How to Capture a Countess (Duchess Diaries 1)

by Karen Hawkins

  Looking into Sin’s handsome face, Rose couldn’t have disagreed with him more: the company was perfect. He was perfect. And given another glass of the forbidden champagne—Aunt Lettice was fortunately busy in the card room—Rose was certain she could drown in Sin’s beautiful sherry-brown eyes.

  She couldn’t believe that those very eyes were now focused on her. She’d dreamed about this moment for so long, when the handsome, dashing Earl of Sinclair would finally see her—really see her—and realize that they were meant for each other.

  It was a silly dream and she knew it, and yet she couldn’t help but have it every time she saw him. There was something about him that made her knees quiver and her heart race. It wasn’t just that he was so tall and broad shouldered, though he easily dwarfed everyone in the room. Nor was it because he was incredibly handsome, though his brow and strong jaw were carved as if from a Greek statue. And she didn’t think it was because he was golden, as if kissed from the sun with hair of gold, threaded with brown.

  His only imperfection was the faint broken line of his nose—a childhood break, perhaps? Or a sporting accident of some sort? She only knew that it added a heady, rakish, devil-may-care air to his already commanding appeal.

  All in all, Lord Sinclair was every woman’s dream, especially Rose’s, and she was determined to grab this precious moment when his attention was actually hers. All hers.

  His smile faded a bit and her heart thudded sickly as she realized with a rising sense of panic that she hadn’t answered his question about what had brought her to the ball. I can’t allow him to get bored, or he’ll leave and my chance will be gone. But what will interest him? She knew that he enjoyed horses, and wagers, and boxing. And whiskey, too, and lobster in cream sauce, and that most of his waistcoats were blue, so that must be his favorite color.

  She also knew that he’d dance the waltz, but never the country dances, and never with anyone who wasn’t either married or a good bit older than she was. She knew, too, that every time he was in a room, her sixteen-year-old heart thudded like that of a bird newly caught in a cage.

  It was beating like that now, but she knew better than to let him see her nervousness. Lord Sin usually spoke only to older, more worldly women. Women who moved with a self-possession and outspokenness that earned them the scowls of other women, but the admiration of men like him.

  And suddenly, that was the exact sort of woman Rose desperately wanted to be. She gestured with her empty champagne glass to encompass the entire room and said with what she hoped was disdain, “It’s a very boring party.” She looked back at him. “Or it was until now.”

  Her champagne-fueled confidence shocked Rose as much as it seemed to delight her companion, for his gaze narrowed and he moved closer—so close that his chest brushed her arm and sent an odd heat flickering through her. Rose suddenly realized that her fingers were so tightly clutched about the champagne flute that it was a surprise the glass hadn’t splintered. She uncurled her fingers, wanting nothing more than to toss the glass and her inhibitions away and to throw her arms around him, a feeling made stronger by the two glasses of champagne. “It’s too bad we’re at this ball now. There are other things we could be doing instead.” Like riding through the park, for she loved horses as much as he did. Or, if they could escape her aunt’s vigilant eye, walking through the gardens, where they might slip away and share a kiss. Her heart fluttered at the thought.

  “Other things, Miss Balfour?” He returned her smile, an odd glint in his eye. “I would like that, too.”

  She smiled widely as she gazed into his eyes, completely lost. He might not remember every time they’d met, but she did. She remembered every time he’d smiled, how his dark blond hair fell over his brow and the way his eyes crinkled when he laughed. She knew far too well how his deep voice could rumble over one and leave one’s heart thudding like a hummingbird—

  “Miss Balfour, you are out of champagne. Shall I fetch you more?”

  “Oh no, my aun—” She clamped her lips over the rest of her sentence. Worldly women don’t answer to their aunts. “I mean, yes, I would love another glass of champagne.”

  He looked over her head and scanned the room. “Where is a footman? There were two hovering near just a second ago.”

  Rose took the opportunity to stare openly at him, admiring the strong cut of his jaw, the decidedly patrician line of his nose, and the sensual way his mouth curved just so—

  His gaze dropped to hers and for a second, their glances clung.

  Rose hid her gulp behind a dismissive wave at the room. “Th-there are quite a lot of people here tonight, aren’t there?”

  He shrugged, a flicker of disappointment in his face that she felt as keenly as the cut of a knife. “It’s a ball,” he said shortly.

  A sense of urgency arose in her. Blast it, if I bore him, he will leave. She looked around, searching for inspiration. “I hate these events.”

  “And why is that?”

  She could answer that honestly. “Everyone dresses up in so many ribbons and bows and buttons that we all look like trussed-up codfish.”

  He laughed, the deep sound rolling over her and making her heart sing. “Codfish?”

  She practically glowed that she’d made him laugh. “How do you entertain yourself at these sorts of events, Lord Sin?”

  His smile disappeared. “Lord Sin?”

  She blinked. “That’s what people call you.”

  “People who know me, perhaps.”

  Rose peeped at him through her lashes, as she’d seen a widow do to him once. “If you don’t wish me to call you Lord Sin, I won’t, but few words trip off the tongue like ‘Sin.’ ”

  She had to fight to keep from gawking at her own temerity. Goodness! Where did that come from?

  Wherever it had, he apparently found it worth noticing, for his gaze was suddenly intense. “You enjoy sin, my dear Miss Balfour?”

  “Who doesn’t?” she retorted, getting more and more drunk off her own bravery. She borrowed a line from the church service she and Aunt Lettice had attended last Sunday. “We’re all sinners in one way or another, aren’t we?”

  “So we are, my lovely Rose.” His smile became as wickedly inviting as ever her dreams had made it. “By the way, my name is Alton, although if you prefer Sin”—he offered a small bow, and his closeness brought his eyes level with hers—“you may call me Sin, if you wish.”

  “Sin it is, then.” Whoever had named him Alton hadn’t felt the effect of his warm brown eyes as they traveled across her as if he could see through her silks and laces. An odd shiver traveled over her, prickling her skin and making her more light-headed than the champagne.

  His gaze found her empty glass. “I almost forgot your champagne.”

  “Oh, that’s quite all ri—”

  “Here.” He reached out to grasp a flute of champagne from a footman and pressed it into her hand.

  “Thank you,” she said, eyeing the glass with trepidation.

  “You’re welcome.” He removed her empty glass and placed it on a nearby table.

  The last thing she needed was more champagne; she was already tipsy from her own temerity and the other two glasses she’d had. But she caught Sin’s gaze and realized that he expected her to drink it just as she’d drunk the first two. And right now, she’d do anything to keep his attention—and admiration—on herself. She lifted the glass in a toast, and then tossed it back.

  He looked so pleased that her misgivings instantly disappeared.

  Indeed, as the champagne coursed through her, the last silly worry about her actions flew away like an irritating bee before a brisk wind. And in its place was the sudden realization that this was her one and only chance to fix her interest with the earl. He was here, he was paying attention to her, and—more astonishing—Aunt Lettice was nowhere to ruin the moment.

  Rose knew it wouldn’t last. In a half hour or sooner, her champagne confidence would be gone, Sin would be bored, and Aunt Lettice would
arrive to “save” her. She didn’t want to be saved. She wanted . . . Oh dear, what did she want? She tried to swallow, but her throat was too tight. Her gaze traveled over him, across his face to his lips, and there she lingered, suddenly certain of her goal. She wanted nothing less than a kiss. A real kiss, one that would sear the memory of this moment into her soul so thoroughly that if she lived ten score years plus one, she’d never forget it.

  Rose glanced around the ballroom, and the answer to her predicament came in a bubble of champagne clarity. The terrace doors lead to the garden. A worldly woman would entice Lord Sinclair into the garden and, once there, she’d boldly kiss him.

  Rose fixed a seductive smile on her lips. “Lord Sin, when you arrived, I was just going to repair a tear in my gown.”

  He looked at her perfect hem. “Your gown is torn?”

  “In the back, where you can’t see. I may trip if I don’t fix it soon. I thought I might find a seat in the garden and pin it, if you’d care to escort me there?”

  His gaze locked with hers and something passed between them. Rose didn’t know what it was, but suddenly her skin tingled and she couldn’t breathe. As she always did when very nervous, she laughed softly.

  Sin gave a muffled curse, removed her empty glass from her hand and placed it on a nearby table, tucked her hand in the crook of his arm, and instantly bore her toward the terrace doors.

  That was easy! Feeling as if she were in charge of the world, she allowed him to sweep her along. Within seconds they were through the terrace doors and out into the cool night air, the noise of the ball left behind. Rose’s heart tripped along, happy and euphoric from a growing sense of awe and pride at her boldness. Sin’s hand was warm over hers, the faint scent of his cologne mingling with the jasmine and lilies that filled the lantern-lit garden. Could this night be any more perfect?

  Sin led her down the stone steps and to a path dimly lit by colorful paper lanterns. They passed a couple here and there, but Sin was careful to stay out of direct sight of anyone.

  He turned down a broader path and finally led her into an open space where a large, low fountain bubbled. In the center of the fountain Aphrodite poured water from a jug, a small Cupid playing at her feet. Green lily pads floated all around, and the glowing paper lanterns reflected in the water like colorful stars. “This is beautiful,” Rose said. The perfect place for my first kiss.

  As if he read her thoughts, he led her to the fountain. A red paper lantern hung overhead and cast a seductive light across Sin’s face. Rose couldn’t believe she was here, alone with him, his warm hands now sliding about her waist as he tugged her close.

  It’s exactly the way it was in my dreams. Heart pounding, she placed her hands on his chest and lifted her face to his. She closed her eyes, swaying slightly from the champagne, and offered her lips.

  Sin tightened his hold on her slender waist. And to think he’d been about to leave the ball. His body was aflame with desire for this little fancy piece, and he was determined to have her. He bent and captured her mouth with his, teasing her soft lips until they parted, and then flicking his tongue over her teeth. She gasped against his mouth and wiggled against him.

  He almost groaned with relief at her wanton signal. That was all he needed. He slipped his hands to her ass and cupped her against him, rubbing his hard cock against her, showing her how she affected him, how she—

  Her eyes flew open. For a frozen second, they looked at each other. And then, with a small cry, she shoved him as hard as she could.

  Sin reeled backward, the back of his leg hitting the low lip of the fountain, and he fell in with a splash.

  If shock hadn’t already killed the intense flood of desire, the icy water would have done so. He gasped as he struggled to right himself, coughing water as he grabbed the statue for purchase. Aphrodite, apparently disgusted with the whole display, continued to pour water from her vase directly upon his head.

  Sputtering and furious, he moved away from the statue and glared at Rose.

  She stood at the edge of the fountain, her eyes wide, her fingers over her mouth, which was formed into a shocked “O.” She regained her composure quickly, though, and held up a hand. “Don’t move!”

  “Like hell; I’m not staying here.” He pushed his wet hair from his eyes and tried to wring some of the water from his coattails.

  “Someone must help you out of that fountain and—I’ll fetch someone now.” To his astonishment, she lifted her head and yelled in a loud voice, “Help! Someone, please help!”

  “No, don’t!” He lunged across the fountain, trying to reach her. “You’re going to draw atten—” His foot caught in a lily pad and down he went again, into the net of lily pads.

  He came up cursing, grabbing at the slimy tendrils and yanking them from his face and neck. “Damn it!” Water and something green dangled before his face. He snatched at it, and found a lily pad perched upon his head. He threw it into the pond in disgust . . . and realized that Rose and he were no longer alone.

  A dozen or so ladies and their escorts stood gawking at where he stood, water pouring from his evening clothes, another lily pad in his hand. An assortment of astonishment, shock, and the growing suspicions of mirth could be seen in each face.

  Grinding his teeth, he turned toward Rose. She was facing him with a wide, astonished look, her gloved hand pressed to her mouth.

  She pointed to his shoulder. “I-I beg your pardon, but there’s a lily p-p-p—” To his chagrin and fury, a faint giggle erupted from her kiss-swollen lips. Instantly, Rose’s giggle trickled through the crowd and, like dry tinder, they burst into laughter.

  The wave of it hit him like freezing water and his jaw tightened until he feared his teeth would crack. Rose’s laughter was now reflected in every gaze . . . except one. His grandmother didn’t look a bit amused. If anything, she looked as if she wished he’d return to the lily pad net and drown himself.

  Lord MacDoonan, obviously recovered from the loss of his flask, chortled merrily. “Lud, Sin, look at you!”

  Sin shot a baleful glare at Rose. Her laughter died as her gaze locked with his, and for an instant, he thought he caught a glimmer of something . . . Remorse? Fear? Whatever it was, it wasn’t enough.

  “Sinclair,” his grandmother said, looking furious. “Get out of that fountain!”

  A tiny woman wearing a puce gown, her white hair adorned with a ridiculous amount of flowers, scurried up. “Rose! Good heavens! What are you doing here? I’ve been looking for you everywhere and—” The woman’s gaze fell on Sin, and she gasped and jumped as if he were a loch monster. “Oh dear!” Face red, she gathered Rose. “Come. We are leaving immediately.”

  “But, I—” Rose began, but she was no match for the tiny lady, who seemed to have grown arms as strong as a bear baiter’s.

  “Now,” she said, marching Rose down a path and away from the growing crowd.

  “But Aunt Lettice, let me at least tell S—” Rose’s voice faded down the path.

  Even though she was gone, the memory of Rose’s laughter still stung Sin’s ears as he waded to the edge of the fountain and stepped out. How dare she? He would n—

  “Lord Sin!” Miss MacDonald, who’d tried so hard to charm Sin on the carriage ride to this atrocious ball, snickered behind her hand. “Something’s in your pocket.”

  Sin looked down. His front pocket was moving slightly. As he looked, a small fish jumped out of his pocket and into the puddle at his feet.

  “It appears that yet another waterlogged creature has escaped the fountain.” Miss MacDonald’s eyes lit with malice. “Wouldn’t you say, Lord Fin?”

  A wave of unrestrained laughter met her sally.

  Sin sent an icy look at each guest. Instantly, the laughter faded and an awkward silence arose.

  Sin sent a stiff bow to his grandmother, then turned on his heel and left. He couldn’t believe that he—he, of all men—had allowed himself to be misled by a pair of wide blue eyes and a pert nose covered with
freckles. Good God, how could he—he, who knew better than most men—have allowed such a thing to happen? Damn it, that little wench tricked me. She played to my weaknesses and teased me with her sense of humor, and I followed her like a lamb to slaughter. He wasn’t certain why she’d done it—perhaps he’d dismissed her at some event, snubbed her when he’d been in his cups, or some other inconsequential thing—but for whatever reason, Rose Balfour had successfully orchestrated his very public humiliation.

  Hands balled into fists, Sin passed through a gateway into the drive where, dripping steadily, he curtly ordered a wide-eyed footman to fetch his carriage. Blast you, Rose Balfour! You will regret your actions this evening. And believe this: I will show no mercy.

  One

  Floors Castle

  September 12, 1812

  From the Diary of the Duchess of Roxburghe

  For the last six years, my great-nephew, the Earl of Sinclair, has done naught but drive his grandmother to distraction with his antics. Oh, we thought him a wild one before The Incident, but we were wrong. Since then, he has shown us what “wild” truly means, and it seems that every day brings a new report of his lascivious lifestyle.

  The fault, of course, is with my sister. At the tender age of seventeen, after his parents were killed in a carriage accident, Sin was left with titles and estates and the care of his younger brothers. Though several of us advised otherwise, my sister pushed to give the boy all of the weight of those responsibilities instead of appointing an executor until he was of a more appropriate age. My sister meant no harm, and thought that the boy would mature as he assumed the mantle of responsibility. He did so, of course, but at a very high cost.

  Without parents to guide him, or a partner to share his burdens, and left solely responsible for the care of his younger brothers, he became arrogantly conceited with his own independence. Though he now possesses what all women desire in a husband—excellent birth, a handsome visage, a charming manner (when he wishes), a respected title, and a growing fortune—he torments my adored sister by refusing to fix his attentions upon a woman of genteel breeding and instead openly cavorts with Notorious Undesirables.