Counterfeit Countess: Brazen Brides, Book 1

by Cheryl Bolen

  “Oh, yes, I meant to explain.”

  Explain how breasts that were perfect last night could have altered today? He carefully watched her eyes, afraid to blink for fear of raking his gaze once again over her “interesting” bosom.

  “It’s because Sarah’s eyes aren’t what they used to be.”

  “I fail to see what your maid has to do with your . . .”

  “Breasts,” she finished. “Actually she doesn’t have a thing to do with my breasts. It’s the bodices. The ones that were slashed last night. She repaired this one . . .” Her gaze lowered. “And as you can see the left side is quite tight and uplifting while I’m sorry to say the right is much lower. Not that they’re that way normally. The breasts, I mean.” Her face turned scarlet. “Oh dear, I can’t believe I’m discussing such an indelicate subject with you, my lord. It’s just that I wished to explain so that you would not think me deformed--for I know that you noticed my . . .”

  “That will do, madam. I can see that your maid’s eyesight prevents her from being a proper seamstress.”

  “And I’m no better. My needlework is abominable--as is Rebecca’s.”

  “Due to her obsession over books.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Has Miss Peabody no other interests?”

  “Only reading. She’s passionate about books.”

  “Romances?”

  “All books. She’s even read Plato’s Dialogues--a most disappointing book, I thought. By the time I’d read seventy-two pages I had quite decided I much preferred Shakespeare’s dialogues. They’re much more interesting.”

  He smiled. “Plato writes about ideas, Shakespeare about people.”

  “And people are so much more interesting than, say, classification.”

  Her attempts to discredit her own intelligence failed miserably. He knew no women who had even a passing knowledge of classification. “I shall instruct your maid to gather up all your dresses, and we’ll have a mantua maker put them to rights.”

  “I shouldn’t want to be an expense on you.”

  “You came to my house with a perfectly serviceable wardrobe which was compromised under my roof. Whatever happens under my roof is my responsibility.”

  “Yes, my lord,” she said meekly. She went to get up.

  “Oblige me by wearing a pelisse or some such overgarment tomorrow when we travel to Greenwich.”

  “If the weather’s as dank as it is today, I daresay I’ll be wrapped in my heaviest wool cloak.”

  Good.

  Chapter 6

  “Do put that book down!” Maggie said to Rebecca as she closed her sister’s door and came to throw herself on Rebecca’s bed. “Your poor sister needs a sympathetic ear.”

  Rebecca shut her book and peered at Maggie through her spectacles. “You’re still upset over last night?”

  “Of course I’m upset over last night, but right now I’m even more upset over my idiotic practice of thinking aloud. In Lord Warwick’s presence.”

  “Oh, dear. You didn’t tell him he was built like a Greek god, did you?”

  “That would have been preferable to what I did babble.”

  A lively flash lit Rebecca’s eyes. “Pray, what did you babble?”

  “That his betrothed is horse faced!”

  Rebecca’s mouth dropped open. “What could have possessed you to say that?”

  “Don’t you remember me telling you his forthcoming marriage was likely arranged by their families years ago? That his affianced was probably some horse-faced peeress?”

  “Oh, dear. You didn’t say that in front of Lord Warwick?”

  Maggie sighed. “I did indeed.”

  Rebecca giggled. “What did his lordship say?”

  “He was outraged. He wanted to know why I would describe his lovely Fiona in such a manner. Then I’m afraid I really began to babble, and I’m sure he had no idea why I was trying to justify calling that blasted Fiona horse faced.”

  “I’ve told you a thousand times,” Rebecca scolded, “to think before you speak.”

  “Yes, but owing to the fact you’re seven years my junior, by the time you were able to coach me to mend my ways, I was much too set them in.”

  “If you could just speak more slowly. That would give you time to phrase your thoughts.”

  “That’s easy for you to say, you of little social intercourse.”

  Rebecca leaned back to one side of the window seat she had adopted as her prime reading ground. “Is Lord Warwick angry with you?”

  Maggie thought about it a moment. “Oddly, I don’t think he is.”

  “He was probably too distracted over your bosom.”

  A smile lifted the corners of Maggie’s lips. “Do you think so?”

  “I don’t mean good distracted. He most likely thought you deformed.”

  “Oh, I explained that to him.”

  “Surely you didn’t call his attention to your breasts!”

  “I couldn’t have him thinking I was deformed.”

  “I vow I could never discuss my breasts in the presence of a man.”

  “If you had breasts," Maggie mumbled. "After you’ve been married you can.”

  A deep blush settled into Rebecca’s cheeks.

  “He’s going to have a mantua maker repair all my gowns,” Maggie continued.

  “You’re not accepting more of Lord Warwick’s charity?”

  “I told him I did not wish to, but he said he’s responsible for anything that occurs under his roof.”

  “I suppose that does make sense. It wasn’t your fault a madman ruined all your clothing. Lord Warwick should have his house better guarded.”

  “Yes, but the intruder would not have done his nasty work had I not been here.”

  “It’s not your fault your husband was so vile a creature.”

  “Oh, pet,” Maggie said with a sigh, “I feel so wretched that my disastrous marriage--along with that man-hating Miss Broom--has soured you on men and on love. I could positively box that governess’s ears for scaring you away from men, telling you that all men want to steal your virtue. Not all men are vile, you know.” Lord Warwick could never be wicked. Maggie fleetingly thought of how kind and gentle he had been to her last night when she had been so horridly upset. And he had no desire to get beneath her skirts. He had told her so. Besides, she couldn’t imagine him doing something improper. She pictured his embarrassed face this morning when he had inadvertently mentioned her breasts.

  “I’m glad you’ve brought that up,” Rebecca said, “for I have quite decided that not all men are dastardly.”

  Maggie gave her sister an amused glance. “To what do we owe your change of heart?”

  Rebecca held her book to her breast, a dreamy look in her eyes. “To Mr. Darcy.”

  “Who is Mr. Darcy?”

  “The hero of Pride and Prejudice.”

  “I take it Pride and Prejudice is the name of the current tome?”

  “It’s not precisely a tome. It’s a novel. The most wonderful novel I’ve ever read, actually.”

  “That’s heady praise, indeed, given your vast reading experience. I shall have to read it when you finish.”

  “You may have it in the morning for I shan’t be able to sleep until I’ve read the last word.”

  “I do wish you wouldn’t read the night through. You’ll ruin your already-deficient eyes, and where would you be if you were blind?”

  “I should die if I couldn’t read,” Rebecca said in a mournful voice.

  Maggie sighed. “Don’t fret, pet. If you go blind I vow I’ll read to you.” She looked around the room. “Is Tubby here? I’ve looked everywhere for him.”

  “I haven’t seen him this morning. He’s probably hiding after being petrified last night.”

  “A pity he’s not a dog. If he were a dog, he could have attacked the wretched intruder.”

  Just to be sure the cat wasn’t in the room, Maggie looked under Rebecca’s bed, but he wasn’t there. “I shan’t
be able to read about your Mr. Darcy tomorrow for I’ll be going to Greenwich with his lordship,” Maggie said when she straightened up.

  Rebecca gaped at Maggie over the rims of her spectacles. “Unchaperoned?”

  “Now you sound like Miss Broom. I have no innocent reputation to protect. I’ve been a married woman.”

  “Think you Lord Warwick wishes to get beneath your skirts?”

  “Do quit talking like Miss Broom! I’m certain the only skirts Lord Warwick wishes to get beneath are Lady Fiona’s.” More’s the pity.

  “Then why does he wish to take you to Greenwich?”

  “Actually, he doesn’t wish to take me. I asked him to take me.”

  Rebecca pushed her spectacles back up to the bridge of her nose. “Why?”

  “Because The Scoundrel was in possession of a letter from a man in Greenwich--a letter that was stolen last night.”

  “I still don’t understand why you wish to go to Greenwich.”

  “I’m not precisely sure myself,” Maggie said, biting at her lip. “I only know that if I can talk to this man perhaps I can remember something The Scoundrel may have mentioned--something that might help Lord Warwick sort out why someone’s so mad to get ahold of The Scoundrel’s things.”

  “I don’t know which is worse. The Scoundrel’s propensity to cavort with lewd women--excluding yourself, of course--or his being a traitor to his country.”

  “Being a traitor, for certain! His betrayal cost many English lives. Besides, many worthy men, I am told, associate with prostitutes.”

  “Mr. Darcy wouldn’t.”

  Maggie found herself wondering if Lord Warwick would. He seemed much too straight-laced to sully himself with that sort of woman. But, of course, he was a man. Unsummoned, she pictured him as he had looked two nights ago, standing shirtless near the top of the stairs, his physique tall and athletic, his countenance reeking of power. The sudden vision of him lying against her naked flesh ignited a searing heat that rose up from her torso and settled in pebbles of perspiration on her brow. She was possessed of the oddest feeling that little puffs of clouds floated within her.

  She moved toward Rebecca’s door and spoke breathlessly. “I’ll see you at dinner.”

  “Be sure to drape a shawl around your bosom so that Lord Warwick doesn’t choke on his food while gaping at your breasts.”

  * * *

  Lord Warwick was not in good humor at dinner. “Madam,” he said to Maggie in a sharp tone as soon as she sat at his table, “can you tell me why that cat of yours has claimed my library as his . . . his throne room?”

  Maggie did not like anyone to malign her cat. Her spine went taut. “He has a name.”

  “Tubby,” Lord Warwick spat out. “Every piece of furniture designed for sitting in my library is covered with gray cat hair, and the beast has now claimed the windowsill beside my desk for his principal throne.”

  Maggie knotted the Kashmir shawl at her neck and spoke stiffly. “Tubby is not a beast.”

  “By some definitions,” Rebecca interjected, “cats most certainly are beasts.”

  “Thank you,” Edward said, nodding to Rebecca.

  Maggie’s eyes shot daggers at her sister. “Beast, you must admit, has decidedly negative connotations.”

  Rebecca shrugged.

  “I don’t need a lesson on word etymology,” Lord Warwick said. “I want to know why your . . . ahem, animal, chooses to spend his days lounging in my sacred library.”

  Maggie bristled. “Pardon me, my lord, I did not know your wretched library was sacred. Do you have a shrine there I perhaps neglected to see?”

  “You know what I mean!” he said in a harsh voice.

  “My lord,” Rebecca said calmly, “my sister is unusually sensitive to any censure of her cat.” She scowled at Maggie. “Her misplaced anger has overruled her deep indebtedness to you for your kind hospitality.”

  Of course her sister was right. “I’m sorry, my lord,” Maggie said meekly.

  “I daresay it’s not your fault that animal of yours has taken to destroying my library,” he conceded.

  Maggie’s eyes widened. “I assure you, my lord, that cat hair can easily be removed from your furnishings.”

  He stared down his aristocratic nose at her. “What about the torn draperies?”

  “What torn draperies?”

  “Your . . . Tubby took a running leap, launched himself on my silken draperies and attempted to climb them.”

  “Oh, dear,” Maggie said, then she stiffened and glared at him. “I shall see to it that my maid repairs the damage tomorrow.”

  To which Lord Warwick burst out laughing.

  When Maggie realized what the draperies would look like if Sarah attempted the repair, she too began to laugh.

  Then Rebecca joined in.

  The rest of the dinner went more smoothly than the beginning. They spoke amiably. He told them the vouchers had come for Almack’s but because of his fears for Maggie’s safety they would wait until next week to attend. He explained the strict decorum that was observed at Almack’s. He and Rebecca discussed her favorite authors and he told the ladies they had barely escaped one of the coldest Januaries Londoners had ever experienced.

  “Then I am most happy we did not come in January,” Maggie said, “for February is quite cold enough for me.”

  When they were finished eating, Lord Warwick asked the ladies to join him in a card game. “Or do you not play cards, Miss Peabody?”

  “Despite what my sister says, I do have other interests besides reading, but as it happens tonight I shall have to bow out.”

  “You will see that my sister has brought The Current Book to the dinner table,” Maggie said. “She tells me she won’t sleep tonight until she’s completed it.”

  “Pray, what is the name of the book that demands such attention?” he asked.

  “Pride and Prejudice,” Rebecca answered.

  He nodded. “By A Lady. An excellent book.” Lord Warwick rose from the table and eyed Maggie. “I hope you will do me the goodness of playing backgammon or chess with me, madam.”

  “I dislike backgammon,” Maggie said, setting her hand on his proffered arm. “I dislike all games whose outcome is ruled only by chance.”

  “Then we are in agreement on something,” he said, steering her toward the saloon. “I daresay your opinions are not shared by others of your sex. It’s been my observation that most women dislike chess.” He looked over his shoulder at Rebecca, who followed behind them, her nose in the book.

  In the saloon, Rebecca and her book plopped on the sofa while Maggie sat at the game table where Lord Warwick was setting up the chess pieces.

  Out of the corner of her eye Maggie saw Tubby come waddling into the room on soft paws. He walked around the room, investigating its every nook and came to leap on the silken sofa where Rebecca sat with the book on her lap. Tubby proceeded to try to sit on the open pages of the book.

  Rebecca tossed him on the carpet. “You really are the most maddening creature.”

  Lord Warwick whirled around. When he saw Tubby, his eyes narrowed, an act that did not escape Maggie’s notice.

  “Does my cat’s presence in your sacred saloon offend you, my lord?”

  “The saloon is not my sacred chamber. My library is. And, no, your cat’s presence does not offend me so long as he keeps his distance.”

  Once he had the board set up they began to play. At first they both were intent upon the game, but as Maggie sat there watching his brooding face, something touched her heart. He might dislike having her and Rebecca--and Tubby--under his roof, but he was being quite a gentleman about the whole thing. She felt guilty that Lord Warwick must share so dull an evening with a woman he could barely tolerate when he would most likely prefer to be at his club with other young bucks. The man’s immunity to her charms was really most vexing, and it was all because of Lady Fiona--a woman Maggie was envying more with each passing hour.

  “My lord?” she said.
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  His amber eyes locked with hers.

  “I’m really very sorry that Tubby has so vexed you. I’ll see that he stays out of your library.” It was the least she could do since he had been so kind to them.

  “Now you’re making me feel like an ogre.”

  “You’re not an ogre,” she said in a whispery voice. “You’re . . ." She did not finish.

  His glance trailed from her face to her bosom, which was thankfully covered by the shawl. He swallowed, then moved his pawn.

  She admired his play and knew she was outmatched though she managed to hold her own. After two and a half hours Lord Warwick realized they would be unable to finish the game that night. “We need to rise early,” he said, “if we’re to go to Greenwich. I suggest we resume play another night.”

  His eyes, indeed his whole face, looked tired. “Yes, my lord, I think we both could benefit from a good night’s sleep.”

  They rose from the table, and Maggie called for Rebecca to come to bed. Lord Warwick offered his arm to Maggie as they began to mount the stairs, Rebecca behind them. “Your sister never stumbles while walking and reading at the same time?” he asked Maggie.

  Maggie turned around and saw Rebecca’s bent head scanning the pages of the book she held with both hands. “I beg that you don’t read while climbing stairs! You’ll---”

  “Break into a thousand pieces,” Rebecca finished, closing her book, holding her place with a thumb.

  As they neared the top of the stairs, he said, “I wish to compliment you on your play.”

  “Thank you, my lord. Unfortunately, you are even better.”

  “The game’s outcome is still unknown.” They exchanged goodnights as Rebecca entered her chamber.

  They nodded to the footman who guarded Maggie’s door, then she lifted her face to Lord Warwick. “I do hope you finally get a good night’s sleep, my lord.”

  “We shall both need it, for tomorrow’s journey will be most tiring.” Even his voice sounded weary, she noted as her gaze whisked over the fine lines that crinkled around his eyes.

  In her room Tubby, his feet daintily tucked beneath him, sat in the middle of her bed grooming himself. “You naughty boy,” she scolded as she went to undress. She put on her nightshift and came to remove the cat from her bed in order to pull back the coverings. Then she held the cat close and kissed the padded back of his neck. “Come on, Fur Ball, let us sleep,” she said as she extinguished the candle and laid down. Tubby put his head on the pillow beside hers.