Captain Durant's Countess

by Robinson, Maggie

  Maris bid her guests good-bye, refusing, with some difficulty, an invitation to take tea at Merrywood the next week. Ginny’s lively presence reminded Maris she had not had a friend since Jane, and the last years of their friendship had been marred by Maris’s heavy secret, then Jane’s.

  Well. Maris still had the problem of finding a way to speak to Reyn. She didn’t even know when he would return home. Maybe she should go to Merrywood next week. Or better yet, invite the Durants back. A woman in her condition was not expected to go abroad in public, and Ginny would no doubt be thrilled to get another look at Hazel Grange.

  Seven days wouldn’t matter much; she’d waited this long. Maris went to her desk and began to write.

  Chapter 23

  Maris should be going through the boxes from Madame Bernard right about now, Reyn thought, saddling up Phantom. He could not wait until next week to see her. If he hadn’t gone to London, he might have seen her when she’d invited his sister for tea, though if he hadn’t gone to London, she would not be in possession of the prettiest mourning gowns Madame Bernard had ever created.

  On the off chance she was so overcome with joy and thanks that she’d ride out to where they last met, he went to the oaks and dismounted, crunching rotten acorns underfoot.

  The day was spring personified—green, warm, sunny, and sweet-smelling. A little too early for roses, but Maris herself smelled of that particular bloom. Reyn wanted to bury his nose in her loosened hair and breathe her in as though his life depended upon it.

  That might be asking too much after all these months. Would she let him kiss her? Not if she was accompanied by that hulking manservant. Reyn hoped she would ride alone—unmolested, of course—slip from her pretty white horse, and into his embrace.

  Reyn hadn’t taken another woman into his bed since Maris. His opportunities, and they had been considerable, had been easy to dismiss with a shrug and a boyish grin. He hated to hurt anyone’s feelings, so he might have given a careless kiss or two and a friendly pat. But his uncareless kisses had been saved for his countess. He simply couldn’t imagine being with anyone else.

  If she refused to have an affair with him, he supposed he’d have to get used to the idea of celibacy, or change his standards and break his heart. How ironic he’d fallen in love with a bluestocking peeress who was as stern as a governess and as lush as the first rose of summer.

  Reyn paced back and forth long enough to wear a trench in the grass. Maybe he should have stayed home and awaited her missive. He was always acting rashly. Why should she come? Maris wouldn’t expect him to be doing sentry duty on their border.

  He looked to his horse, wondering if he should head back home. Phantom seemed happy enough finding acorns that weren’t too rotten. The horse had an iron stomach, anyway. He’d been the ideal warhorse, was a peaceful peacetime companion, and Reyn loved him.

  I love that horse almost as much as I love Maris, he thought with a sudden grin.

  His life was good—the best it had been since he was a boy. Ginny was well, no one was jumping out of the bushes to shoot him, and his business would take off now that he’d found a good stallion to cover his mares.

  At present, Phantom was withholding his approval from the interloper, a bay named Brutus, so things were not as domestically equable with the equines in the barns as they were at the house. Soon, Ginny would leave, however, and then—Reyn wouldn’t think that far ahead. But he’d been so busy thinking and juggling acorns and congratulating himself on his good fortune that he’d missed Maris’s arrival. His heart leaped. The Prall fellow—he’ d asked his name in town—was nowhere to be seen. Thank God. Reyn pitched the acorns to the ground and brushed his hands clean on his breeches.

  It was impossible to tell from Maris’s pale face whether she was pleased with his gifts. She remained seated on her fairy-white horse, clutching the reins tightly. Reyn strode through the trees and raised his arms to help her dismount.

  She shook her head. “I cannot stay. But we have to talk.”

  That sounded ominous. Reyn prepared himself for a lecture. He knew it was improper have sent her the gowns, but hell, there were only three of them, all beautifully made as only Madame Bernard could do. The hat he’d picked out was a vast improvement to what she was currently wearing, too. He was disappointed not to see it or the lacy butterfly again.

  “It is so good to see you again, but I’ll get a crick in my neck looking up at you, Lady Kelby. I swear I’ll take no liberties when I help you off your horse.”

  For a moment he thought he saw naked panic in Maris’s eyes, but she regained control. “That won’t be necessary. What I have to say shouldn’t take long.”

  Not good, though I love you was only three words. How many seconds did they take?

  “I am at your service then, Maris. As always. How are you faring? You look . . . beautiful.”

  She did, too, though she was very pale, her face was slightly fuller, and her breasts swelled under the black riding habit. “I am well enough. I suppose you expect me to thank you for the dresses, Reyn. What were you thinking? If anyone discovers you sent them—”

  “Why would they? Mrs. Bernard and her staff keep secrets like bank vaults. They are completely trustworthy. The boxes came express from Mrs. Bernard herself. My part in their purchase will never be detected.”

  “David has been here. He’s suspicious of everything. I think he’s spying on me again.”

  Reyn felt a spurt of anger. “Is the man still hounding you? I will talk to him if you like. In fact, I want to talk to him even if you don’t like. He’s got what he wanted. Why is he bothering you?”

  “But he hasn’t. I—oh, I don’t know how to say it, Reyn. I r-rehearsed and rehearsed.” She was shaking as if they were in a swirling snowstorm.

  Without thinking, Reyn untangled her hands from the reins and lifted her off the horse. He didn’t dare hold her, didn’t dare bring her close. He set her down a decent distance away, wondering why her eyes were filling with tears. “What is it? You know you can tell me anything.”

  “I’m . . . I’m having a baby.” She noted the expression on his face and rushed to say, “I didn’t tell you earlier because I didn’t know. I thought—well, it doesn’t matter what I thought. Dr. Crandall told me at the beginning of April that I was pregnant, and then we rushed to move here. I never expected to find you next door.”

  “The beginning of April?” More than a month ago. What had he been doing then? Painting fences white and shoveling manure. The muscle in his cheek jumped. “You’ve known for more than a month. If I wasn’t right next door, would you ever have told me?”

  “Yes. I intended to, truly I did. But I couldn’t figure out quite how and—”

  “It seems simple enough. Pen. Paper”—he tried to tamp down his anger—“a bit of sealing wax once you’re finished. ‘Dear Captain Durant, I’m having your child.’ ”

  “But he—or she—isn’t your child, Reyn.”

  “Ah.” Of course he’d known that. Had agreed to it, albeit with grave reluctance. “You promised you’d tell me, Maris,” he said stubbornly.

  His child, but not his child. The theoretical had become real, and he was unequal to it.

  “I know. I’m telling you now. And you must not come near me. David already thinks I plan to trick him.”

  “You have.” Reyn looked from her face to her figure. She’d felt heavier than he’d expected as he took her from her horse, but not so heavy that his dim brain had been suspicious. She was tall for a woman. Curvaceous. The extra weight looked good on her. “Are you well?”

  “Perfectly. That was part of the reason I never thought that we had achieved conception. I never”—she blushed—“have been sick, not even for a day. My courses even came, although they were diminished. I wept for days that there was no baby, Reyn. When they finally stopped altogether, I just thought I was too old. And then when I found out . . . it seemed unbelievable.”

  “You wanted to keep your secret t
o yourself.” He couldn’t help feeling resentful, but in a way he understood.

  She nodded. “I knew I should write to you, but I was afraid . . . of so many things.”

  “I made a bargain with you, Maris. I intend to keep my word.” It would be the hardest thing he’d ever do. “So Kelby might be out of the succession. No wonder he’s angry.”

  “He believes I’ll smuggle in a boy somehow if the child is a girl. He says he’ll stay in Shere when my time comes. He says a lot of nonsense.”

  “You are not safe.” What could Reyn do about it? Lie like some shaggy guard dog across her bedroom threshold? He had no rights to her or their child. Worse, he was supposed to never see her again.

  “Shouldn’t you go back to Kelby Hall?”

  “I don’t want to. I love it here. For the first time in my life I have a home that’s all mine, the way I wish it to be. I know it sounds stupid.”

  Did it? It was very like how he felt about Merrywood. “You’ll have to if you have a son.”

  Maris looked mournful. “I know.”

  “This is absurd, Maris. Henry is dead and his plans with him. Let David Kelby inherit. Who cares about all the piles of rubbish in the Kelby Collection? Marry me. We can raise our child together.”

  His impetuous words did not have the desired effect.

  “M-marry you? I cannot do such a thing. May I remind you I just buried my husband. Not six months ago.”

  “So, defy convention. Why should you lock yourself up like a princess in a tower? Life goes on, Maris.” Reyn knew he sounded desperate. He was desperate. Until that moment, he’d not known precisely how deep his feelings—his sense of possession—ran. Hang Henry Kelby and all the earls before and after him. Reyn wanted Maris.

  He wanted his child.

  “No. I cannot. W-we don’t even know each other!”

  “That can be remedied. Let me court you. I’ll find out your favorite flower, your favorite soup, whatever it takes for you to think we’re well-enough acquainted. I should think after what transpired between us at Kelby Hall we have more in common than most couples.”

  Her cheeks turned scarlet. “That . . . that isn’t everything.”

  He was handling it all wrong. Maris was stepping back farther into the shade of the oaks, looking at him as if he were deranged—which, basically, he was. But he’d never proposed to anyone before, never felt the panic of his future sliding away.

  “I know it. Forgive my crudeness. Maris, please think on my offer. I can protect you from David Kelby. I can take care of you and the child.”

  “I don’t need taking care of! I’m older than you are!”

  “But not by much. Is that what bothers you? A mere four or five years? The earl was decades older than you.”

  “I cannot talk about this anymore. Please help me back on my horse.”

  “See, you do need me, if only for something so inconsequential. I long to kiss you, Maris. Hold you. You’ve vanquished me completely without even trying. I’m yours to command.” Lord, he sounded like some half-baked hero from a gothic novel, but he couldn’t seem to help himself. Maris Kelby did something to him no one else had ever done.

  “Then leave me in peace, Reyn. Leave me alone.” Her voice shook.

  In his heart, he knew she didn’t mean it. Couldn’t. He had to convince her that he was the man for her, without florid love letters or expensive gifts or a title he did not and would never have.

  Suddenly he remembered a very minor weapon in his arsenal. “I can’t. I’ve been invited for tea next week, haven’t I? It would be impolite not to turn up, and Ginny would be inconsolable. She’s talked of nothing else since I got back from town.”

  Maris stared at him in disbelief. “You’re saying you will come anyway, despite my wishes because you don’t want to disappoint your sister?”

  “I’m saying I want that kiss. That embrace. A cup of tea as only you can brew it. I mean to have them, Maris, and change your mind.”

  “You are impossible.”

  “Yes. Just ask anyone.”

  “Oh, Reyn.” She sighed his name and he’d never heard anything sweeter.

  “We can figure this out, Maris.”

  “It’s already figured, Reyn. This child will bear the Kelby name. I cannot ruin its life with scandal, no matter what I want.”

  “What do you want?” he asked softly.

  “I don’t know! I can’t think when I’m around you.”

  He grinned. “That’s a very good sign, you know.” He felt the same way. The starchy Countess of Kelby made him stiffen in all the right places.

  “I need to get back. They will worry about me.”

  “So they should. You ought not be riding out without an escort, though I’m glad I got this time alone with you. Let me escort you back to the Grange.”

  “No! What will people say?”

  “I’m sure there will be no people along the way to say anything, and if there are, we should shoot them for trespassing. Ah, too bloodthirsty for you? Very well, we can tell these imaginary trespassers the truth. I found you unchaperoned, perhaps a bit faint, and did my gentlemanly duty accompanying you home. There’s nothing odd about that. We are neighbors.”

  Maris looked worried. “If David hears of it—”

  “Blast David and all his minions! We’re innocent, at least this time. I cannot promise for the future, however.” Reyn took her arm and marched her to her horse. “I promised not to take liberties, Maris, but I can tell you I want to. I want to feel the swell of the babe beneath your skirts and know I’ve done something right for once in my life.”

  Maris was silent as he helped her back on her mare and nearly so all the way home. Reyn hoped she was thinking about his clumsy proposal, refashioning it in her head into words she couldn’t refuse.

  He’d have the chance to propose again. He might do better—or worse—next time, but eventually Maris would be his, even if he had to read from a damned book of poetry.

  Chapter 24

  She was well and truly ruined. The fragile peace she’d assembled from scraps of her old life and basted together had been torn to shreds. Maris knew she’d been distracting herself over the past months with Henry’s work and getting settled into two new houses, but it was time she faced the truth. She had feelings for Reynold Durant. Improper feelings. Most improper feelings.

  And she didn’t know what to do about them.

  Last week, he had asked her to marry him, the wretched man, right out of the blue. A widow was meant to remain widowed, at the very least for two years. As she was an earl’s relict, it would be expected she might even remain such for the rest of her life. She had an extremely generous widow’s jointure, a lovely house, and the prospect of moving back into Kelby Hall if she bore a son. She would not want for any material thing. Her life should be complete.

  But there was Reyn over the tea tray, temptation itself. His overlong dark hair was brushed back, his rust-colored coat clinging to his broad shoulders, his buff breeches leaving nothing to her imagination. He and his sister made an attractive pair, and their easy sibling banter made her a little envious. She had grown up with Jane, but the two of them had been naturally reticent, even with each other. Maris had striven to never put a foot wrong, aware she was privileged to be raised in an earl’s household. Jane had been painfully shy, more or less ignored by everyone but their governess Miss Holley. It had been much too easy for David Kelby to take advantage of Jane’s sweet nature.

  The helpful Mrs. Beecham had not come with the Durants. Maris had no intention of discussing the impending birth with a gentleman present, particularly this gentleman. She was absolutely mortified she had discussed her menses twice with Reyn, though she supposed everything about her relationship with him resulted in mortification of the highest order. She wasn’t much of a lady, then, even after a lifetime of toeing the line.

  To his credit, Reyn treated her like one, like a lady who was more or less a stranger to him. He’d made one refer
ence to meeting her by chance in the garden at Kelby Hall, but said nothing of their working together in the attics.

  Maris had been unable to forget those days, and she had tried, feeling so disloyal to Henry every time Reyn, naked and hungry for her, flashed into her mind. She had admired her husband, put him on a pedestal from the time she was a little girl.

  Henry could not have been more different from Reyn. Where Henry was all intellect, Reyn was mostly physical. He had been so full of pent-up energy she could feel waves of it across the room as she’d catalogued items from the boxes, energy that was quickly put to use when he took her to bed. His wife would have no complaint in that area, but what would they say to each other once desire was spent?

  Why was she being critical? She and Reyn had had no difficulty conversing. True, he’d been self-deprecating about his education, but he’d been charming, was thoughtful and sympathetic. He’d really been so kind when she’d been nothing but a mass of raw nerves.

  He was looking at her kindly, one of his dark eyebrows raised.

  What had she missed in the conversation? “I’m sorry. I must have been woolgathering. You were saying?”

  “My sister asked if she could get you anything from the village shops. She and Mrs. Beecham are going tomorrow. I believe it’s all a hum so she can run into Mr. Swift before Sunday.”

  “Mr. Swift the vicar? He came to see me not long ago.”

  “Ginny plans on roping the man into marriage. I have not yet given my consent, however,” Reyn teased.

  “But you will if you know what’s good for you,” Ginny teased back. “I hope you do not find us very improper, Lady Kelby. Now that my brother is back on British soil I must make up for all the years I couldn’t torment him. That’s what little sisters are supposed to do.”

  Maris smiled. “Is that so? I’m afraid I had no brothers or sisters, so I imagine I missed a great deal. Thank you for your offer, Miss Durant—that is, Ginny—but I cannot think of anything you could fetch me.” What she really needed could not be found in the confines of Shere. “Have you set a date for your wedding?”