The Countess Confessions

by Jillian Hunter

  • • •

  Damien’s regrets about dragging Emily into his battle seemed to mount by the day. It had been one thing to promise her protection while they traveled together. It was another to take her to a castle where she might be caught in the conspiracy’s crossfire. Then again, he’d had little time to make other arrangements. What else could he have done with her?

  She wouldn’t have been safe at Hatherwood. Nor could she have galloped off with Michael on his mission. Damien had done what he’d had to do. He shook off these thoughts and stretched out his legs, wondering how he had been excluded from Emily’s conversation with the viscount. Then he realized that she had drawn the eccentric old man out of his shell because it was easy to talk to Emily about anything. Treasonous plots, family affairs, and the astrolabe that she had noticed on the viscount’s whatnot table. She showed interest in the small matters that Damien took for granted.

  The last woman in his life wouldn’t have known what an astrolabe was if one had hit her on the ear. She would have gone into hysterics if he’d even mentioned an assassination. Emily didn’t have to feign interest to be agreeable. She had a mind of her own, a mind receptive to knowledge.

  If Damien weren’t careful, he might come to need her. And that was a possibility he had never considered. He had never needed anyone. He could not allow himself to be at her mercy. He glanced up to discover the viscount asking Emily if she had chosen a permanent home yet and discussing Damien’s preferences as if he were not there. He cleared his throat. They appeared not to hear him. In fact, the pair of them had started to laugh. He could have been sitting in the next room.

  “Excuse me,” he said lightly. “If I am to be the subject of your hilarity, I insist that you let me in on the joke.”

  Emily straightened in her chair like a chastised schoolgirl.

  The viscount made no effort whatsoever to hide his mirth. “Sorry, Shalcross,” he said unsympathetically. “It’s just that your wife and I both realized we had met you when you were Sir Angus Morpeth. No disrespect intended, but you are half the man you used to be.”

  Another laugh escaped Emily. “Thank goodness for that,” she said, braving a look at Damien.

  The viscount chortled. “He looks a damn sight better than he did with all that red moss hanging from his chin.”

  Damien refused to smile. “What a couple of ingrates you are. Poor Sir Angus left this world having done what he could to protect you, and this is the thanks you show him?”

  Emily attempted to look mournful. “If you like, we could hold a memorial service for Sir Angus. I’m sure we’d have to invite the sheep whose fleece he sells.”

  The viscount slapped his knee and burst into unrestrained laughter. Damien folded his arms across his stomach and stared at Emily, who belatedly added, “I’m afraid that I’m also guilty of misrepresentation. Damien did not know me well before our marriage.”

  His eyes narrowed. “It would seem that I do not know you now.”

  “All women are unfathomable, Shalcross,” the viscount said, as if he were Emily’s defender. “We shall never uncover their secrets, and that is how it should be. A woman is like a book, revealing herself one page at a time.”

  Damien said nothing for several moments. He felt like the biggest spoilsport in all England. “Do either of you know what it feels like to wear iron padding? Or to grow a beard and dye it red every day?”

  Emily opened her mouth to answer and then apparently reconsidered and subsided into silence.

  “I’d no idea the subject touched a nerve, Shalcross,” the viscount said. “I’ve worn uncomfortable costumes to a masquerade.”

  “Not for five weeks straight,” Damien said, his irritation eroding at the guilty look on his wife’s face. “Oh, bugger it all. Wearing disguises is essential in my work. Laugh if you like. I felt damn ridiculous in that costume, if you must know.”

  “I thought you looked rather handsome,” Emily said in an overt effort to placate him.

  “It was a convincing disguise,” the viscount added. “I’d no idea that Sir Angus was a fictitious character when we first met.”

  Damien looked away from Emily to the window. “This isn’t the time to let personal issues distract us from our goal. I regret that it took an attempt on your life to make you realize that we are up against men dedicated to committing monstrous deeds. But I have to wonder why you didn’t believe those who warned you. Nor do I understand why you withheld evidence against the ring when your own existence was at stake.”

  A shroud of heavy silence fell. The viscount seemed to age a decade as Damien awaited his answer. Emily looked down at her lap.

  “My only son is one of the conspirators,” the viscount said at last. “To give evidence is to sign his death warrant. But I can no longer protect him or hope he will see the error of his ways. I can’t allow him to harm others for whatever warped reasons he believes are justification for his grudge against all authority.”

  Damien shook his head. Of all the scenarios he had considered to explain the viscount’s resistance, this had never crossed his mind. Would Damien have gone to such lengths to conceal his own son’s crimes? He could not know. He prayed that he would never face such a test. Still, his child could be forming inside Emily as he contemplated the strength of family ties. Would he as a father put country before flesh and blood? How long had the viscount carried the secret?

  He said, “I didn’t realize what personal sacrifice you would have to make by agreeing to cooperate with the Crown.”

  “He will be hanged as a traitor.”

  “Perhaps not,” Damien said. “If he has not committed prior crimes and can be stopped before he causes harm, there is still hope for his redemption.”

  Chapter 38

  It looked like a fairy-tale castle from the carriage window, but who knew what evil lurked within its walls? Damien had warned Emily time and time again that she was not to trust anyone at the party. He was afraid for her, he had said. But what of his safety? Did he believe himself untouchable because he stood for what was right? Keeping her at his side might protect her, but it also made him vulnerable.

  The carriage climbed a rutted dirt road; closer and closer the castle loomed. A bank of clouds drifted across the sky. The sun that had illuminated the castle ramparts vanished. In its place shadows gathered, silver-mauve and unwelcoming.

  “I don’t like it,” she thought aloud. “It looks cold and has an aura of death about it.”

  Damien’s deep voice teased her. “Is that your private opinion as a countess or as a fortune-teller sharing one of her prophecies?”

  She turned from the window to find Damien studying her intently. How he flustered her. She wished she could read his mind. Was he remembering his domination of her during the night? How elemental he could be at times, and she no better. She had denied him nothing. Something had changed between them since their visit to the cottage. Even while she had conversed with the viscount, she’d felt Damien scrutinizing her. And then, afterward, during the final leg of the ride to the castle, he had withdrawn from her.

  She could not help thinking that she had displeased him. Had she seemed gauche and awkward in his view?

  “Emily.”

  She blinked.

  “This is no time to go into a trance,” he said, frowning at her. “From the minute we cross the castle drawbridge, you are to be on your guard. Doubtless many violent acts have been committed here in the past.”

  “Am I allowed to talk to anyone, or shall I just stand at your side like a trained monkey?”

  “Obviously you will have to talk to the other guests. Perhaps you’ll be able to draw useful information from them. But do not put yourself in a precarious situation from which I might not be able to help you.”

  “I have no intention of climbing the castle tower, Damien. I am not the dunderhead I was when we met.”

  “I’ve gathered that.”

  She settled back against the squabs. “What if somethin
g happens to you?”

  “There are four other agents assigned to the castle, including Winthrop. I will not formally introduce you to them, but I shall indicate who they are upon our arrival.” He wavered. “And, above all, else do not stray off with any attentive young men.”

  She sat up straighter. “Do you honestly believe I would take a chance of being alone with a member of the conspiracy?”

  “To be truthful, Emily, I was referring to a member of the male sex in general.”

  • • •

  He was in a passionate mood when they settled in their bedchamber early that evening. He kissed Emily three times after they excused themselves from the tennis match in progress on the lawn. He would have kissed her up the staircase and through the door had another couple not trailed a few steps behind.

  Inside their chamber, she surrendered as Damien’s touch shed her clothes like autumn leaves.

  He gathered her into his arms without a hint of gentleness and drew her closer until she could feel the length of him, his need. And while he kissed her, she unbuttoned his jacket and slipped her hand inside his waistband. He grew hard and thick in her hand as she stroked the head of his penis. With a groan of frustration he broke the kiss to remove his clothes, allowing her a few moments to catch her breath.

  But his eyes held her a helpless captive. No sooner was he undressed than he pulled her across the room to a yellow brocade couch and said, “Let us finish what we started. I do hate to leave matters undone. Do you mind if we don’t use the bed? This couch appears sturdy enough for what I have in mind.”

  “It’s fine with me, Damien. Why don’t you lie back and let me have a turn for once?”

  He laughed. “This sounds promising. Please be my guest.”

  • • •

  It was not in Damien’s character to submit to either pleasure or pain. He preferred to be the one in power. But this was a novel experience, his wife attempting to seduce him. Surely what she had in mind was more interesting than anarchists.

  He laid back his head to watch her through hooded eyes. She had gone down on her knees while he sprawled back against the couch.

  When her fingers skimmed his belly, he released his breath.

  “Do you need my guidance?” he asked in a silky voice.

  “Yes,” she whispered, her fingers brushing his rampant erection. “Isn’t this how it’s done?”

  He groaned. “That depends on what you mean to do.”

  “May I kiss you there?”

  “How do you know about this act?”

  She smiled demurely. “Diana had a book that Lucy and I used to sneak into her room to read.”

  “You should have both been sent to boarding school,” he said, not managing to sound at all sincere.

  “The book had pictures.” She lowered her head. “The man wasn’t as big as you.”

  “Dear God.”

  “Well, you did it to me. Do you want me to stop?”

  “Don’t you dare.”

  He stared down at her face, her mouth hesitantly closing around the head of his prick. The suction of her lush red lips, so delicate, so uncertain, filled him with a fierce arousal. He called upon his willpower to keep from shoving his shaft into her mouth. But as he eased through her teeth, he felt her suckle him harder. He pushed deeper before he could restrain the urge. And she took as much of him as she could, her tongue slowly encircling the stiff muscle from knob to base.

  He reached down blindly for her shoulder, certain he would come in her throat if she did not release him from her amateur seduction. Not that there was anything amateur about her instincts. This was pure female intuition. Her sweet attempt to suck his rod was an exquisite surprise. Clearly she wanted to please him. And she had more than succeeded. She drove him right to the edge. Her tongue flicked up and down, around the swollen base of his erection. Her hair fell like silk against his belly and he pushed it to the side. He wanted to watch her mouth swallow him. He could grow too attached to a wife who amused him outside the bedroom but who made him feel like a beggar in his bed.

  “Is this the right way, Damien?” she whispered. “Shall we continue in the bed? They were in a bed in Diana’s book.”

  “This is fine. I couldn’t move if I wanted to.”

  Her lips formed a seal around him, then slid up and down his straining length. He could not bear it. His groin tightened with every teasing lash of her tongue. He closed his eyes, his body still and at her mercy before he surrendered to the strongest climax he had ever known. When moments later she crawled up beside him, he could barely move to embrace her.

  “Did I do it properly?” she whispered.

  He stroked her hair. She was lying awkwardly between the cushions and his lower body. “I am almost too replete and grateful to answer.” He exhaled. “I don’t think I have ever appreciated the value of books as much as I do at this moment.”

  And her, he thought. What an amazing woman was his wife.

  Chapter 39

  By the end of their second afternoon in the castle, Damien had formed an impression of four out of the viscount’s thirteen guests. The remaining nine he met during a midnight supper. Five others were expected to arrive the following day.

  The viscount insisted that every lady and gentleman invited to the party was well-known to him. This did not mean that Damien could dismiss them as suspects. Deptford’s admission about his son proved that an enemy could exist in one’s own family.

  The castle steward assured Damien in private that letters of character for the old staff and temporary hires had undergone thorough scrutiny.

  Only seven guests had participated in the hunting party. Those who remained behind included three middle-aged gentlewomen, an architect, a retired professor, and a young wastrel lord whose wit was his only salvation. The fact that they declined to participate in the hunt did not rule them out as suspicious persons.

  Damien decided that his prime subjects were the architect, Sir Norman Finch, and Lord Benham, the amusing young aristocrat, who flanked Emily on either side at the supper. He had no actual reason to suspect the two men, aside from the fact that they were flirting with a lady whose husband sat across the table, glaring daggers at them to no avail.

  Worse, Emily indulged their interest with a few shy comments and a smile Damien thought was entirely too enchanting. Finally he caught her eye and frowned his displeasure at this flirtation across the table.

  To his astonishment she frowned back at him and returned her attention to Sir Norman.

  Damien was not amused. In fact, he was contemplating how he would interrupt their conversation without creating a disturbance when a footman appeared with a bottle that he waved in Damien’s face.

  “May I, my lord?”

  Damien did not look up at Winthrop. “Yes, please. I would also like a bottle brought to my room tonight.”

  “As you wish, my lord.”

  “And please ask a chambermaid to deliver another set of towels and see to my wife’s comfort.”

  “At which hour should we arrive?” Winthrop asked, pouring the wine into a glass with the steadiest hand Damien had seen.

  “Three o’clock would be convenient,” Damien replied, then added, “It appears that Sir Norman also needs his glass refilled. Do be careful not to spill any wine on his fine blue coat. And do me a favor. My second trunk has not yet been delivered to my room. Find it as soon as possible.”

  Chapter 40

  Damien sprawled back against the sofa in his shirt and breeches, his gaze following Emily around the room as she prepared for bed. “I don’t know why you had to glower at him all evening, Damien. It was not at all subtle. I thought we had agreed we would not draw undue notice to ourselves.”

  “I had agreed to act like a husband, Emily, and as such I did not appreciate the way he monopolized your attention.”

  She removed her remaining stocking and pulled at the ties of her petticoat. Damien stared at her bare rump, forcing himself to remain on the sofa. �
��What did he talk to you about, anyway?”

  “Architecture. He went on and on about flying buttresses and how castle kitchens should be remodeled for efficiency so that the food is not served stone-cold, as it was in days past.”

  “Did you think he was attractive?”

  She looked at him over her shoulder, the smile on her full-lipped mouth threatening his concentration. “You’re jealous.”

  “Perhaps,” he said, his voice cool, his blood the opposite.

  “You have no reason to be,” she said with a provocative smile.

  His anger faded. His arousal did not. He forced himself to remember what they had been discussing. “I find it strange that he has made a tour of the kitchens, don’t you?”

  “Not necessarily. He’s an architect. Perhaps he can’t help forming a professional opinion of the castle. I assume he would be well compensated if the viscount decided he wanted a structural change.”

  “I don’t trust any man who inspects a kitchen unless it is his place of employment. I also distrust a man who devotes all his attention to my wife while I am present. It makes me wonder what he would dare behind my back.”

  “Well, I don’t think you need worry on that account,” Emily said. “I do believe that when Winthrop spilled the wine in the man’s lap, it cooled his ardor.”

  “Are you blaming me for Winthrop’s awkwardness?”

  She cast him a cynical look. “Do you deny that he acted on your advice?”

  “What is my confession worth to you?”

  “Damien, really. You are an outrageous man. Do you truly expect to trade sexual favors for the truth?”

  “I expect sexual favors from you because you are my wife. The truth is another matter.”

  “You would lie to your wife?”

  He laughed. “I would elude an answer that might upset you. But lie? No.”

  She struggled with the first hook of her corset until he stood and crossed the floor to complete the task. “I miss having a maid.”