it rippled over her shoulders. Her skin looked very white in the sun-dappled light. Her eyes gleamed.

  She ran her hands down her curves, enjoying the swish of the silk stays against her skin, entranced by the swell of her breasts, the dip of her waist, the flare of her hips. It was all an illusion, thanks to Mrs Harman’s clever designs. She was a sensuous portrait of herself, why shouldn’t she enjoy it?

  What would it feel like to touch her? Closing her eyes, she trailed her fingers over the swell of her breasts. Her skin was damp, smooth. The lace of the stays was scratchy in contrast. She let her hand drift lower, cupping her breast, remembering how Alexander had done just that, and how her nipple had tightened, and yes, there was that fluttering response inside her. She let her hand slide down the tight lacing to rest on her belly, covering her other breast with her other hand, and imagined that it was Alexander touching her, too lost in her fantasy to notice the door of her bedchamber open softly.

  * * *

  It was Tuesday, and Wiggins’s day off. By the looks of things, Alexander thought as he let himself into Fearnoch House, the day off for all the most senior servants. He headed for the library, thinking he might surprise Eloise by doing some work on her catalogue. Her notebook lay on the table by the sofa. Knowing that she took it everywhere, it must mean that she had returned a day early.

  His spirits lifted as he set about looking for her, hoping that she had not already discovered his surprise present, but he couldn’t find her in any of the main rooms, and the little wrought-iron table and chair where she sat in the garden were deserted. Tuesday. It was her maid’s day off. Of course! Smiling, he recalled it was her mending day. He ran up the stairs, pulling off his coat and waistcoat, thinking to find her at her needlework, and gently opened her bedroom door.

  Sunlight filtered through the gauzy curtains, which were cream, patterned with a tiny flower he was willing to bet was green. He barely recognised the room from his one and only glimpse when Eloise had first chosen it. The walls had been painted gold, the ceiling white. There was a new bed to replace the four-poster, covered in velvet, tumbled with cushions and a litter of lacy things, like a div
an in a harem. She had pulled a full-length mirror into the centre of the room. She was standing in front of it, her back to him. Her hair was down, a thick curtain of glorious, vibrant red. She was wearing black stockings. Pale green drawers, and a matching chemise that barely covered her bottom. A corset of bright green silk trimmed with black.

  Alexander’s greeting died in his throat. His coat and waistcoat fell to the floor. Blood surged so quickly to his groin that he felt faint. He was trying to assimilate an apology, to will himself to leave, when he realised she hadn’t turned around, hadn’t even noticed that he was there. What was she doing? Why didn’t she see his reflection in the mirror?

  Turn around and get the hell out of here, he told himself, as he stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. A flicker of movement in the mirror drew him forward. She would turn around any moment, he told himself, and he would leave, definitely. Her eyes were closed, that’s why she couldn’t see him. She was touching herself, he realised with incredulity. One hand cupped her breast. The other on her stomach, sliding ever lower. He had never seen anything so utterly arousing.

  Every minute since their last kiss after the dinner party seemed to have been leading up to this point. As he crossed the room, Alexander believed he would die a happy man, if only he could have this. His hands where hers had been, his lips on the warm, damp flesh of her shoulder, his body pressed into her back, the throbbing length of his shaft hard against the soft curve of her utterly delightful bottom.

  In the mirror, her eyes flew open. For a second, an agonising second, he thought she would turn and push him away and he willed her to do so, steeling himself to leave, but she didn’t. She pressed back against him. She whispered his name, and he was beguiled by the dual sensations of touching her, feeling her nipples tighten, her breasts rise and fall as her breathing quickened, and seeing the visible evidence of it in the mirror. His hands covered her breasts, slipping over the satin of her decadent stays, sliding into the gap between her drawers. She threw her head back, moaning, as his fingers slid inside her, dark-russet curls exposed to the mirror, slick heat drawing him in, his name said over and over as he slid higher inside her.