Counterfeit Countess: Brazen Brides, Book 1

by Cheryl Bolen

  “I think no such thing, Miss Peabody.”

  Rebecca folded back a corner of the page she was reading, closed her book, and faced Maggie. “What should you like to talk about?”

  Maggie bit at her lip for a moment. “The gentlemen at Almack’s. Which of them did you find the most agreeable?”

  “I think,” Rebecca said after a moment of reflection, “the gentleman who was taking religious orders after studying at Oxford.”

  “Who was that?” Lord Warwick asked.

  Rebecca shrugged. “I was inundated with so many new names that night, I can’t remember any of them.” She thought for a moment, then added. “He wasn’t a lord. I’m sure of that.”

  “Then you share your sister’s disdain for aristocrats?” his lordship asked. “You are aware that she turned down a marriage offer from Lord Aynsley?”

  “I had forgotten,” Rebecca said, “but now that you mention it, I seem to recall something to that effect.”

  “You, Becky, are a most singular creature, indeed!” Maggie said. “Any other girl your age would be up to her ears in the latest on-dits regarding amorous affairs.”

  “I find amorous affairs tediously dull,” Rebecca said.

  Maggie began to giggle, her glance shooting to Lord Warwick. “I daresay her tune will change in a year or so.”

  She allowed herself to look into his face, to see the dark line of stubble on his jaw, the sensual curve of his mouth, the firelight glancing off his warm amber eyes as they met hers. She remembered the whisper of his hands gliding along her naked skin, delighting every nerve in her body, and the very memory created a deep, molten ache. She must think of something else! “A pity none of those young men will find you when they come calling at Warwick House,” Maggie said.

  “Even more men will be disappointed not to find you there,” Rebecca said.

  Lord Warwick gave Maggie an icy glare. “Save your feigned humility, Maggie. I’m aware that you’re aware of your effect on men.”

  Maggie effected a look of outrage. “I’m aware of no such thing, you odious man!”

  Even after their dishes were cleared away Maggie had no desire to go to her lonely bedchamber. Rebecca would only bury her face in that blasted book. Besides, it was not yet seven. Entirely too early for bed.

  “Now that I’ve been an agreeable conversationalist at the dinner table,” Rebecca said, “do I have your permission to retire to our room?”

  “We don’t mind if you read here,” Lord Warwick said.

  Rebecca directed a puzzled glance at him. “Why would I wish to read here when I could cozy up in my quiet bedchamber with my book?”

  “Point well taken,” he said.

  Maggie frowned. “I’ll be up as soon as I dress his lordship’s wounds.”

  Before he could protest, Rebecca swung around to face her sister, a look of bewilderment on her face. “You cannot go to his lordship’s bedchamber without a chaperone! Miss Broom says even the finest of gentlemen turn into lechers when permitted to be alone with a lady.” She nodded to Lord Warwick. “No offense intended, my lord, but you are a man. An unmarried man--though Miss Broom says---”

  “We don’t need to hear what that sanctimonious Miss Broom has been filling your head with,” Maggie said. “Miss Broom was my sister’s governess,” she explained apologetically to Lord Warwick.

  Rebecca stomped her foot and sturdied her slim shoulders. “I shall accompany you to his lordship’s chambers.”

  Maggie put hands to her hips and scowled at her younger sister. “You’ll do no such thing! Have you ever seen a man without his shirt?”

  "As a matter of fact I have!"

  Maggie's brows lowered.

  "I believe that was me," Lord Warwick said.

  Maggie whirled at him.

  "The night we met," he explained.

  "Oh, that." Directing her gaze at Rebecca, Maggie said, "That doesn't count. You are not to see a man's bare chest again until you’re married. I, on the other hand, have been married. It’s permissible for me to see a man without his shirt--and I’m perfectly comfortable in the knowledge that Lord Warwick is a gentleman who will not try to take liberties.”

  Rebecca’s gaze shifted from Maggie to his lordship. “Miss Broom says all men will try to get beneath your skirts.”

  Maggie scowled at her sister. “We don’t wish to hear any more of what Miss Broom says. Run along. My virtue--if I still have any--will remain intact with Lord Warwick.” Tonight at least. She could hardly tell her sister she had already lost her virtue to the sinfully handsome lord.

  “I pledge to you it will,” Lord Warwick said to Rebecca, “though I’d as lief talk your sister out of this ridiculous scheme of doctoring me. I’m perfectly fine.”

  “You’re not perfectly fine!” Maggie countered. “The mobility in your arm, I’ve noticed, is more restricted today than it was yesterday. Can you deny it?”

  He shook his head in resignation.

  So the three of them mounted the dark, narrow staircase together, its boards creaking under their weight. Maggie dashed into the chamber she shared with her sister to fetch her medicinals and some fine linen for a bandage--items she never traveled without--then continued on to his lordship’s chamber at the other end of the hallway.

  * * *

  Inside his room Maggie adopted an authoritarian air. “You will need to strip bare to the waist, my lord.” Moving to him, she added, “I’ll help with the left sleeve for I know how difficult it’s become for you to move that arm.”

  Did nothing escape the maddening wench’s eagle eye? “You take entirely too careful notice of me,” he grumbled.

  She stopped in mid stride, her brows lowering. “Have you any laudanum?”

  “Never take the stuff. Too damned addictive.”

  “Perhaps I’d better fetch some brandy, then,” she said, turning to go back downstairs.

  “I’m perfectly capable of getting brandy myself!”

  “I never said that you weren’t,” she said calmly as she left the room.

  She returned a moment later with a bottle of brandy and two glasses.

  “Why two glasses?” he asked.

  “Because that’s what I was given. Besides,” she added with a pout, “I believe I’ll partake of a glass with you.”

  “Then I suggest we drink before I disrobe--to give the brandy time to dull my senses.”

  “A very good idea,” she said, opening the bottle and pouring the dark liquid into the glasses.

  Edward went to scoot a chair in front of the fire, but she stopped him.

  “I’ll do that! You must take care with that arm. It will never heal if you don’t rest it.” She proceeded to scoot the room’s two wooden chairs to face the hearth, then she handed him his brandy and they sat down.

  He watched her from over the rim of his glass as her nose scrunched up when she drank the foul-tasting brandy. “Nasty stuff, is it not?” he asked.

  “Not if it’s used to remove paint!”

  He realized he was chuckling again. He had grown entirely too comfortable with the vixen. The sooner they reached Windmere Abbey, the better. One look at his fair Fiona should purge Maggie from his mind.

  Wouldn’t it?

  “They must have stilled the brandy themselves,” she said.

  He took another swig and grimaced. “I would suggest they stick with innkeeping.” His gaze circled the spotless room. Judging from the low, timbered ceilings, he would guess the inn dated to the Elizabethan period, an architectural style he found masculine yet cozy. “Not a bad inn, and the food was excellent.”

  Now she laughed. Her eyes sparkled. Her cheeks dimpled. Her even, stunningly white teeth nipped at her sensuous lower lip. And he thought he had never seen anything more exquisite. His breath caught. Just once he had beheld an even more exquisite creature. That day in Greenwich when his eyes had hungrily raked over the bare flesh of her silken body.

  “You'd say that,” she said, mirth in her voice, “ha
d you been served a stewed shoe, you were so ravenously hungry.”

  He gave a mock frown. “Woman, thou knowest me too well.” He settled back and watched as she sipped the potent potable.

  “Think you this . . . so-called brandy is exceedingly strong?” she asked.

  Already her words were not as crisp as normal. “Me thinks so.”

  “Then this is my last. I must not jeopardize my patient.”

  “I am not your patient! And where, pray tell, did you acquire this purported expertise in treating wounded men?”

  “Not just men. Women and children, too. I learned from my mother. She tended to all our tenants. With successful results. When she died I found the journal where she logged her remedies and patient histories and decided to take up her work.”

  “How old were you?”

  “Thirteen. Now, eleven years later, I no longer have to consult my mother’s log book.” She tapped her temple. “It’s all up here.”

  He could see there was no stopping her. “How fortunate for me,” he said dryly.

  She took one final sip, then faced him. “You might as well take off your clothes now. Not your pantaloons, though.” She giggled. “Since there are no thunderstorms tonight, you can be assured I’ll not be begging you to make love to me.”

  He wanted to ask her if it was only the thunderstorms that had cast her into his arms, but he would not allow himself to do so. Better to let sleeping dogs lie. In a couple of days he would be with Fiona, and Maggie and one searing afternoon in a Greenwich inn would be only a distant memory, albeit a memory he would never forget.

  He got up and went to remove his coat, but Maggie leaped to her feet. “Allow me to help.”

  As she helped him out of his coat, then his shirt, he stood frowning. One look at his swollen and reddened festering bruise and she winced. “Oh my lord! We should have attended this right away. I believe it’s become infected.”

  With a gentle touch of her hand against his chest, she eased him back to the chair.

  “I’ll just bring the candle closer,” she said, “so that I can get a better look.”

  She held the candle up to study the wound, her breasts even with his eyes, her sweet rose scent at once transporting him back to that glorious afternoon in Greenwich. He forced his gaze away and availed himself of the opportunity to look at his wound. Damned if he knew how it had gotten there, but there it was, running along his upper arm, the size of small potato now. It hadn’t been that big last night. Nor had it been such a disgusting yellow in color.

  “It’s a very good thing I’ve brought a decoction of pimpernel,” she said as she asked him to hold the candle. Then she opened a jar and poured the concoction on a piece of clean linen which she pressed to the wound. Edward cursed as pain shot through him.

  “I’m so very sorry, my lord,” she said softly, “but you will have to be still. I promise I’ll finish quickly.”

  He turned his head away, wincing as she probed the bloody gash.

  After a minute, she set her concoction upon the chair next to him, then poured him another glass of brandy--or what passed for brandy at this inn. “Here, drink,” she said. “Perhaps it will help dull the pain.”

  He gulped down the whole glass. “Are you quite finished, madam?”

  “All except for bandaging.” She tore more of the linen into narrow strips, then began to wrap them around his arm.

  “Not too tight!” he warned.

  “I’ll be most careful,” she assured.

  “We’ll need to re-dress the wound every day,” she told him when she finished.

  How was he to be this close to her--in a bedchamber, no less--and resist the urge to carry her to his bed and make love to her for the rest of the night? He would have to be possessed of the temperance of a monk. Which he most definitely was not. He shut his eyes. No more nights like this. “Now that I’ve watched you, I believe I’ll be able to tend to the wound myself tomorrow.”

  “Oh, I don’t mind doing it at all. I’m not squeamish like poor Rebecca.” She gathered up her supplies, then turned to him. “Will you be able to undress by yourself?”

  “I most certainly will,” he said through gritted teeth.

  “Then I bid you a goodnight. Perhaps a good night’s sleep will promote recovery, my lord.”

  After she had gone he stripped off his pantaloons, cursing her. It bloody well did hurt to use that damned arm, but he would not have her undress him.

  He collapsed onto his bed, went promptly to sleep, and dreamed of Maggie stripping away his garments one by one.

  Chapter 19

  “I daresay being jostled in a coach is the worst possible thing for your arm,” Maggie said to him the following day as they continued north, staring at one another across the heaving carriage.

  “Horseback riding, I believe, is worse,” he said.

  Rebecca offered her opinion. “I should think swinging an ax would be the worst.”

  “But earls don’t swing axes,” Maggie pointed out. “I would imagine Lord Warwick’s never swung an ax in his entire life.” Then she remembered what Lord Carrington said about Lord Warwick not really being a lord. She did wish she had thought to ask what Lord Warwick’s real name was.

  “Can’t say that I have,” he said.

  As Maggie watched the stiff manner he held his arm, her face softened. “Any more bleeding?”

  He shrugged. “Enough to dampen your handiwork.”

  She had really been quite distressed over his wound. It bore too close a resemblance to their Virginia neighbor, Mr. Heart, who had been cut down when he was but twenty-five. And all because gangrene had set into his knee after it had become scuffed during a fall from his horse! His blood stream had carried the infection to his whole body, and he was dead within a week.

  But, of course, she would not tell Lord Warwick about Mr. Heart.

  “Perhaps it will need dressing twice a day,” she said.

  He frowned. “It would only bleed more--from the jostling. We can wait until tonight.”

  “Where do we stop tonight?” Rebecca asked.

  Lord Warwick pulled out his map and began to study it. Maggie had grown to hate the wretched piece of paper for stealing so much of his lordship’s time. Truth be told, she had grown to hate the tediousness of being crammed into a carriage for twelve hours a day with nothing to do and little conversation--due to the wretched map claiming his attention. The first day of the journey she had finished reading Pride and Prejudice, but felt especially guilty that she could sit there and partake of her sister’s favorite activity with not the slightest bit of nausea. Not that she wished to be nauseated, of course.

  Nor did she precisely wish to arrive at Windmere Abbey. If she never met Fiona Hollingsworth, it would be too soon. But each time she would think so wickedly of the lady, Maggie would suffer remorse. If Lord Warwick held his Fiona in such high esteem the lady must be possessed of many fine attributes.

  So Maggie would settle back against the squabs and sigh. What was needed was something to break the tedium. She remembered the night before when he had expressed an interest in taking a walk. Perhaps they could stop and take a walk. “My lord?”

  He looked up from the map, a single brow arched.

  “If the weather stays fair and if we make good time, could we not stop this afternoon to stretch our legs and perhaps eat picnic style?”

  “And I could read while you two walk,” Rebecca added brightly.

  “If the weather stays fair,” he said in a stern voice, “and if there are no impediments to our progress, we might be able to steal a half hour or so.”

  Maggie smiled and flicked the curtain from her window in order to study the clouds. How was one to know cumulus from cirrus? Not that she believed in his lordship’s foolish nonsense about the clouds predicting the weather.

  He watched her, a lopsided grin on his face. “Would you be studying the clouds?”

  “I would if I knew what I was doing.”

 
He set down the map and peered out his window. “Those are cumulus clouds. See, they’re lower in the sky and plump. Their stark whiteness today tells me they bring no rain.”

  She nodded earnestly. “So if they’re plump, there’s no rain?”

  “I didn’t say that! Rain does come from plump clouds--just not starkly white ones.”

  Now Rebecca got into the discussion, lifting her curtain and staring at the clouds. “But, my lord, if you will but look to the west, the clouds there aren’t so white.”

  He grimaced and spoke with only barely controlled anger. “I cannot see to the west from my window.”

  Oh dear, he was getting grumpy again. Maggie ruffled through the basket and pulled out a chunk of freshly churned cheese. “Here, your lordship, eat.”

  “What makes you think I want cheese?” he demanded.

  “I can always tell when you start getting hungry. You become a bear.”

  “I do not become a bear!”

  “My sister’s right, your lordship,” Rebecca confirmed.

  His narrow-eyed gaze shifted to Rebecca, then he snatched the cheese from Maggie’s hand.

  * * *

  An hour later the carriage chugged up a hill, then rounded its smooth crest, causing Edward to lift the curtain and survey the sleepy little valley below that was dimpled with a deep blue lake. “We’ll eat beside the water,” he announced.

  A few minutes afterward Edward strapped on the sword that rested against Maggie's seat, and they embarked from the coach to discover they were the valley’s only occupants--save for a couple of hundred exceedingly lazy cows. Maggie busied herself spreading the food upon one of the rugs while Miss Peabody commissioned the other rug and promptly sat down with her book.

  “If you would like, your lordship,” Maggie said, “we could nibble while we walk.”

  The cursed woman was beginning to read his very thoughts! He nodded as he bent to scoop up some cold mutton and bread.

  But just as he and Maggie were about to begin their walk, Miss Peabody looked up from that damned book of hers, her bespectacled eyes narrowing. “If his lordship should attempt to take liberties with your person, you’ve only to scream. I’ll come to your rescue.” Then that veracious Miss Peabody flicked her gaze to him and had the audacity to say, “No personal offense intended, my lord, but your gender does not speak well to your trustworthiness. Miss Broom says all men turn into animals when permitted to be alone with a lady.”