Counting on a Countess

by Eva Leigh

  Tamsyn planted her feet to avoid being barreled over by a stagehand carrying a painted, flat wooden castle. She ducked just in time to keep the back of her head from getting smacked by a curtain valance. Kit, too, was buffeted by a group of dancers pouring off the stage as they hurried toward the dressing rooms.

  The controlled anarchy backstage at the Imperial matched the chaos at the front of the house. A black man stood in the middle of the bedlam, shouting in a Caribbean accent as he directed the traffic. There were no collisions or fights, so the man—Tamsyn assumed he was the theater’s manager—seemed to have everything running smoothly, if not quietly.

  The manager’s role reminded her strongly of her own function when smuggling, with her trying to keep a level head when all around her was madness.

  Kit’s expression was wry. “Disenchanted?” he asked above the din.

  “Why should I be?” She dodged a trio of trained dogs wearing ruffled collars. Their trainer, wearing a similar ruffled collar, ran after them.

  “It’s not precisely glamorous back here.”

  “That makes what they do onstage all the more extraordinary,” she answered. “To work so hard and have the end result fall smoothly into place. Not unlike planning a battle, I imagine.”

  His smile grew distracted, a shadow passing over his face.

  She wasn’t imagining it. He spoke sometimes of his experience in the military, but only lightly and in passing. She thought of Katie Davis, back home, and Katie’s husband, Bill. He’d struggled to return to civilian life. Bill would get that same dark, troubled look whenever anyone talked of the War and would quickly change the subject.

  What had Kit seen? What had he done? She might never know—and she recognized that she wanted to. She craved discovering more about him despite her vows to keep her husband at arm’s length.

  He quickly shook off his mood and looked around with his usual good humor. “I thought I’d need to lie down on the floor during the farce that followed Lady Marwood’s play. That bit with the hat and the ham. Guffawed so hard I couldn’t breathe.”

  “The actress who made all those puns.” She pressed a hand to her ribs. “My sides hurt from laughing.” She’d also been spellbound by the sound of Kit’s laugh, so deep and rich and full of joy. She’d heard him chuckle before, but never that full surrender to mirth. It suited him.

  It was as though two men existed side by side within him. The exuberant, sensual, curious Kit, who simply enjoyed being—and the grim, harrowed Kit with shades behind his eyes. Each shaped the other. She struggled to understand all aspects of him.

  “A good evening so far,” Kit said with a touch of hesitancy, as though testing her reaction.

  “One of the best I’ve had in London,” she answered. An expression of relief eased his features. After their conversation about paying for the theater box, it had occurred to her that he hadn’t yet asked her for a penny. Strange. Surely he expected some amount of money from her beyond his allowance.

  “But it’s not over yet.” As he said this, Lord Marwood approached, holding the hand of a petite dark-haired woman. This was the famous Lady Marwood, the author of wondrous words that had made her laugh and cry.

  Bashfulness stole over Tamsyn. Kit’s friend, the Duke of Greyland, was intimidating in both looks and status, but Lady Marwood was a celebrity and a woman of exceptional talent.

  Tamsyn felt profoundly ordinary by comparison.

  “Lord and Lady Blakemere,” Marwood pronounced fondly. “My lovely wife. Maggie, these are the charming folk who will be sampling our cellar tonight.”

  “A pleasure,” Lady Marwood said warmly. Her accent differed from the smooth, rounded tones used by the aristocracy. It was rougher, more streetwise.

  Instead of curtsying, she stuck out her hand. She shook first with Kit, then Tamsyn. Holding a quill all day had given the writer an exceptionally strong grip—but then, Tamsyn wasn’t a stranger to hauling rope or lifting casks.

  Kit smiled widely. “Magnificent performance tonight.”

  “I heard sniffles from every corner of the house when Angela thought she would never see Eduardo again,” Tamsyn added, despite her shyness in the viscountess’s presence.

  Yet Lady Marwood looked skeptical. “You don’t think the scene needs more anguish? It felt rather shallow to me.”

  “Not at all,” Tamsyn quickly assured her. “Any more anguish and a legion of doctors would have to come and bleed everyone to balance their humors.”

  A cautious smile tilted the corner of Lady Marwood’s mouth. “You are kindness itself.” She glanced up at her husband, who looked at her adoringly, as though Lady Marwood had personally invented the dramatic arts.

  Some of Tamsyn’s trepidation dissolved. It seemed that, despite all her success, Lady Marwood still entertained thoughts of uncertainty, making her less of an exalted personage and more human.

  “You came in your own carriage?” Lord Marwood asked Kit. In response to Kit’s nod, Lord Marwood continued, “We’ll meet you at our modest cottage in a quarter of an hour. And mind,” he added, holding up a finger, “we won’t race this time. Had to pay the constabulary a ruddy fortune because we nearly ran the poor sod down.”

  “Thank God he could jump far,” Kit answered. “We’ll reconnoiter shortly.”

  His arm slid around Tamsyn’s shoulders and he guided her away. Pinwheels spun in her belly at his touch. She simply couldn’t get used to his nearness or the feel of him. She’d hoped that, by now, his good looks would have mellowed in her eyes, but precisely the opposite had happened. He had only to look at her or take her hand and her heart rate leapt.

  He’d been so attentive tonight, so concerned for her happiness, and an excellent companion. Her husband treated her with respect but not cringing deference.

  The longer she knew him, the more handsome he seemed to become.

  More than a few actresses and dancers stared at him as he and Tamsyn made their way through the backstage. Tartly, Tamsyn wondered how many of them had been his lovers—and how many wanted that role for themselves. Her reticence might drive him right into their arms.

  Last night, aroused by his kiss, she’d lain in bed and all but smoldered between the crisp cotton sheets. When she’d seen the light beneath the door that adjoined their rooms, she had been sorely tempted to go to him and end their celibacy.

  But she hadn’t.

  Once she and Kit emerged from backstage, the audience had thinned out in the rest of the theater. A group of young men lingered near the stage entrance, presumably waiting for the female performers to come out.

  Kit had been one of those men, not so long ago, but he barely considered them as he escorted her toward the exit.

  Their carriage stood outside the theater and he guided her to it. When the footman moved to help her into the vehicle, Kit stepped forward and offered her his hand, instead. “My lady,” he murmured. She blushed at the wicked promise in his tone.

  “You make an excellent footman,” she said after they were both ensconced in the carriage.

  “Good to know I have a career to fall back on, should this whole earl business come a cropper.” He stretched out his long legs as he sat opposite her then rapped on the roof to signal they were ready to depart.

  “You’ve been an earl for several months,” she objected as the carriage pulled away. “They won’t take the title away from you.”

  “I’ve learned that, in this life, it’s best not to take anything for granted.” He looked sardonic. “Expectation leads to disappointment.”

  She said nothing, but could not stop herself from wondering what his expectations of her might be—and what she wanted from him. At first, she’d wanted only a husband with money who paid her little mind. But now, with Kit, she sensed she wanted much more from him. She wanted his wit, his intelligence, his joy in simply experiencing the world.

  Tamsyn wanted him, and that frightened her far more than any raid by the customs officers.

  Chap
ter 15

  Tamsyn tried to maintain a calm outward appearance, though she was all but vibrating with nervousness and excitement. From a private theater box to a viscount’s residence in one night was a far cry from her usual sedate evenings at home curled up with a book.

  Other than the nights she smuggled, of course. Those were a touch more eventful than reading.

  The carriage came to a stop on Mount Street, outside an impressively large residence. Tamsyn fairly gawked at the size of the place as she stepped onto the curb.

  “You neglected to mention that your friend has a sprawling mansion,” she said drily to Kit when he stood beside her.

  Kit smirked as he gazed at Lord Marwood’s home. “Likely overcompensating for his masculine deficiencies.”

  She coughed at his outrageous comment, then rallied enough to note, “The viscountess seemed rather satisfied with her husband—deficiencies or no.”

  Kit chuckled and led her toward the front entrance. She felt his hand warm at the small of her back and his solicitous concern, causing warmth to travel all the way through her.

  A butler stood waiting by the open door.

  “It wasn’t so long ago that Marwood hosted London’s most notorious parties in this very house,” Kit noted. “All that changed when he proposed to Lady Marwood right onstage in front of half the city.”

  “He didn’t!”

  “I assure you, he did. I saw it myself. One of the most romantic things anyone’s ever witnessed,” he muttered, so low Tamsyn barely heard him, “I should ask him for advice.”

  Just as they crossed the threshold, the viscount and his wife came forward.

  “So brigands didn’t kidnap you, thank the heavens,” Lord Marwood said with a grin.

  “They wouldn’t dare attempt it,” Kit answered. “Not with my rapier-like wit to slice them into ribbons.”

  “A fearsome weapon, indeed,” Lady Marwood agreed with mock solemnity.

  “Welcome to my home, Lady Blakemere,” her husband said, and bowed.

  Tamsyn curtsied. “This is no modest cottage. I could dock a boat in here.” She eyed the foyer ceiling that soared above them. “You were having me on, my lord. I didn’t know London gentry played so loosely with the truth.”

  “My lady, you wound me.” Lord Marwood pressed a hand to his chest. He glanced at Kit. “Did you know you married such a cruel woman?”

  Kit’s gaze was warm as he looked at her, and she felt a blossom of pleasure in response. “Lady Blakemere is insightful but never cruel. At least,” he added, “I hope to never give her reason to unleash her cruelty, which I’m certain is more devastating than any twelve-pounder.”

  “Perhaps a tour of our cellars will round any sharp edges.” Lord Marwood waved toward a corridor branching off the foyer. “Unto the breach.”

  He grabbed a lit candelabra, and then he and Lady Marwood led the way. They strode past vast rooms and an abundance of beautiful things—silver, porcelain, paintings—that spoke of an ancient lineage. Watching the viscountess walk beside the viscount, their hands clasped, Tamsyn had to wonder what it must be like to come from a commoner’s background into this eminent opulence.

  They were somewhat alike, Lady Marwood and herself. Though her family’s baronial title was an old and distinguished one, Tamsyn had little experience with the dazzling life of a titled Londoner. Now that she was Lady Blakemere, a countess, she’d have to get used to it. It seemed as though Lady Marwood had become comfortable with her surroundings—though it helped that she was her husband’s beloved.

  She stole a glance at Kit’s profile. Would he ever look at Tamsyn the way Lord Marwood looked at Lady Marwood? And, more importantly, did Tamsyn want him to?

  “Down into the depths we go,” Lord Marwood said when they reached the top of a staircase leading toward the basement. “If I was in one of Maggie’s burlettas, I’d be leading you toward my hidden abattoir where I take all my hapless victims.”

  “But then my heroine would cosh you over the head with a statue,” Lady Marwood said decisively as they proceeded downward. “Thus liberating the ghosts of your victims.”

  “I like the way your mind works, my lady,” Tamsyn declared. “Let the heroine save herself.”

  “But what shall us poor males do if we’re not needed to wave our swords around and feel important?” Kit asked.

  “We’ll just have to find other uses for our swords,” Lord Marwood said with a roguish smile.

  At last, they reached the basement, and Lord Marwood made his way past the kitchen and pantries. He took them to a heavy door. After removing a key from his pocket, he unlocked the door and pushed it open. Cool, slightly damp air rushed out, reminding her of the caverns beneath Chei Owr.

  “Enter, my friends,” he said magnanimously, directing them forward. “The spirits you will find inside are of the benevolent variety.” He strode in, then set the candelabra on a low counter, illuminating the space.

  It was a square, windowless room, roughly ten feet by ten feet. Shelves lined two of the walls, on which stood a proliferation of bottles filled with various shades of amber liquid. Tamsyn estimated the value of the cellar’s contents at hundreds of pounds, if not thousands. No wonder Lord Marwood kept the key on his person.

  “Ah, I almost forgot!” Their host darted out of the cellar and returned moments later with four glasses, which he arrayed on the counter beside the candelabra. “We won’t pretend to be pirates and drink straight from the bottles.”

  He walked to one of the walls covered in bottles and studied them like a man in a circulating library. “Where to begin . . .” he mused aloud. “Ah!” He pulled a bottle from its spot on a shelf.

  Lord Marwood poured two fingers of amber liquid into each waiting glass, then handed them around with the genial air of a taproom host.

  Kit lifted his glass. “To the ladies,” he announced. “Whether they need us or not, we need them.” His gaze held hers, and she basked in the tenderness in his look.

  “To the ladies,” everyone repeated. The glasses clinked together with a chime.

  After studying her whisky for a moment, enjoying the color of the drink, she brought it to her nose and inhaled. “Smells of . . . green apples and . . . honey,” she said between sniffs.

  “So it does,” Kit agreed.

  Everyone took a sip. The rich, creamy whisky lingered long on the tongue and warmed gently on the way down.

  “This is from a distillery on the Dornoch Firth,” Lord Marwood explained. “North of Inverness.”

  “I taste a bit of chocolate,” Lady Marwood noted, and her husband nodded in agreement.

  “If given a choice between drinking cordial water every day or having just one sip of this for the rest of my life,” Kit declared, “then give me this.”

  The others also drank the last of their whiskies, and in short order, Lord Marwood returned to the shelves to make their next selection.

  “This one’s from Islay, an island in the Hebrides.” He brought a bottle forward.

  “How have you amassed such a collection, Lord Marwood?” Tamsyn asked.

  “Got a man on retainer who searches for spirits far and wide and brings ’em back to me every few months. Malcolm Ross—a genuine Scottish laird with an ancient but poor lineage. Met him one wild night in Edinburgh. Of course, I was a bachelor at the time. But he had such a skill with finding the best bottles, I hired him on the spot.” He poured out four deep golden glasses. “I take my hedonism seriously.”

  “Surely you could find sellers of quality liquor here in London,” she objected, stunned by the extravagance.

  “He could,” Lady Marwood answered. “But there’s no fun in something so ordinary. Right, my love?” She winked at her husband.

  “What astonishes you, Lady Blakemere?” Lord Marwood asked. “The cost or my eccentricity?”

  Tamsyn glanced at Kit, who watched her carefully. She chose her words with deliberation, perceiving that her answer meant a great deal to him. “One h
as to weigh something’s price against one’s happiness.”

  “Which wins?” Kit asked, his look penetrating.

  “It has to be assessed case by case,” she answered after a moment.

  His jaw firmed and he glanced away.

  She sensed her response didn’t quite satisfy him, and it made her wonder if he was thinking of something in particular when he’d asked his question. But what could it be? She longed to peel away the many layers of her husband to find the man behind the playfulness.

  “This one smells sweet,” Lady Marwood said, interrupting the silence. She delicately sniffed her glass. “Like molasses.”

  After taking a sip, Tamsyn noted, “Yet it tastes smoky.”

  “Almost savory,” the viscountess added.

  Lord Marwood chuckled. “It starts as dessert and finishes as dinner.”

  Kit’s frown smoothed as he rejoined the conversation. “Which is what I preferred when I was a child. Pudding first, then roast.”

  “And now?” Tamsyn pressed, eager for any bit of information about him. “Which do you favor—sweets or savories?”

  “No preference,” he replied. “So long as something tastes good, my appetite isn’t easily sated.” His seductive smile heated her far more than the whisky. She knew the alluring power of his lips, and could still feel his kiss from last night.

  I want that kiss again. I want so much more.

  Tamsyn hid her reaction by taking another drink. The whisky was easy to swallow, and by the time she saw the bottom of her glass, she felt a pleasant looseness through her body, as if all her burdens had been taken away.

  She looked at her husband and a surge of feeling moved through her. He was so kind, so giving. Would he mind if she wrapped her arms around him and simply held him tight? But she kept her arms at her sides, uncertain how he’d react to a semipublic embrace.

  “One more whisky!” Lord Marwood declared. He hummed to himself while he picked out another bottle. “The malt in this one’s triple distilled. Comes from the Scottish Lowlands, near Glasgow.”