“I must be hearing things,” he muttered before guiding his pair out into the road on the final phase of his journey.
Chapter Two
It was two o’clock that afternoon when Blackbourne passed the stone gatehouse that marked the beginning of the long drive leading to the home of the earls of Willowvale. He did not stop or even pause. He’d been down that oak-lined drive six weeks earlier and had drawn his horses to a stop in front of the house. He’d sat and drunk in the beauty of Willow Place with its huge portico and spreading wings that reminded him of an Italian palazzo. And at that moment, he had fully understood why Oliver loved his estate so much that he’d been willing to marry a manipulative and scheming female to help preserve it.
But today, unlike six weeks ago, he knew he wouldn’t find Amanda residing in that house. Instead, for whatever reason, Oliver’s widow was now living in an obscure dower house on the property. Blackbourne couldn’t help wondering if the countess had learned he was looking for her and thus was hiding from him. He expected he would soon know.
Following Sawyer’s directions, he simply kept to the main road, which was bordered by a tall park wall overhung with ivy. When the wall ended, he turned left onto a small lane that meandered into the forest. He followed that until it ended in a grove of trees.
Pulling his pair to a stop in the shade of a chestnut, Blackbourne jumped down from the curricle. He was happy enough to leave the horses grazing while he proceeded on foot. He needed to stretch his legs and the temperate afternoon promised to be perfect for a tramp through the woods. Aware that the ancient oaks around him were alive with woodcock and partridges, he paused occasionally to listen to the chirping of birds and to inhale the rich, dark fragrance of the decaying vegetation underfoot.
A few minutes later, a flash of red through the green leaves off to his right captured his attention. He paused, realizing he was close to the small garden where Sawyer said he’d seen Amanda with her son.
A lone, spreading rose bush about five feet tall wavered from side to side, almost as though it were being tossed about by a whimsical wind. Frowning, Blackbourne glanced at the trees around him. Their leaves were totally still but the limbs of the rose bush continued to dip and bob. He couldn’t help recalling Sawyer’s report that the villagers thought the old dower house was haunted.
Giving himself a mental shake, he crouched and then eased toward the rose bush. It continued to shake back and forth, shedding dozens of petals that fluttered through the air for long seconds before floating softly to the ground.
Staying low and moving silently, he stepped out of the forest and onto the unscythed grass. He was within a few feet of the rose bush and still had detected no reason for its thrashing movements, but then he saw a flash of metal near the base of the shrub.
“What the—?” Blackbourne muttered, straightening to his full height. Apparently, someone behind the rose bush was attempting to whack it down by clobbering the limbs at its base with a saber.
Two long strides brought him close to the bush. A little too close, he realized rather quickly. A flailing branch and its wicked-looking thorns came within an inch of his thigh. “Damnation,” he yelped, jumping back.
The rose bush stilled.
Three forward steps carried him to the back of the shrub. Looking down, he saw a small boy with a huge sword drawn back in preparation for delivering another blow. The boy glanced up and paused with the sword suspended above and behind his right shoulder. Then, the weight of the weapon proving too much for the lad’s balance, he fell backward, dropping the sword. His head landed with a thump on the bulky hilt.
Blackbourne quickly bent over the supine child. “Are you hurt, lad?” he asked.
The boy sat up slowly, frowning and rubbing the back of his head. His lower lip trembled for a second before he gripped it firmly between his teeth. Then he scrambled to his feet.
There was no doubt that this was Oliver’s son. The boy’s eyes were larger and more hazel than the clear green his father’s had been, but the right ear was proof conclusive. It was a defect, Oliver had explained, that had been passed from father to son in the Willowvale family for generations. Fortunately the deformity was less pronounced in Oliver’s son. Only the very top of the ear was bent down, giving the lad, with his huge eyes, the appealing look of a playful puppy.
“What’s your name?” Blackbourne knew the boy’s name was David, but having little notion as to how one established trust with a child, he decided to start with a question the boy could easily answer.
David continued to glower.
The marquess forced a smile and tried another tack. “Did you hurt your head?”
No response.
“What were you trying to do to the rose bush?”
Silence.
Stifling a sigh, Blackbourne picked up the sword. It was quite heavy. He was surprised the boy had managed to lift it at all, let alone wield it.
“Shall I finish the job for you?” He nodded at the rose bush, which was still in amazingly good condition. The dull sword had bent some of the lower branches, but only a few twigs had actually been whacked off.
“It hurt my mama.” The boy transferred his glare to the bush.
Blackbourne was amazed at the intensity of the relief that swept through him when the boy finally spoke. He was not in the habit of trying to communicate with a child, and it was proving more unnerving than he would have imagined.
“The rose bush hurt your mother?” he asked carefully, fearful lest he say the wrong thing and destroy the fragile thread of trust he hoped had been established.
The boy nodded. “It scratched her arm and her arm bleeded. She cried.”
“I’m sorry your mother’s arm bled. Was she cutting roses?”
“Yes.”
“Perhaps the bush scratched her because it did not want its flowers cut,” Blackbourne suggested.
The boy’s look of scorn was instantaneous. “Rose bushes expect their roses to be cut. That’s why God put them here and made them so pretty.”
“I see.” Blackbourne paused, unsure how to respond to such certainty.
“Who are you?” the boy asked, frowning.
Blackbourne took a deep breath. Now he would see how much David had been influenced against his father’s memory. “I am a friend of your papa’s.”
“My papa’s dead. He died fighting for England.”
“I know. Your papa was a very brave man.”
“Are you a friend of my mama’s, too?”
“I’ve not had the pleasure of meeting your mother, but I would like to do so.”
“Why?”
Blackbourne hesitated for only a second. Clearly the boy loved his mother. He would have to choose his words carefully so as not to alienate the lad. “Before your papa died, he gave me a message for your mother. I wish to pass it along to her.”
“It won’t make her cry, will it? I don’t like it when my mama cries.”
“Does your mother cry often?” Blackbourne asked, playing for time. He strongly suspected David’s mother was going to cry a great deal when she learned the reason for his visit.
“Mama only cries when she’s hurt real bad. Mama is just as brave as I am, but ladies can cry and still be brave. Men don’t cry.”
“Did your mother tell you that?” Blackbourne struggled to keep his tone even. He had no patience with people who tried to force little boys into a man’s mold. Childhood was short enough as it was, at least for those who were fortunate enough to have a loving family.
David’s expression of scorn returned quickly. Clearly he had a low opinion of Blackbourne’s understanding. “Nanny told me. Mama doesn’t like Nanny to say that. Mama says little boys can cry if they want to, but I want to be a man, so I try not to cry. Sometimes I do anyway, but only if I’m hurt real bad like when the bee stinged me last week.”
“I agree with your mother,” Blackbourne surprised himself by saying. He had assumed he would never share even a small point o
f concurrence with the woman he so despised. “I have seen some very brave men cry.”
“Did my papa ever cry?” David’s expression alerted Blackbourne to the fact that his response could easily affect the boy’s image of his father. He forced back the memory of the tears in Oliver’s voice the night he told Blackbourne about his wife’s treachery. It had been very dark. “No, I never saw your papa cry.”
David nodded as though his firmest beliefs had just been confirmed. He took Blackbourne’s hand and tugged. “Come with me,” he said. “I’ll take you to Mama.”
Blackbourne allowed himself to be pulled toward the front door of the residence. Even with David skipping beside him, he had to slow his pace and take small steps, but he didn’t mind. He made use of the extra time by examining the exterior of the old dower house. It was little more than a two-story cottage, really. Made of stone, the house formed a perfect square, with small windows looking out from both stories. Ivy covered one wall, softening the rather harsh exterior. Blackbourne found himself wondering again why the Countess of Willowvale had chosen to live in this small and secluded residence rather than in the mansion called Willow Place.
He let David lead him to the front of the house and through the open door. A small entrance hall was almost filled by an oak table set against one wall. In the center of the polished table sat a clear, crystal vase filled with red roses, their heady fragrance permeating the room.
“Mama?” David called, pausing just inside the front door.
“In here, darling.”
At the sound of Amanda’s voice, Blackbourne started. He had never expected her voice to be so musical or so genteel. She was, after all, the daughter of a merchant. Yet she sounded as though she had been raised a lady.
He gave a mental shrug. He’d seen enough in his day to realize that even the lowest born could—if determined enough—successfully mimic their social superiors. He should have expected nothing less of a conniving female like Amanda.
David tugged on Blackbourne’s hand again and he followed the child toward the door opening into a chamber on the right. His heartbeat quickened. He was at last about to meet the woman who had betrayed his good friend.
She stood behind a desk with her back to the door, reaching up to replace a book on the shelves that covered the far wall. Blackbourne paused in the doorway, staring. She was not tall—about four inches over five feet, he would guess—and her form was slender. Her hips swelled, softly rounded, from a small waist emphasized by the cut of her dress with its unfashionable, natural waistline. As she turned sideways, stretching to re-shelve a second book, he could see that although her faded yellow gown was modestly long-sleeved and high-necked, the soft muslin molded high breasts tapering down to a slim midriff.
Blackbourne had never approved of the high-waisted dresses ladies had embraced in recent years. It was a style designed to emphasize only one portion of the female anatomy, and he preferred that a woman’s assets be less prominently displayed. Still, he found himself resenting the fact that Amanda appeared to set her own style. No doubt she wished to call attention to her tiny waist, which he was certain he could span in his two hands.
“Mama,” David said. He released his hold on Blackbourne’s hand and dashed across the room and around the desk to tug on his mother’s skirt. “A friend of Papa’s is here.”
The countess turned quickly, her eyes widening when she saw Blackbourne. A quickly indrawn breath preceded her reaching down to grasp her son’s shoulders and draw him back against her. She said nothing, merely staring at Blackbourne with eyes that had now narrowed.
He returned her stare. He had heard a great deal about this woman, none of it good. Oliver had described her duplicity, her extravagances, her selfishness, her crudities. The only thing he had failed to communicate was the fact that his wife was surely the most beautiful woman in the kingdom.
Desire, unexpected and unwelcome, arrived with a fierceness that stunned Blackbourne. His breath caught low in his chest while heat spread from his loins upward. Silently cursing himself, he fought to subdue his inconvenient and untimely lust. The last thing he would have expected was his body’s swift and traitorous reaction, and that reaction infuriated him, although he couldn’t help but understand it. No man, he was convinced, could look at that face and remain unaffected.
A mane of hair, its color somewhere between gold and silver, framed a face that was as enticing in its impact as any Blackbourne had ever seen. It was not that her individual features were perfect in size or shape. A critic could have truthfully complained that her blue eyes were too large, her lips a bit too generous, her forehead a fraction too broad. But somehow those imperfections had combined to create a face that could turn a man’s bones to milk and thicken the blood surging through his veins. She was, simply put, the most desirable creature he had ever seen, and he determined, at that moment, in that split second of time, to bed her.
Of course, seducing the countess would require that he change his plans. He could not alienate her and expect her to leap into his arms. But he was, if anything, versatile. He also possessed the patience needed to make a viable plan and follow through with it.
He could force her to go to bed with him, he supposed, simply by waving under her straight little nose the piece of paper that was folded away in his pocket. He had already judged that she loved her son that much.
But he had never found appealing the idea of taking a woman, no matter what her status, who did not reciprocate his passion—an unfortunate characteristic in this instance because it meant he must contrive a plan that would allow him both to seduce the Countess of Willowvale and to punish her for her duplicity toward her husband. It would not be easy, but Blackbourne had no doubts regarding his eventual success.
He flashed his most charming smile. For the first time since returning to England, he found himself facing a challenge he could actually look forward to.
Chapter Three
“Merciful heavens.” Her heart racing, Amanda, Countess of Willowvale, stared in consternation at the strange man standing in her doorway. He reminded her of a drawing she’d seen somewhere, perhaps in an illustrated edition of Paradise Lost, depicting a fallen angel. This man shared with that drawing the same lustrous black hair, loose-limbed grace and mesmerizing ebony eyes.
Not to mention the same unworldly physical presence.
Trust Oliver to have a friend who reminded her of Lucifer. She was tempted to murmur the name just to see if he might respond.
“Mama?” David tugged at her skirt again. She lowered her gaze and found him looking up at her, his green-flecked eyes glowing with excitement.
Tightening her grasp on her son’s shoulders, Amanda pushed him toward her side and then stepped slightly in front of him, half-hiding him behind her skirt.
“So? A friend of Oliver’s?” She clamped her teeth together, aware that her voice had not been quite steady. The man’s assessing gaze unnerved her, as did his continued silence.
If this man was indeed a friend of Oliver’s, there was no guessing what he might have been told about her. Not that she cared for his opinion. She just wanted him to go away. But first she would have to deal with him. She took a deep breath and returned his stare.
Tall and slender, he was also broad-shouldered and, she would guess, quite muscular beneath his well-cut driving clothes. His straight nose, square chin, and narrow lips marked his features as severe, and although he was not classically handsome, his appearance was unquestionably striking.
The stranger raised his eyebrows in acknowledgment of her regard. Then he stepped forward and bowed. “I hope you will forgive the intrusion, my lady.” His soft, well-modulated voice curled around her spine. “I was a friend of your husband’s. I am Blackbourne.”
“Blackbourne?” Amanda laid her forefinger on her chin, pretending to think. She wished she did not feel at such a disadvantage, not knowing why he had gone to the trouble of finding her. She cocked her head to one side. “You must be t
he Marquess of Blackbourne.”
He nodded. “I assume your husband spoke of me.”
Amanda was tempted to tell him that her husband had rarely spoken to her at all. Instead she replied in a tone as politely distant as she could affect. “No, I’m afraid Oliver never mentioned you. Should he have?”
A tiny smile lifted the corners of Blackbourne’s lips. “You may soon think so.”
Dread tightened Amanda’s stomach. Something lay behind the marquess’s words, and she suspected she would not enjoy learning what that something was. She had opened her mouth to ask for clarification when David again tugged on her skirt.
“Mama?”
Amanda glanced down. “Yes, sweetheart?”
“I’m hungry.”
Thankful for an excuse to get David out of the room, Amanda relaxed her grip on his shoulders. “Then I’m sure Lord Blackbourne will excuse you so you can go to the kitchen and ask Cook for something to eat. Also please ask her to prepare some refreshments for our guest.”
Not that she wanted to give the marquess an excuse to extend his visit, but he had tracked her down for a reason. She needed to find out what he wanted before she could send him on his way. Hoping to portray a calmness she did not feel, she smiled. “You will stay and have something cool to drink, will you not, my lord?”
Blackbourne bowed. “I would be honored, my lady. Thank you for the invitation.”
She nodded, unwilling to lie and tell him he was welcome. Instead, she gave her son a little push in the direction of the door. “David, would you please—”
“Yes, Mama. I’ll talk to Cook.” He broke into a run.
“Walk please, David,” Amanda called. She would be glad to see him exit the room, but she didn’t want the marquess thinking he was ill mannered.
David skidded to a halt and ducked his head. When he looked up, it was through incredibly long eyelashes that he frequently used for effect. “Yes, Mama.” He turned and walked sedately to the door. Amanda held back a fond grin when she heard him break into a run as soon as he stepped into the hallway.
My Elusive Countess Page 2
