Jill Noelle - The Dark Count (Ellora's Cave)

by james

  Bridgett blinked rapidly and tried to adjust to the sudden change in conversation, the sudden shift in mood. He’d done it to her again.

  Anger made her lash out. “Why do you lock off a part of your home, milord? Is that where you’ve hidden the body?”

  The Count had already started to walk away, but he turned at her words. “The body?”

  She scowled. “Of the last woman you managed to ensnare, and then kill with these cruel games of yours.”

  His face became remote, blank of expression, and he shook his head. “One does not die of the things you are experiencing, bella mia, though I had often wished it were so.”

  “You wish me dead?” Fear sliced up her spine.

  He nearly smiled. “No, fair Bridgett, I was speaking of myself.”

  He walked away, and she stared at his retreating back, pondering his cryptic words.

  Bridgett took one tentative step into the morning room, not sure if Lady Marie would welcome the interruption. The Count’s sister reclined on a velvet-covered bench in front of a window, apparently deeply engrossed in a book that rested on her drawn-up knees.

  As if sensing she was no longer alone, Marie looked up, her face brightening into a smile of greeting.

  “Bridgett, come in, come in.” She closed the book, placed it on a nearby table, and then sat up. “Sit here and let us become better acquainted.”

  She patted the space beside her on the bench.

  Bridgett had no doubt that the invitation was sincere.

  “Thank you,” she murmured as she sat primly on the edge of the cushion. She arranged her crimson skirts about her to keep them from becoming wrinkled, suddenly at a loss for words.

  Lady Marie took her hand. “So, tell me where my brother found you.”

  “He…The Count…I…” Flustered, Bridgett looked away. How could she explain to this lady, who could most likely not even begin to imagine the type of life, the world, from which she’d come?

  “It makes no difference.” Lady Marie squeezed her hand. “You do not need to discuss it if you do not want to.”

  Bridgett wanted to cry at the kindness she heard in the other woman’s voice.

  “Let me tell you a secret, Bridgett. Sometimes things, and people, are not what they seem. Nothing is ever as simple as it may look on the surface. When you are ready to share your thoughts with me, I will be here to listen.” She paused and smiled. “Perhaps, when the time comes, I will share a few intimacies of my own.”

  Her throat thick with emotion, Bridgett could only nod. She was thankful that she hadn’t been pressed for an explanation, but she was nearly overwhelmed by Lady Renault’s obvious offer of friendship.

  “Come. We are expecting guests this evening and I must consult with Cook. You can help me plan the dinner menu.”

  Bridgett smiled at the notion. Having never had a cook, at least not one she could remember, and having never planned a meal beyond scraping together whatever she could find to feed their small family each day, she doubted she could be much help.

  She took Lady Marie’s outstretched hand and allowed herself to be led from the room, caught up in her new friend’s enthusiasm for what should have been the most mundane of tasks.

  Vincent looked in every other area of the castle before heading toward the kitchen in search of either Bridgett or his sister. He’d not seen either of them, having been closeted in his library for most of the day, and he’d become concerned when neither one could be easily located.

  He heard the peels of uninhibited laughter before he got within ten feet of the kitchens. The sound brought him to a standstill.

  The giggling continued for several moments, then a shrill squeal filled the air.

  Vincent rushed forward, expecting to find someone maimed or dying. What he saw made his mouth drop open in shocked surprise.

  Bridgett stood in the middle of the kitchen, covered from head to toe with flour. On the floor at her feet sat Marie, equally coated with the powdery white substance. Both women were clutching their sides and laughing hysterically.

  “What the bloody hell.”

  Marie glanced up, wiping tears from her eyes.

  “Vincent,” her voice bubbled with joy, “what are you doing here?”

  “I might ask you the same thing.” Now that he was sure they were safe, he relaxed a bit, amused by the scene before him.

  “Bridgett was teaching me to make biscuits.” Marie glanced at the woman in question and let loose another peel of laughter. “I fear I’m not a very good student.”

  “And where is Cook?” He addressed his sister, but shifted his gaze to Bridgett, who’d neither looked at him nor spoken since he’d entered the room. He smiled as he took in her disheveled appearance.

  “Oh, the poor woman left as soon as she saw what we were about. Said she refused to share her kitchen with anyone.” Marie extended her hand. “Help me up, would you, brother dear? My skirts are so tangled, I fear I would take another tumble if I attempted to rise on my own.”

  “I won’t even ask how you managed to get on the floor in the first place.”

  Vincent grinned and took her hand, pulling her swiftly to her feet. A cloud of dust billowed around them and he sneezed twice in succession.

  “I hate to spoil your fun,” he sniffed, “but our guests are due to arrive any moment.”

  “Oh goodness, oh my!” Marie brushed at her skirts, which only served to put more flour into the air around them. “I must bathe. I must change.”

  “Don’t panic, Marie. I’m sure I can manage to entertain them while you, um, repair your appearance.”

  Marie shot him a grateful look, then turned to Bridgett. “Thank you, dear friend. I truly can’t remember the last time I had such fun. Next time, perhaps we can attempt a cherry cobbler!”

  Bridgett smiled and nodded. “I look forward to it.”

  She spoke so softly, so seriously, and Vincent found himself wishing to hear her laugh again.

  “If you’ll both excuse me?” Marie did not wait for an answer, but rushed from the room, muttering under her breath.

  Bridgett giggled, and Vincent raised a brow and looked at her sharply.

  “Your sister.” She gestured nervously in the direction of the door. “Did you not hear what she said?”

  He shook his head, silent, waiting.

  “She said she wore so much flour that the bath water would likely turn to dough.”

  Vincent chuckled and reached to brush some of the white powder from the tip of her nose. “You’re wearing quite a bit, yourself.”

  She ducked her head and pulled away from his touch, yet he was not offended. It was not his desires that he wished her to know of at this moment, but his gratitude.

  “Thank you, Bridgett.” He echoed his sister’s words.

  She turned away and began to wipe the top of the huge butcher’s block with a damp rag. “Whatever do you mean?”

  “It has been many, many years since I have heard Marie laugh with such abandon.” He paused and cleared his throat, suddenly uncomfortable with his emotions. “I just…thank you.”

  “Your sister is a lovely person,” she whispered. “I like her.”

  He could sense her nervousness and decided to release her from her misery.

  “Yes, well, you should run along and dress for dinner, also. I’ll have someone else clean up the, um, biscuits.”

  Her head shot up and she looked him in the eye for the first time since he’d started to speak to her. “I am to attend your dinner party?”

  “Of course. Why would you not?”

  “Because I am merely a…” Her voice drifted off and she looked away.

  “Merely what, bella mia? You are here to please me.” He paused. “It pleases me that you should attend. I have assigned a maid to assist you with your toilette.”

  She nodded and, without another word, ran from the room.

  Bridgett paused near the dining room and took a deep breath, trying to regain her composure
. She felt like a princess, about to attend her first ball.

  When she’d gone to her room to change, she’d discovered several new gowns lying on the bed. A note on her dressing table had read simply, Wear the black.

  She glanced down at the dress, still very much in awe of its loveliness. A high-waisted velvet underskirt, covered by a layer of delicate lace, swept the floor. The tight-fitting bodice shimmered with hundreds of tiny, glimmering jewels, and the wrist-length sleeves were made of the same fine lace that covered the skirt. How the Count had managed to procure such a delicious gown was a mystery. Especially one that fit her perfectly, and on such short notice.

  “His Lordship instructed you to attend, not stand about and eavesdrop.”

  Bridgett spun around. “I wasn’t eavesdropping, I was merely…gathering my courage.”

  Was it her imagination, or did some of the disdain slip from the butler’s expression? He studied her a moment, as if taking her measure.

  “Cook tells me that you and Lady Marie were in the kitchens this morning.”

  Bridgett couldn’t stop the giggle that rose in her throat. “We were. Was Cook very angry?”

  “No.” He paused, and Bridgett sensed that he struggled to make some sort of decision. She grew uncomfortable under his stare, but stood her ground.

  Instinctively, she knew that this was an important moment. She held her breath, waiting.

  “If you are through ‘gathering your courage’, Miss, I will announce you now.”

  Announce her? Bridgett let loose her breath and inclined her head. Although you could never tell from his stiff, outward appearance, there had been a definite softening of his tone.

  He stepped forward, throwing the doors wide.

  “The Lady Bridgett Alexandria Celeste Morton,” he intoned, then moved aside to allow her to enter.

  Conversation ceased and all heads turned toward the door. Bridgett didn’t know whether to hug Thomas for his obvious show of support and kindness – Lady Bridgett? – or to kick him for drawing so much unwanted attention down upon her.

  Lady. A lady did not skulk into a room; she made an Entrance. Bridgett straightened her spine and swept forward, a bright smile plastered on her face.

  “Bridgett, there you are.” Marie called out from the far end of a ridiculously long table centered beneath the largest, most ornate iron chandelier imaginable. “Come and meet our guests.”

  The gentlemen in the room stood as she approached, and the Count pulled out the chair to his right and helped her to be seated.

  “You look lovely, Lady Bridgett.”

  She heard the teasing sarcasm in his voice, but chose to ignore it in favor of the compliment.

  “Why thank you, My Lord, you look quite dashing, yourself.” Although she kept her tone light, she couldn’t help but noticing that he did, indeed, look very handsome this evening in his dark, formal attire. He’d tied his hair back with a black silk ribbon. The effect was startling, drawing attention to the fine line of his jaw and his chiseled features.

  She was rewarded with a slight smile, one that actually reached his eyes, which sparkled mischievously.

  Marie giggled and Bridgett coughed into her napkin to keep from laughing outright.

  “Vincent, old boy, I believe the polite thing to do would be to introduce us to this vision of beauty.”

  Bridgett looked across the table, the heat of a blush rising in her cheeks.

  The Count cleared his throat. “Bridgett, these are our friends, Lady Camilla Secrest, Sir Walter Andrews and Sir Jonathan Wilder.”

  Bridgett smiled and murmured words of greeting, all the while trying not to stare. Jonathan Wilder, the man who had called her a ‘vision of beauty’, was himself one of the most beautiful men she’d ever seen. A blonde Adonis, all golden and light, with stunning silver-blue eyes that shone with kindness and something she’d come to recognize as interest.

  “Yes, well, Walter was just telling us about his latest trip to Paris, Bridgett.” Marie sounded nervous, and Bridgett cast her a curious look.

  Sir Walter Andrews, a rather ordinary looking man who’d begun to bald slightly at the temples, gave her a warm smile.

  “Have you ever been to Paris, Lady Bridgett?”

  “I…well, no.” Bridgett reached for her wineglass and tried to hide her discomfiture.

  “Bridgett’s parents kept her fairly confined in their country house,” the Count said smoothly. “They were not ones for travel or socializing.”

  “And how did you come to be staying with Vincent?” Jonathan asked. He continued to stare at her in a way that made her grow warm and uncomfortable.

  Bridgett wished that the floor would open up and swallow her. Suddenly, all she could think about was escaping this room and these people. This, thinking she could pass herself off as something other than what she was, had been a mistake. She started to rise, panic guiding her actions, but a firm hand fell on her shoulder.

  “The lady is my betrothed.”

  Bridgett choked and she heard Marie catch her breath, but the Count continued as if he didn’t notice.

  “Her mother is deceased and her father is…sick.” His tone held a note of irony. “I brought her here to stay until we can be married.”

  “Vincent, you sly devil, shame on you for not telling us sooner!” Lady Camilla scolded good-naturedly. “Congratulations. Both of you.”

  Bridgett realized that a response was expected. “Thank you.”

  She took another hasty sip of her wine, grateful for its fortifying affects.

  The Count’s hand still rested on her shoulder, though he had draped his arm over the back of the chair in a more relaxed manner. The heat of his touch both comforted and aroused her, making it difficult to think.

  “When is the wedding?” Jonathan watched her, a curious smile on his face.

  This time, Bridgett found her voice and came up with a suitable answer.

  “We haven’t really decided. We were waiting to see if my father would recover enough to attend.” There, that had sounded reasonable enough, and her voice hadn’t shaken a bit.

  She returned his smile, congratulating herself that she’d finally managed to organize her thoughts.

  Sir Jonathan nodded, but his strange little smile remained in place. Almost as if he didn’t believe her, didn’t believe any of it.

  The Count massaged her shoulder, moving his fingers slowly in tiny little circles, and Bridgett began to relax. It didn’t really matter what this man thought, what any of them believed. As long as they stuck to their story, everything would be fine.

  An army of servants dressed in spotless white livery served dinner. They moved in and out of the room silently, carrying trays and removing empty dishes.

  Bridgett sampled a tiny bit of each course, amazed by the array of sumptuous delicacies. One of the servants placed a large shell in the middle of the table and, after making sure the others were occupied with conversation, Bridgett turned to the Count.

  “What is that?” She kept her voice low. No sense in drawing more suspicion down on her head.

  “That is a turtle shell,” he told her, “it contains turtle soup.”

  He seemed amused, but his tone was kind. “Would you like to try some?”

  Bridgett wrinkled her nose. “I believe I will stick to less exotic fair.”

  “You are an interesting creature, bella mia.” He took her hand and drew it onto his lap.

  “Whatever do you mean?” She tried to concentrate on his words, but the warmth of his thigh through his light linen trousers made it difficult.

  “You take such great pleasure in the simplest things. I would have thought you anxious to experience some of life’s luxuries.”

  “I think your confusion lies in our differing definitions of luxury.” She moved the food on her plate about with her fork. “The things I consider luxurious, you take for granted.”

  “Such as?”

  He seemed genuinely perplexed, and Bridgett shook he
r head at his lack of understanding.

  “Such as a seven-course dinner,” she told him. “Such as never having to wonder where your next meal will come from…”

  “Such as a warm bath.” He interrupted her with a smile. “I think I understand.”

  “Yes, like a warm bath.” Her cheeks grew hot at the knowing intimacy in his tone.

  “So, Vincent, tell us about your latest travels. Marie informs me that you have only just returned.”

  At Camilla’s question, Bridgett jerked her hand from the Count’s leg and concentrated on her plate.

  As the conversation drifted into other topics, Bridgett relaxed and sipped her wine, content to simply listen. By the time the last dish had been cleared away, it had grown quite late. The abundance of food and spirits had left Bridgett feeling drowsy, and she longed for her bed.

  The Count placed his hand on her arm and leaned close. “You look tired.”

  She smiled wearily and nodded. “I am, but in a good way.”

  He turned to his guests.

  “Walter, you and Camilla have your usual quarters,” the Count said. “Jon, I’ve had Helen prepare a room for you at the other end of the hall. Do you need someone to escort you?”

  Bridgett didn’t like the way the young man’s eyes darted to her at the question, and she averted her gaze. She felt the Count stiffen beside her, and knew he had noticed, as well.

  “We can show him, Vincent.” Lady Camilla rose and stifled a yawn with her hand. “Lord knows we’ve spent enough time in your home to know our way around.”

  Marie, too, rose from her chair and Bridgett followed her lead. “Lady Bridgett, would you mind staying a moment? I’d like to have a word with you.”

  Bridgett glanced at the Count, wondering what he had to say that couldn’t wait until they’d gone upstairs, but she nodded and remained until the others had said their goodnights.

  “I won’t be coming to your room tonight.”

  She sighed, amazed at the disappointment brought on by his words. After his earlier attentiveness, she’d expected something very different. “As you wish, milord.”

  He stood and took her hand, bringing it to his lips for a lingering kiss.