The Countess Confessions

by Jillian Hunter

  “Thank you, my lord.”

  “Why is the mirror of the shaving stand cracked?”

  “I believe it broke when a certain person threw his boots across the room. That is seven years of bad luck that we don’t need.”

  “Seven.” Damien snorted. “That wasn’t supposed to be my number. This entire thing has gotten out of hand.”

  “I’m sorry, my lord. I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about. I was referring to a Roman superstition. Other than that, the number seven didn’t figure into our plans.”

  “Nor did a fortune-teller. But one thing we have both learned is to expect the unexpected and do the expedient.”

  “The fortune-teller being the unexpected and marriage the expedient?”

  “More or less. Except that I also have to court her to make a convincing case for our rushed wedding, a novel experience that I would never have chosen.”

  “I see your point,” Winthrop said, emptying the water pitcher into a ceramic bowl. “However, with the exception of your last fiancée, Miss Howell—”

  “Don’t ever mention her name to me again.” Damien got out of bed in his nightshirt and stretched his arms above his head. His back ached. He was about to accuse the valet of sewing lead weights into Sir Angus’s shoulder padding. But then he remembered that he had opened the trapdoor to the tower several times last night.

  He went to the mirror. All traces of Sir Angus were gone. “The main thing is that we keep them safe.”

  “Them? Your fiancée and her brother?”

  “Her brother? No, although he could prove to be an asset to us, and I trust him. My fiancée has a lady’s maid who should meet with your approval.”

  Winthrop’s eyes narrowed behind his spectacles. “Not if she endangers the operation.”

  “She will. I’m sure of it.” Damien sat down heavily on the stool. “In all likelihood the maid will become your responsibility. It would seem suspicious if we left her in Hatherwood.”

  “Oh, my God. Why, I hesitate to ask, should we care about a parish that has a population of fifty-eight?”

  “We don’t. We care about Lord Ardbury and his associates, who haven’t yet left the parish. And don’t grouse. At least you’re not marrying a stranger. How should I go about courting this woman?”

  Winthrop folded and unfolded the towel on his arm. “If you mean to convince others that you can’t live without her, then you must show great passion for her.”

  “Passion? Go on.”

  “Properly contained, of course.”

  “Why?”

  “In a village of fifty-eight a man of your stature is bound to make a stir. I assume she is fair enough on the eyes.”

  Damien shrugged noncommittally, although he had been awestruck by the loveliness she’d hidden under her disguise. It would be his turn to surprise her next. Would she be disappointed that Sir Angus was gone? Well, tit for tat.

  “I take it by your silence that she’s a beauty.” It was evident by Winthrop’s change in demeanor that he had already begun to formulate a plan. “As far as your courtship goes, I doubt you’ll have to do much to impress her. You are not only a titled man, but a handsome one also. Your normal wardrobe is enough to impress any lady with a taste for good tailoring.”

  “It’s debatable whether she entrapped me,” Damien said, crossing his arms behind his head, “or whether I led her into a dangerous situation. I don’t know if I took advantage of her or if she took advantage of me. I haven’t the vaguest idea whether she cares about the cut of my trousers, either. Look, Winthrop, I don’t need your advice on how to dress and undress for the woman. I need to give the general impression that I can’t live without her. It could be true, if she lets our secret slip.”

  Winthrop ceased his examination of a long-tailed morning coat for creases and loose threads. “Good grief. This is rather fast work to fit around the conspiracy.”

  “It is not typical of you to jump to conclusions,” Damien said in annoyance.

  “It’s not typical of you to become engaged.”

  “Do you have another suggestion?” Damien asked dryly. “If so, speak your mind. Just remember, she holds the fate of innumerable lives in her card-dealing hands.”

  Winthrop turned white. “She is a gambler? You neglected that part in your recounting.”

  “When I met her she was telling fortunes with cards. The blasted things have been blown into the next county by now.”

  “I am confused, my lord. I thought you had proposed to a gentlewoman.”

  “She was in disguise.”

  “As a lady?”

  “No, you parsnip. As a gypsy.”

  “Male or female?”

  “Female, Winthrop. Her disguise was part of a scheme she concocted to impress her desirability on the gentleman she was hoping would propose to her.”

  “And you are not that gentleman?” Winthrop inquired after a long silence.

  “How could I possibly be the damn fool when I only met her last night?”

  Winthrop compressed his lips, clearly refraining from suggesting to Damien that he was a damn fool himself. “If the jade deceived you with a disguise, I do not see that you have any obligation to marry her at all.”

  “As you pointed out last night, I was disguised myself. I forced my company upon her for my own interests.”

  “Well, that is a different matter. If you behave dishonorably toward— toward— I don’t believe I caught the young lady’s name.”

  “Urania.”

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “She deceived me into believing her name was Urania while I was disguised as Sir Angus.”

  “That is far more complicated than I first understood. You were acting on the government’s behalf?”

  “And she was acting on behalf of her heart. She is not a jade at all. If I believed she was corrupt, I might be tempted to let her take care of herself. Considering the ruthless intentions of the conspiracy, that would be tantamount to her demise.”

  “I’m beginning to understand,” Winthrop said, his lips pursing. “Perhaps I’ll ride into the next market town early in the morning for flowers to start off this courtship.”

  Damien nodded. “I don’t think I was my usual self with her last night.”

  “I’d best make sure to deliver the roses before she sees you again, then.”

  Chapter 20

  Just after dawn the next day Iris caught the scullery girl whispering to the milkmaid at the kitchen door. Iris realized too late what had happened, but one had to expect that the servants had heard the drama in the entry hall. There was nothing to do for it but smile mysteriously when the rest of the staff begged her for more information. She refused to answer. The rumor spread.

  It appeared that an earl would step in where others had been hesitant to tread. Hatherwood would never again view Miss Rowland as an on-the-shelf eccentric. Her behavior, her history, and her bloodlines would be scrutinized as usual.

  But one would not be analyzing Emily for amusement. The question in everyone’s mind asked how it was that she, of all girls, had attracted an earl?

  And what could one do to emulate her?

  • • •

  Emily’s father met her at the bottom of the stairs early the next afternoon. She averted her gaze and offered no greeting. He took her chin in his hand to force her to look at him. “Emily,” he said, as she braced for another confrontation. “I knew you were unhappy. I knew you were lonely. But I never thought you would sacrifice what little standing we have to behave without a backward glance to propriety.”

  She sighed. “It didn’t start out as an impropriety.”

  “Scandal rarely does. It is one small misstep after another until you’re up to your neck in a sea of muck.”

  “It wasn’t what you think it is.”

  “No?”

  No. In many ways what had happened was worse. Society might disagree, but Emily valued her life above her reputation. The failed debutante she ha
d once been would have to die if Emily was given a chance to live. But she couldn’t explain this to her father. He sought his solutions in a bottle. And yet he was so different when he was sober. Gentle. Caring. She was ashamed that she had caused him distress.

  “I was in my cups last night,” he admitted. “You had gone to the party without telling me. I’d fallen asleep,” he continued, “and when I woke up and saw you had gone, I went straight to Lord Fletcher’s house to find you. On the way a peculiar fancy crossed my mind. I imagined I heard your mother telling me that you were in trouble somehow.”

  “I suppose I was,” she said, too guilty to meet his gaze. But she had told him about the party, knowing he was too drunk to understand, knowing he had forbidden her from attending.

  “I never dreamt you had disobeyed me to meet a lover.”

  “I didn’t.” She edged around him. He followed her to the drawing room.

  “How long has this romance been brewing?”

  “Well, he was Michael’s friend before I met him, and—”

  His face darkened. “I wish you hadn’t felt the need to keep your romance a secret. Did you learn nothing from the pain your mother caused?”

  “I have lived with that pain every day of my life,” she said quietly. “I can feel it between you and Michael every time he comes home.”

  “Then why would you engage in such deception, knowing what the price might be?”

  “I was lonely, Papa.”

  “You have friends. You have that little nitwit Lucy and your lady’s maid.”

  “I wanted a husband.”

  “Well, an earl is not a bad catch.” He shook his head, clearly confused. “You evaded my answer. How long have you known Shalcross?”

  About five hours longer than you have, she wanted to shout. And that he was marrying her only for the good of God and country. Instead, she said, “I know him best through Michael.”

  He sat down on the sofa beside her. “Forgive me for what will surely sound like an insult. But I cannot help wondering why a man of his rank would choose a country maid for a bride when there must be a hundred women who would better fit the bill.” He might be a drunk and neglectful parent, but he was not without perception.

  Emily shrugged. “I suppose it was in the cards. Destiny, you might say.”

  “Destiny,” he repeated in chagrin. “I assumed you would settle down with a nondescript gentleman like Camden.”

  “Are you complaining because I am marrying an earl?”

  “You have not exchanged vows with his lordship yet. I shall withhold judgment until he meets you at the altar. I also think it would be decent of him to call on us today instead of waiting until Sunday.”

  “I understand that he had other business plans to arrange. He might have wanted to give us time to settle down.”

  Or perhaps he had simply gone.

  • • •

  Damien did not call at the house at all that day. He did, however, send a messenger to the baron to apologize and to say he looked forward to tea on Sunday. Emily hid behind the door as her father hesitated to reply.

  What could he do? Emily wondered.

  Should he hunt down Damien, who might be on the road this moment, or should he appear to agree, hoping that Sunday would bring a desirable outcome?

  “Sunday it is,” he said after a long pause.

  The messenger bowed, and Emily released her breath. “You don’t think he’s going to come, do you?”

  Her father frowned at her. “He will come, or I shall lead a chase to drag him back for disgracing you.”

  She smiled wanly. “With the vicar?”

  “And his wife.”

  An hour later a basket of long-stemmed red and white hothouse roses arrived for Emily. She pulled out the card that read:

  For my beloved from—

  D

  And behind her she heard her father calling a maid to put the earl’s flowers in a vase that should be prominently displayed on the mantel.

  Emily pressed the card to her heart. Beloved, he’d written. What a rogue. Still, it was a beautiful word. It went perfectly with his gift of the gorgeous roses, which she decided to enjoy, even if they were only a token gesture.

  Chapter 21

  Lucy arrived in the escort of a footman early Sunday morning before tea. She and Emily walked to the bottom of the garden before either of them felt safe to talk. Then they plopped down on a bench where they could bask in the sun and breathe in the fragrance of the tiny triangles of herbs planted by an artistic gardener’s hand.

  “I found out who your fiancé is,” Lucy whispered.

  “Bluebeard?”

  “No one quite that ominous,” Lucy said with a shudder. “But bad enough, really, for a girl who has led your sheltered life.”

  “Do I strike you as sheltered?”

  “You’ve never gone to France for a dress fitting, and you’ve never sailed to Cornwall on a yacht.”

  “I’ve never visited London, either,” Emily said, leaning down to pinch off a sprig of thyme.

  “I assume that will soon change.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s Boscastle headquarters. Your betrothed’s family is infamous in town.”

  “I’ve never heard of them. But, then, I only met him the night before last. I don’t even know what he looks like in the light.”

  “You don’t exactly resemble Urania, either.”

  “That’s one of the things that worries me. It was bad enough placing myself at the mercy of a brash Scotsman with an ever-so-nice voice. But who does he think he’s marrying?”

  “He’ll have the surprise of his life when he sees you face-to-face,” Lucy said, adding hastily, “A pleasant surprise, that is.”

  “He looked shocked when he saw me without the wig. Is his family that notorious?”

  “My stepmama says that scandal shadows their every step. That goes for the ladies, too, but the gentlemen are worse. You wouldn’t believe their history—recent history.”

  “I might if you would tell me. Besides, I’d believe anything after this experience.”

  “Abduction, duels, a bride who jilted herself at the altar and is now the family’s matriarch. One of Damien’s cousins opened the Academy for Young Ladies in London and ended up marrying a mercenary who ended up becoming a duke.”

  “Which made her a duchess.”

  Lucy sighed. “Society adores them. You might adore him in time, too.”

  “There is little I could do to save myself. It isn’t as if I can break off the engagement.”

  “Break it off?” Lucy asked incredulously. “My stepmama only wanted you to know so that you’d keep a tight grip on him. And—”

  Emily gasped, rising from the bench. Deep masculine laughter wafted through the garden, and there, greeting her father at the front steps, stood the earl. “He’s here! He looks so different. So—”

  “He looks so fine,” Lucy whispered. “Did he get taller?”

  “No. Yes. He’s leaner. And his hair—what a sinful shade of black.”

  “He doesn’t have a red beard.”

  “He doesn’t have any beard at all,” Emily said, wishing she could see more of his strong bone structure. And his eyes. No. She would avoid their spell today, or she wouldn’t be able to concentrate on anything else. “What should I do, Lucy?”

  “Ask whether he has an eligible cousin or brother somewhere in England who would suit your dearest friend.”

  “I will promise you this.” Emily tucked the sprig of thyme behind Lucy’s ear. “If I am still alive three months hence, I shall summon you to London for a husband hunt.”

  “You aren’t in any real danger, are you, Emily?”

  “I might be,” Emily said, biting the inside of her cheek. Had anyone in Hatherwood’s history ever known a moment of true fear?

  “Then it was gallant of the earl to ask for your hand so that he could protect you.”

  Emily shrugged, her gaze drifting again to Damien
’s arresting figure. Not only did he stand out in a crowd, but even the sunlight seemed to pay homage to his appeal. It deepened the hollows of his hard face and glinted on his soft blue-black hair. And even though he appeared to have lost some girth, his elegant jacket displayed the broadly proportioned shoulders that had shielded her last night. Just watching him shrug at someone’s remark, hearing his deep laugh at another, electrified her. How unfair that he had become more handsome than when he was in disguise.

  How much harder it would be to resist the devilish smile that he turned on her without warning. His eyes traveled over her, from her face to her slippers, openly warm and sensual. She returned his playful smile with one of her own before she could curb the instinct.

  He was wickedness and danger in the form of one irresistibly self-possessed gentleman. And suddenly she realized that she needn’t worry about saying the wrong thing. Everyone was staring at him and vying for his attention. She would go unnoticed until he formally approached her. At least the respite allowed her nerves to settle.

  With a twinkle in his eye that promised trouble, he gave her another smile and turned back to the gentlemen who crowded around him, asking his opinion on everything from the weather to his political views.

  She would have loved to eavesdrop.

  “He could have had you locked away in some dark Scottish castle if he chose,” Lucy whispered. “I daresay that in the long run that would be a lot easier and less expensive than a marriage of inconvenience.”

  “How morbid of you,” Emily said with a tight smile. “Think of your father building that tower for your mother. You should honor her memory, at least. Aren’t castles supposed to be romantic?”

  Lucy looked so instantly guilt-stricken that Emily wished she could take back her words. “I didn’t mean to sound cruel. The tower was an act of love.”

  “A dark castle isn’t. You’re right. Maybe he will lock me away, except that he isn’t Scottish, which doesn’t mean he couldn’t lock me up in a manor house.”

  “Now I shall cry.”

  “I’ll cry with you. I miss my mother every hour of the day.” She reached for Lucy’s hand. “Forgive me.”