His Christmas Countess

by Louise Allen

  Because Grant is the better lover, of course. So it was all a matter of technique, of arousal, and in her imaginings when she met Jonathan she had told herself the romantic lies that it was all about love.

  Kate turned away from the comfort of the warm, strong body beside her to lie on the edge of the bed on cold sheets. I deserve the chill, the nagging little voice of her conscience chided. Wanton. ‘Jonathan,’ she whispered. What a fool she had been, how eager to experience love, when really what she had been seeking was this, this physical delight. And as a result of her naivety and Henry’s cynical scheming she had been ruined and was now hundreds of miles from home, living a lie.

  *

  That had been…incredible. Grant let himself drift in utterly relaxed drowsiness, his body boneless with sensual pleasure. He had never expected it, never thought that Kate would catch alight in his hands, that her body would answer his with that joyful, urgent sensuality.

  She curled against him now, warm, soft. Kate, his wife, who did not react to his kisses and caresses as though forcing herself to yield to her duty, but as though she wanted to join him in creating magic. To find a compatible lover was not such a novelty, but to find that, quite by chance, he had married a woman who took and gave with such sweet, almost innocent, eroticism, that was a miracle.

  Kate moved, turned away, and he woke fully to see she was lying, her back to him, on the edge of the bed. ‘Oh, Jonathan…’ He caught the faint whisper and even with that thread of sound, the unhappiness.

  Something cold and heavy lodged in his stomach. Disappointment? Jealousy? So, Kate was still in love with Anna’s father, still mourning him, which must explain her shyness and confusion earlier. Now she was feeling guilty for enjoying making love with her husband.

  Because she had enjoyed it, that was not arrogance on his part—even the most accomplished courtesan could not have feigned that reaction. Grant reached out his hand to touch her shoulder, then drew it back before his fingers reached the curve of exposed skin. Reluctant to intrude, he turned on his side away from Kate’s tense body and pulled the covers up over both of them. If he touched her now, she would think it was a demand for more sex. If he tried to console her, then she would know he had heard that whisper. He had no idea what to say to make things any better. At least now he understood her strange mood, the evidence of interest, of arousal, and yet the fear that forced her to ask for his presence in her bed had driven her to want to get it over with.

  Grant got up, went to snuff the candles, doused the bedside lamp, pretended that he believed Kate was fast asleep as he fought down the dark mood that threatened to grip him. It was unreasonable, to feel…hurt. He was not in love with Kate and she had made no pretence of marrying him for anything other than the protection of his name for her child, so in no sense was he betrayed or deceived. She did not dislike him, he was certain, and she was certainly not repelled by him. It was simply that she had been in love with someone else, someone for ever out of her reach. And now she was making the best of the circumstances. In effect he had married a widow and done so before she’d had a proper chance to mourn.

  But how to mend this marriage? He had the summer and the autumn, that was all. Then they must go to London, he would take his seat in the House of Lords and Kate must learn to be a peer’s wife, a society hostess. They could do it as virtual strangers—after all, many marriages functioned like that—but it was not how he wanted his marriage to be and it was not how he wanted the children to grow up, in a household with parents who were distant and cool with each other.

  A hideous accident had taken Madeleine before Charlie’s life could be blighted by his parents’ unhappiness, but Grant was not prepared to risk it again. He could live without a wife’s affection, certainly without her love, but somehow, for the sake of the children, he was going to have to make this work and make Kate happy, or, at the very least, content.

  Chapter Eleven

  When Grant opened his eyes on to the dawn light he found that, against all expectation, he had slept without his dreams being full of heat and flames and he had woken knowing how he was going to deal with his marriage. He would not let Kate guess he had heard her last night, he would not mention her lover, he would apologise for his long absence in London and then he would simply carry on as though everything was normal. He would make love to his wife, he would talk to his wife, he would ask his wife’s opinions—and he would keep her so busy out of bed, so well satisfied in it, that she would not have the energy to mope over the man who had fathered Anna.

  Beside him Kate stirred. He curled his arm around her and pulled her round to face him. She mumbled sleepily, eyes still closed, hair tousled, but she did not resist. Grant tightened his grip and bent to kiss her. ‘Good morning, Lady Allundale.’

  If she seems the slightest bit reluctant, then we’ll have to talk… But Kate’s lips opened under the pressure of his and her arms came up around his neck, her fingers sliding into the hair at his nape in a way that made him shiver with anticipation. It was a start. Make love to her until she’s dizzy, he told himself, inhaling the scent of warm, sleepy woman. That would be no hardship.

  *

  Kate woke, stretched, blushed. She was alone in her bed, but Grant was still a powerful presence in the room. Her body ached pleasurably in the most intimate places, the musk of their lovemaking was heady in the air, the bedclothes were a tangle and, when she turned her head to look at the pillow where his head had rested, there was a single dark brown hair that curled around her finger when she touched it.

  So, last night had not been a dream. They had made love twice and Grant had seemed to be very satisfied with the result. She most certainly was—physically satisfied, that was. Mentally she felt happy, guilty, confused and apprehensive. Happy, because to take that much pleasure in one’s husband’s arms must be a blessing—and the greatest good fortune. But she did not understand how it could be that she could do so. She did not love Grant and he did not love her. Would this last, or had it been a fluke? She wished she could talk to him about it, but how could she?

  The conversation would be impossible. I am overwhelmed by how good it is to make love with you. But why did I not feel like that with the man who took my virginity? Is it always going to be like that? Am I very ignorant and unskilled? Will you become tired of me soon? Am I disgracefully wanton?

  What if he agreed that, yes, she was lacking skill and sophistication, yes, the experience had been nothing out of the ordinary for him? ‘I would sink with shame,’ she murmured.

  ‘My lady?’ Wilson had entered from the dressing room with her usual quiet efficiency. The mistress of the household might have had the most wonderful and confusing night of her life, but the routine continued as usual.

  ‘Nothing.’ Kate cast a despairing glance around the bedchamber as the curtains were drawn back and light flooded in, revealing the wrecked bed, the sash of Grant’s robe, her own nightgown tossed to the floor. Wilson merely glided around, gathering things up. She folded the sash neatly and set it aside.

  ‘Would you care for breakfast here in your room, my lady? Or will you be taking it in the breakfast parlour?’ That was where Kate normally took it, along with Charlie and his tutor.

  ‘His lordship—’

  ‘His lordship rode out about an hour ago, my lady. I understand from his man that it is his usual habit when in residence here.’ There was not the faintest suggestion in her voice that his wife might be expected to know this. But of course, Grant had spoken of it last night and she had forgotten. For the past few months she had felt in control of herself, of this household. Now the arrival of one man meant, it seemed, that she could not even recall last night’s conversation.

  ‘I will take breakfast as usual in the parlour, after I have seen Lady Anna.’ And Grant had suggested that they meet at ten to discuss practical matters. That had seemed an excellent idea at the time, now she could not imagine producing one coherent word when she had to face him again.

&n
bsp; *

  The harmless meeting still did not seem anything but an ordeal to be survived when she tapped on the study door on the stroke of ten.

  ‘Come in!’

  She pushed the door open and Grant came to his feet behind the big desk. ‘My dear Kate, you have no need to knock.’

  My dear Kate. ‘Thank you.’ She made herself meet Grant’s eyes and smile. She at least felt rather more composed now she was dressed and had made a neat list of things to talk about. It was amazing how clothes made a barrier to hide behind. Last night she had been naked with this man, clawing at his muscled back, revelling in the hard thrust of his body.

  Kate took a firm hold on her imagination and forced herself to be practical. This was broad daylight. She was the mistress of the house, coming to discuss harmless domestic matters. She should not feel awkward—after all, up until yesterday she had not needed to knock on any door in this house. Except for the one Grant kept locked. Bluebeard’s chamber. Madeleine’s rooms. She took the seat on the other side of the expanse of polished oak. ‘I have several things I would like to discuss.’

  ‘So do I. An early ride gives me the opportunity for some uninterrupted thinking, so I made some notes.’ Grant picked up the sheet of paper from the blotter in front of him, frowned at it, then abruptly screwed it up and tossed it into the hearth. ‘And I thought I had worked it all out, a plan for this marriage.’

  ‘A plan? Why do we need a plan?’

  ‘I did not think we did. I thought I would come back here for the summer, join my wife and family, spend a pleasant few months getting to grips with the estate and then take us all back to London after Christmas when Parliament reconvenes. Then you could enjoy the Season.’

  ‘And that is no longer your intention?’ Please, not London.

  ‘Certainly it is. And I thought that it would be easy enough to find a way to live together, to coexist and form a household, despite the way our marriage started.’

  Her mouth felt dry. Kate willed herself to say calmly, ‘So what has changed?’ What had gone wrong that he had brooded about on his morning ride?

  ‘Last night—’ He broke off, looked out of the window and then back at her as though making the effort to meet her gaze. ‘I was not going to say anything. I thought we could coexist, work together and simply put the past behind us. But in the light of day, I wonder if that is the best way forward for us.’ He picked up a quill without looking at it and Kate watched as it bent in his grip. When it snapped Grant glanced down as though he was unaware he had been holding it.

  ‘I see.’ She could hear that her voice was colourless, but for the life of her she did not know how to inject any warmth into it. ‘You must find me inexperienced, lacking in…sophistication.’

  ‘In bed? Oh, hell.’ Grant got to his feet, came round the desk and sat on the edge of it, close to her. ‘No, that is not what I mean. Last night was very pleasurable for me, Kate. Very. But I heard what you whispered afterwards. You are still in love with him, aren’t you? You are doing your duty as my wife, but you still love Anna’s father.’ He said duty as though it was a dirty word.

  ‘I… No, I don’t.’ She realised how important it was to make Grant understand that. He did not love her, he was not asking or expecting her to love him, but he must loathe the thought that he had taken to his bed a woman who was gritting her teeth and doing her duty—even if she discovered she enjoyed it.

  If Jonathan had been a groom from the stables, a local farmer, a merchant from King’s Lynn—any of those—she could tell the truth, admit he was alive and had refused to marry her. But how could she confess that her lover had been an aristocrat who was in all probability known to Grant? The awful thought struck her that they might be friends. What if Jonathan had confided in him? I’m being blackmailed by some dirty little worm and his two-faced bitch of a sister.

  She had to keep lying even though she hated it. ‘I had thought I must still love him, but I am not in love and perhaps I never was.’ She stared up at Grant, trying to find the right words, create a safe fiction that would protect her—and him—from the humiliation of the discovery that he had married not just another man’s cast-off lover, that he had given his name, not to some fatherless baby, but a child with a parent who could very well support it. A man who would probably want to see her and her brother tried for blackmail.

  Kate tried to find a story that would satisfy him. ‘Jonathan was going to America, and then he would send for me. But when no letter came, when I realised he must be dead, lost at sea, then I was frantic with worry. But not with grief. I was sad, but I wasn’t devastated. And I would have been, wouldn’t I, if I loved him?’

  It was partly true. When Henry told her that Lord Baybrook had refused to marry her she had been frightened, but she had been more fearful that Henry would challenge him to a duel rather than shattered by his betrayal. If she had loved him, truly loved him, his refusal to protect her should have broken her heart. And when she had found out Henry’s infamy, if she had loved Jonathan she would have gone to him, done everything in her power to put things right. As it was, to her shame, she had done nothing until she realised that Henry was a threat to her unborn child.

  ‘I see.’ Grant lifted a hand as though to touch her, then let it fall back to rest on his thigh. The broad hand gripped the buckskin-covered muscle and the movement sparked a dull gleam from the signet on his finger.

  She could not raise her gaze from his hand. ‘You are shocked.’ Of course he was, what did she expect? ‘It was scandalous enough that I slept with him, but if I did not even have the excuse of loving him… And now, to find such pleasure with a man I hardly know? You must think I am a wanton.’

  ‘I think I am a lucky man.’ Kate jerked up her head and saw Grant’s smile—sudden, dazzling. Confusing. Then he bent down, pulled her into his arms and up to perch on the desk beside him. ‘You are not wanton, Kate. You are sensual, passionate and desirable. I thought I was marrying a woman with courage and intelligence who would be a good stepmother to Charlie. I rather think I have been more fortunate than I deserve.’

  ‘Desirable?’ She was no traditional beauty, she knew that. And childbirth had made changes to her body, even though she had ridden and walked until her figure was trim again and her muscles taut.

  ‘Desirable,’ Grant confirmed and bent his head to snatch a kiss from her lips. ‘Did you not notice how much pleasure you gave me last night?’

  Kate felt ready to sink, but Grant was being frank with her, and very understanding, so she owed it to him to be equally frank. Besides, his arm around her waist, the pressure of his body against hers, gave her courage. ‘I thought men didn’t mind very much who they were with, once they were actually making love. That any woman would do.’

  Beside her Grant made a sudden, suppressed sound. Laughter or outrage? ‘Believe me, we mind.’ It had been laughter. ‘And, no, any woman will not do. Except for the sort of rutting beasts whom I hope you will never encounter.’

  ‘You do not find being married to me as bad as you feared, then?’ She let herself lean into him, reading his mood through the feel of the big body more easily than she could interpret his expression.

  Grant stiffened, then she felt him relax. He has decided to carry on being truthful. ‘I foresaw difficulties, and the bedchamber was one of them. I am much reassured.’

  ‘And the others included the fact that you thought me plain, awkward and unfit to be an earl’s wife?’ Kate prodded.

  ‘As you observed yesterday, neither of us was at their best last Christmas.’

  ‘So you left me here rather than allow London society to see who you’d married.’ As soon as she said it, she knew the fact that he had left her here had been a blow to her pride, even as she had been so relieved that he had done so. And it was very poor tactics to make him think she wanted to go there now.

  Grant got to his feet and began to pace around the study. ‘I could not… It was too soon after the birth for you to travel.’ Pe
rhaps he was not prepared for total honesty after all. At least, she pondered, he was careful not to hurt her feelings.

  ‘You could have sent for me when Charlie went to London for the second time.’

  ‘I told myself that Anna was too young, that she was better here in the country air.’

  ‘You told yourself?’

  Grant swung round and she saw his expression was rueful, not angry. ‘You listen to what is behind the words, don’t you? Yes, I told myself we were better apart. My reasons for marrying you were good, I knew that. But the risks, the drawbacks, seemed greater the longer I was away from you.’

  And you did not come back, you left it months. Why? ‘And now?’ This is the rest of our lives, the choice between happiness or, at best, a bitter toleration.

  ‘Now I wish I had come back sooner, begun to know my wife sooner. London and the Season may be a trifle…sticky, but we have months to build this marriage to be too strong for gossip to break it and for you to become a confident countess.’

  It is to be happiness, then. She pushed away the thought of the Season, the threat implicit in those words. ‘I have a list,’ Kate said and smiled at her husband. For the first time since she had woken up to the enormity of what she had done, the word husband did not fill her with apprehension. And London was a long way away, time to worry about that later.

  ‘And what is on this list? An increased dress allowance? I’m to make numerous morning calls with you?’ He was teasing her, but his eyes held that familiar reserve. What did he think she would demand?

  ‘I want you to show me the house and the estate yourself. Tell me about it and what it means to you. Let me see it through your eyes.’ That was what she had wanted, for all those months. She needed to understand Abbeywell and its importance to Grant and Charlie, then she would know how to live here, not as a visitor, but as part of it. There were changes she could see that needed making, projects that would improve the life of the tenants, the ease of using the house, the beauty of the estate, but she had no right to make them without consultation and some she would not even suggest if her idea for diverting the stream to make a water garden meant drowning Grant’s favourite boyhood hideout or the suggestion for building a communal laundry for the village was simply too expensive. Opening the door to Madeleine’s rooms was far down the list of what she could venture upon, even though it was becoming something dangerously like an obsession.