Courting the Countess

by Donna Hatch

Duchess approached. “Well, I didn’t think you’d ever amount to anything, but thanks to your father, you’ve managed to make a brilliant match. Try not to disappoint your husband.”

  A lifetime of criticism, pain, ridicule, shame rose up in flash of hot anger. Just last night, Elizabeth had examined her back to assure herself years of beatings hadn’t scarred her skin—she didn’t wish to repulse Richard on their wedding night. Now, she would no longer live in that kind of fear and pain and indignity.

  With her heart practically leaping out of her chest and her whole body trembling in barely controlled rage, Elizabeth hissed, “I hate you. I will never forgive you for the way you’ve treated me. You are cruel and vicious. I hope someday you get what you deserve.”

  Duchess’s face went from slack-jawed shock to red-faced fury. She spoke in a low voice but every word lashed at Elizabeth. “How dare you! You ungrateful little tart! After all I’ve done for you—”

  “Done for me?” Elizabeth echoed in disbelief, barely managing not to scream the words at her. “You treated me like a…”

  As Elizabeth searched for a word to adequately describe her treatment, Duchess’s smile turned poisonous. “Like the by-blow of my husband’s whore?”

  Elizabeth’s anger overshadowed the shock at such vulgar words. All her life, she’d allowed Duchess to abuse her because of the shameful truth of her birth. She’d actually begun to believe she was as stupid and clumsy and worthless as Duchess had always told her.

  No more. Elizabeth didn’t deserve such cruelty. No one did. Furthermore, Elizabeth was a married woman, a countess, the mistress of her own home, and no longer subject to Duchess’s tyranny.

  Elizabeth drew herself up. Scorn rose off her words like steam. “Stay away from me. Never speak to me again. When you die, I will dance on your grave.” She turned and walked, head high, back straight, around the side of the house toward the back lawn where a few last guests remained to celebrate and enjoy the sunshine.

  She drew several deep breaths, letting her rage dissipate. As calm overcame her, on it came the heels of triumph. She’d done it! She’d actually stood up to her tormentor and walked away unscathed. She truly was free.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Richard’s guests departed, all smiling, winking, and offering last minute marital advice and well wishes.

  Tristan left first, making some reference to a widowed viscountess. Then, to Richard’s surprise, Tristan hugged him. As Tristan pulled back, he fixed a searching stare upon Richard.

  He lowered his voice. “Exercise your famous self-control and rid yourself of whatever is bothering you. Go make your bride happy.”

  Richard stiffened. “I don’t need advice from a pup.”

  Tristan looked disappointed. Sad even. “Do you want to go have a drink?”

  Though tempted to tell Tristan everything, and thrash him while he was at it, Richard shook his head. It would do no good. Tristan would not change his nature. Elizabeth would not change her affections. Their path seemed fixed toward destruction. For this, he’d broken Leticia’s heart. For this, he’d given up a safe, happy marriage with a loyal woman. “Have a safe journey back to London.”

  Tristan nodded glumly as if recognizing something lost between them. “Goodbye.” He turned at Elizabeth’s approach and attempted to lighten the mood. “Try to keep him out of trouble. I tire of always coming to his aid.”

  She offered a pained smile at the jest. “Goodbye, Tristan.”

  His grin flashed and then he was gone. Elizabeth’s brows drew together in a troubled frown and she watched Tristan until he disappeared. The dark and ugly place inside Richard grew. He recalled all too clearly his mother’s duplicity, her dishonor, his overarching sense of abandonment.

  As they bid farewell to the other guests, Elizabeth glanced up at him again and again, her gaze searching, but Richard refused to look her in the eye. He would protect her from anyone who might harm or frighten her, especially the duchess. But how could he ever love—or trust—a woman whose heart could not be true?

  Lord and Lady Brinton were the last to leave. Elizabeth and her sister hugged as if they feared they’d forever be apart, Lady Brinton murmuring in Elizabeth’s ear. They were both teary-eyed by the time they parted.

  Elizabeth stood on the front steps next to Richard, waving until the carriage disappeared down the drive.

  Once they were alone, Richard turned to his bride of a few hours and tried to hold back the compassion creeping over him at the sight of her tears. He remembered all too well the scene with his brother only an hour ago. At least there hadn’t been a painful exchange between Leticia and him. She’d been sensible enough to greet him only long enough to pay her respects—deliberately in her parents’ presence—which had made him wish he could have married her as planned instead of the mess to which he’d bound himself.

  Elizabeth wiped her eyes with her handkerchief. “Perhaps I should rest before we dine this evening.”

  He nodded, grateful to have a few hours alone. Giving into his desires, he changed into some old work clothes and ran until his legs gave out.

  ****

  Dinner was a formal affair. Richard sat at the head of the table in the formal dining room, which had been restored after the wedding feast. Elizabeth, wearing a soft pink gown with a scooped neckline, sat at his right. Remembering the longing in her eyes as she gazed at Tristan quelled any desire that might have arisen at the sight of her.

  Elizabeth made small talk, mostly commenting on the fine weather and the guests who’d come to celebrate their union. Richard toyed with his food.

  At last, Elizabeth set down her fork and knife and eyed him solemnly. “Is something amiss?”

  He steeled himself. “Why do you ask?”

  “You’ve said very little and you haven’t eaten a bite.”

  “I ate a great deal at the wedding breakfast.”

  “You’re holding your fork so tight that your fingers are white. Why are you unhappy?”

  He set down his utensils. “I’ve just been wed. Today is the happiest day of my life.” His tone implied exactly the opposite but he couldn’t seem to help it.

  She whispered. “You don’t look happy.”

  “Which only proves you hardly know me, madam.”

  She was silent for a moment. “We aren’t the first couple to be a bit unfamiliar with one another. I’m sure in time…”

  “In time, perhaps. Good night.”

  He made a curt bow, left the table, and went to his study. The hurt in her expression at his coldness haunted him and caused a sting of guilt, but dash it all, he’d never experienced such jealousy, such painful betrayal…not since his mother left.

  After loosening his cravat, he took a long drink of port, wondering how he’d ever have the stomach for the wedding night. He finally gave in to his desire to throw something and hurled his goblet against the wall. The crystal shattered and liquid ran down the wall.

  Out of his pocket, he removed a velvet pouch containing the ruby necklace. He gripped it until the edges bit into his hand. Tonight he would break tradition in many, many ways.

  At his summons, the head housekeeper appeared. “My lord?”

  “Mrs. Brown, see to it that this is returned to the family safe.”

  “Of course, my lord.” She accepted the jewels without even a raised brow at the break in tradition and left to do his bidding.

  He cursed Tristan, cursed Elizabeth, and cursed the duel that had forced him to marry a woman who would prove faithless.

  Chapter Twenty

  Wearing only her shift underneath her leaf green dressing gown, Elizabeth brushed her hair even though Maggie had already done so.

  Richard clearly regretted marrying her.

  She’d seen the shielded expression with which he’d looked at Leticia, and his irritation each time he looked at Elizabeth. By marrying, she’d hoped she would escape constant criticism. Instead, she’d come to a new home with a different set of reminders of failu
re. He’d forever compare her to Leticia and find her a disappointment.

  One minute Richard could be so warm, and another he turned cold. His signs of tenderness and his vow in the carriage had convinced her that he would be a good husband and perhaps would even grow to care for her. How could she have been so wrong? So foolish?

  Instead of enjoying the pleasures Mary had told her she’d find with her husband, Elizabeth threw down her hairbrush and curled up in the middle of a cold and empty bed.

  The idea of star-crossed lovers was certainly more romantic in stories than in reality. The emptiness of a loveless marriage was more painful than she’d ever dreamed. She blew out the candle and wept in the darkness. The words of Thomas Moore’s Weep On, Weep On taunted her.

  Weep on, weep on, your hour is past,

  Your dreams of pride are o’er…

  In the morning, Elizabeth went into the breakfast room and found a sideboard filled with a delicious array of food. Except for a servant, she was alone.

  “Where is Lord Averston?” she asked the footman.

  “He has already broken his fast, my lady, and is taking care of estate business.”

  Her heart shriveled. So this is how it would be. She sat fingering her wedding band as disappointment spread through her.

  She raised her chin. So be it. He may not want her as his wife, but his estate needed a countess and she would be the best one possible. After breakfast, she wandered about the house, exploring rooms. One doorway led to a ballroom as grand as the queen’s drawing room with gold and blue Georgian decor. At the far end of the room, a Louis XIV pianoforte stood in all its glory. No harp resided in the room, unfortunately. Elizabeth hadn’t dared to ask to bring the family harp; it had been a member of the music room for three generations and Duchess had made it clear it would remain where Joanna made better use of it.

  She left the darkened room and moved down the corridor examining paintings. One particularly queenly-looking woman caught her eye. The Ninth Countess Averston had such a faraway look that Elizabeth imagined her as a princess in a fairy tale. The countess rested her fingertips upon an exquisite ruby and diamond necklace. Later, as Elizabeth paused to peruse other paintings, she noticed a number of former countesses all wearing the same necklace.

  Mrs. Brown, the housekeeper who had been with the Barrett household for years, passed by, her keys jingling.

  “A moment, Mrs. Brown,” Elizabeth called.

  The thin, intimidating woman halted and turned, looking at Elizabeth as if she thought her not good enough for her young lord. “Madam?”

  Elizabeth refused to flinch under the judgmental stare, and rallied her courage. “A number of former Countesses Averston are wearing the necklace in this portrait. What is its significance?”

  Did she imagine a touch of malice in the woman’s eyes? “A prized family heirloom dating back to the fourteenth century. It’s a long-standing tradition for each earl or heir-apparent to give to his bride on their wedding night.”

  A gift Richard evidently did not see fit to give Elizabeth. She could not ignore the implications. “I see,” Elizabeth managed despite her sinking heart.

  “Of course, most of the Averston matches were love matches, not…” Mrs. Brown’s gaze slid over Elizabeth. “Well…like yours.”

  Elizabeth’s face heated. No doubt, the servants knew their master and new mistress had not consummated their union, and they probably knew full well why not.

  Before Elizabeth had managed to form a reply, Mrs. Brown murmured a “by your leave” and strode away with swishing skirts and jingling keys.

  Elizabeth sank into a chair and rested her head in her hands. That a man so steeped in family honor and tradition would slight his new bride loudly proclaimed his disappointment in her. What could she do to earn Richard’s respect? His approval?

  Refusing to wallow in misery, Elizabeth stood. Obviously they might never love each other, not with his heart otherwise occupied, and hers torn, but they should be courteous to one another. Courtesy required that they dine together at the very least.

  After whiling away the morning, Elizabeth had luncheon alone. Half expecting one of the servants to snicker as they served their new mistress, Elizabeth choked down a few bites of her meal before going in search of Richard. Even a confrontation would be better than being ignored. She found his study empty. His desk nearly overflowed with correspondence and unopened letters. She marveled over the untidiness of such a seemingly orderly person. Really, a good secretary should be controlling the paperwork.

  She found a discarded newspaper and read it, finding mention of her wedding and the columnists’ musings as to what kind of countess the new Countess Averston would prove herself to be. Elizabeth grimaced. Hopefully, she would manage to stay out of the papers except for only the briefest and blandest of mentions.

  Another article about a series of London burglaries linked to the King of Crime, Mr. Black, set her imagination spinning tales of horror at being victimized by the blackguard. Ever since the break-in at Mary’s house, Father had private security complete with dogs patrolling their London house. She hoped Richard did the same. If not, she’d suggest that he begin.

  After reassuring herself she was safe from the reaches of a villain like Mr. Black, she turned her attention to one last article, another mention of Mrs. Goodfellow and her reform efforts, stating how badly she needed donations to help fund her reform house.

  Elizabeth lowered the newspaper, her mind working. Reform house. Now that she was her own lady, she could help the reformers as she’d been planning ever since she first read of their efforts. Maybe even her loveless marriage could provide a way to make a difference in people’s lives.

  Prior to dinner, Elizabeth dressed with care in the ridiculous hope that she could get back Richard’s esteem. Surely, he wouldn’t have treated her so tenderly during their courtship unless he felt some regard for her. She would just have to discover how to find that part of him again.

  Richard arrived in the dining room, looking resplendent in his evening attire and bowed to her. “My lady.” He held out her chair and took a seat, but barely glanced her way.

  “Did you have an enjoyable day?” she ventured.

  “Tolerable. Busy and productive.” He attacked his chicken. Then, as an afterthought, added, “You?”

  “I explored the house. With your permission, I’d like to hire more help. This is a very large house for such a small staff—they do an admirable job, but I wouldn’t want them overworked.”

  He waved negligibly without looking at her. “Of course. Instruct Mrs. Brown to hire whomever you and she see fit.”

  “Thank you.” She watched him eat, wondering how she might break through the ice yet feeling a small victory that she could hire servants as she wished—including reformed workers.

  She cleared her throat. “I noticed that your desk is rather overwhelmed. Don’t you have a secretary?”

  He grimaced. “Not at the moment. My last one left due to his wife’s poor health; he had to take her to a warmer climate. I interviewed one in London, but he didn’t suit.” He met her gaze, offered a tight smile, and returned his attention back upon his dinner. Tiny lines formed at his brow, and his eyes were shadowed.

  “You look tired,” she ventured. “You’re working too hard. Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “It’s nothing.”

  Perhaps he merely forgot about the necklace. It might all be an oversight. Even his non-appearance last night in her bedchamber might have been a noble intent to allow them to get to know one another better before consummation.

  She cleared her throat, willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. “I perused the family portraits in the gallery. I noticed many of the former countesses wearing a ruby necklace. Has that some historical significance?”

  He took a bite and chewed thoroughly. An avoidance tactic? “I believe it started as the gift of a doting husband.”

  “Whatever happened to it?”
>
  “It’s in the family vault.” His tone suggested he had no further wish to discuss it.

  “Oh.” She’d almost hoped to hear it had disappeared. At least that would have been a less painful explanation than that he’d not seen fit to give it to her.

  He finished his meal, stood, and offered her a formal bow. As he turned away and began striding toward the door, she raced through her options. Desperate for an opportunity to try to find the soft Richard hidden so carefully away, she called to him. “Would you care to spend the evening in the library? With me? You might, er…show me around and I could…read aloud to you?” It came out as a rather tentative question.

  His expression went completely blank. At last, he replied, “If that is your wish.”

  They walked side by side without touching to the library. He pushed open the door and stood aside to allow her to enter first. The unique scent of old books greeted her like a friend—the glue, the ink and the lignin of the paper, as well as ancient parchment that reminded her of vanilla blended together in a promise adventure and romance. The lamplight illuminated a two-story room boasting of hundreds, perhaps thousands of books. A painting rivaling the great works of Michelangelo graced the domed ceiling.

  Richard guided her to one section and made a loose gesture toward the shelf. “Obviously you’re welcome to anything here. This section has poetry, most of it quite old. I haven’t kept up with the contemporary poets the way my ancestors did. Over here are our oldest tomes dating back to the fourteenth century. You’ll find a lot of medieval minstrels’ songs and poems there.”

  Intrigued, she drew closer to look at the titles. “Ah…Tales of King Arthur. I love such stories. Dashing knights committing acts of valor and chivalry, fair ladies who love and honor them, star-crossed lovers, true love. These stories would be fun to read aloud.” She touched one old tome. “This is a different book than the one I know, so there may be some new tales in here.”

  Drawing in a dreamy sigh, she carefully pulled out the old volume and held it reverently in her hands. She turned around and smiled up at him, bursting to share it with him. Her voice left her. He stood so near that the warmth of his body spread through her. His lips hovered within inches of hers. Heat tightened in her stomach and her breathing grew unsteady. With his dark eyes focused on her lips, his expression grew so intense that her heart skipped and tripped. His mouth parted. He bent his head toward her. She lifted her chin, craving the touch of his lips.