The Countess Confessions

by Jillian Hunter

  The guests had retired to their beds after a brain-numbing performance of the French satire Tartuffe when Iris felt Winthrop slip from her side as she pretended to sleep. She had given up any hope of maintaining a decent decorum between them and had insisted they share the bed in their stone-floored room.

  It would have been cruel to assign him to a chair or a cot. Heaven knew he hadn’t touched her when they were in bed together. Not a brush of a bare toe to her ankle. She wondered what was wrong with her that she had caught herself more than once hoping for a kiss. She would have to rebuff him, of course. She was a lady’s maid, not a ladybird.

  Iris appreciated that he had kept his promise to show her respect. But she did begin to question whether his coolness had less to do with duty than it did with the fact that he found her unappealing.

  She also wondered where he had snuck off to this early in the morning. She’d noticed after the play that he had his eye on another housemaid, who grated on Iris’s nerves. The minx had made an excuse about checking an upstairs chimney during the last act. When a few minutes later Iris had followed, she had spied the snippy maid looking outside the door of the room Winthrop had entered.

  “Let the needle puller have his maid,” she muttered, scooting across his bare place in the bed. Iris would make a cup of tea and maybe indulge in a little flirtation herself with the castle’s rheumy-eyed butler, if the man were about at this hour.

  She tightened the sash of her robe and wended her way through the warren of the castle kitchens. She wasn’t surprised to discover the fires and ovens lit, the chef overseeing the production of meat and fruit pies on numerous tables while scullions scrubbed great black pots for gravy and delectable sauces.

  She peered at the menu on the table:

  Braised Beef

  Roast Leg of Lamb and Pheasant

  Salmon in Lemon Sauce

  Buttered Peas

  None of this surprised her. She was not even alarmed when the kitchen hedgehog brushed around her feet. Winthrop had explained that the nocturnal creature was kept to eat any beetles that might crawl onto a platter. Winthrop, however, was nowhere in sight.

  Before anyone could notice her, she turned on her heel and climbed the kitchen steps back to the servants’ quarters. And walked straight into Winthrop’s wiry frame.

  “What are you doing out of our room?” he said.

  “I had a feeling that something was wrong.”

  He paused. “There has been an incident. An unidentified person shot at the viscount as he rode off with his hunting party.”

  Iris felt a sudden need to drop into a chair.

  “Is he dead?”

  “He is distraught but not otherwise harmed. The shot missed. It is still dark. It could have been an accidental discharge, but I doubt it.”

  Iris blinked, aware of light footsteps in the hall. “Hunting mishaps are common, aren’t they?”

  “Yes. But until I am convinced it was an accident, it is prudent for him to retreat for a time. At last he believes that his life is in jeopardy.”

  He stilled at the rustle of linen behind him. Iris looked past him to the young chambermaid who had materialized from the gloom of the hall.

  “What is the matter?” the girl asked in a tentative voice. “Did I see Lord Deptford leaving in his coach? I thought he’d gone hunting with the other guests.”

  “Go about your duties,” Iris said, vexed at the girl without justification. Or perhaps it was because Winthrop had fallen silent to stare at her. Didn’t he pride himself on being the consummate professional? Hadn’t he enough to do without ogling the housemaid? Worse, it seemed to Iris that the impertinent girl was staring right back at him. It wasn’t that Iris gave a fig. But if she had to pretend to be Winthrop’s wife, he must pretend to behave like a proper husband. Even though their “marriage” was a sham, Iris would not tolerate a philandering mate. It went against the grain.

  She waited to question Winthrop until the maid excused herself to polish the ancestral coats of armor displayed in the entry hall. “Wouldn’t a guest have admitted his gun went off by mistake?”

  “Aristocrats and their followers are prideful people, Iris. It is not in their nature to apologize easily. They consider themselves above the law, my employer being the exception.”

  “Pride seems to be a failing in all classes.” She released a sigh. “You do not suspect anyone in the castle?”

  “I do not care for Mr. Batleigh of York. He excused himself early from the performance.”

  “I can’t say I blame him for that. I only peeked in on the first act and noticed more than one guest dozing off.”

  “I shall keep a closer watch on him nonetheless. And I insist you do not go to his chamber should he summon you.”

  “I thought my job was to investigate the guests.”

  “Investigate, no. Observe, yes. I forbid you to put your life or your virtue in peril.”

  Her knees felt as shaky as a jelly trifle. He forbade her. “I suppose you will launch a personal investigation into the maids who are recently employed at the castle?”

  “What you mean by that?” he demanded, catching her by the elbow before she could elude him.

  Iris shook off his hand. “Nothing. One of those observations I have been asked to make, that’s all. You carry on your work, sir. As I shall do mine.”

  “I have to inform the earl of this incident immediately. I might be gone a few hours while I locate one of our contacts in the castle.”

  “Do not worry about me, Winthrop. There is little danger that anything will happen during your absence. I will keep an eye on Mr. Batleigh from a safe distance. And when you return, you can resume eyeing the maids again.”

  • • •

  Before Emily, the most twisted machinations of mankind had seemed so simple, and now, as she stretched across him to stare out the carriage window, Damien realized that her slightest move could undermine him. It had become more difficult by the day to deny her anything.

  He wanted to please her. He had dragged her into this mess. She deserved what little happiness he could give her.

  “Damien,” she said, shaking him from his slouched position. “Isn’t that a country fair?”

  “What of it?” he asked grumpily, aware of nothing but her silk-clad curves pressing into his vital organs.

  “I’ve never been to a genuine fair.”

  His eyes closed. “Unless you have an immediate wish to buy a cow or catch a pig by the tail, there’s no reason we can’t go at another time.”

  She sighed. “Fine. I suppose you’re right. It is frivolous to ask.”

  Damien and Emily had traveled during the early-morning hours, when the busy traffic made highway robbery less likely to occur. Winthrop had drawn a precise map and timetable for his master to observe, and Damien had followed his instructions so well that he was ahead of schedule.

  That didn’t mean he could fiddle while Rome burned. If anything happened to Viscount Deptford before Damien reached the castle as promised, he would be at fault. It wouldn’t matter how many maidens he had saved or married along the way. A man’s assassination would be on his conscience. It wouldn’t matter even if all his efforts to save Deptford failed. He had given his word that he would help guard the man.

  “Then that’s settled,” he said, smoothing his hand down her back.

  “Yes, Damien.”

  Dammit.

  For a man accustomed to wearing a disguise, it was frightening to realize he no longer recognized himself. He reached around her and rapped on the roof for the driver to stop.

  Emily slid out of his lap. “What are you doing?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She smiled. The siren knew she had won.

  A half hour later they were eating gingerbread and watching a wheelbarrow race. They drew attention, too, an aristocrat and his enchanting wife. “I think we need to leave,” he said, brushing some crumbs off his coat.

  He turned, glancing idly at a
puppeteer’s cart, and his heart took a plunge. Several notices had been nailed to the back of the cart, but there was only one that caught Damien’s eye. He pulled Emily by the hand. “Turn around. Walk toward our carriage. Don’t look at anyone. If you must nod and act preoccupied.”

  “What is it?” she said as he swiftly helped her up the carriage steps. “Did you see one of the rebels?”

  “No. But there’s a sketch of you posted on the Punch and Judy cart.”

  She paled, but to her credit did not look back. “Does that mean we’ve been followed?”

  “Not necessarily.” He hesitated. Their frivolous hour had been ruined. “It does mean that Ardbury is intent on catching you.”

  “This is far afield, isn’t it?”

  “He won’t find you.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because he is being hunted down himself by men more dedicated than he realizes even exist.”

  Chapter 35

  Damien hurried Emily through the common room of the next inn on their journey. Travelers drank and diced while barmaids and waiters bustled about to satisfy the usual clientele. Smoke and the scent of meat roasting over a spit thickened the air. Emily kept her attention on the stairs at the end of the hall. Damien used his body as a barrier against the stares that she drew from the customers dining in the public area.

  “Did a flame jump the fireplace, gentlemen?” one youth asked, craning his neck to watch Emily’s progress. “I swear it has suddenly become a bonfire in here.”

  One of his friends, appraising Damien in a glance, cuffed the youth on the head and urged him back against his chair.

  “All my life,” Emily muttered, dragging Damien by the hand, “I have been an object of controversy because of my hair. One would think that the young gent had never seen a red-haired woman in his life.”

  Damien hesitated, as if he were debating whether to acknowledge the affront to Emily or not. “One would think that the sapskull had a desire to see the end of his life. I ought to teach him some manners.”

  Emily half turned, realizing when she looked up at his stony face that he was serious. “We are not to draw notice to ourselves,” she said, tugging harder at his hand. “Perhaps I should wear a hat with a veil in future.”

  “Perhaps.” He divided his attention between her and the room below as they climbed the staircase.

  Soon all she could hear was the occasional laugh or clunk of a mug.

  “I thought you had to go to desperate measures to attract notice from other men.”

  “I did.” She halted on the first landing, feeling his eyes cut through her. “You, of all people, bore witness to my desperation.”

  He turned, his hand grasping hers. “Have you ever traveled outside Hatherwood before?”

  “No.”

  He took the lead, drawing her from the landing to the next flight of stairs. The tumult below receded as they climbed. She saw the innkeeper open a door at the end of the hall. A moment later she was pulled into a candlelit room redolent of beeswax and rosemary. She took a breath.

  Damien bolted the door and led her across the room as if he owned it. Perhaps he did. Who else in the world commanded the best chamber that an inn had to offer? Only a prince or nobleman. She would have thought she was dreaming, except for the soft thud of their two bodies on a bed whose solid rosewood frame absorbed the impact.

  “You are worse than wicked,” she murmured between kisses and awkward pauses when he unfastened one or another part of her traveling dress. He pulled the bed curtains closed as an afterthought. She rescued the tapes of her skirt from his impatient tugs.

  “You are never to attract the attention of another man in my presence.” He kissed and tenderly bit a trail down her throat to her swollen breasts. “Or outside my presence, either.”

  She managed to answer between the gasps she would have preferred to quell. His hands caressed the curves of her hips. She closed her eyes to concentrate on maintaining a modicum of control. But when he parted her thighs, spreading her sex lips wide, she surrendered her dignity and wound her fingers through his hair. “I’ve never had a comment made like that about me before—only in jest.”

  He laid his face against her bare thigh. She heard him inhale. The lulling pitch of his voice liquefied her bones. “In jest? No. An offer rudely made, yes. But you do understand that you’re a beautiful woman?”

  “You can’t expect me to honestly believe that.”

  She lifted her head to look at his face. The serious expression in his eyes made her feel dissolute. He knew how to entice a woman when he wanted pleasure, but even so his words pleased her. No one had ever told her she was beautiful before. Not even Iris or Lucy—or had they? Had she refused to believe them? If she had the ability to move from this bed, she might have gone to the mirror to see whether she had undergone a remarkable change.

  Then again, what did a mirror’s reflection matter? She felt beautiful in his eyes. A woman could live in bliss when a man as magnetic as Damien found her desirable.

  “I expect you to believe everything I tell you, Emily,” he said. “I’m not known to waste words.”

  Nor time and opportunity. He had been stroking the bud of her cleft with an absorption that brought her to the edge twice before he pulled off his trousers and pressed himself inside her. Aching and damp, her body accepted his slow invasion; then she moved against him before she could curb the impulse. She couldn’t take enough of him inside her. Her muscles tensed but she still needed more of him.

  His soft laughter resounded in the silence that enclosed them. “You have an appetite for passion. You’ll learn to like everything I do to you.”

  “How do you know?” she whispered, breathless, waiting for him to keep his promise.

  He angled his head to hers and licked slowly at her mouth. “Your body tells me.”

  Infuriating man. He raised his hips and withdrew from her as if to show her what the punishment for resistance would be. “Darling,” he added. “It’s useless. Enjoy yourself. Let me enjoy you. I’ve played enough love games that I should know.”

  “But I caught you without even trying,” she whispered, her voice wicked and victorious even if she was shocked to hear herself admit what she hadn’t realized until this moment.

  His eyes locked with hers, and he went so still that she could only hold her breath and await his next move. His smile warned her, heightening the suspense until she shifted slightly, to end the anticipation or perhaps to provoke him.

  “Is that a confession?” he asked softly.

  “I have little experience to confess compared to yours.” He pressed inside her and began to move again. He filled her with a sharp pleasure that she felt to her spine. Her hips moved in the ritual that he had taught her. “You’re playing a game with me.”

  “Yes.”

  “That isn’t fair.”

  “Fair doesn’t matter. You belong to me.” He bent his head and kissed her so deeply that she forgot what she had just said. She raised her hand to his wrist and slid her fingers up his arm to his shoulder, his neck. When he ended the kiss she was desperate, tempted to tell him that he had proved he could control her if he chose. He thrust faster now, deeper. He thrust until the echo of his mocking voice faded in her mind.

  Fair doesn’t matter. You belong to me.

  They had only three days together before they reached the castle. So far on this journey Emily had learned a new lesson from her husband every night. At this rate she would soon be able to apply her knowledge to show him what she decided was fair. As long as they remained safe. He had been afraid for her today. Their honeymoon would have been bliss if not for the menace that shadowed their every move.

  Chapter 36

  They spent the next-to-last day of their journey at a charming galleried inn with dormer windows and a courtyard separate from the public stages. Emily stared out the window as the coach rolled beneath a stone arcade. Who would have known that the aristocracy could command a pri
vate entrance? Who could have guessed that she would marry a man whose name opened doors into private worlds that others only dreamed about?

  She was so impressed that for the first time during her travels she did not jump at the blare of a horn as a smaller conveyance rattled into the common yard. She was even more pleased by the amenities offered by the high-priced inn. Below the sign hung another which said:

  FINE WINES

  PRIVATE DINING

  HOT, COLD, STEAM BATHS

  “A steam bath?” she murmured as Damien helped her down the carriage steps. “Doesn’t that sound like heaven?”

  “We don’t have the time for that,” he said before she could plead a case for her aching body. And then, as if he regretted his abrupt reply, he added, “When the anarchists are thwarted I’ll buy you a house with its own steam bath.”

  “Do we have time at least for luncheon?”

  He watched a pair of footmen unload their luggage from the carriage. “I suppose we could manage a short meal. We might take it in a private dining room other than our own. It wouldn’t hurt for me to study the other passengers, in the event one is a potential assassin.”

  “There’s the romantic in you coming out again.”

  He smiled. “There will be time for romance once we settle into our own home.”

  Our own home.

  Did this mean they would live together after the charade ended? Would he leave her there alone while he went off on other adventures? Dare she ask his plans? But even Damien could not know whether the Crown’s mission to stamp out the conspiracy would work. The only thing she could do was to drop hints here and there during his receptive moments. She remembered that he owned property in London. But he’d made the offer to buy a house. The idea of establishing a household together had to have crossed his mind.

  He might have said it only to placate her. She would dream of a home with him all the same.

  • • •

  Shortly after they returned to their chamber and Damien made a thorough search to determine that no one was lying in wait, he realized that Emily’s quest for social affairs was perfectly natural and would have to wait until they moved about freely.