Counterfeit Countess: Brazen Brides, Book 1

by Cheryl Bolen

  To give her her due, the woman had not actually tried to ensnare his affections. Not that she had ensnared his affections, of course. In fact, the maddening woman did not even want his affections. He would vow she had not knowingly stirred his lust. Which she most certainly had done and continued doing at this very moment. It wasn’t her fault she was so deuced beautiful. Nor was it her fault thunderstorms reduced her to an amorous heap of raw emotions. He would endeavor to get through the rest of the night without allowing himself to drink in her beauty. Or remember the feel of her beneath him.

  A pity he could not play chess blindfolded.

  Maggie made the first move in the game; his followed quickly. “Who taught you to play?” he asked.

  “My father. He must have had the patience of a saint for I was but eight years old when we started.”

  “Your early start explains why you’re so good.”

  She smiled up at him. “Do you really think so? Or am I only good for a woman?”

  She had him there. “I’ve played with but a few men who were better than you. Your play is vastly superior to any woman I’ve ever known.”

  She quickly moved again, and he countered. “What of your brother? Did your father play chess with him also?”

  “I suppose Papa and James must have played chess when James was younger, but my brother was a grown man when I was born. We had never lived under the same roof until last year.”

  She must have been desperate to get away from Henshaw if she had to beggar herself to that insensitive brother of hers. Damn Henshaw.

  Edward found himself wondering about her relationship with the charlatan she had married. “Did you play chess with your husband?”

  Her spine went ramrod straight. “A few times.”

  “And was he a worthy opponent?”

  She gave a bitter laugh. “It was my opinion that The Scoundrel was far too impatient a person to develop any kind of skill at any kind of endeavor.” Her gaze dropped to the board and she murmured, “Would that I'd the good sense to have played chess with the man before marrying him.”

  “If it’s any consolation,” he said in a low voice, “I was fooled by him, too. I spent a good bit of time with him and found him the jolliest of fellows.”

  “That would be Lawrence,” she said with a frown of disgust. “Always living for a lark. I daresay that’s why chess bored him so much. His life was nothing but the pursuit of fun. A pity his idea of fun centered around liquor and lewd women.”

  Edward coughed. Lewd women was definitely not a topic he wished to touch. Especially since it would do nothing to reduce the throbbing between his legs. “That’s the Lawrence Henshaw I knew.”

  The more Edward was with Maggie, the more certain he was that she could not be feigning such intense dislike of Henshaw. Edward would wager his estates that she had been completely duped by her scoundrel husband, and he planned to convey his opinions to Lord Carrington at the earliest opportunity.

  “Please, can we speak of something else?” she asked. “Anything else.”

  His glance jerked away from those huge, solemn eyes. He wished to comply with her request at the same time he wished to learn more about the early affection in her marriage. “As you wish, madam.”

  His gaze flicked to Miss Peabody, who sat twenty feet away, reading beside a brace of candles. He could not look at the young lady and not be struck over how closely she resembled Maggie, yet her beauty in no way compared to her sister’s--even if she were to remove those spectacles she always wore. The deep brown of their hair and eyes was identical, as was the creaminess of their complexion. Both were fine boned and graceful. Perhaps it was Miss Peabody’s absence of breasts--or absence of sizeable breasts--that made Miss Peabody less attractive. Where Maggie’s breasts were the size of generous apples (he tried desperately NOT to picture them), her sister’s compared only to walnuts. His glance leaped to Maggie’s lily bosom before he forced his gaze back to the chessboard, wishing for a blindfold.

  “And who taught you to play, my lord?”

  He did not trust himself to look at her. There was something utterly seductive about the way the candlelight played on that incredible face, in the way it cast deep shadows beneath those extraordinary lashes. “Actually, my elder brother,” he said before thinking.

  She went silent for a moment. “Pray, how is it you succeeded the earldom if you have an elder brother?”

  He stiffened. The air seemed to swish from his lungs. He fleetingly thought of her comfits and vowed to carefully form his response before replying. “My brother is dead,” he said gravely.

  “I’m very sorry for you, then,” she said in a kindly voice, “for I perceive that you were close.”

  He winced. “Yes.”

  “How old was your brother when he died?” she asked, her brow pleating, her voice as soft as a feather’s touch.

  He waited a moment before replying. “Quite young.” Let her drop it at that.

  She flicked him a querying glance but made no further comment. A few minutes later she asked if he had any sisters.

  “None.”

  “That explains it.”

  Knight in hand, he looked up at her. “That explains what?”

  “Your aversion to having females underfoot. I daresay you would not be nearly so vexed with Rebecca and I were you used to having sisters.”

  In his wildest imaginings he could not picture Maggie as a sister. “I don’t believe I ever said your presence vexed me.”

  “No, not in so many words.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Forgive me,” she said. “I had no right to say that.”

  He saw that she eyed the tin of comfits that rested on the table.

  “You’ve been exceedingly well mannered,” she added.

  Because he had the decency to offer for her after losing himself in her arms . . . and body? “I’m sorry if I’ve been discourteous to you in any way.”

  She laughed.

  What was so deuced funny?

  “I daresay it’s my cat who vexes you,” she said, “and I’m heartily sorry for that, my lord. I shall endeavor to keep Tubby out of your sanctuary, or should I say your shrine?” She met his gaze with laughing eyes, and he was powerless not to laugh with her.

  Even when that blasted Tubby came rubbing up against his ankles, he refrained from complaint.

  “Should you like me to remove Tubby from the room?” she asked.

  “Only if he’s stupid enough to get on my lap.”

  Miss Peabody put down her book and called to the animal. He did not come at first, but after realizing he was getting no attention from Edward, Tubby waddled over to Miss Peabody and climbed onto her lap. The chit actually seemed to enjoy petting the creature.

  Edward returned his attention to the game, not that the game garnered his full attention when Maggie herself was such a distraction.

  After they had been playing for an hour and a half, he realized he was enjoying himself. Really enjoying himself. Not only did he relish a challenging game with an intelligent opponent, but he realized he was growing comfortable with Maggie. Like with a sister. But altogether different.

  After the second hour Maggie started to yawn, and he could see the impossibility of finishing the game that night. “You did not sleep well last night, did you?”

  “How did you know?”

  “You’re yawning.”

  She shrugged. “It’s difficult to fall asleep when I feel as if I’ve the woes of the world on my shoulders--even though I know my worries are quite trivial compared to so many other less fortunates.”

  He'd had a deuce of time sleeping himself when he kept remembering the feel of her, the scent of her, and was almost overpowered by an unquenchable longing for her. He felt wretchedly guilty, too, that his shameful actions had most probably prevented her from sleeping. “What woes rob you of sleep?”

  “The necessity of finding a husband, the fear of the work house--or poor house, being f
orced to leave Rebecca.” Her solemn gaze met his.

  He swallowed hard. “I would be most happy, in light of a certain recent occurrence, to wed you myself.” He spoke in a low voice so Miss Peabody would not hear.

  “That’s very kind of you, but I have no wish to be your wife.”

  But because of her pressing circumstances she would jump into marriage with another man--a man who would not value her as he did? His heart constricted. “Oblige me by not rushing into marriage with a man who’s not worthy of you.” Neither Harry Lyle nor Lord Aynsley would do. “I’m a wealthy man. I’ll see to your needs until such time as you do find a worthy husband. No strings attached.”

  The soulful look she gave him wrenched at his heart. “Do you know,” she asked, “how difficult it is for me to accept your charity? Especially when I have no hope of repaying you?”

  “It’s no more difficult than having to remove to your brother’s, and I assure you I’m much more sympathetic to your failed marriage than he was.” He could see from her somber reaction that his words had not quelled her anxieties. “And I do wish you’d quit thanking me and apologizing to me. I’ve done nothing to merit your gratitude. You’re a guest at my house because my suspicious superior ordered me to keep an eye on you.” God’s tits! He hadn’t meant to tell her that. If she were a pawn in some traitorous scheme--which he was convinced she was not--what he had just told her amounted to treason. In his ten years with the Foreign Office, he had never once betrayed a professional confidence. Until now. Until Maggie had invaded his domain. And his dreams. And his every waking thought.

  He saw the look of contempt on her face. “So it seems it’s Lord Carrington to whom I owe my thanks. For thinking me a spy to my parents’ mother country,” she said bitterly, stumbling to her feet and rushing from the room.

  Chapter 14

  In the days that followed Maggie confined herself to her own or her sister’s chambers. She had no wish to either see Lord Warwick or to speak to him. The only time she came downstairs was to greet her callers: Mr. Lyle, Mr. Cook, Lord Aynsley, and Lord Carrington, all of whom continued to permeate the house with the scent of more flowers. The meals that she scarcely touched were taken in her private chambers.

  With one simple statement Lord Warwick had pulled the carpet from under her, showing her how glaringly she had misjudged him. She was furious with herself for the way she had so persistently praised him for his kindness to her. Kindness indeed! What a fool she had been. Her initial instinct that her presence was repugnant to him had been confirmed. The only reason he allowed her to be a guest in his home was because he had been ordered to do so.

  To compound her disillusionment, she was outraged that both Lord Warwick and Lord Carrington suspected her of so odious an offense as spying.

  In those first hours of humiliating disappointment, she had vowed to leave his lordship’s house immediately. And if she had only herself to consider, she would have left that very night. But it would not be fair to Rebecca to deprive her of food and a warm bed in exchange for . . . a life on the streets, hungry and cold and so desperate for a livelihood that she might be forced to . . . It was unthinkable.

  So, with a heavy heart and grim determination, she vowed to pledge herself to one of the men vying for her affections. She desperately needed to be free of the odious Lord Warwick. Even if it meant marrying where there was no love. At least the men who were her suitors were good men. Except for Lord Carrington, whose only interest in her was that he thought her a spy.

  But which of the others would she choose? It was easier to eliminate; so, she eliminated Mr. Cook by informing him that she had formed an attachment to someone else. But choosing between Lord Aynsley and Mr. Lyle was six of one and a half dozen of the other.

  During the hours she sat at her desk in the countess’s study, she drew up lists comparing the two men’s assets and detractions. Both men were amiable. Both men were gentlemen, though Lord Aynsley’s title gave him the edge there. Both men were fine looking. She had paused and pictured each man in her mind’s eye. Then in the column of attributes beside Mr. Lyle’s name, she credited him with being the better looking. After all, he was ten years Lord Aynsley’s junior. And he was taller. There was something about his lanky form she found most attractive. Mr. Lyle also got credit for being the more youthful. That Lord Aynsley was fifteen years older than she posed the distinct possibility that she could be widowed (again) at an early age, and she wouldn’t like that. Lord Aynsley, however, was wealthier than Mr. Lyle. Another plus in his column.

  When it came to the detractions column, she listed his lordship’s age. She fleetingly thought of the seven motherless children. While some women might see that as a distraction, Maggie did not. Nurturing them oddly tugged at her heart, and she could not deny that her organizational skills would be put to use running so vibrant a household.

  In the end, she did not score his lordship’s children in either the attributes or the detractions column.

  She did score Mr. Lyle down for his lack of wealth (which Lord Warwick had quickly pointed out to her early in their acquaintance), but she credited Mr. Lyle for his intelligence. Not that Lord Aynsley was not intelligent. It was just that Mr. Lyle was possessed of a quicker wit and a broader scope of interests. Lord Aynsley was too stodgy for her personal tastes.

  Lord Aynsley was marked down for his idleness, even though she knew most men of his class were idle. She liked that Mr. Lyle was conscientious in his work at the Foreign Office.

  His poor lordship was also marked down for his lack of humor. In comparison to Mr. Lyle, Lord Aynsley’s personality was sadly flat.

  Another mark on the detractions column went to Lord Aynsley for his meekness. She did not at all like meek men. She smiled when she remembered how Mr. Lyle never failed to stand up to the smug Lord Warwick. Damn his lordship!

  It would be nice to be married to one who valued you. Lord Aynsley valued her principally to raise his children. Mr. Lyle, on the other hand, wanted her for herself.

  When she finished, she realized if she had to spend the rest of her life with one of the men, it must be with Mr. Lyle. She might even be able to grow to love him. In time.

  Now all she lacked was his offer.

  * * *

  Lord Aynsley’s offer came first. She suspected he had been wanting to offer for several days but was unable to do so because every time he came to Warwick House, Mr. Lyle was there.

  On the day of Lord Aynsley’s offer he came earlier and did nothing to hide his glee that Mr. Lyle was not there. His gaze flicked to Rebecca, who sat reading by the window of the saloon. “If I might have a private word with you, my lady,” he said to Maggie.

  Her breath grew ragged and she began to tremble. She tentatively thought of denying his request in order to spare herself from the onerous duty of turning him down. Instead she said, “Shall we go out in the garden, my lord?”

  After she donned a pelisse, the two proceeded to enter the walled garden behind Warwick House. Despite the cold, the sun shone. Her heart pounding, she bent down to scoop up a feather and began to twirl it in her gloved hands.

  “You must be wondering why I wished to speak privately to you, my lady,” he began.

  Her gaze lifted from the feather to his fine gray eyes. “If you wish to offer for me, my lord, I must tell you my affections are engaged elsewhere.”

  His face fell, all hope that had been in his eyes a moment ago gone, his brows forming a deep V. “Lyle?”

  She nodded gravely.

  His lips thinned. “He has no fortune, you know?”

  “I hope I’m not so shallow that a fortune would be a man’s main attraction.” She lifted her gaze to him. “I’m extremely flattered over your interest in me. You’re a very fine man, and I sincerely hope you find a woman who will return your regard in a way I cannot.” Maggie was exceedingly sorry she had ever led him on, exceedingly low that she had to reject so worthy a suitor.

  “Has Lyle offered for you?�
�

  “No,” she whispered.

  “He will.” Then Lord Aynsley took his leave of her.

  * * *

  Edward rued the night that maddening woman had invaded his home. Had someone told him a week ago he would betray his duties in a fit of babbling anger he would never have believed it. But that’s just what he had done. That night he had told her the true reason he allowed her to stay, Edward had despised himself afterward. If she were involved in some evil plot, he had just foiled any chance they had of entrapping her. But after he’d had a couple of days to ponder his treachery, he realized his betrayal could do no real harm. It would only make her--and her possible accomplices’-- work harder for they would loose their foothold in the enemy camp.

  Then there was the matter of her silly obtuseness in evading any possible contact with him. He may have told her he had not wanted her, but that same night he had also told her she could stay as long as she needed, for he had no wish for her to enter into another bad marriage. Quite a concession on his part, he thought, considering dear Fiona.

  As angry as he was over Maggie’s avoidance of him, he could not blame her. That she was proud, he did not doubt; that he had humiliated her, he was certain.

  He consoled himself her estrangement was a good thing. Not being exposed to her disquieting charms was a good thing. He had not dreamt of her last night. Which was a good thing. He had grown to hate himself for his weakness in desiring her. Now he could redirect all those lusty thoughts to the woman who would share his bed for the rest of his life, his dearest Fiona.

  Why, then, he asked himself, was he so bloody low? Why did he feel as if he were the bloodiest, lowest creature on earth? Of course, he had betrayed Fiona. Even if Fiona never learned of it, he would know. Not only that, he had taken advantage of Maggie’s fragile emotional state.