More or Less a Countess

by Anna Bradley

  Lord Dare’s frown deepened as he looked from Violet to Iris. “No need, Miss Somerset. I’ll see myself out.” He bowed to each of them, and in the next moment he was gone, and likely relieved to be so.

  “Lying, sneaking about, and toying with a gentleman’s affections?” Iris demanded as soon as the drawing room door closed behind Lord Dare.

  Violet kicked off her damp slippers and threw herself into a chair. “Hyacinth is perfectly dreadful at keeping secrets. I should have known she’d tell you.”

  “Don’t blame Hyacinth for your behavior, Violet,” Iris scolded. “She didn’t want to tell me. I teased it out of her when you didn’t appear in Grosvenor Street.”

  “I don’t see why you should have felt the need to rush over here.” Violet’s tone was resentful, but she didn’t meet her sister’s eyes.

  “I told you why. Lying, sneaking about, and toying with a gentleman’s affections!”

  “What, do you suppose Lord Dare is madly in love with me? I couldn’t toy with his affections even if I wished to.” His affections, or any other part of him. “It was a drive to Wapping, Iris—that’s all. Perfectly harmless.”

  “I see. So you aren’t pretending to be Hyacinth and encouraging Lord Dare in a false courtship for the sake of your book?”

  Violet opened her mouth to object, realized she had no defense, and then snapped it closed again. Dash it all, why must Hyacinth insist on such unrelenting honesty at all times? It was quite tedious of her.

  Iris sighed. “I don’t know what’s come over you, Violet. It’s not like you to be so careless with another’s feelings. This preoccupation with your book has brought out the worst in you.”

  “But it’s only for a week or two, Iris, until Grandmother returns from Bath, and it’s not as if Lord Dare truly cares for either me or Hyacinth. He can’t even tell us apart!”

  “Yes, and it’s dreadful of him, but does that mean you have to do something dreadful in return? His poor behavior doesn’t excuse your lying, Violet, and you know it very well.”

  Violet tucked her feet underneath her and rested her cheek on her raised knees. Iris was right. She did know it, and after today, she knew something else, as well.

  Lord Dare deserved far better treatment from her.

  He had nearly concussed Lady Uplands in Lord Derrick’s library, of course, and there was no question he was a rogue. That night at dinner Honora had whispered that Lord Dare had left a trail of broken hearts from Paris to Rome, and Violet could believe it of him. He was far too handsome and charming for his own good.

  Or for hers.

  But there was an innate kindness to him—a gentlemanliness, and a rare gallantry Violet would never have expected in a man like him. Today, when she’d shown him her book, he hadn’t laughed at her or mocked her, and the way he’d insisted on standing between her and the Thames while she took her sketch…

  Well. Lord Dare was much more than a debauched rogue with a careless disregard for the sanctity of a private library, and really, what had he done to justify her shabby treatment of him? He’d simply mistaken her for her sister. It was hardly a dastardly crime, and it wasn’t as if he was the first to confuse them.

  Iris must have seen the flush of guilt on her face, because she knelt down in front of Violet’s chair and took her hand. “I know how important your book is to you, Violet, but this isn’t the way to go about it, and you know you can always bring Hyacinth or me along if you need a companion.”

  Take Hyacinth to Execution Dock? No, indeed, and it wouldn’t do to take Iris to such places, either. Finn wouldn’t appreciate his wife and unborn child wandering about a place like Cockpit Steps, or Tyburn Tree, and Violet would never ask Iris to lie to him.

  No, once she sent Lord Dare away she’d give up the chance to get the sketches she needed. A dry ache pressed behind her eyes at the thought, but she didn’t know whether the unshed tears were for those lost moments of freedom, or for the loss of Lord Dare.

  But it didn’t matter, because either way, she had only one choice.

  She pressed Iris’s hand. “When Lord Dare calls tomorrow, I’ll confess I’ve deceived him, and beg his pardon.”

  “Good.” Iris squeezed her hand in return.

  Violet drew in a breath. It was the right thing to do—the only thing—and once she did it, surely she’d feel relieved. But right now…

  An image of his playful silver-gray eyes framed by those long, dark lashes flashed in her mind, and all she felt was emptiness.

  Chapter Eleven

  The next morning, Nick awoke to find Gibbs standing over his bed, peering down into his face like some sort of demented gargoyle.

  “Good morning, Lord Dare.”

  Nick snorted at the emphasis Gibbs placed on the word morning. “Your impertinence knows no bounds, Gibbs.”

  But Nick’s voice lacked heat. He couldn’t blame Gibbs for expecting to find him asleep. It wasn’t even noon yet, but after Nick left Miss Somerset at Bedford Square yesterday evening he hadn’t been in the mood for any of his usual debaucheries. Even a foray into Lady Uplands’s spectacular bosom held no appeal, and he’d ended up retiring far earlier than any self-respecting rogue should.

  Still, his slumber had proved far more satisfying than a wearisome romp with Lady Uplands, because he’d had another dream, and this one was most pleasant, indeed. He could only recall snatches of it now, but there’d been a pair of wide blue eyes, and delicate white fingers wrapped around a drawing pencil, and plump pink lips curving into a smile so open and sweet it still made his chest ache hours after he’d woken.

  In his dream they’d been arguing, but it wasn’t the irritating sort of arguing that put a man into a temper. No, this was a different kind of arguing altogether—the kind that felt more like teasing, or flirting. The kind that made a man’s heart beat faster, his breath come shorter, and his mind wander to all manner of illicit things, like brushing his thumb over the lower curve of that lip, to see if it was as soft as it looked, and then tasting it…

  He’d lain awake with his eyes tightly closed for hours after he woke, trying to hold onto that dream, but eventually it faded away as all dreams did, and once it had Nick’s thoughts drifted to that strange encounter with Lady Huntington last night.

  A cold feeling settled in his gut.

  Something wasn’t right, but damned if he knew what it was.

  Hyacinth Somerset wasn’t mad, but something was afoot. Lady Huntington had stopped short of accusing her sister of any wrongdoing last night, but she’d been angry, and Miss Somerset had been in such a hurry to get rid of him she’d nearly shoved him out the door.

  “Have you ever courted a lady, Gibbs?” Nick dragged himself upright against the pillows and accepted the cup of chocolate Gibbs handed him.

  Gibbs’s long face creased with distaste. “No, my lord.”

  “Well, why not? Haven’t you ever been in love?” Nick didn’t expect to gain much insight into courtship from Gibbs. His valet wasn’t the kind of man who’d succumb to a heated passion—at least, not a passion for a woman. There was no telling how heated Gibbs might become over a flawlessly tailored Weston coat.

  Gibbs looked horrified at the very idea. “No, my lord. I beg your pardon for my ignorance, my lord, but I don’t care for messy entanglements of that sort.”

  “Not for love, then, but for fortune? Or companionship? Comfort in your old age?” Well, it was a bit too late for that last one now, and in any case he doubted Gibbs found comfort in anything other than a perfectly pressed cravat.

  Gibbs draped Nick’s coat over his arm, then stooped to pick up his waistcoat from the floor. “No, my lord.”

  “Well, you’re no bloody help, are you?”

  “No, my lord.” Gibbs looked vastly relieved that Nick had finally caught on. “Will you have breakfast in bed, my lord?”

  “Y
es, all right. In an hour.” Nick waved him off. “Until then, some privacy, if you would.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Once Gibbs was gone, Nick set aside his cup then flopped onto his back in his bed with a sigh. This business with Miss Somerset had to come to an end.

  Today.

  The thought left a hollow knot of emptiness in Nick’s chest. Not only because he’d have to wait until the start of the London season to find another prospective bride, but also because, well—Miss Somerset was diverting, and it wasn’t just the gibbets and ghosts that made her so.

  She was different, and when Nick was with her, he felt different, too. After two years of running from himself, feeling different was like filling his lungs with fresh air after he’d long since reconciled himself to a slow suffocation.

  He’d grown so weary of London, so tired of the dirt and grime and disease, so tired of the haunting memories, but when he viewed the city through her eyes, the shadows didn’t leap out at him from behind every corner. He’d never once visited Wapping Old Stairs in the entire time he’d lived in England, yet yesterday he’d been one stiff wind away from tumbling into the Thames, just so she could get her sketch.

  Tumbling into the Thames, and happy enough to do so, too.

  Against all odds, and against all expectations, he was taken with her. But his fascination with her didn’t change the fact that she was hiding something from him.

  Lying to him.

  He wasn’t sure why, or what about, but it hardly mattered, and it didn’t help that he was also lying to her about his own reasons for marrying.

  But even putting his secrets aside, something was off about Miss Somerset.

  To begin with, she had an astonishing amount of freedom for one of Lady Chase’s granddaughters. Why was she always alone at the Bedford Square house? Lady Chase was notorious for her tyranny, and yet no one ever seemed to be paying the least bit of attention to what Miss Somerset was doing, or to question her whereabouts.

  That alone should have raised his suspicions at once, but it was the odd encounter with Lady Huntington last night that had nudged Nick’s vague uneasiness into grave doubt.

  As it was, he’d simply called on Miss Somerset a few times, and taken her for a drive or two. He hadn’t declared any intentions, and he hadn’t been introduced to her grandmother. It wasn’t yet an official courtship, and, given his reservations, the wisest course of action was to drop his pursuit now, before he could no longer do so honorably.

  He’d have to stop seeing Miss Somerset at once.

  Heaviness settled in Nick’s chest, but his mind was made up. He rang the bell for Gibbs, dressed, and went downstairs in search of his aunt.

  He found her in the breakfast room.

  “Good morning, Nicholas. You’re up much earlier than your habit.” She offered him her usual serene smile and motioned the footman for coffee while he filled his plate at the sideboard. “You were out all day yesterday. Perhaps you’ve something in mind to occupy you today, as well?”

  “No, nothing.” He didn’t have a damned thing to do now that he wasn’t going to call on Miss Somerset, and a quick glance at the window revealed a dreary, wet November day.

  It stretched out before him, long, endless, and empty.

  “You could call on Louisa and Lady Covington.”

  “Lady Covington and Louisa? What, are they still in town? I expected they’d go back to the country once you made it clear to them Louisa and I will never make a match. You did make it clear to them, didn’t you, my lady?”

  “They decided to stay a while longer. You needn’t look at me like that, Nicholas. I had nothing to do with it, and they don’t stay for you, in any case. Lady Covington expressed a desire to do some shopping, that’s all.”

  “If they don’t stay for me, then they won’t be expecting me to call.” His aunt must think him dull-witted indeed if she thought he’d believe her totally innocent in this.

  “It’s common politeness for you to call, Nicholas. It doesn’t have to mean a thing.”

  Nick let out a humorless laugh. “Louisa is my dead brother’s former betrothed, my lady, so it damn well does mean something. How could it not?”

  Her lips thinned at the curse, but instead of scolding him she hesitated, then covered his hand with her own. “I don’t wish to upset you. If you don’t care to call on Louisa, then don’t do so. I just…I don’t like to see you lonely.”

  The tightness in Nick’s jaw eased. His aunt might not be above manipulation to achieve her ends, but she’d only ever wanted to protect him, even if it meant protecting him from himself. “I know, Aunt. I beg your pardon.”

  They drifted into silence then, Nick’s heart kicking listlessly in his chest as he watched the rain hit the breakfast-room window in slanted sheets. What a dismal day. Whatever Miss Somerset had planned would likely have had to be postponed anyway, even if he had called on her. No doubt she was tucked into some cozy corner of her house, pawing through the pages of her book, with cobwebs in her hair and ink-stained fingers.

  He didn’t realize he was smiling until he heard his aunt’s surprised laugh. “You look pleased, Nicholas. I must say it’s lovely to see you smile. Why don’t you plan something pleasant for the day, despite the foul weather? A visit to the British Museum, perhaps?”

  Nick took another glance out the window. The sky was a dark, heavy gray, and it didn’t look as if the rain were about to stop anytime soon. “It is an ideal day to visit a museum, I suppose.”

  Perhaps he would go to the British Museum for the day, or to the Royal Academy. The idea didn’t hold much appeal, but he didn’t have any more intriguing options. It was a pity he’d already made up his mind not to call on Miss Somerset, because she was the type of lady who’d appreciate a visit to a museum, though perhaps something less conventional than either of those places, someplace like—

  Nick went still, his fork frozen partway to his mouth.

  Someplace like the Hunterian Museum, in Lincoln’s Inn Fields.

  Skulls and skeletons. Amputated limbs. Surgical instruments. Dissected animal carcasses. Jars upon jars of bizarre anatomical curiosities.

  Miss Somerset would be enthralled. She’d fall into raptures, into paroxysms of intellectual bliss, and he’d be the one who’d get to see her face light up with joy. He’d be the one who had the honor of giving her that gift.

  It was unlikely she’d ever seen the collection. It could only be viewed by invitation, and even if she’d been offered a ticket, her grandmother would never have permitted her to go. It struck Nick as enormously unfair she shouldn’t have the chance to view it, given he couldn’t think of a single person in London who’d be more delighted by it than she would.

  “Nicholas? Why aren’t you eating?”

  Nick gave his aunt a vague nod, shoved the fork in his mouth, and swallowed his eggs without tasting them.

  He’d vowed not to call on Miss Somerset again. For God’s sake, he’d made the decision less than an hour ago, and already here he was, tempted to call on Miss Somerset.

  But then he’d made that decision before it occurred to him how much she’d enjoy the Hunterian Museum. Everything had changed since then, and in any case, surely one more day wouldn’t make any difference? It was a single day. What could be the harm in delaying for a single day? He could stop calling on her tomorrow just as easily, couldn’t he?

  Nick tossed his napkin aside and shoved his chair back from the table.

  His aunt looked up in surprise. “Are you off, then? You haven’t finished your breakfast.”

  “Yes, I beg your pardon, my lady. I’m not hungry, and I find myself anxious to get to…the museum.”

  Quite anxious, indeed.

  * * * *

  “The Hunterian Museum?”

  Miss Somerset had looked grim enough when she entered the drawing r
oom to receive his call. He didn’t see any cobwebs today, and she was dressed in a flattering soft pink day gown, but she was pale, and she had dark shadows under her eyes, as if she hadn’t slept.

  But the moment he mentioned the Hunterian Museum, her entire face had lit up, and she’d clapped her hands together with unrestrained delight.

  “Truly, Lord Dare? Oh, I’ve always wanted to go, but I never imagined I’d get the chance. Oh, how wonderful!”

  “Yes, well, it’s raining, so I thought…” Nick trailed off as his stomach leapt in response to the sparkle of anticipation in her dark blue eyes. It wasn’t her pleasure that made him feel as if the sun had just emerged from behind a cloud, though. Of course it wasn’t.

  He cleared his throat. “That is, I thought perhaps you hadn’t ever been, and would find it amusing.”

  She was gazing at him as if she’d never seen anything quite so wonderful as he. “How kind you are, my lord!”

  Nick gazed back at her for a moment, then had to clear his throat again. “Well, as to that, I’m, ah…would you like to fetch your sketchbook before we go?”

  “Oh! Oh, yes. I won’t be a moment.”

  She ran from the room, then returned a few minutes later in a dark blue cloak, her sketchbook tucked under her arm.

  He led her to his carriage and handed her in. She bounced on the edge of her seat with suppressed excitement during the entire ride to Lincoln’s Inn Fields. “I’ve heard they have the Irish Giant’s skeleton at the Hunterian.”

  Nick’s lips twitched at her boundless excitement. “Charles Byrne, you mean? Yes. He was nearly eight feet tall.”

  “Oh, I know, I’ve read all about him. He was only twenty-two when he died, and he wanted to be buried at sea in a lead coffin, you know. By all accounts he was a dear man, and I feel rather sorry for him, having his bones on display for all the world to gawk at, but I don’t deny I very much want to see him. Eight feet tall. Can you imagine the stress all that weight must have had on his skeleton, Lord Dare?”