The Countess Confessions

by Jillian Hunter

  “But you do take chances with your life.”

  He shrugged again. “Until now it’s been mine alone to risk.”

  She drew a deep breath, the heat in his eyes stealing through her. “And—”

  He waited, bending his head as though every word that she uttered enthralled him. The sensuality on his face made her falter, forget what she had wanted to say. “And what?” he coaxed.

  “And you still desired this other woman, despite your certainty that she would make your life a living hell?”

  His fingers traced the curve of her cheek, her chin, then stroked lower through the nightshirt with unmerciful skill. “On that account,” he murmured, “I might have been mistaken. We’ll never know, will we?”

  His fingers glided over her swollen breasts. Arousal pulsed through her every vein. “Why not?” she asked, her breath constricted in her throat.

  “For one thing,” he answered, shifting his weight so that his hard body held her captive against the wall, “the fortune-teller disappeared the night we met, and so what influence she would have had on my life will remain a mystery. “And—”

  “But you wonder—”

  “For another, she loved another man.”

  She shook her head in denial. “That is untrue. The cricket player was an infatuation. There is only one man who could compete with you. He is—” She paused as he lifted the nightshirt to her waist.

  “He is?” he prompted, guiding the head of his shaft between her thighs. “Tell me his name, and I will demand satisfaction.”

  She smiled, closing her eyes to concentrate on their coupling. Slowly he pressed through her plump folds, giving her only an inch at a time. “Sir Angus Morpeth of Aberdeen,” she whispered. “Sometimes I dream of him.”

  “Doing what precisely?”

  She moved her hips to allow him deeper penetration. “This.”

  Chapter 46

  The earl and Emily departed early the next morning for London. It was given to Winthrop and Iris to pack what their employers had left of their belongings and then follow in a lighter carriage.

  As usual the valet and lady’s maid worked in silence, dedicated to the pursuit of leaving the earl and countess’s suite in such pristine condition that the next guest to enter would never guess at the connubial games played by the previous occupants.

  “Well, that’s it,” Winthrop announced, closing the door of the empty armoire. “The place looks better than it did before the party, if I do say so myself.”

  “Not quite yet,” Iris murmured, her gaze averted as she marched past him to straighten a pillow on the bed. “There. Now, do not close the door on our way out or you will only dislodge dust motes.”

  He stepped in front of her before she reached the door. “There is no need to pretend any longer, Iris.”

  “Pretend what?” she asked in hesitation.

  “Look me in the eye.”

  “No, I’d rather not.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because there is no further reason to pretend, and I am not certain that I wish for you to know my true feelings. Furthermore, I cannot forgive the pain you caused me the day you called me a temptress.”

  “It was an unseemly word to use.”

  “It was a wonderful word,” she said, forgetting she had forbidden herself to look into his eyes.

  “A wonderful word? And you cannot forgive me for it? Or was it because I kissed you?”

  “I cannot forgive you because you acted as though that kiss had never happened, Winthrop,” she burst out, causing him to step back in self-defense. “You gave me reason to believe that you found me desirable, only to recoil from my presence from that moment since.”

  “But I thought I had offended you, overstepped my bounds.”

  “We have been posing as man and wife for the good of all England, sir. Do you think I am so accomplished at trickery that I could play this part without . . . without . . .”

  Her voice trailed off into a sigh. She turned, lowering her gaze, only to feel his hand upon her shoulder.

  “Temptress,” he said loudly and deliberately.

  She whirled around, raising her hand to his face. “I will not live in the same house with you again, even if it means I might end up living on the streets.”

  He closed his hand around her wrist, drawing her toward him. “I understand. When we reach London we will immediately announce our engagement. There will be no more pretending between us, Iris. The next time we share a bed I will not be lying beside you as stiff as a corpse. I will be your husband in every sense of the word, and I hope you understand what I mean.”

  Chapter 47

  The Earl of Shalcross and his wife received a rousing welcome in London from Damien’s aristocratic Boscastle cousins. One might gather that royalty had arrived, from the succession of routs and glamorous soirées hosted in their honor by Grayson Boscastle, family patriarch and Marquess of Sedgecroft. When Damien had last seen his brothers, the young men had been boisterous wildlings. He was amused to find that the three of them, Colin, Sebastien, and Gabriel, were now tamed, outwardly at least, by wives of their own.

  There were new family members to meet, including a cluster of energetic children who behaved only when Weed, the senior footman to the marquess, threatened some form of ghastly punishment such as practicing at the pianoforte or memorizing a page from the Odyssey, to be recited before company.

  Damien vowed to himself that he would never again lose contact with the people he loved. He might have to spend weeks catching up on everyone’s life and explaining what he had done during his absence. But there was time, and somehow Emily—his bride, his bridge between the future and the past—balanced it all out.

  He could sleep with Emily at his side every night and hold her in his arms every morning, even if his relatives abducted her during the day for shopping jaunts and social visits to introduce the young countess around town. London wanted to know everything about the earl and his wife. Where had they come from? There must be a scandal somewhere in their background. All too soon Winthrop and Iris started to grumble about the number of invitations to plays and parties that awaited an answer.

  And Damien let them grumble, knowing that in the end the invitations would be answered and it would not matter. All that mattered was that Emily was safe from harm and the conspiracy was unraveling.

  The most important meeting on his mind was a private one between Damien and his cousin Heath. Damien had news of his personal mission to impart, and whether Heath chose to share this information with the rest of the family would be Heath’s decision to make.

  They discussed the conspiracy first in the office of Heath’s St. James’s Street town house. “With Ardbury dead, there might appear to be a lull in activity,” Heath said, his lean face reflective. “There will be others to fill his void.”

  Damien blinked. “Ardbury is dead? When and where did this occur?”

  “A half mile from Maidstone. Or so the report goes. I believe he was shot in a tavern by a drunk while you were at the castle.”

  “No one told me.”

  “I had a message sent to you as soon as I found out,” Heath said.

  “Then the message was lost or intercepted.”

  A silence grew then, a pause between two men who had each survived torture at an enemy’s hand. “I suppose it isn’t important now,” Heath said at length. “There have been no reports of riots or disturbances in the towns that were marked by the rebels. Your brother-in-law must have traveled like Hermes.”

  “Viscount Deptford’s son,” Damien said, sitting forward. “Was he one of the rebels arrested?”

  “I have not seen his name mentioned once,” Heath said slowly. “In fact, I wasn’t aware he had a son. I thought he had a daughter. I am usually not wrong about such details. Perhaps I’ve been sitting behind this desk too long. This is a surprise to me.”

  Damien frowned. “I hope the son has come to his senses and will spare his father further gr
ief.”

  “And as to grief,” Heath said, looking into Damien’s eyes, “I need you to confirm in person what you wrote in your last letter. Is it true? Is it possible that my brother Brandon is still alive?”

  “I know only this,” Damien said. “A mercenary was hired in Nepal by Colonel Sir Edgar Williams to kill your brother and his companion, Samuel Breckland. Two bodies dressed in company uniform were found in a ravine. They had been attacked by wild dogs, and there the story should end, but it does not.”

  “Explain,” Heath said, his voice hopeful and weary at the same time.

  “The man who claims he killed them later confessed that he was unsure they had died. A year later he denied having anything at all to do with their disappearance.” Damien loosened his neckcloth. “Excuse me. It seems I can never talk of this without feeling the need for fresh air. I’ve lost too many friends to pretend I am not affected.”

  Heath got up from his desk and went to a lacquered cabinet for a decanter of brandy and two glasses. “I do not drink,” he said. “But tonight will be an exception. I know the despair of a man who is in prison with no hope of release. After I was captured and tortured during the war, it changed me.”

  “Not for the worse,” Damien said, watching Heath pour the brandy with a trembling hand. “You have not let what you suffered break you.”

  “Trust me, there have been times. If not for my wife and family—well, I have traveled to those lonely reaches more than once to investigate Brandon’s death. But this was your world. You had inside knowledge of matters that even the Alien Office is not privy to.”

  “If you’re speaking of the corruption within the East India Company, I did indeed learn of their practices. I don’t doubt that many of my riches were ill gained. I prefer now to deal directly with the foreign merchants for fair trading.”

  “My brother could be alive.” Heath handed Damien his glass. “I am gladdened beyond what I can show.”

  “Legend has it that a blue-eyed soldier and his friend escaped the hellhole of a hillside prison after living there for years. They made it out with the help of a sympathetic guard whose sister had fallen in love with your brother.”

  The clock in the outer hall chimed the hour. “How did you escape?” Heath asked, his face, his voice composed.

  “The guard’s sister said that my eyes reminded her of another Englishman who had been captured and consigned to the prison pit. I promised her and the guard a reward if they freed me. They might have been able to feign ignorance of an escape the first time. But they would not get away with it again.”

  “They agreed?”

  Damien nodded. “And I kept my end of the bargain. From that point forward, after years wasted, I had to pick up Brandon’s trail. It is nearly impossible to trace a man who does not want to be found in those hills. I hired a guide whose knowledge of the area was invaluable.”

  Heath shook his head. “But he did not ask anyone for help. He didn’t send a message home.”

  “Perhaps he had a good reason,” Damien said. “All I know is that he, another man, and a child bought passage to England and boarded the ship together. I did not see your brother, but there is good reason to believe he has survived his trials.”

  “I am in your debt, Damien. You have given us hope. There is no greater gift.”

  “It’s good to be back in England. I don’t think I shall ever leave again. There is no finer place for a man to raise a family.”

  • • •

  It was during an afternoon tea in her honor that Emily met the other ladies of the family. Jane, the marchioness, presided over the gathering with humor and aplomb, introducing Emily to three duchesses, a viscountess named Chloe, and a half-dozen others. One lady, Jocelyn, had recently given birth to twin boys.

  Emily felt lost at first. She couldn’t possibly remember all their names and corresponding titles. Every one of them surpassed her in sophistication and confidence. She would have been completely overcome with envy had she not discovered she wasn’t the only red-haired lady in the family. That made her feel a little less conspicuous.

  After three cups of brandy-laced tea, she felt accepted, in a place where she belonged. These ladies did not put on airs. They talked all at once, flitting from one topic to another. She could not possibly follow the flow of conversation. A footman brought another tea urn and bottle of brandy into the drawing room.

  Jane and her sister-in-law, Chloe, poured tea and passed around a plate of iced biscuits. Jane drank another cup of tea but refused the brandy, confessing to Emily that she was carrying her second child, and spirits made her queasy.

  “Now tell us how you met your husband, dearest,” Jane said as she settled back in her chair. “Few of us seem to have met our mates in the normal manner. Was yours an ordinary romance?”

  Emily forced a smile, freezing at the innocuous question. Every lady present conducted herself with ease and elegance. How could she admit the dire act she had committed in order to catch a man different from the one she had married? A man who had surpassed her naïve dreams in every way possible.

  She was too embarrassed to reveal the truth. And yet she could not bring herself to lie, not to these women who had openly embraced her as one of their own. They knew nothing about her. If Damien hadn’t exaggerated, he was even more of an enigma to his family. She felt the need to protect him as he had her.

  She placed her cup on the table, straightened her shoulders, and opened her mouth only to shake her head in apology. “Perhaps one day I shall be able to discuss it.”

  Every lady in the room looked at her in sudden interest, in sympathy, perhaps. Or was that her imagination? In any event she had only whetted their appetite for the entire story.

  “It is perfectly all right,” Jane said, holding up her hand to still the last murmurs that had followed Emily’s announcement. “We have all been in your shoes.”

  “I doubt it,” Emily said, looking down at Jane’s exquisite tapestry slippers.

  “Confession is good for the soul, Emily,” Chloe said, motioning to the footman who had been standing so quietly in the corner that Emily only now noticed his presence. “I would like another splash of brandy, please. Ladies, I think our countess needs a little encouragement. Let me go first.”

  Chloe cleared her throat. “I met my husband after he had crawled through my window and dropped half-dead in my trunk of undergarments. I hid him in my closet. One might say I had a love affair with a ghost. The world believed he was dead. He proved otherwise to me in private.”

  Emily reached for her tea. She was feeling better by the minute.

  “I sabotaged my marriage to one of Grayson’s cousins and ended up marrying Grayson instead,” Jane said with an airy wave of her hand.

  “I shot my husband because I thought he was a fox,” Julia, Lord Heath’s wife said. “One would think he’d be furious, but he took it rather well.”

  Emily finished her tea and took a breath. She was no longer afraid for her life, and for all she knew, Damien had already told his brothers and cousins how he and Emily had met.

  “We will never tell,” Jane said, and every head in the room, possibly even the footman’s, bobbed in agreement. Emily broke down.

  “I was posing as a gypsy fortune-teller at a friend’s party when Damien walked into my tent. It’s rather complicated after that, and he was in disguise for other reasons that I shall omit. But we were caught out by my father, and the rest I shall leave to your imaginations.”

  The room was quiet for only a moment before everyone started talking at once again, but it was Jane’s voice that predominated.

  “How perfect,” Jane said with a radiant smile. “We’re holding a costume ball almost two weeks from now, and I was wondering what I could do to entertain the ladies. The gentlemen will have their fencing displays. It would be so much fun if you would be a fortune-teller for a few hours, Emily. You will be the most popular person at the party—I know it. And if we charge for your predicti
ons, the proceeds will go to charity. Will you agree to do it? It would make me so happy.”

  Chapter 48

  A masquerade ball in a Park Lane mansion. Emily would have loved to invite her father and brother, and Lucy and Lady Fletcher, too. Everyone back home would tease her about her costume, although considering how it had all worked out, she had no regrets about that evening. How could she regret anything that had brought her and Damien together?

  Tonight was only for fun, to enjoy rather than to entrap. A small tent emblazoned with mystical symbols had been constructed on the terrace. A huge line had formed outside, but thank heavens she wouldn’t be reading palms alone. Chloe, Viscountess Stratfield, and Jocelyn, Lord Devon Boscastle’s wife, had volunteered to take over whenever Emily grew tired. Chloe had sneaked a list of invited guests and a few tidbits of personal information for Emily to use as a tease.

  But Emily didn’t feel as awkward in her costume as she did when she dressed in satin and jewels. She vowed to predict only happiness for the guests who flocked to her tent. It wouldn’t be hard, when her own life had turned out to be better than what she had believed possible.

  • • •

  Damien strolled down the candlelit hall with his three brothers. Dark-haired, blue-eyed, they each lived and loved hard and were openly committed to one woman, a fact that did not stop several ladies from issuing invitations to stray with a provocative stare or sly flirtation with a fan.

  “Is it rather crowded in this hallway, or is it me?” Damien asked, coming to a dead stop as a woman in high-necked ruff dropped a deep curtsy that showed more of her cleavage that Damien wished to see.

  “You are a fresh commodity on the market, married or not,” his youngest brother Gabriel said.

  “So is your wife,” Sebastien said. “Keep a watch out for the young bloods.”

  Damien smiled coldly. “I intend to.”

  As they reached the end of the hall they balked and stood as one at the open doors to the ballroom. Damien stared at the figures dancing beneath the brilliance of a crystal chandelier. “Isn’t there another way to reach the terrace?” he asked over his shoulder.