More or Less a Countess

by Anna Bradley

  Gibbs didn’t move. “Her ladyship has requested your presence in the drawing room in one hour, Lord Dare.”

  Nick snorted. “My aunt never requests a damn thing.”

  Still, there was no point in fighting it, and Nick let his head fall back against his pillow with a feeble sigh of resignation. He didn’t care for his aunt’s high-handedness, but it was too much effort to argue with both her and Gibbs, and he’d have no more luck refusing her now than he had when he was a boy. Either he rose from his bed at once, or this would end with a dozen leeches and a bloodletting.

  He threw the blankets back with a defeated sigh. “All right then, Gibbs. Make me presentable.”

  Gibbs’s eyebrow ticked up a fraction, but somehow the tiny movement was enough to convey a world of skepticism. “Perhaps a wash first, Lord Dare.”

  It took the better part of an hour and a heated argument with Gibbs over an irregularity in the knot of Nick’s cravat, but at last his clothing was deemed gentlemanly enough to present himself to his aunt.

  “Such a bloody fuss over a cravat.” Nick’s head was still pounding from the surfeit of whiskey he’d drunk the night before, and the absurd tussle with Gibbs hadn’t improved his temper in the least. “Damn nonsense…refuse to wear one at all next time, and see how the old boy likes that.”

  He was still muttering curses when he entered the drawing room, but he forced his lips into a polite mask as he approached his aunt, who was seated on a settee with the silver tea service on the table in front of her, looking as serene and elegant as ever.

  “Ah, Nicholas. Here you are at last.”

  “Good morn—that is, good afternoon, Aunt.”

  She graced him with a regal smile. “Tea? I’m afraid it’s a bit cool now.”

  “My apologies. Gibbs insisted on retying my cravat until he was satisfied each fold was arranged to mathematical perfection.”

  “Gibbs takes great pride in his work.” She swept a critical gaze over him. “You look well. Every inch a respectable earl.”

  “Misleading, isn’t it? If proper clothing were all it took to transform me from a wastrel into a respectable earl, there might be some point in forcing Gibbs upon me. As it is, I’d just as soon dispense with him.”

  Lady Westcott replaced her teacup in her saucer with a quiet click. “Yes, I imagine you would, but Gibbs’s presence tends to discourage too much…excess, and so one likes to keep him about, despite your objections.”

  Nick settled onto the settee across from her and crossed one leg over his knee. “I’m not a child, Aunt. I don’t require a nanny.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t agree, Nicholas.”

  Nick’s eyes narrowed to slits. Her tone was carefully reasonable, but a storm had been building between them since he’d returned to England, quietly gathering strength as he’d pursued his usual pattern of unchecked debauchery, and now it was about to break over his head with a vengeance.

  They regarded each other in silence for a tense moment, then Lady Westcott lifted her teacup to her lips and took a calm sip. “Perhaps you may dispense with Gibbs once you’re married.”

  Nick managed a short laugh, but a cold sweat broke out on his neck. “That won’t happen for years yet, and in the meantime I doubt Gibbs will get on well in Italy. He’s too English by half, and he looks like the sort who’d wilt under the sun.”

  His aunt’s cool gray eyes held his, and she slowly shook her head. “You’re not returning to Italy, Nicholas.”

  Nick went still as he stared at her, but underneath his forced calm panic fluttered in his belly. “That’s not your decision to make, Aunt.”

  “Certainly it is. Your father left you an ancient, respectable title, a dilapidated country estate, and precious little else. I hold your purse strings, and I’m afraid I can’t approve another prolonged Continental sojourn, under the circumstances.”

  Sweat dampened Nick’s cravat until it felt as if a clammy hand were gripping his throat. “And what circumstances are those?”

  But he knew—of course he knew. This moment had been bearing down on him like a runaway horse for weeks now, and he was a bloody fool not to have seen it coming.

  Lady Westcott raised an eyebrow, as if she were surprised she had to clarify this for him. “You’re the Earl of Dare now, Nicholas, and the only surviving member of your family. As such, you’ll remain in England, and do your duty to your title by marrying and producing heirs.”

  Nick gripped his teacup with numb, white fingers. He was aware he’d be required to marry at some point, but some point wasn’t necessarily now, was it?

  “Duty. Christ, what a grim word that is.”

  His aunt’s mouth thinned. “Is that meant to be amusing, Nicholas? Because I don’t find it so. The fate of the Dare Earldom lies with you, and it’s time you began to behave like a proper heir.”

  Nick stiffened. His father used to say the same thing, except when he told Nick to behave like an earl, what he meant was Nick should behave like Graham.

  Become Graham.

  At first, right after Graham’s death, Nick had tried—God knew he’d tried—but it hadn’t taken long before it became clear to them all he’d never be the man Graham had been, and even clearer his father would never be able to forgive him for it.

  In the end, it wasn’t terribly painful to disappoint someone who expected no better from him, and he’d walked away from his father easily enough.

  But his aunt—no, disappointing her was something else entirely.

  For all her imperiousness, Nick loved his aunt with the singular fierceness of a boy who’d lost his mother at a tender age. When Nick was a child, his father had been kind enough in a careless sort of way, but the late Earl of Dare had only had enough love for one child, and he’d lavished it all on Graham, his heir.

  Nick hadn’t ever blamed his father. Everyone who knew Graham loved him with that same kind of intense devotion, including Nick. He’d worshipped his older brother, and Graham had always been his best friend and most loyal champion, even when Nick hadn’t been worthy of either distinction.

  But it had always been Nick’s aunt who’d truly seen him. At best, his father had simply tolerated him with a kind of careless, exasperated affection, but his aunt understood him. After Graham’s unexpected death, she’d been the one to suggest Nick leave England. Her insistence he journey to the Continent had likely saved his life.

  He didn’t want to disappoint her, ever, and yet it was inevitable, wasn’t it? It was what he did, after all. She’d ask for something he was incapable of giving, and it would cause a rift between them that could never be repaired.

  When the silence had stretched to the snapping point, Lady Westcott spoke. “Louisa Covington remains unmarried. She’s as lovely as she ever was, and you’ve always been fond of her.”

  Nick’s blood turned to ice. Surely she wasn’t suggesting…

  No. He must have misunderstood her. “Louisa Covington.”

  “She’d do honor to the title. She was born and bred to become a countess.”

  She had been, and not just any countess: the Countess of Dare.

  “Graham’s countess, Aunt. Not mine.”

  His aunt went on as if he hadn’t spoken. “And of course the connection between the Dares and the Covingtons is—”

  “I could marry Graham’s former betrothed, Aunt. I could spend the rest of my days in West Sussex at the estate that should have been his, and wake every morning with his former valet looming over my bed”—Nick’s voice wasn’t quite steady—“and I’d still never be Graham.”

  Her expression didn’t change, but Lady Westcott’s shoulders stiffened. “I’ve never expected that of you, Nicholas. It’s always been you who expected it, and it seems two years on the Continent hasn’t changed that. How long do you intend to keep hiding?”

  As long as it takes. />
  But there wasn’t any point in saying it aloud. There wasn’t any point in anything but negotiation now, because the problem, after all, was simple enough. He was back in England, his aunt would do everything she could to keep him here, and he’d do everything he could to escape.

  He regarded her in silence for a moment, then threw out his opening gambit. “Come now, my lady. Let’s get down to it, shall we? First of all, I will not marry Louisa Covington.”

  He had no wish to marry at all, but he was the earl now, and he was well aware legitimate heirs were not negotiable. He’d have to marry sooner or later, so it may as well be now, while he was already in England. “I’ll choose the lady.”

  “I don’t know what possible objection you can have against Louisa. She’s lovely, and such a kind, agreeable young lady.”

  “Oh, you want to know my objection? Very well. It’s a small thing, really. I object to her on the grounds that she’s still in love with my dead brother.”

  “Even more reason for her to marry. Graham is gone, and Lady Covington is anxious for Louisa to move on. She needs a husband, and you can’t spend the rest of your life running wild on the Continent. You need a stabilizing influence, and Louisa can provide that.”

  “Stabilizing influence? Good Lord. That sounds like a grim prospect for poor Louisa. Why not just hire the nanny, and be done with it?”

  “Once again, Nicholas, I am not amused.”

  Nick sighed. No matter what Lady Westcott said, he had no intention of remaining in England, wife or no wife. He’d return to Italy at the first possible opportunity, and once he was there he’d lose himself in his mistress’s arms until all the years he’d spent in this cursed place became nothing more than a distant, hazy memory.

  But he couldn’t wed Louisa. She’d been a dear childhood friend, and she’d suffered enough when Graham died. He could never marry her and then abandon her to a lonely fate once he’d put a child in her belly. She deserved far better than that.

  No, what he needed was a businesslike arrangement with a lady who’d happily tolerate his absence in exchange for the chance to become a countess. A lady he could tolerate for a few months and just as easily forget when he left her behind.

  After he got an heir on her, of course.

  “I will not marry Louisa Covington, Aunt. Now that we’ve settled that, shall we move on?”

  Lady Westcott wasn’t one to waste her time with fruitless negotiation. She intended for Nick to marry, they both knew it, and now it was just a matter of settling the terms. “But you will marry, and soon.”

  “Yes, but I’ll choose my own bride. This is not a point that’s open for discussion, my lady.” He didn’t intend to be choosy, either. He’d take the scullery maid if it got him out of London sooner.

  But his aunt must have read his mind, because she instantly crushed that plan. “Very well, but she must be a lady of impeccable birth and graceful manners. No actresses, none of your former mistresses, and no serving girls, if you please, Nicholas. The lady is to become the Countess of Dare, after all.”

  Nick gave a reluctant nod. “I’ll find a lady you can tolerate, and I’ll remain in England long enough to see to the question of an heir, but after that matter is settled, I intend to return to the Continent at once.”

  Lady Westcott’s eyes narrowed. “The Sussex estate is in shambles. You’ll see it set to rights for the sake of your tenants, and you’ll arrange for a reliable steward to keep it that way. And you’ll return to England for one month out of every year.”

  A month every year? Bloody hell.

  “For pity’s sake, Nicholas,” his aunt snapped when she saw his expression. “Is it too much to ask I be allowed to see my nephew for a single month out of every year? I flatter myself you’ll wish to see me before I die, and that’s to say nothing of your children, who at the very least are owed a glimpse of their father now and again.”

  In fact it was very little to ask, and shame crept over Nick, as familiar as it was unwelcome. “Once a year, for one month, and of course you’ll come see me in Italy as often as you like.”

  “Nonsense. I’m much too old to go traipsing around the Continent.”

  Nick raised his eyebrow at the idea she was too old to do anything at all, but she paid him no mind. Now the negotiations were over, she rose to her feet and smoothed her skirts with businesslike efficiency.

  “Dinner is at seven. Do be prompt this time, won’t you? You’ll give poor Gibbs an apoplexy otherwise.” She moved to sweep by him, but at the last moment she hesitated, and laid a hand on his shoulder. “I’m pleased you’re here, Nicholas, even if it is only for a short time.”

  Nick nodded, and after a moment her hand slid away, and she left him alone in the drawing room with bitterness welling in his throat. He wished he could say he was pleased to be here, but as much as he loved his aunt, he couldn’t offer even that small, comforting lie—not when every one of his instincts screamed at him to leave England and never look back.

  But first, a wife. It should be simple enough to find a willing female. He was an earl now, after all, and heir to Lady Westcott’s fortune, which was massive, but there was nothing simple about finding a bride who’d satisfy his aunt’s strict requirements.

  Even under the best of circumstances it could take months to find a lady she’d deem worthy of the Dare title, and these were not the best of circumstances. He likely wouldn’t be able to find a bride before next season, and that was months away.

  How convenient for his aunt that his father should have died in the winter instead of early spring. If he didn’t know it to be impossible, he’d suspect Lady Westcott of arranging it herself, to keep him in England on a quest for a countess for as long as possible.

  Nick cringed at the thought of remaining in London so long, but there was little he could do about it, unless he happened to stumble across an accomplished, well-bred young lady in London in mid-November—

  He went still, his thoughts grinding to a complete halt as the strains of Haydn’s final piano sonata drifted through his head.

  An accomplished, well-bred young lady…

  Good Lord, a stroke of luck at last.

  As it happened, fate had thrown just such a lady into his path.

  Hyacinth Somerset.

  If he could have conjured an ideal potential bride with a wave of his hand, Miss Somerset was just the kind of lady he’d produce. She had impeccable bloodlines—even his haughty, demanding aunt couldn’t find fault with Lady Chase’s granddaughter—and she played the pianoforte like an angel. Her musical ability would be such a comfort to his aunt during the long, lonely English winters at his country seat in West Sussex.

  A whirlwind courtship, a quick betrothal, and a quiet wedding. With any luck he’d have a boy in his new bride’s belly by Christmas and be back in Italy in Catalina’s bed before the spring thaw.

  Memories of the Tyrrhenian Sea flashed in his mind’s eye—the water sparkling in the warm Italian sun, and Catalina, her skirts hiked to her knees, her generous breasts spilling from her bodice as she crawled toward him across the bed—and they made up his mind.

  He needed a proper English wife, and the sooner he secured one, the sooner he could leave London behind him for good.

  Nick leapt to his feet with renewed energy, grabbed his hat, and ordered the carriage brought around. In less than half an hour he’d secured Lady Chase’s address from Fulton, Lord Derrick’s butler, and was thumping on her ladyship’s door, one foot tapping impatiently as he waited for someone to come open it.

  Now that he’d chosen the lady, he’d just as soon get on with it.

  After what seemed an eternity, Nick heard the sound of slow, measured footsteps, and in the next moment the door creaked open to reveal a dusty old relic of at least a thousand years of age, with a face that made Gibbs look cheerful.

  The old man
shuffled backwards and pulled the door open wider. “Good afternoon, sir.”

  Nick stepped into the entryway. “Good afternoon. Lord Dare, calling on Lady Chase.”

  “Lady Chase is not at home this afternoon.” The butler retrieved a silver tray from the hall table and waved it under Nick’s chin. “Will you leave your card, my lord?”

  Not at home? Devil take it. “Miss Somerset, then.” Nick couldn’t abide even a day’s delay, and it wasn’t as if the old man knew he and Miss Somerset hadn’t been properly introduced.

  The butler swept a critical gaze over Nick and his thin lips twitched with disapproval, but he must have drawn the line at refusing to admit the Earl of Dare, because he took Nick’s hat and walking stick and ushered him into the drawing room. “If you’ll wait here, my lord, I’ll fetch Miss Somerset.”

  The butler shuffled across the room at a glacial pace. When he gained the door at last, Nick threw himself into a chair with an impatient sigh.

  Christ, courtship was tedious.

  He could only hope Miss Somerset would be reasonable about it. He’d seen very little of her last night, but she hadn’t struck him as the type of lady who’d drag out a courtship by feigning maidenly confusion at every turn. He had a vague impression of fair hair, rather remarkable dark blue eyes, and modest, elegant manners—

  “What in the world are you doing here?”

  Nick shot to his feet, turned to face his future betrothed, and stumbled back a step, his mouth falling open in shock.

  Miss Somerset stood halfway between him and the drawing room door, her hands on her hips, glaring at him. She was dressed in a faded blue gown, and her hair was bundled into an untidy knot at the back of her neck. She was covered from head to toe with dust, her fingers were smeared with black ink, there was a smudge of dirt on her nose, and…

  Was that a cobweb in her hair?

  Nick stared at her, aghast.

  This was Miss Somerset? Dear God, how much wine had he had to drink last night? She looked like a maidservant who’d spent all afternoon cleaning the chimneys.