Counting on a Countess

by Eva Leigh

  Planting his hands on his knees, he went on. “Knowing what you know about me, would you be amenable . . . to becoming my wife?”

  Her breath deserted her. She couldn’t speak.

  “The short of it is,” he continued in her silence, “I need a wife and you need a husband. We’ll suit each other’s needs.”

  “What a romantic proposal,” she said wryly. “‘You’ll do.’”

  He grimaced. “I’ve never proposed before, so my skill is negligible. My apologies.”

  She shook her head as she accepted the death of her final hope for affection. “Romance never figured into the picture for me, anyway.”

  “Again, I’m sorry I have to be so businesslike,” he said with regret. “Time is slipping away, faster and faster. I can vow that, if you say yes, I will make your life very comfortable.”

  She didn’t care about that—all that mattered was buying Chei Owr and keeping Newcombe from the deadly grip of poverty.

  But she would also be married. She’d become Lord Blakemere’s property after years of almost-complete liberty.

  Yet for all that the country considered her to be his possession, the same could not be said about him. He would not belong to her. She would give up her independence, and he’d keep his freedom, which hardly seemed fair. A husband could sue for divorce on the grounds of infidelity, but she wouldn’t have the same recourse unless he was physically cruel to her or a bigamist.

  “Will you be faithful?” she asked.

  He was silent for a long while. “I cannot guarantee my fidelity,” he finally said. Grimly, as though delivering a verdict.

  Her sinking regret was expected, but that didn’t make it less painful. “I see.”

  “Once you have given me an heir,” he added quickly, “you can take a lover. I won’t be jealous of you, and you won’t be jealous of me.”

  She knew how city marriages worked. Even so, she confessed, “I didn’t think it mattered that we might be monogamous, but hearing it spelled out so plainly is”—she searched for the right word—“strange.”

  He looked rueful, but not repentant. “Understandable. But I must say again that Lord Somerby was a very wealthy man. His wealth will be mine. You will have any material comfort you desire, so long as your spending is within reason.”

  With no dowry and all her attention given to smuggling, she’d never expected to marry. She’d resigned herself to living as her uncle’s dependent at Chei Owr while she continued to run the smuggling operation.

  She’d also reconciled herself to spinsterhood—and all its attendant loneliness. Yet to know that her future husband wouldn’t be faithful felt like a disappointment.

  Never knew I’d given two figs about romance. And yet she did, seeing now that it would truly be denied to her.

  You’ll have Chei Owr. That’s something.

  “Consider us as business partners,” he explained, “rather than a romantic couple.”

  Could she sign her name to an agreement with the man who would be her husband, the man who would have control over her person and her future children?

  Did she have a choice in saying no?

  “If we wed,” he continued persuasively, “we’ll get along well. No illusions, no disenchantment.”

  She could get up. Walk away.

  Since her parents’ deaths, she’d had no love in her life. She and Nessa were friends, but that was all. None of the village men had ever vied for her hand. Oh, there had been kisses here and there, but nothing further. They couldn’t—she was a baron’s daughter and they were farmers and fishermen.

  Lord Blakemere’s candid proposal was the best she was going to get. She doubted he would be around enough for her to grow attached—and his absence was necessary if she was to continue smuggling.

  A fierce part of her didn’t want to share her man with anyone. Perhaps if the earl had been less fascinating, less alluring, she could say with confidence that it wouldn’t hurt if he went to other women’s beds.

  What if it does hurt? What if I come to feel something for him?

  Don’t care for him. Protect yourself. That was the best she could do. Perhaps, once she’d given him that heir, she could find love with someone who wasn’t her husband. How very sophisticated.

  “Your silence alarms me,” he said, breaking her thoughts.

  “No cause for alarm,” she replied. She drew in a breath. “My answer is yes.”

  His smile was sudden and bright. The worry left his eyes, and pleasure with her and the world radiated from him. “This is . . . this is excellent.” His brow furrowed. “Are you content with a special license? We can be married in three days.”

  “So soon,” she murmured, but she had understood it would be fast.

  “I cannot wait longer,” he said with contrition.

  “Understandable.” She clasped her hands in her lap. “We can wed in three days, if that’s what will help you.”

  “It will,” he said eagerly. “Thank you.” His gaze narrowed on her face. There was a sudden determination in his eyes. “I’d like to kiss you.”

  Ah, there went her pulse again. It sped up at his words, making breath hard to find and her palms damp.

  “You don’t have to,” she answered quickly. “I’ll consider our agreement binding. Here.” She offered him her hand to shake.

  He slid his palm over hers, and the thin leather of his gloves through her own kidskin was as hot as his bare skin touching hers. Tamsyn’s heart jumped into her throat at the contact. But he didn’t shake her hand. Instead, he cradled it, enfolding her with his broad palm and long fingers.

  The corners of his eyes crinkled as he smiled, but there was no mistaking the desire in his gaze. “We may be entering into this union with practical intentions, but I’m a man before I’m a businessman. And I’d very much enjoy kissing my future wife.”

  “I . . . oh.” She glanced at his lips. They were curved and well formed, and she feared what they would feel like against her mouth. She suspected that he knew the art of kissing and could make a woman surrender everything with just his mouth.

  “Don’t be afraid,” he murmured. “I’ll make it good for you.”

  That’s what I’m afraid of.

  But I want to know. I want to taste him.

  She drew in a breath. “You may kiss me.”

  He leaned closer to her, slowly, as if afraid of frightening her. Engulfed by his masculinity, she grew light-headed. There was faint stubble on his jaw and cheeks where his beard would come in. Would it be gold or brown or even reddish? It was a shame that beards weren’t fashionable, because there was something so definitively masculine about them. If she had her way—

  Her thoughts stuttered and died as he pressed his lips to hers, and her eyes fluttered shut. She sank into the sensation of his mouth gently stroking back and forth, as if learning her, testing the feel of him and her together. He lingered that way for a while, as if in no hurry to speed the process along. If kissing was music, then he was a maestro, building gradually, allowing the melody to take shape before plunging ahead.

  The press of his lips grew firmer, and she found herself meeting him, leaning into the kiss and letting it delve deeper. At her response, a low sound of approval rose up from his chest. He slowly urged her lips apart and took the kiss further. The very tip of his tongue dipped to taste her. Without thought, she nipped at his tongue and met it with her own.

  Hot electricity shot through her. It coursed along her body, forking into bright strands that wove through her breasts and between her legs. She inhaled sharply, stunned by the sudden, powerful sensations.

  I’m going to be married to this man? Mercy.

  They pulled back in unison and her eyes flew open. His gaze was clouded with dazed pleasure and astonishment.

  It seemed he’d also been shocked by the heat of their kiss and the speed of its intensity. He, a known rake and libertine, looked aroused by what surely had to be one of the chastest kisses he’d experienced in a
long while.

  Except it hadn’t been chaste. It had been brief, but their tongues lightly touching had been profoundly erotic, hinting at greater pleasure to come.

  He cleared his throat. “That was . . . a welcome revelation.”

  Her thoughts whirled while her body clamored for more. Hellfire—if this quick kiss had affected her so much, what would happen when they went to bed together? What if she liked it? What if she loved it, and her heart followed her body’s devotion? Then she’d have to reconcile herself to him leaving her bed for another.

  “I should be getting back,” she said.

  “Yes.”

  She stood, and he did the same, but it was then that she realized their hands were still clasped. She let him go at once, dropping him as though he burned.

  “Let’s get you home.” He held out his arm.

  Still shaken by the kiss, her legs wobbled slightly as they headed toward Lady Daleford’s town home, with Nessa trailing after them. Tamsyn looked back at her friend, who responded with a grin and a raised thumb.

  “I’ll go for the special license tomorrow,” the earl said. “I can pick the venue, too, unless you’d like to make the selection.”

  “I trust you.” Did she? Tamsyn was about to join with this man for the rest of her life. Aside from a few facts, she knew almost nothing about him. He was basically a stranger. Yet in three days, they would share a bed. They would share everything. According to the law, she would belong to him, and her own identity would dissolve.

  Was this the right choice? She’d gotten what she wanted, but she couldn’t help the fear that poked its sharp fangs into her heart.

  I have no idea what I’m getting myself into.

  Chapter 6

  The campfire on the night before the Battle of Nivelle seemed festive by comparison to this evening. Only an hour had passed since he’d pledged his troth to Miss Tamsyn Pearce of Cornwall, and the atmosphere still snapped with tension.

  The setting couldn’t be faulted. Kit’s friend, the Duke of Greyland, had offered his expansive, elegant home for the ceremony and reception. The wedding itself had been held in the dining room, which had been cleared out and specially decorated for the occasion with garlands of boxwood leaves and roses. Once the vows had been exchanged, the rites concluded, and the parish register signed, servants had brought in tables laden with delicacies and cakes, bowls of punch, and decanters of wine.

  A string trio played softly but cheerfully in one corner. Candlelight glittered on cut crystal chandeliers, making the polished silver plates and goblets shine. Everything looked splendid. But the mood remained stubbornly dour.

  Kit stood with a glass of wine by a large arrangement of gerbera daisies, watching the guests attempt to socialize. He fought a melancholy sigh. Men didn’t give melancholy sighs on their wedding days.

  “Naturally, an original such as yourself had to buck tradition and have a wedding at eleven o’clock in the evening.” Langdon approached and gave Kit’s shoulder a good-natured shake. He stood beside Kit, and together they observed the reception.

  “My parents came all the way from Yorkshire to be here,” Kit noted, “and their carriage became stuck in the mud four times today. I couldn’t have the ceremony until they arrived.”

  The majority of wedding ceremonies had to be before noon in a parish church, but Kit’s expensive purchase of a special license—using a loan from Langdon—from the Archbishop of Canterbury ensured that he could be wed at the place and time of his choosing. Unfortunately, it had taken two days longer than Kit had anticipated. Added to that was the excessive amount of time it had taken his parents to travel from Yorkshire, and he’d barely an hour left by the time the vows had been exchanged.

  “And on the very last day you had left,” Langdon added. He whistled. “I knew you were fond of gambling, but I didn’t think you’d risk your fortune.”

  “It wasn’t by choice,” Kit grumbled. “I swore to my parents that I wouldn’t marry without their presence.”

  He glanced over at his family. All of them appeared as though they had been drinking unsweetened lemonade.

  “None of them are especially forthcoming with their felicitations,” Langdon observed drily. “You’d think they would be happier with their youngest son no longer being their financial responsibility.” He eyed Kit. “And I would think you would be happier, too.”

  Kit took a drink of wine, but it didn’t round the sharp edges of his humor. “Nothing is settled until tomorrow. I’m to go to Lord Somerby’s solicitor’s office and finalize the paperwork. Until then, I’m the very impecunious Lord Blakemere, and my wife is the impoverished Lady Blakemere. Speaking of her . . .” His gaze skimmed over the small gathering. “Where is she?”

  “Being watched over by a disapproving sentry.” Langdon nodded toward a corner of the room.

  Tamsyn stood off to one side, her only company being the censorious Lady Daleford. Tamsyn’s expression was one of barely suppressed frustration.

  “Excuse me,” Kit said to Langdon.

  He crossed the room to reach her, aware of many gazes upon him. Nearing her, he observed how bewitching she looked in her pale silver gown adorned with tiny pearls and silver lace. It had been purchased ready-made, due to the time-sensitive nature of the wedding, yet she was a ravishing bride, the color and cut flattering her complexion. She wore a crown of white flowers, which gleamed against the fiery hue of her hair.

  She’ll be mine tonight. That hair would spread upon a pillow, and he’d feel her arms around him. He’d learn the delicious secrets of her body and show her how much pleasure two lovers could create together.

  He could barely restrain his eagerness.

  “May I have a word with my wife, Lady Daleford?” he asked, feeling the strange shape and sound of the words my wife on his lips.

  The older woman fixed him with a sharp glare. “You both have walked into a horrendous mistake,” she snapped before storming off toward the punch bowl.

  Tamsyn rolled her eyes. “Lady Daleford’s candor was one of the qualities my parents admired.” She looked rueful. “I wouldn’t mind a little dissembling right now.”

  “I would have liked to have met your parents,” he said.

  “I would have liked the same,” she answered.

  They both seemed to realize at the same moment that, had her parents been alive, there would have been no need for this wedding.

  “Please excuse me for a moment,” Tamsyn said, and slipped out into the corridor.

  Langdon, Greyland, and Greyland’s wife approached him. Kit couldn’t help but notice the way the duke and duchess kept close to each other, with Greyland’s hand possessively on her lower back as if he needed to touch her at all times.

  “Best wishes on your marriage,” the Duchess of Greyland said cheerfully, raising her glass of wine. “She’s a lovely woman.”

  “Felicitations,” Greyland added heartily.

  Langdon also lifted his glass. “Blessings on you both. Though,” he added with a furrowed brow, “I fear for my own unattached state, given that my two closest friends have fallen prey to matrimony.”

  “A duke’s heir must marry,” Greyland pointed out, ever practical.

  “But at the time of my choosing,” Langdon replied. “With my father as hale as ever, I pray that time is long in coming.”

  “Besides,” Lady Greyland noted pertly, “whoever she may be, your choice of bride is entirely at your own discretion. Even someone as entirely unsuitable as me.”

  “Love, there’s nothing unsuitable about you.” Warmth shone from Greyland’s eyes as he gazed at his duchess, and she gave him a private smile that radiated devotion.

  Though Kit and Langdon glanced at each other with exasperation, Kit admitted to himself that it was a rare luxury to have someone with whom you shared that kind of connection. Would he and Tamsyn ever grow as close? Unlikely. They’d sealed their bond on the basis of practicality. So long as they tolerated each other, they ought to d
o well enough. He knew with certainty that they would enjoy their physical connection, and when that paled—for desire always cooled—they could seek pleasure elsewhere.

  Something odd and hot jabbed Kit in his belly. He frowned at the unfamiliar sensation. Perhaps the wine had spoiled. Or was it—no. He couldn’t be jealous at the thought of Tamsyn taking someone else to her bed. He never felt jealousy when his past paramours found new lovers, and besides, he barely knew Tamsyn. How could he possibly feel that strange emotion for her?

  Yet it was there, just the same. Smoldering like the edges of paper moments before bursting into flame.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Kit saw Tamsyn slip back into the chamber.

  Before anyone could speak, he announced cheerfully to his family, “Your carriages are waiting.”

  His father scowled. “I didn’t order my carriage to be made ready.”

  “But I did.” Kit smiled, relying on the charm that had gotten him out of many a childhood scrape, including the time he painted a very detailed illustration of a dairymaid on the wall of the drawing room.

  “How gracious of you,” Tamsyn said enthusiastically. She gave Kit a discreet wink, and when he winked back, she coughed into her hand, barely concealing a laugh.

  “Lady Daleford,” Kit said, turning to her with as much charisma as he could muster, “your vehicle also awaits.”

  Tamsyn managed to suppress her laughter enough to press a fast kiss on the elderly lady’s cheek. “Thank you so much for being here. And my sincere gratitude for your hospitality. I’ll have the remainder of my things brought to me tomorrow.”

  “Where are you staying?” Lady Daleford demanded. “You cannot mean to make a home in his bachelor lodgings.”

  “I’ve rented a house on Bruton Street,” Kit said. “Until we are settled in more permanent accommodations, it should suit us well. The house comes complete with a full staff,” he added for Tamsyn’s benefit. For the gathered crowd, he continued, “Lady Blakemere and I will spend tonight in a hotel, and then tomorrow we shall move into our new home.”

  Nothing truly has to change, he told himself. I’m not going to alter all of my life simply because I’m married.