To Tame A Countess (Properly Spanked Book 2)

by Annabel Joseph

  He clasped her arm harder, pulling her right against him. “You’re not leaving me, you understand? I never should have said that, because I won’t allow it.”

  “You can’t stop me. I’m a baroness with my own land and fortune.”

  His derisive snort hurt even worse than his grip on her arm. “Your land and fortune? Good luck with that, darling.”

  She stuck her chin out. “I have enough to get by. Enough to live quietly and comfortably, which is all I ever wanted to do. And you’ll be happy to be rid of me.”

  He scowled down at her, not answering. What did she want him to say? That she was wrong? That he needed her and loved her? Tonight’s events proved beyond a doubt that he’d be better off without her. He probably wished at the moment that he’d left her to Stafford. Stafford ought to have been her fate.

  “Why can’t you just let me be who I am? An inappropriate and awful person whom no one likes?” Her voice rose to a shriek. “I won’t change, not ever. This is who I am and who I’ll always be. I’m going to Maitland Glen and I’m going to stay there, and you can’t stop me.”

  The groom witnessed all of this, blank-faced, the door in his hands. Warren’s expression broke her heart. He felt no pity, no sympathy.

  “You are ridiculous when you get this way.” He hustled her up the steps and into the carriage’s dark interior. “I can’t even speak to you in this state. But rest assured we’ll continue this discussion later.”

  She had very little trouble understanding the tone of threat in his voice. This continuation would doubtless include some sort of severe punishment. Anxiety rose and constricted her throat.

  “I don’t want to discuss anything,” she said. “I’m going to Maitland Glen.”

  “Like hell you are. You’re going home to wait for me, as I instructed you. In the meantime, I have to go back in there to try to fix the damage you caused. I’ll have to tell everyone some made-up story about why your nerves were frayed to the breaking point, so they can talk about that rather than your melodramatic tirade.”

  “People shouldn’t kill tigers,” she yelled as he backed down the steps. “Even pompous Lord Wester-whoever-he-is.”

  “Westmoreland. Damn you, Josephine,” he yelled back, slamming the carriage door.

  She was shut in darkness, cradled in the cushioned luxury of her husband’s largesse. Silence resounded after their heated exchange and her arm throbbed where he’d gripped it. She felt as if she were falling to pieces, one trembling limb at a time.

  Why had he said such things to her? And why had she shouted back at him that she wanted to leave him? It wasn’t true. She only wanted him to accept her, to see her as more than some form of career currency. She needed him for his laughter and his smiles, and the way he encouraged her, but she’d failed him, and the truth was, she always would. She was a wild, pathetic creature like the poor elephants and lions that man had killed. Like the tiger on his study floor…

  She knew she would dream of tigers tonight, toss and turn in terror-filled nightmares. Escaping that ballroom had been like running out into the jungle, fearful for her life. The feelings of danger and hysteria had been right there, vivid as the day her parents died. She put her head in her hands, chasing away the memories. Perhaps she ought to go back to India or Africa, where at least she wasn’t expected to fit in. But such travel was out of the question, at least for now.

  There was only one place she could run to in England, one place that was completely her own, where she could hide from her pain and feelings and love for Lord Warren. Once she was there he would understand it was best, and perhaps he’d let her remain there.

  It was her home, her only home, no matter how shabby and run-down it was.

  *** *** ***

  Warren knew he shouldn’t be at the club. He ought to be home working things out with his wife, but he was too disturbed by the wretched things they’d said to each other. Hated him, did she? He rather hated himself.

  He’d sat down to a game of cards with Stafford, for no other reason than to punish himself for his actions. He was losing badly, but he deserved it and so he kept throwing down money and playing more hands. Finally Townsend showed up and extracted him from his spiral, inviting him to a quieter parlor for a drink.

  Why not? He was already spectacularly drunk and hoped to be even drunker before he stumbled home to pass out. Towns caught him when he tripped and almost pitched to the floor. Not very dignified, falling down drunk. Certainly no more dignified than Josephine bawling out Westmoreland, but Warren was a man, and therefore permitted to publicly act like an arse every once in a while.

  “Steady on,” murmured Townsend, leading him to a deep, upholstered bench. “You’re losing your touch, Warren. You used to be able to drink all of us under the table, and still get the prettiest ladies.”

  “Because my cock is impervious to spirits,” he said.

  “Maybe a little quieter,” replied Townsend, glancing around. “Was it necessary to drink yourself into a stupor over this?”

  “You were there. You tell me.”

  Townsend grimaced. “They hounded her a bit, I think, and that’s why she snapped the way she did. I tried to change the subject several times, but you know Westmoreland when he starts blathering on.”

  “Someone told me she called him a fat old hound.”

  “She didn’t. People are exaggerating, as they always do when something sensational happens. Westmoreland won’t hold a grudge.”

  “Yes, he will.” Warren groaned, burying his head in his hands. “Why’s the fellow got to go around shooting wild animals and bragging about it to my wife, anyway? She apparently loves the damn things.”

  “She has a good heart.”

  He grasped his friend’s sleeve. “She’s good all over, and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. She’s a magnificent woman.”

  “Of course.” Townsend gently disengaged his fingers.

  “I married her because I had to, sure, but I wouldn’t have anyone else now, not for anything. She lets me do things to her that even Odd Sally—”

  Townsend shushed him. “Let’s not talk about that here. Blast, you’re tipsy as a wheelbarrow.” He took away Warren’s half-filled glass of brandy before he could drain the rest. His friend asked the attendant for strong tea and Warren swore at him. Meddling friends.

  Townsend swore back at him, oath for oath. “It’s time to stop wallowing in liquor and cards and put your mind to fixing this mess,” he said when the attendant left them. “My wife did what she could to defend Josephine afterward, but you know how ladies are. If you don’t do something to stem the tide of gossip, they’ll still be talking about this next season.”

  “By next season, Josie will have done a dozen more outrageous things for people to talk about, and Westmoreland will hate me forever.”

  Townsend gave him a sharp look. “Does Westmoreland’s regard mean more to you than your wife?”

  “Westmoreland could be prime minister,” Warren slurred in his defense. “She oughtn’t to have ripped up at the man.”

  “But she did, and what’s done is done. Do you care for her? Enough to forgive her?”

  Warren felt old and tired. And guilty. Poor Josephine, his tiger girl.

  “I shook her and yelled at her out by the carriage,” he said. “I swore at her. She dreams about tigers, Townsend. She cries sometimes in her sleep. It’s even worse than Minette and her wanderings.”

  His friend watched him. Warren wasn’t sure he was making any sense but it was all too clear in his own mind. He’d been a horrid, selfish bastard. All he had cared about was himself, his need for her to be accepted, to be social and outgoing when it wasn’t in her nature. Why can’t you just let me be who I am? Inappropriate and awful, she had said, but it wasn’t true.

  “She wants to leave me. She wants to live at Maitland Glen.” He put his head down on his arm and slumped upon the bench.

  “I’m sure she doesn’t want to leave you,” said Townsen
d. “She was only upset.”

  “She ought to leave me. I’m a bastard of a husband.”

  “You’ve been a good husband to her. You’ve been faithful. You’ve tried to help her.” He nudged his arm. “Listen, we all make mistakes. I’ve done things to my wife I’ll always regret, but she forgave me. I’ve tried not to do them again, but I probably will one day, and I pray she’ll forgive me again. That’s love, Warren. It’s not always pretty.”

  Warren levered himself up. He must look a sight, mumbling and slobbering drunk. He took some of the tea, thinking of life without Josephine. She hated him. He believed that she did. He also believed he deserved it.

  “I don’t want her to leave me.” He put his cup down with such force he nearly shattered the thing. “I’ll tell her she can’t.”

  “That sounds reasonable. Only…say it a bit more romantically, with a softer edge.”

  “But I’ve already promised she could, if society didn’t suit her. I said she could stay in Oxfordshire. What am I to do?”

  August arrived, looking rather dissolute in his shirt sleeves, with his thick black hair in need of a comb. “Good evening, gents,” he said by way of greeting. “Warren, is it true your wife called Westmoreland a loathsome pig at the Parliament dinner, and upended a tureen of soup in his face?”

  Warren looked at Townsend and then August in dismay. “Really? That’s the story now?”

  August sat next to Warren on the bench and slung an arm about his shoulders. “Never mind. I understand you’re to be congratulated.”

  Warren shook his head. “I’m not to be congratulated.”

  “Your wife’s not pregnant?” At Warren’s irked look, August sobered. “Goodness, what a lot of talk going around tonight, and all of it nonsense. I had so hoped she called him a pig, anyway, and doused him with hot soup.”

  Warren kneaded his temples. He signaled for more brandy but Townsend waved the man away before it could be presented.

  “You rotted bastard,” said Warren. “I need another drink.”

  “You need to go home to your wife,” he replied calmly. “It’s four in the morning.”

  “What am I going to say to her?”

  Townsend thought a moment, as August wandered off. “I suppose you must say things to change her mind. Things to make her love you again and want to stay.”

  But by the time Warren arrived home, he hadn’t the choice to say anything at all. She had already departed in his traveling coach, leaving behind a succinct note.

  Dear Warren,

  I’ve gone to Maitland. I should never have said I hated you, because that isn’t true. I just don’t think I can be the wife you need.

  There was no signature, only a bit of a mark that might have been a smudge, or the dried drop of a tear.

  He let the paper flutter to the ground. She’d left him, the vexatious woman. Her and her melodramatic flights. Enough was enough. He wasn’t going to allow it.

  He’d never let her go.

  Chapter Eighteen: No More

  The carriage rode through the night and on through morning, manned by a small group of servants who insisted on accompanying her in spite of her husband’s certain wrath. Two coachmen, a groom and a maid, and another outrider she suspected was armed. She had hoped to sneak away with one groom perhaps, and a maid to help at the house until she got settled, but they were not at all inclined to allow that.

  “Lord Warren would have our heads, ma’am, if anything happened,” said Prescott, the outrider. They seemed to understand, with servants’ subtle intuition, that she would go to Maitland Glen either way, and thought it better to look after her than risk the master’s ire should she come to harm.

  But she thought they set a laggardly pace, and stopped a great many times, the better for Lord Warren to catch up with them. They were, after all, his servants, and it was his carriage and horses that conveyed her, with the gowns and shawls and slippers he’d purchased her stowed in the back. The maid had long since fallen asleep on the opposite bench, her head bobbing against the pile of Josephine’s hastily assembled belongings.

  She wasn’t running away again, Josephine kept reminding herself. Her husband had promised she might live in the country if she wished. She was only removing to her own home and her own legal property, which was certainly within her rights. But when she tried to sleep, she couldn’t manage it, even exhausted as she was. As the carriage plodded along, her senses strained for the sounds of approaching hoof beats, for Warren’s yelling voice demanding she come home.

  For his home was her home. She knew it, only she didn’t deserve it. She didn’t want it. If she told herself so enough times, she might believe it. This, too, kept her from sleep. The endless battle with herself, the search for some peace in her soul. She had no peace, not like the maid, who slept so easily. Not like the groomsmen and outriders who adapted to each duty with a dignified sense of honor. As the coach rattled along at its snail’s pace, she realized she had never been running away, only seeking this peace which eluded her.

  At length she must have finally slept, for she dreamed that a tiger joined her in the carriage, the tiger from her childhood in India. Somehow she knew it was that specific tiger curled beside her, warm and furry on the cushioned bench. She stroked her fingers through its rough-soft pelt, crying a little, feeling scared and lost. Then they weren’t in the carriage anymore, but back in India beside the river. When she walked toward the sparkling, fast moving river, the tiger placed itself before her, impeding her. “No,” it seemed to say, “I won’t let you,” although it only said this with its eyes.

  When she grew tired of trying to get around it, she lay down in the curve of the great beast’s body instead, feeling its chest move in and out in a calming rhythm as it breathed. It felt so real, the tickle of its fur, the forest smell of it, the heated whisper of its breath. Its great paws lay beside her hands. “I’ll care for you, baga lika. You don’t have to be afraid.”

  Suddenly the tiger beside her wasn’t a tiger at all, but Lord Warren, speaking in his steady voice. The tiger’s forest-amber eyes transformed to Warren’s piercing blue ones. The paws were his hands, holding and guiding her, and the whisper of breath his gentle kisses. “You mustn’t,” he said against her lips, turning her from the water. “You mustn’t go that way.”

  She startled awake, gasping in the carriage’s dim interior. She could still smell the hot, earthy fragrance of India. The forest air clung to her skin and filled her lungs. She coughed, trying to clear it.

  “Milady?” said the maid, sitting up in alarm. “Are you well?”

  Josephine burst into tears, caught between the present and her strange dream that had felt so real. “Warren,” she whispered.

  “Milady? Oh, dear me, don’t cry.” The maid produced a worn handkerchief from her dress sleeve and held it out with shaking hands. “What can I do to assist you? Shall I— Shall I tell the driver to turn around?” But the carriage was already slowing, the groom calling to the outrider. The maid looked out the window at Josephine’s manor rising stark and humble from the surrounding fields. “I think we’re there, ma’am.”

  Josephine mopped at her cheeks and nodded. The sun had risen high in the sky, flooding the carriage and hurting her eyes.

  Home.

  Josephine composed herself as well as she could, only to soothe the agitated maid. She was one of the kitchen girls, not accustomed to serving “milady,” but brave enough to accompany her on this wild flight. “Yes, we’re there,” Josephine said, and her voice sounded remarkably steady. She handed back the maid’s handkerchief as the carriage jolted to a stop. More voices, and the carriage door opened.

  Josephine emerged into the light of an English afternoon, stiff and somewhat abashed. She hoped her eyes weren’t too terribly swollen and red. A stately, formally dressed servant sketched a bow. “Welcome to Maitland Glen, Lady Warren. I am your steward, at your service.”

  “My steward?” Josephine stopped at the bottom of the
carriage steps.

  “I am overseeing the improvements. This is Mrs. Hatchley, the head housekeeper.”

  Josephine had expected to find a boarded-up, deserted manor, not improvements and a steward and housekeeper on staff. She nodded to Mrs. Hatchley, who was already taking the maid in hand and coordinating the unpacking of her things. Questions, so many questions. Josephine still felt half asleep.

  “Mr…” She looked at the polite manservant. “I don’t know your name.”

  He bowed again, even lower this time. “Mr. Hargrove. Lord Warren hired me to oversee the improvement and provisioning of your home. It’s been my honor to serve you.”

  His bowing and scraping confused her almost as much as the bright flower beds flanking the house, and the new, brass-trimmed door, and the smartly polished windows. “Lord Warren is improving the house?” she asked.

  But of course he was. Why, he must have known all along that she wasn’t going to make it in London. From the looks of it, he’d set the project in motion weeks ago.

  “How…? When…?”

  “The work commenced in early May, my lady. Only the best craftsmen in Oxfordshire, you may be sure. My lord wanted the best of everything for your honor. When the main house renovations are done, he intends to add on to the east wing. Perhaps you’ve seen the plans?” He seemed at last inclined to acknowledge her utter confusion, awkward though it was. “I perceive this all comes as a surprise. Would you care to step inside and see what’s been done?”

  The grooms had already taken the carriage off to unhitch the horses in working, refurbished stables. Improvements. Lord Warren had commenced improvements on her house without even telling her. He had presumably paid for all of it from his own funds. Her dream poked at her as she walked toward the house. Lord Warren, and her tiger. I’ll care for you. You don’t have to be afraid.

  The outside had been patched and repaired, made pretty and respectable, but the inside took her breath away. The walls were plastered in handsome modern finishes, topped with ornate molding. The floors were completely redone in varnished wood and tile. New furniture filled out the rooms, soft sofas and elegant bureaus and tables, and carpets so thick she nearly tripped as she walked upon them.