Romancing the Countess

by Ashley March

  Leah exchanged curious glances with Mrs. Meyer and Lady Elliot.

  But when Mrs. Thompson offered nothing further, Lady Elliot turned to Leah. “And you, Mrs. George? Who will you be shooting today?”

  “Unlike the rest of you, I’m quite civilized, thank you,” Leah answered. “I merely enjoy archery for the sake of the game.”

  “Well done,” Miss Pettigrew murmured.

  “Nonsense,” Lady Elliot declared, her brow rising slyly. “What of the earl?”

  The rate at which Leah’s heart began to race was frankly inexcusable. “The earl?”

  “I believe she means Lord Wriothesly,” Mrs. Meyer said.

  Lady Elliot shifted her parasol to her other shoulder. “Yes, there seems to be some sort of enmity brewing between the two of you.”

  Apparently she hadn’t been as discreet in avoiding the earl as she’d thought, or as subtle in speech. With her heart threatening to break loose of its restraints and fly out of her chest, Leah sighed and lowered her voice. “I’m afraid Lord Wriothesly doesn’t approve of the house party. He’d rather mourn my husband in private, along with Lady Wriothesly, than have such a public spectacle.”

  There, that was one truth for the day. Of course, it wasn’t the entire truth: she didn’t mention how she alternated between taking pleasure from provoking him and then feeling distressed when she realized she’d gone too far. Neither did she mention his very clear dislike for her, or that she refused to acquiesce to his demands to act the quiet, mournful little widow.

  “But then why did he come?” Miss Pettigrew asked as they neared the table where the archery instruments were laid out for their selection.

  Leah shrugged. “He felt it was his duty, I suppose.”

  “Well, if you truly don’t wish to pin him on your target,” Lady Elliot said, “then you have my permission to imagine Lord Elliot on yours as well.”

  “Such generosity, my lady.”

  Lady Elliot winked. “Fortunately, there’s plenty of him to spare.”

  With laughter and a faint blush from Miss Pettigrew, the women each selected their bows and arrows, then spread out in a row before the targets. A few yards away, Mrs. Meyer instructed Miss Pettigrew on how to position her arrow. Lifting the veil over her head, Leah lined up her target in sight and pulled back her arm.

  “A little to the left.”

  Her fingers slipped. The arrow went flying, then landed on the ground several feet to the right of the target.

  Whirling around, Leah glared at Wriothesly, who nodded toward the stray arrow and smirked. “As I said, you should have aimed farther left.” He lifted a brow. “Or perhaps you need proper instruction on how to hold your bow?”

  Leah smiled sweetly. “Perhaps you should go stand beside the target and show me exactly where to aim.”

  He chuckled, and despite still being upset at his words the previous day, Leah couldn’t help but be inordinately pleased with herself. It was the first time she’d heard him laugh since the accident.

  “Haven’t you painting to do?” she asked, reaching for another arrow and turning around again.

  “It’s the strangest thing,” he drawled over her shoulder, so close her fingers fumbled as she attempted to notch the arrow. “I find I haven’t the faintest idea how to paint watercolors. My instruction of the other men only leads to formless blobs, and the colors end up running together like mud. Odd, isn’t it, considering how much both Ian and I enjoyed the pastime?”

  Her elbow made contact with his midsection as she drew back her arm, and although he stepped aside immediately, her entire body froze for at least ten seconds.

  Leah narrowed her gaze on the target. “If you mean to forfeit so quickly—”

  “Forfeit?” Moving beside her, his fingers wrapped around the arrow, holding it immobile. “Is this a game we are playing, Mrs. George?”

  She arched a brow. “I don’t believe I said—”

  “If it is, I can assure you I will win each challenge. Boating, painting, or any other amusements you have planned. Even though you seemed to have forgotten the fact that you are now a widow, I haven’t. And unfortunately, to ensure your proper behavior, I can’t allow you to be alone with the other guests.”

  “I outgrew my nanny when I was six years old, Lord Wriothesly. I hardly think I need another one now.”

  He opened his mouth as if to speak, then closed it. With a twist of his lips he released the arrow and stepped back. “An opponent, then.” He gave a short bow, pivoted, then turned back once more. “Oh, and Mrs. George?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Do not threaten me again with memories of Ian and Angela. Or you may find that I can best you at that game, as well.”

  As he walked away, Leah shot the second arrow . . . and gritted her teeth when it glided to a halt on the ground next to the first.

  Instead of notching another one, she waited for a footman to retrieve the arrows while she watched Wriothesly approach Miss Pettigrew and Mrs. Meyer out of the corner of her eye.

  She could only make out the sound of their voices, but it was clear from the way Miss Pettigrew’s face lit up that he’d said something charming.

  Then he moved on to Lady Elliot. Then Mrs. Thompson, holding her quiver of arrows as she selected one, leaning over her and managing to say something which made even the straitlaced companion laugh.

  Finally, he retreated back toward the easels, not looking once in Leah’s direction.

  Soon the ladies surrounded Leah.

  “Shall we return, then?” Lady Elliot asked.

  Miss Pettigrew looked at her companion. “Mrs. Thompson, do you think it’s all right?”

  “I can’t imagine why not. There’s certainly nothing improper about the suggestion.”

  Leah frowned. “What did Lord Wriothesly say?”

  Mrs. Meyer glanced toward the gentlemen and smiled. “The men say they need greater inspiration for their artistry than the landscape. They request to paint our portraits.”

  “How . . . charming,” Leah managed, struggling for a gracious tone. Thus Wriothesly ruined another of her amusements by playing on the women’s vanity. And, of course, she couldn’t stay here and continue with the archery, not if she wished to be a good hostess. “How could we resist such a compliment? The targets may wait.”

  As they climbed back up the hill, Miss Pettigrew murmured to Mrs. Thompson, “Mr. Dunlop specifically requested me as his subject. Is that not good news?”

  “Yes, and I’m supposed to sit for Lord Cooper-Giles,” Mrs. Thompson replied. “The baron may have interest in you as well, if he is trying to cozy up to me.”

  Leah found Wriothesly standing before the easels as they crested the hill, his hands behind his back, feet spread, a curl of amusement on his mouth. Waiting. He’d known they’d come, the devious bastard.

  “Well, I don’t know what he’s up to, but Lord Elliot wants me for his painting,” Lady Elliot said, then more softly: “The romantic old fool.”

  Leah’s steps slowed. It was expected for the bachelors to vie for the attention of Miss Pettigrew. Even though she didn’t come from the best background, she was very pretty, with her dark curls and wide blue eyes. And she was an heiress, which even gentlemen with the most discriminating of tastes couldn’t afford to overlook. But it was quite unusual for a married couple to be paired together.

  “It is romantic, isn’t it?” Mrs. Meyer said to Lady Elliot.

  Then she sighed. And it was a very pleased, contented sound.

  “May I ask who you’ll be sitting for, Mrs. Meyer?” Leah asked, with only a halfhearted attempt to keep the dread from her voice.

  “Why, Mr. Meyer, of course,” came the happy reply.

  Leah glanced at Wriothesly, who returned her gaze with a smugness she deemed as another of his many, many flaws. She scowled. “Of course.”

  “Do stop glaring, Mrs. George,” Sebastian coaxed, his pencil pausing on the curve of her right cheek. He peered down at the sketch. �
��How am I to be inspired if you insist on frowning?”

  Like the others who had scattered along the east side of the house, Sebastian had chosen a more becoming background to his portrait than the open sky. Positioned at the juncture of the evergreen garden wall, Leah sat surrounded by white laurel shrubs and red-berried holly. Although the setting was beautiful, the ill-tempered widow in the center left much to be desired.

  Behind the easel, Sebastian smiled. “Perhaps you could lift your brows a bit, so they’re not crouched down as low on your forehead? And if you could not purse your mouth quite so—”

  “How is this?”

  Sebastian leaned to the side to discover that she had pulled her veil back down over her face. Every feature was obscured; only the whiteness of her skin could be glimpsed behind the dark shadow.

  Tapping the pencil against the easel’s frame, he said, “I begin to think, my dear Mrs. George, that you have no desire to be painted.”

  “Not at all, Lord Wriothesly. It’s only that I fear my appearance is too offensive to you. How do I know that if I sit here for an hour, it is my portrait you will have painted and not that of your wife? It’s difficult to sit here for such a length of time, knowing I will continue being compared to a paragon.”

  “Ah,” he said, their conversation from yesterday surfacing in his mind. The one he had tried throughout the night to forget. “You seek an apology for my rudeness.”

  “No, I’ve accepted the fact that rudeness is inherent to your nature. Like your other flaws, it must be difficult for you to resist.”

  Setting the pencil down, Sebastian slid his stool away from the easel so he could see her without obstruction. His fingers twitched with the impulse to remove her veil; all of a sudden he wanted to see if the mouth which had been so persistent in sulking earlier now tugged upward with her own wit. “My flaws, you say?”

  “Are you surprised to hear the plural?”

  “Yes, in fact. I wasn’t aware I had any.”

  She snorted, which elicited the beginning of a chuckle from his throat. Stifling his laughter, he said, “Please, do go on.” Then he held up his hand. “Wait. Will it take very long to recite this list of the multitude defects in my character?”

  The veil swayed as her head tilted to the side. “I’m not certain. I may not be able to remember all of them at the moment.”

  “But you shall try.”

  She nodded.

  “And I shall paint.” He stood and walked across the garden path, the small rocks crunching beneath his feet. Even though he couldn’t see her eyes, he bent until they were at the same level. Reaching forward, he grasped the hem of her veil in his fingertips and raised his arms. Slowly, without any reason for such hesitation. Over the slender arch of her bodice, past the pale ivory column of her throat. Her mouth—he paused when it was revealed, pretending to lose hold of the hem. He stared at the bountiful curve of her lips, so full and lush that the small indent at the top of her upper lip was almost nonexistent.

  He would never tell her that Angela’s mouth had not once entranced him like this.

  Clenching the crepe between his fingers, he pulled the veil above her nose, the delicate sculpture of her cheeks. His eyes met hers, and he could no longer pretend they were a plain, ordinary brown. This close, amber striations glinted in their sherry depths, the color made even more stunning by the frame of her dark eyelashes, lavishly thick. Her breath drifted across his lips, an involuntary, invisible kiss, and Sebastian shook, his gloved fingers grazing the slope of her forehead as he dragged the hem over her head.

  Immediately he spun upon his heel and returned to the easel, away from her wary gaze. Unable to deny how the breath surged from his chest and the blood pounded in his veins. Disturbed by the sudden, arousing effect of Leah George’s unveiling.

  “Besides not letting me be alone with my guests, I suppose you don’t trust me to lift my own veil, either?” she asked. Her voice had lightened with an idle curiosity, and he could feel her watching him as he settled once more behind the easel.

  “Consider it one of my flaws,” he said, striving for indifference. As if nothing untoward had happened. “You were going to enumerate them, remember?”

  “Ah, yes. I believe I shall begin with . . . controlling.”

  Sebastian stared at the sketch. Several outlines of leaves, the top of the garden wall, the curve of her cheek. No detail was yet given to her face, but he could imagine each feature, from the stubborn rounding of her chin to the hint of a widow’s peak revealed by her veil. Whether he wished it or not, every little aspect of her countenance was imprinted on his vision with startling clarity.

  Speak, he commanded himself. She was silent, waiting for him to respond to her comment.

  “If I am controlling, it’s only to counterbalance the recklessness of your behavior.”

  “Recklessness?” Her voice came from in front of the easel. “You mean my desire to go boating and practice my archery?”

  “The house party. You know it’s inappropriate.”

  “Hmm.”

  He could almost see her accompanying shrug. But nothing could compel him to glance around the easel at the moment; he’d rather prefer her to be invisible than admit this physical attraction. Instead, he focused on drawing the lines of the brick wall.

  “Another one, then,” she said a moment later. “You’re also very quick-tempered.”

  “Rarely,” he amended, then frowned at the sketch. “And only with you.”

  “No, no. You can’t blame me for your faults, Lord Wriothesly.”

  “Yet you are the only cause for my aggravation.” Moving from the wall, he began the delineation of each leaf on the shrub to her right.

  “I see. You refuse to accept responsibility for your own behavior. Shall the next flaw be cowardice?”

  Even knowing she meant to provoke him, Sebastian couldn’t help the stiffening of his shoulders. “When may I begin to recount the list of your flaws, Mrs. George?” he asked, his gaze flickering to the blank expanse of her face on his portrait.

  She laughed softly, and Sebastian closed his eyes. He shouldn’t be here. He should be in London with Henry, or now that it was August, moved to the country estate in Hampshire. He wasn’t supposed to be in Wiltshire with her, wishing she would confide her secrets to him, listening to the delight in her quiet chuckles, discovering an unexpected allure in her once rather ordinary appearance.

  “You may begin now if you like,” she said, humor touching her voice the way he imagined it also lit her eyes. “But I can assure you that I’m already well familiar with each of them.”

  With a deep breath, Sebastian lifted his pencil again, quickly finishing the shrub before he moved on to the next plant. “There is the difference between you and me, Mrs. George. I’ve learned from my mistakes. While you do not hesitate to recite my faults, I’m far too polite to do the same for you, though I may be sorely tempted.”

  He waited, then smiled at the following silence. He rather enjoyed the feeling of putting her in her place.

  “Self-righteous.”

  The tip of his pencil stuttered, a long line marring the sketch.

  “That’s another of your flaws,” she said. “In addition to being controlling, quick-tempered, and cowardly.”

  Unaccountably, the smile stretched wider across his face as he tried to erase the stray mark. “Is that so?”

  “Oh, but I forgot the rudeness. That’s how we began this conversation, after all.”

  Sebastian selected his first watercolor, unable to stop smiling. “Tell me, Mrs. George. Is there anything at all in my character to recommend me?”

  Again, silence followed his question.

  “You know, this is where your habit of lying might be useful,” he said.

  Another moment passed. “You have nice eyes,” she said at last, almost begrudgingly.

  “Thank you. But I must point out that my eyes have nothing to do with my character.”

  “Yes, well, th
at’s all I could think of. For the most part, I find you very irritating.”

  Before he could stop himself, Sebastian leaned to the side to look at her. “That’s comforting to hear, for I don’t have very much regard for you, either.”

  It was a mistake. Immediately, as his eyes met hers and he saw the reluctance in her matching smile, the futility of creating a faceless portrait became clear. Her features were still committed to his memory. His unanticipated and inappropriate attraction to her still remained.

  “We’ve admitted it, then,” he said. “Neither of us likes the other. You will continue to do as you please, and I will continue trying to ensure your actions don’t lead to speculation about the truth. We are opponents.”

  She nodded, her smile fading, her gaze never wavering. “Yes,” she replied firmly. “Enemies.”

  Chapter 8

  Tonight was a mistake. If Lord F—hadn’t consumed three glasses of sherry at dinner, I’m certain he would have seen us hiding there. Oh, but how I despise these clandestine meetings. Still, every stolen moment with you is worth a thousand scandals.

  Later that night, after dinner and three rounds of whist, after everyone had retired for the evening, Leah lay awake. For nearly three hours, she’d been unable to erase from her mind the look in Lord Wriothesly’s eyes when he lifted her veil in the garden. She told herself she was unsure about what she’d seen. She told herself she had to be wrong. Most of all, she argued that she hadn’t felt the same awareness of him, either.

  As she prepared to turn to her right side yet again, a quiet knock came at the door. Leah gladly answered the summons.

  It was the butler, Herrod, a lamp lighting the crags at the corner of his mouth and the hint of jowls sagging from his chin. “Pardon me, Mrs. George, but it appears one of the guests has availed himself of the late Mr. George’s brandy. He’s in the study, and became quite surly when I suggested he retire for the night. Would you like me to leave him?”