The Countess Confessions

by Jillian Hunter

  “I understand that facing Ardbury is nerve-racking for you,” he said. “But you’re not alone in this. I will stand with you.”

  She frowned. He was staring intently at her left shoulder, and not with his usual sensuality. “Facing you is nerve-racking,” she said. “I came in here to escape.”

  “It wasn’t a bad idea. How easily does that sleeve unlace?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I need to examine you from your left shoulder to the top of your breast.”

  Her mouth dropped open. “Wouldn’t you rather check my teeth and knees for soundness?”

  Dark humored danced in his eyes. “I wouldn’t mind taking you for a ride around the paddock, but it might look odd at a tea party.”

  She backed away from the door and toward the corner, only to feel his hand capture her and pull her forward by the waist. She gave a strong twist of protest, just on principle, but unfortunately her heart wasn’t in discouraging him. It was too busy beating in her throat.

  “Damien!”

  “Yes, darling.”

  “This sort of behavior can’t continue.”

  “It can and will,” he said, consoling her, his hand stroking up her arm. “As long as you are with me, you are safe.”

  “Not if I am required to start undressing in the library.”

  “But I like libraries.”

  She clenched her teeth. “So do I.”

  “Maybe we can read together after everyone leaves,” he suggested, although his mischievous smile implied that reading did not figure high on the list of what he wanted to do when they were alone.

  It seemed rules were meant to be broken by men of Damien Boscastle’s background.

  She had a single moment to look up into his chiseled face before his mouth descended on hers. His lips felt indecent and delightful. It took all her dwindling reason to remember that he was kissing her in front of the window in full view of three guests who happened to be strolling toward the carriages parked in the drive.

  “Damien,” she whispered. “We have an audience. This is a library, which is almost as sacred to me as a church. It’s blasphemy to accost a lady in her only port from the storm. Besides, everyone can see us through the window.”

  “We are supposed to be in love. I think they will excuse us this performance. And I might not be an expert in the social graces, but I don’t think it’s polite to browse through books when one is giving a tea party.”

  His mouth claimed hers again before she could ask him to at least close the curtains. And then it didn’t matter. His kiss deepened and demanded. It conquered her will and left in exchange a greed as wild as his own. The only difference between the two of them that she could identify was that while her body had softened, his had become hard and unyielding.

  Damien was her complete and irresistible opposite.

  She broke free for a moment. “Lord Shalcross—”

  “You taste like the woman in my dream,” he murmured. His tongue sketched the shape of her lips, slipping back inside her mouth, flirting, taunting until her breasts tightened in response. She sagged against the support of his arm. Had she heard him correctly? Was the passion the scapegrace showed her meant for someone else? Had he just said that he was dreaming about another a few days before they would stand together at the altar?

  “You shameless, deceitful—” She couldn’t find the words to describe what she felt at his confession. It was all she could do to take in air. “You’re kissing me like a libertine, and you expect me to be flattered that I remind you of another woman? A woman that you dream about? You are as tactful as an ape to mention her to me. I never told you about the man I dream about.”

  He stilled. “You have erotic dreams about another man?”

  “I didn’t say my dreams were erotic.”

  He began to laugh. “The woman was you. What I meant was that you—she—was in my bed, about to ride me into oblivion, when I woke up.”

  “Ride you into—really. I wasn’t in your bed. And I’ve never done anything erotic in my life.”

  “You will soon enough,” he assured her, sliding his hand up between her shoulder blades. Her breasts brushed his shirtfront. If she went to pieces when all he had done was kiss her and whisper a few wicked words in her ear, then she would never survive their wedding night.

  “I did dream about you the night we met,” he said.

  “From your brief but vivid description, it was quite a sinful dream.”

  “The only sinful thing about it was that it ended too soon.”

  A warm sensation washed over her. She was powerless to resist him. “Was anyone else in this dream?”

  His smile was utterly disgraceful. “You were the dream. And it was lovely. You and your breasts.”

  She gasped, embarrassed, but at the same time longing to hear how wickedly she had behaved in his dream. In all fairness, she couldn’t resent his dream lover when it had been her.

  He drew her closer, his other hand caressing the gap of skin between her glove and the sleeve of her gown. Little by little she dissolved. Her senses wanted to surrender. Her blood clamored for an ending to this confusion. What manner of husband would he make? He was a charming, conniving scamp. Well, it took one to know one.

  “The window,” she whispered again. “They’ve seen enough.”

  “But I haven’t.”

  “We’re in the library, my lord.”

  His voice vibrated with humor. “Are we?”

  “Our performance is over—”

  “You didn’t come here to read,” he said, looking around for a book she might have taken from the shelves. Then he grinned at her. “Neither did I. But I want to look at you, and I have a good reason for it. Your hair is truly red.”

  “Yours isn’t,” she said crossly.

  “You should have seen my valet scrubbing the henna out of it.”

  “You’ve lost your nationality and about half your weight. Or is this another disguise? For all I know, you’ll be a Spaniard tomorrow.”

  He gave a rich laugh, his gaze lowering from her face to her neckline, lingering there. She felt heat rise to her skin. “I hope you don’t think a book will come between us once we’re married.” He looked up at her. “And I’m not taking a position against literature.”

  She stared up at him. “Don’t you think I understand that ours won’t be a real marriage?”

  He frowned. “If I were a better man, I might not insist you surrender to me as part of our bargain. We could come to another arrangement for our needs.”

  “But?” she queried, a hint of hope in her voice.

  “But I’m not a better man,” he said, smiling ruefully. “I’m one who does what he has to do. And as a man, I find you rather appealing.”

  “My life is shattered.”

  He shook his head. “You missed your cue. You were supposed to give me a compliment back. Unless you think I have no redeeming qualities at all.”

  “You’re—” She couldn’t admit how beautiful he was and that she was afraid he’d break her heart. She couldn’t confess that when he smiled at her, nothing seemed impossible. And that if she had become enmeshed in his conspiracy, there wasn’t anyone she trusted more to take care of her. “You are the most courageous man I’ve ever met.”

  “And?”

  “And I find you appealing, too, and if you use that as an advantage, I won’t ever compliment you again.”

  Silence. Then he took her hand and led her into another corner of the room where the curtains were drawn, explaining over her objections, “I didn’t intrude on your solace to kiss you. That was a spontaneous pleasure. What I meant to do was take a close look at your bare shoulder.”

  “You— What?”

  He put one hand against the wall as a barrier to her flight. “Can you pull down your sleeve yourself or do you require my help?” he asked with the confidence of a man whose seductive powers he clearly took for granted.

  She felt color rise to her f
ace. “Can you control yourself before I pull an entire shelf of books onto your fatuous head?”

  He smiled at her threat. “You misunderstand.” He brought his hand to her throat, tracing downward until his fingers slid beneath the sprigged poplin of her left sleeve. Her nipples tightened against her undergarments. “I’m doing this for your own good.”

  • • •

  Michael had been the first person at the party to notice his sister’s disappearance. He had been standing outside the billiards room when she had sneaked off down the hall to vanish from sight. He knew where Emily took refuge when the baron went on a drunken rampage.

  But as far as Michael could tell, the baron had behaved like a gentleman, a proud father of the bride-to-be, all day. Something else had sent Emily into hiding, and Michael couldn’t take the chance that one of the traitors in the tower had already learned her true identity and traced her to the house.

  “Where the hell is Shalcross?” he muttered, backing so erratically to the stairs that he almost knocked Iris into the banister.

  “Sir!” she exclaimed in the prim voice that usually made him tease her.

  “Where is my sister?”

  “She’s saying good-bye to the guests, I think.”

  “No, she isn’t. She’s gone off alone.”

  “I’ll check upstairs,” she said, tightening her apron strings.

  “I’ll search below.”

  And below was exactly where he found Emily a few minutes later when he burst into the library and spotted her bare-shouldered in the corner with the man he was going to kill.

  Chapter 24

  Damien turned to shield Emily from the gentleman who had slammed the door with enough force to unshelve a volume of Fanny Hill: Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure. He raised his hand to catch it, his body serving as a dressing screen while Emily retied her sleeve.

  “This is not what it looks like,” Damien said, realizing the lanky man who had murder in his eyes was actually Michael.

  Michael pushed a chair into the wall. “You rotten sod.”

  Emily ducked beneath Damien’s arm. “He’s right, Michael. Stop abusing the furniture. There is a reason for this.”

  He strode up to Damien, his eyes black with anger. “When a man undresses a woman against a wall there is only one possible explanation for his conduct.”

  “Michael, you’re wrong.” Emily snagged his arm before he could take a swing at Damien. “He was only trying to see if the birthmark on my left shoulder was visible in this gown.”

  “How does he know that you have a birthmark there?” Michael demanded, pulling out of her grasp. “I never noticed it, and I’ve lived with you since you were born.”

  Emily took a deep breath. “I don’t have a birthmark. It was a spot of ink from the quill I was using to take notes on those cards that have caused all this trouble.”

  “The cards didn’t cause trouble,” he said grimly. “Certain people did. What does a birthmark matter, anyway?”

  Damien pushed away from the wall. “If not for your behavior, I’d take you for a civilized being.”

  Michael glowered at him over the top of Emily’s head. “I’m beginning to rue the day I called you my friend.”

  Emily placed the book that Damien had rescued on a chair. “Michael, listen for a moment. One of the men in the tower made a sketch of me to show the authorities. He drew a mark on my shoulder. The earl wanted to make sure it couldn’t be seen in this gown.”

  Michael, uncomplicated male that he was, looked at Damien for confirmation. “Well, could it?”

  “Not that I could tell,” Damien replied. “She said she washed it off the night of the party.”

  “How good is the sketch of her?” Michael asked, calmer now.

  “The dark wig obscured most of her features.” Damien glanced at Emily’s face. “With the exception of her eyes.” How the journalist had managed to capture their sultry mischief in such a rush of circumstances was a credit to his skill and of deep concern to Damien. Emily’s bright red hair attracted a man’s notice like a banner.

  He studied her profile, the loose curls captured in a ribbon. She had eyelashes of an extravagant length and a smattering of tiny scars on her cheeks from what might have been a case of childhood pox. If not for all the excitement last night, he would have noticed the dimple in her chin. Thank God neither detail had appeared on the sketch.

  She might not resemble the exotic fortune-teller who had intrigued Damien last night, but she had a secret allure that appealed to him a little more whenever he looked at her. He realized he had a long way to go before she would give herself to him of her own volition.

  He would have to take, initiate, coax her, one move at a time.

  There wouldn’t be enough time before the wedding to build trust between them. But he planned to take full advantage of their marriage bed. She seemed to have accepted that her life depended on Damien’s ability to protect her.

  In fact, she had shown herself to be more levelheaded than any of the ladies Damien had known in the past. He was the one who had gone into a panic over the sketch. It made him wonder whether he had underestimated her ability to adapt to a crisis.

  She had risked everything to take her destiny in her own hands. He would do well to remember that he had fallen for her artless scheme and had not even been her intended victim.

  Chapter 25

  The Earl of Shalcross called on Miss Emily Rowland every morning, afternoon, and evening for four days straight. When he was not visiting her house, he was escorting her to a small supper party hosted in his honor by a member of Hatherwood’s gentry, who seemed smitten to have a genuine nobleman in their midst.

  In the eyes of the enthralled villagers, Damien’s desire for Emily’s company reinforced the image of a man desperately in love. An intense courtship was not only a means of keeping watch over Emily, but of passing the hours until Winthrop returned with the special license. Lord Ardbury had taken leave of the village a few days prior. Presumably he had set in motion the cogs of his conspiracy.

  Damien wondered how much longer he could curb his impatience to resume his own duty. He had an assassination to thwart. He’d been given only a few details about Viscount Deptford. Three years ago Deptford had been a staunch supporter of the conspiracy. But apparently in the interim he had become disillusioned with the group’s leaders, Lord Ardbury among them. Deptford knew the names and connections of secret radicals all over England, some in government positions.

  Damien assumed this was why the anarchists wanted the viscount dead and why the Crown had offered to protect him. But instead of rushing to Deptford’s castle to persuade him to go to London, Damien was discussing thoroughbreds at dinner with a country squire or imagining what Emily would look like when he undressed her.

  In his estimation, her hair, unbound, would reach several inches below her shoulder blades. He pictured the ends curling around her breasts. He tortured himself wondering what sounds she would make when he made her his. He knew that his kisses gave her pleasure. He knew that he desired her. But he was surprised that she seemed so receptive in the moments when he simply had to touch her when nobody was looking.

  After all, he was a man who had willingly assumed other identities for his country. It was no burden to feign attraction to her. But, on the contrary, he had to restrain his sensual impulses in her presence. This courtship had begun to feel so natural that it worried him. No matter that he would be her first lover and that taking her virginity was a matter that deserved consideration.

  But it wasn’t until the fifth afternoon of that week, as he and Emily watched a cricket game on the village green, that he was reminded he was definitely not her first love. He would have to be obtuse to miss the quick looks she darted at one of the cricket players, a tall, rather gangly young man who seemed oblivious to everything except the game.

  The party guest Damien had replaced in the queue. So this was his competition—the man Emily had dreamt about, schemed t
o attract.

  Did Emily still have feelings for the man? Damien shook his head. This was what happened when a person forgot his manners—life would have been far less complicated if Damien had not insisted on taking someone else’s place in line. Or if the cricketer had refused to let Damien have his way. It was shocking how one small act could alter a person’s life.

  “Someone you know?” he asked her quietly, noticing that she had let her bonnet slide to her nape, the blue silk ribbons at her throat fluttering in the breeze. An unconscious or openly inviting gesture? And was it directed at him . . . or at the cricketer? “Yes,” she said with a blush that gave Damien pause. Was he supposed to pretend that it didn’t matter? Did it matter?

  “He is the man whose place I took inside the tent?”

  She reached back to pull on her bonnet. “Don’t keep staring at him that way.”

  “Then it is him.”

  “What if it is?” she said, at once on the defensive. “It doesn’t matter now, does it?”

  “I’m not sure. You went to a great deal of trouble to persuade him that you belonged together.”

  “Well, you changed that, and it can’t be undone.”

  Perhaps not. But there were enough obstacles in Damien’s path that he didn’t need the memory of a cricket player clouding a marriage that neither he nor Emily had planned.

  So, while Damien remained confident that he would be his wife’s first lover, he would have to wonder if she still had feelings for this man. How deep did her affection for him go? Damien wasn’t an expert on the subject, but even he knew this was not how he wanted to start a marriage. Aside from the conspiracy and sexual compatibility, would they come to care for each other in time? He had to admit that she wasn’t unpleasant company. Through it all, she had managed to keep her wits about her for the most part.

  They walked past the cricket match, Emily not looking back. Damien realized she was not in a talkative mood. “Do you mean that you staged a fortune-telling performance for that man and now you have no feeling for him at all?”

  Emily stopped to stare up at him. “Well, yes. And no.”