The Countess Confessions

by Jillian Hunter

  Emily leaned back in her chair and stared at her seventh customer as he sat down casually on the stool. He cast an enormous shadow in the candlelit tent. She felt swallowed in darkness. He was wearing boots, too, with a long black evening jacket over a white shirt, and a pair of black pantaloons.

  She had never seen him before. She would not have forgotten those impious blue eyes and the smile that somehow hinted he knew she was an imposter and that he fully expected to be forgiven for ruining her scheme. His impressive physique, combined with his longish dark red hair and light beard, would have made him stand out at any function Emily was likely to attend.

  “Really, sir,” she said breathlessly, the admonishment too restrained for a man of his presumption to respect. But who had stolen her voice?

  And why had he stolen Camden’s place? A true rogue rarely needed an introduction to romance, which made Emily wonder why he had ducked into the tent when she had been expecting another man.

  “I hope you don’t mind my switching places with the other man in line,” he said, his gaze taking in her appearance as if he sensed there was something odd about it but he wasn’t sure what it was. “I ran into a spot of embarrassment at the party. I noticed a person I wasn’t quite ready to encounter yet. I needed shelter to hide out and collect my thoughts. I’m sure someone with your experience will understand. You must be used to keeping secrets.”

  Experience? Secrets? Never in her twenty-five years had Emily been confronted with the type of man the vicar had always warned the ladies in his congregation to avoid. Hatherwood produced one or two scoundrels a century, if that.

  She was instantly drawn to the playfulness in his eyes, delighted and appalled by his unabashed male authority. So, a stranger had thrown her off course. She would simply have to recover and resume her role before the gentleman he had usurped, Camden, was sitting before her.

  “What happened to the man who was next in line?” Emily asked, refusing to acknowledge his aplomb. The nerve of him. Supplanting Camden for his convenience.

  “Who?” She realized then that he spoke with a deep Scottish brogue. “Oh, him. He was kind enough to give me his place.”

  “But . . . did he leave? Voluntarily, that is?”

  “I’ve no idea. Does it matter?”

  Obviously it didn’t matter to this interloper. Poor, polite Camden must have been too intimidated to object. After all, what kind of person pushed ahead of guests he didn’t even know at a party? Who did he think he was?

  Perhaps she didn’t want to know.

  She realized then that there were seven deadly sins, and that the man who stared back at her with false guile looked prepared to commit at least one of them before the night came to an end.

  Chapter 2

  “My name is Sir Angus Morpeth,” he said, looking around the tent as if to make sure he could make a quick escape if necessary. “I’m a wool merchant from Aberdeen.”

  “How nice of you to impart that information to me, but I must be honest. I’m not in the market for any woolens, thank you, and I’m not as practiced as your typical Scottish soothsayers.”

  “Which typical Scottish soothsayers are you referring to?”

  She gave him a narrow glance. Why did he have to be a talker on top of everything else? “Oh, I don’t know. The witches in Macbeth, for example.”

  “Witches?”

  “Those weird sisters.”

  His gaze cut back to hers. What had she blurted out? Had she just admitted she was a complete fraud? “It’s all in the spirit of the party,” she said before he could denounce her. “You might say that I am here solely to entertain.”

  “Then entertain me. I have a few moments to spare.”

  “I’ve a feeling that you and I won’t agree on what defines entertainment.”

  “Is this your maiden voyage?”

  “Excuse me, sir?”

  “Your first time in a tent?”

  She flushed at his impertinence. “That has nothing to do with telling your future.”

  “Pity. I was beginning to enjoy myself.”

  “I predict that will not last long.”

  He smiled in a way that said he knew she was trying to get rid of him but he wasn’t going to make it easy on her. “Interesting that you make reference to Shakespeare,” he said. “I’ve been out of the country for some time, but I must confess I’d no idea that gypsy women had been allowed schooling.”

  “You don’t have to go to school to learn to read people,” she muttered, resenting the fact that what he said was still true.

  “Can you read me? Don’t look at my hand. Just give me your impression. What do you make of me?”

  “Sir, I would say you are determined.”

  He laughed. “Yes, that’s right. Or ruthless. Most men who push to the head of the queue are.”

  “I might go so far as to say you could be desperate.”

  He bent his head closer and she could feel the whisper of his breath along her cheek. His eyes held a dark fascination that made her pulse jump. “So could you. Anything else?”

  She waited, remembering Michael’s advice. Some customers only want to trick up a fortune-teller. It makes them feel superior to make you confess you’re a cheat. Stand your ground. Sooner or later the weakest will break. Don’t let it be you.

  It was evident that he wanted only to while away time. Her precious time.

  Lowering his voice, he spoke again. “Do you consider the ability to look into a person’s future a gift?”

  “I’ve never given it much thought.” Which, to her shame, was the only truthful thing she’d said to him since he sat down. “Do you?”

  “Not particularly. If you knew that I would die in the next hour and told me, I might interpret your warning to have been a curse.”

  Emily attempted to draw a deep breath. It didn’t help much. His presence had not only begun to make her feel light-headed, but had also distracted her from her intentions. His eyes penetrated her thoughts and invited them to follow a new and dangerous direction. She needed to regain control before she lost her opportunity to speak to Camden. Before this man crowded into her awareness and incited unseemly ideas.

  “That is a lurid association,” she said after a moment. “Who would think of death at a country ball? It must be the Scotsman in you. Where in that wild country did you say that you were from?”

  A smile played about the corners of his mouth. Emily might have thought that was the reason she’d started to shiver had she not known it was because of the wind piercing the back slit in the tent, where her brother had promised to stand watch. Had he wandered from his post? It would be just her luck to be left alone with the one gentleman at the party she couldn’t manage.

  “Aberdeen,” the man answered, his alert eyes moving past hers again.

  Again she lost her focus. Something was very wrong. He had not pushed to head of the line on a whimsy. He admitted he was hiding. From whom? A lady he hoped to elude? A gentleman he intended to challenge? Lucy had mentioned that her father had invited a new set of friends to the party, men involved in some vague business he refused to discuss with his family. Was this Scotsman one of them? Wool trading wasn’t what Emily considered to be a risky affair. She couldn’t understand why Lord Fletcher wouldn’t talk of it, unless he was afraid that his wife would consider trade too common for an aristocrat.

  All Emily knew for certain was that Sir Angus was stealing the last few moments she had left in the evening to spend with Camden. And as desperate as she was to speak to him, she was even more desperate to get rid of this man—which she suspected made him perversely more intent on staying.

  The distinct stomping of footsteps behind her broke the uncomfortable silence.

  The stranger stared over her chair to the back of the tent. “What was that?” he asked, his manner alert, diverted.

  “What was what?”

  “The footsteps that said it has grown too quiet in here.”

  “Oh, that. He�
�s my . . . pony.”

  “Is that right? A jealous pony that stomps the ground when he cannot hear you? Not a lover?”

  Emily felt as if her hair band had tightened around her temples. “If you insist on prying into my affairs, that is my brother.”

  His broad shoulders lifted beneath his long black jacket. “I’d rather offend a jealous lover than a protective brother. As to prying into your affairs, it’s supposed to be the other way around. However, if your pony is listening, I shall try to behave.”

  “Thank you.”

  He lowered his voice. “Unless we meet alone at another time, in which case I might be able to entertain you.”

  “Do not count on it,” she said with a certitude that defied his effrontery. To her chagrin, she couldn’t deny the blush of pleasure she felt at his presumption. Had a man ever flirted with her before? Certainly not like this. It flattered her, and she wouldn’t be surprised to find that he had entered her tent to flee a lady at the party who had pursued him.

  “Kindly give me your right hand.”

  “What if I’m left-handed?”

  Emily suppressed a sigh. She wasn’t the least surprised, although what his handedness meant to his future she couldn’t guess. “Are you?”

  “You’re the fortune-teller,” he said, giving her his left hand.

  She hesitated. His hand looked so much larger than hers, elegant and strong, but warm to the touch as he laid it upon hers. It seemed that everything Michael had taught her fled her mind. She frowned in concentration.

  “This is your heart line,” she said in a detached voice, sweeping the tip of her forefinger across his palm.

  “I’m surprised you can find it. Everyone who knows me well insists that I am heartless. I should have you write a letter of testimony in my favor.”

  “Has anyone ever told you that you are a contentious man?”

  “You can see that in my palm? You have an amazing talent.”

  “I think your time is up,” she said, half rising from the chair, his hand still in hers. “The next person in line will be getting impatient.”

  “That’s too bad,” he said without a suggestion of sympathy. “You haven’t read my cards yet. I demand the same privileges that you have offered others.”

  She struggled to find her voice. “This isn’t a business or institution where you have a right to make demands.”

  “But I’m demanding, nonetheless. As you were unable to find anything of interest in my palm, you might as well give the cards a try. And don’t tell me you’re no good at reading those, either. You said yourself that you are an entertainer. Well, you’ve managed to entertain me longer than I expected, and I’m not easy to please.”

  The cards. She sank down into the chair. Reading the cards could take forever, especially since he looked like a man with a wicked history, which of course indicated troubles to come. And all she knew about divination she had learned from Michael. In fact, she was tempted to call her brother to have the audacious rogue tossed out of the tent. The only thing that stopped her was the Scotsman’s size and temper. He might take Michael down in a fight, and Michael was rather like a bull himself when enraged. Moreover, her identity would likely be uncovered during a melee, and then she would be exposed to all her friends at the party for the hopeless dreamer and schemer that she was. She couldn’t take the chance.

  She shook his hand from hers, his touch suddenly more intimate than she could bear. She blinked, aware that he was staring at the overturned bottle on the table.

  No. Oh no.

  His gaze lifted to hers in accusation. She reached for the empty bottle, then stopped. “You spilled it,” she said. “You—”

  “What the devil did you rub on my palm?” he asked in annoyance.

  “My finger,” she said, insulted at the suggestion she would resort to anything devious, which, of course, she had, but not with him in mind. “What is wrong with your palm?”

  “It throbs like the dickens. It burns as if you had touched stinging nettles to it.”

  Now that he mentioned it, Emily’s fingertips also felt as if she had run them across a candle flame. “Perhaps you ought to go outside and stick your hand in the brook.”

  His mouth flattened. “I did mention I was trying to be discreet. Advise me what you see in those cards and leave off palm reading for a while. I seem to have an odd reaction to your touch.”

  No sooner had he finished than she heard Camden’s familiar voice call from the line outside the tent. He might have been miles away. “How much longer is this going to take? The wind is rising something fierce.”

  Emily restrained herself from answering, aware that the Scotsman had leaned across the table, his face close to hers.

  “Do you want your basket?” he asked.

  “What for?” Emily said, not trusting his motives for a moment.

  “I don’t know. In case you meet a wicked wolf in the woods.”

  “I believe I’ve already met him.”

  “But he hasn’t eaten you up yet.”

  She snatched the basket he dangled before her. “I don’t think you know your fairy tales, Sir Angus.”

  “No?” he asked, his quiet voice more intimidating than a growl.

  “The wolf gets done in at the end of the story.”

  “Not all wolves are that easy to do in.” He studied her in a long, unnerving silence. “But you are delicious.”

  “I am what?” she said, shocked and, to her shame, amused by this aggressive and inappropriate conversation.

  He lifted his forefinger to her mouth. She lowered the basket to her lap, her pulse throbbing in anticipation. “I could eat you up at one meal,” he mused. “Some men would find you to be a threat. Others, like me, would consider you a challenge. There’s something delectable and devious about you. If only I had a little more time.”

  Emily reminded herself that her brother was only a shout away. “You have stolen my time, sir, and if you see deceit in me, it is only because I, with my supernatural gifts, am reflecting your wretched soul.”

  “What a mouthful,” he said, breaking into laughter. His forefinger circled to her bottom lip. “What a tempting mouth. Now lay out the deck, darling. Amuse me a little more in the time we have left, or I shall be tempted to divert us in other ways.”

  She released her breath and reached her hand into the basket on her lap, carefully feeling past the beribboned packs that she and Michael had assembled. There was one deck meant for Camden, if she ever had the chance to be alone with him tonight.

  The last deck was a hodgepodge of cards removed from the other sets. She expected it would reveal nothing of significance. She laid twelve cards facedown in a cross upon the table. Sir Angus did not even glance at the first card she turned up. Hopefully, the Scotsman would return to whatever dark pleasures he had planned for the duration of the party.

  “If you’re not interested in your future,” she said, “why should I be?”

  His eyes kindled. “Do you see anything of interest?”

  She looked down, frowning in surprise. Michael had been careful to cast aside any cards that would not further her cause.

  The provocative illustration that stared up at her from the black velvet cloth covering the table had not been meant to appear.

  Passion

  She felt his gaze lift from the table to her face. “It’s a mistake. I don’t—” she said without thinking.

  He put his hand down before hers to reveal the second card, a beautiful depiction of a man and woman exchanging vows at an altar before a priest.

  “Mariage,” he said in perfectly accented French. “You’re right. This must be a mistake. Marriage is most assuredly not in the cards for me.”

  Emily could not pull her gaze from the ten cards left unturned on the table. She had given the basket to her maid, Iris, while Emily fussed over her disguise. But the cards couldn’t have gotten mixed up, because the others remained tightly bound by their ribbons.

  A l
ady’s cry outside the tent jarred her concentration. “One more raindrop and I’m heading for the house! Silk shows water spots, you know.”

  She shivered lightly. What had happened to her carefully laid plans? Rain and a determined rascal, for a start. There hadn’t been a cloud in the sky this afternoon.

  He pulled out his watch, rising before she could say anything further. “Here.” He reached into his other pocket for several coins and tossed them into her basket. “I predict a short future for you as a fortune-teller. You’re too easy to unsettle, for one thing, and too pretty, for another.

  “What’s your name?” he asked, casually striding around her chair to bend over her.

  She stood, coming to a stop several inches below his square-cut jaw. She hoped that Michael’s great-aunt would forgive Emily for borrowing her name. “Urania.”

  “Good grief.”

  “You can’t go out the back way.”

  He looked down slowly into her face.

  She made the mistake of meeting his gaze.

  Why had she never heard Lucy mention his name before? She and Lucy discussed everything, had shared all their hopes and worries for years. Was he one of the men with whom Lord Fletcher had recently become involved?

  “Don’t stray far from your pony tonight,” he said in a soft burr that sent a chill coursing through her.

  “What do you mean?”

  “There are other men like me about.”

  He was teasing her again, but there was a warning in the warm tenor of his voice.

  “Thank you for giving me shelter,” he added, but made no motion to leave. “I think you would be wise to forget that we ever met.”

  As if he were a man whose memory a woman could banish as easily as that.

  Unmasked desire shone in the depths of his eyes. She wasn’t sure what had ignited this temptation between them. It would be up to her to dampen it. Instead, she braced herself against the table and hoped he would quietly end the inexplicable attraction she felt before she fell back in the chair and knocked over the lamp that could easily set the tent on fire.