Romancing the Countess

Leah knelt and gathered the letters strewn across the floor. She envied Wriothesly the ability to walk away without reading them. If only she possessed such strength. As soon as she’d found them tucked away with Ian’s pocket watches and cravat pins, they’d called to her, tempting her even though she knew the contents might shatter her heart again.

She sat on the edge of the bed, the pink ribbon and locket strung through the fingers of one hand and the letters clasped in the palm of the other. There were eleven letters. She’d counted them, over and over, reasoning with herself on why she shouldn’t read them.

It was done with, after all. Ian and Angela were dead, the affair ended. There would be no more nights listening for him to come home, no more attempts to empty her mind as he touched her and filled her body, no more weeks passing by in strained silence as they waited for the absence of her courses. What benefit was there in reading the letters? Surely they held only reminders of her heartbreak and disillusionment. Did she wish to wallow yet again in her own ignorance and foolishness?

Leah lifted her head and stared at the opposite wall with its blue flower script and yellow trim. She looked at the beige and gold Savonnerie rug, the rosewood chairs upholstered in damask jacquard. How she hated this room, and everything she’d done within its confines. Even with a low fire burning in the middle of summer, the air was cold. Images from the past haunted her, from their first four blissful months of marriage.

And here, on this bed, after she’d discovered Ian and Angela together. For months she’d lain beneath him, trying to ignore the sensations created by his hands and mouth. She’d bitten her lip until it bled to suppress the moans that rose unbidden from her throat. And she’d allowed him to take her . . . over and over and over again.

Soulless. That’s what she’d resigned herself to become. A pale mirror image without control, without strength. After discovering him with Angela, she swore she would never give Ian another piece of her heart . . . but in the end, without even realizing, she’d given him everything.

Lord Wriothesly didn’t understand her behavior. He expected her to abide by society’s expectations for mourning, to act the way she’d been before: obedient, submissive. But she couldn’t. She’d tried to be a good wife and daughter in the past and she’d lost herself. And now, after Ian’s death, she didn’t know if she could survive relinquishing the independence she’d found.

Leah looked down at her hands. Moving them to her sides, she released the locket, the ribbon, the eleven love letters. Lord Wriothesly had been correct in one instance at least: burning them was an excellent idea.

Leah nodded at the footman holding the door open to the George town house. A weary smile lifted her lips; she could almost feel the circles beneath her eyes from acting as hostess of the dinner party the night before and then getting up early this morning to have breakfast with her mother.

At the thought of her mother, her shoulders went rigid, and Leah deliberately loosened her muscles, turning her head to stretch her neck from side to side. It didn’t matter how many times Adelaide had indirectly criticized her this morning in front of the other women or insulted her more than once by interrupting Leah when she spoke. She was home now, and her bed was beckoning.

He’d said he would be home today to review estate business for Linley Park—admitted it with that singular pout that always reminded her of a schoolboy admonished to come in out of the dirt and sunshine to a dull and dreary classroom. But when she knocked on his study, no answer came. Peeking inside, she discovered the room was empty, his chair turned away from the desk as if he couldn’t bother straightening it before he left.

“No, ma’am. He’s gone upstairs. Lady Wriothesly came by to retrieve the shawl she left last night and he went to meet her.” Roberts’ eyes were focused above her head, not meeting her gaze, and Leah had the urge to jump up and down, forcing his attention to her.

She didn’t, of course, merely murmured a “thank you” and climbed up the stairs to the drawing room where she’d found Angela’s burgundy shawl last night once everyone had left. The soft wool had touched the bare, vulnerable skin between her gloves and the sleeves of her gown as she folded it, and she wished—for a fleeting, embarrassing moment—that she might be as lovely as Angela. To never hear her mother’s comments again on her figure, hair, or complexion; to be able to wear violet without fear of her skin turning sallow; to have the confidence of a woman whom the entire world considered beautiful.

But she cast the thought away, ashamed of her momentary envy. If anything, she should be jealous of Angela’s sincere and sweet nature which drew people to her like flowers opening to the sun. Leah wanted to have that effect, too, to be like the sun—only she had no real desire to be sweet or sincere. Unlike Angela, she couldn’t listen to Miss York drone on and on about the fate of spinsterhood or sit patiently beside Lord Dowbry as he wheezed and snorted, all the while sneaking glances at her bosom. Not to mention that Leah didn’t even have much of a bosom; it was to her woe that Lord Dowbry seemed happy to leer at small chests as well as large ones.

There was no doubt: Angela was the angelic one, and her reward for being beautiful, kind, and all things wonderful was to have Lord Wriothesly as her doting husband. Leah, on the other hand, was above average on the plain side and veering toward sarcasm rather than kindness. However, she was fortunate enough to have won Mr. Ian George through an arranged marriage. And he loved her.

No, she’d meant to say it, but the words became lodged in the back of her throat, words that she couldn’t breathe around, words that spoke altogether too much of her innocence and her belief in love, friendship, and the rightness of the world.

She stared at her husband, his golden head lowered to Angela’s breast, pleasuring her with his lips and tongue as Leah watched. Angela’s bodice hung at her waist, her hands clutching Ian’s hair, her features twisted in ecstasy. On any other woman it would have appeared as a grimace. On Angela, however, the expression simply transformed her from a seraph to a full flesh-and-blood seductress.

Was it strange that the first thing Leah did was to think what her mother would do? She probably would have turned around without making a sound and gone on to pretend as if nothing had happened.

But Leah couldn’t. She stood, transfixed by the sight, her hand lifting toward her mouth of its own volition. Oh, but of course. She was shocked, horrified. Yes, that’s why her eyes were widening, filling with tears. And now she would dislodge the words from her throat, and instead of “Good afternoon!” they would be “Goddamn you!” and “I hate you!”

She would throw things—that vase of tulips, or the ormolu clock sitting on the mantel. She would race around the perimeter of the room, hurling heavy objects at their heads while screaming at the top of her lungs like the fiercest banshee.

The scene played out in her mind as she watched Ian shift his attention to Angela’s other breast, then move up to bury his mouth at her throat—all while the tears streamed down Leah’s face. And the words that finally escaped were not curses or angry accusations, but a quiet whisper, so soft she was surprised to gain their attention. They both startled and looked at her. Leah would never forget Ian’s face at that moment: his pleasure erased swiftly, the chagrin in his eyes branding him with his own guilt.

Angela jerked her gaze away, covering herself as a deep blush ran crimson up her throat and over her face. And Ian—Leah sobbed; oh, God, how pathetic she was. Ian, her dear, beloved husband, stepped in front of Angela. Shielded her from Leah’s gaze. Protected her.

She wasn’t fierce at all. She was weak, and small, and she’d been a fool to ever believe he loved her. With an anguished cry, Leah whirled around and fled the drawing room.

The girl curtsied and disappeared again into the back of the shop. Leah’s gaze returned to the patterns laid out on the counter before her: tea dresses and ball gowns and riding habits sketched with bows and flounces, in muslin and velvet, silk and taffeta. Despite her inward chastisement, her hand lifted again and touched upon the yellow tea dress trimmed with white lace. Her heart gave a tiny, aching lurch inside her chest. Not until next spring would she be able to wear something so pretty again.

“Everything we have is in here,” said the assistant as she returned. Leah snatched her hand away and buried it in her skirts, feeling like a child caught trying to steal a biscuit.

A week had passed since Lord Wriothesly’s visit; an entire seven days for loneliness to set in again. She’d felt it hovering after the physician told her she wasn’t carrying, but was able to keep it at bay by staying busy sorting through Ian’s things. But in the last week it had closed in on her, suffocating, until she could no longer stand one more moment inside the town house.

The seamstress stepped aside to sort through bolts of cloth while Leah surveyed the offerings. It was all the same. Bombazine. Bombazine. Crepe. Bombazine. Oh, and more crepe. All black. All dull, without even one tassel as a token of frivolity. Eight months she’d spent wrapped up and packaged, her actions restrained and emotions bottled while she lived as Ian’s wife, alone in her despair. Even now she couldn’t escape her obligation to him, but must turn herself into a dreary black memorial for his sake.

A smile. Only a simple smile. It wasn’t what a proper widow would do; and she’d learned all the proprieties at the behest of her mother. It wasn’t what a woman who wanted to keep her secrets should do, as Lord Wriothesly had pointed out to her in his best aristocratic tone. With all the restrictions and rules burdening her shoulders, it was a wonder she was even able to stand up straight.

Leah glanced around the room as she waited: at the shell pink upholstered chairs with a table between, at the piles of pattern books at the end of the counter. The walls were papered a blue-and-white Oriental theme, clean but peeling at the seams. A tapping sound echoed in her ears, and she glanced down at the nervous drum of her fingers on the counter. Taking a breath, she forced them still and watched the back curtains part to reveal the seamstress again.

In her arms she carried a bolt of black organza, shimmering like the darkest blue in waves of light as she walked. “Ordered for a ball gown, but the other lady decided not to use it.”

There was no reason Leah’s heart should have sped like it did; it was only a piece of fabric, and still black. She wouldn’t be able to adorn it with bows or beads, or have it cut into one of the fashionable patterns. If she wore it, it would be made into a widow’s garment, proper and respectable and without any hope of gaiety.

And yet, as she reached out and slid her hand over the organza, the material rasping beneath her black kid glove, she was unable to resist. It was a small rebellion, but it was enough.

“Yes.” Leah stood straight, reluctantly drawing her arm away. “When will it be ready?” she asked, then almost laughed. It wasn’t as if she’d be wearing it anywhere except in her own house. As a recent widow, no one sent her invitations or expected her to attend balls or dinner parties. She certainly didn’t expect her mother or Beatrice to come calling anytime soon. And the friends she’d once visited with over tea had all been Ian’s admirers; yes, they’d sent the requisite sympathy cards, but otherwise they had no use for her anymore. They’d only needed her in order to flirt with Ian.

Still, when the girl said, “Is a week acceptable?” Leah actually gave a little twirl. She didn’t think about it, analyze the propriety of the action or its repercussions, how it would make her mother feel or reflect on her husband. She just twirled.

That evening, Leah wandered from room to room. She tried reading, but even Thackeray couldn’t hold her attention. She attempted to amuse herself on the pianoforte, but found herself sitting still, her hands resting idly on the keys after only a few notes. Her feet tapped out a restless rhythm down the halls on the ground floor, the first floor, even up to the second. After a while, the servants began to send her curious glances.

For her entire life, she’d been bound by the restrictions set on her by her mother, by society’s expectations. She’d never thought to rebel against those rules; she’d been content to play along, believing that her reward was to marry a nice man, hopefully someone who loved her, and have children. But being obedient had brought her nothing but misery so far.

Leah spun on her heel, her skirts lashing against the chair. It was almost as if the room was closing in on her, the silence overwhelming. She’d been alone with Ian’s secret for so long, afraid to allow herself close to anyone lest they see the truth in her eyes. But now that he was dead, why should she accept the loneliness anymore? She shouldn’t have to become a pariah because she was a widow. She understood that no one sent her invitations because they expected her to be consumed by her grief, but she wasn’t.

She paced across her bedchamber, her gaze running to the walls, the floor, the various bric-a-brac she had set around her room not because it pleased her, but because she had wanted the room to appear like she expected a lady’s bedchamber should. The perfume bottles on the vanity, with a comb placed precisely on the table—not resting haphazardly, but exactly straight and centered. The landscaped paintings on the walls, fields of dotted violets and peaceful pastures. No, if she had obeyed her own desires, she would have chosen the bold brushstrokes of Delacroix, or Géricault: bold, vivid life flung across the canvas instead of settling for a passive tableau.

She whirled again and spied her writing table set against the opposite wall. Inside were the letters Angela had written to Ian. No matter how many times she’d picked them up and held them out over the fire, she couldn’t burn them. Their secrets wouldn’t let her alone.

Pulling out the drawer, Leah lifted the letters in their pink silk ribbon. Though the vanilla and lavender scent was fainter now, it still stung her senses. A flare of memory, of watching Ian climb into her bed, of smelling the same perfume on his skin, slashed across her mind.

Her hand gave a slight tremble, itching to fling the packet away. Instead, she clutched them more securely and turned toward the chair near the hearth. A trickle of sweat inched down her temple as she sat, but she didn’t ring for someone to douse the flames inside.

She held the letters so tightly in her hands that she could feel the moisture from her palms soak into the parchment. She breathed. In. Out. In. Out. Great shuddering breaths, as if she’d run up the stairs a few minutes ago instead of climbing them at a dignified pace.

With hands still shaking, Leah loosened the ribbon and drew out a random letter from the stack. It could have been the first letter Angela had written or the last; it didn’t matter. She didn’t know what she was searching for, or even why she was reading one.

Leah waited for her eyes to burn and her throat to thicken with tears, but none came. She couldn’t deny the sense of betrayal at seeing another woman refer to her husband in such a manner, but it didn’t crush her. Her heart was no longer a delicate, fragile thing, and she was relieved by the realization that it wouldn’t be broken again so easily.

Thank you for the flowers. They were beautiful. I do not even remember telling you that orchids are my favorite. They’re in my bedroom now, and whenever I see them, I think of you and smile.

However, I must insist that you stop sending me gifts. I had to explain to Sebastian that they were from my cousin Gertrude, meant to brighten my spirits. I don’t want him to grow suspicious, and I do despise lying to him. Sometimes I can’t remember what I’ve already told him. Two days ago I claimed to have a headache, and he nearly sent for a physician again because I’d told him earlier that my stomach was ill. I wish I didn’t have to continue deceiving him with this ruse of sickness, but I can’t bear the thought of him touching me any longer.

Would that I had met you first, or that you would have been born an earl’s son instead of a viscount’s. Every day I wonder . . . but no, I know there is no use for such thoughts. I love you, my darling. You asked me before and I wouldn’t admit it, but yes—I am jealous of her. When we’re apart, I think of you together. How I wish that I could be the one to see you every day. I imagine sitting quietly in the evenings, working on my embroidery while you read. Quite the domestic scene, I know. Our children would sit at our feet and listen to you. You would make them smile, and laugh, as you make dear Henry laugh. And then when it becomes late, you would take my hand and lead me to your bedchamber.

My dearest Ian, I would write more, but . . . I will save the words until I see you again.

How long the days are without you.

I love you.

Eternally yours,
Angela

Leah held her breath. Her eyes unfocused, the dark ink becoming a blur. Her shoulders slumped, her fingers releasing their death grip on the letter. It shifted in her lap, almost forlorn in its abandonment.

She’d assumed lust, yes, and probably a little obsession, but . . . not love. Not the way she’d loved Ian. Half of her had been hoping the letter was nothing more than a vulgar mechanism to spout passion words. It would have been difficult to read any fantasies of lovemaking, but then any remaining anger or bitterness over their betrayal would have been justified. Now . . .

Leah stood from the chair, the letter falling from her lap to the floor. She took half a dozen harried steps before realizing and turning around, going back to tie the letters back together.

But perhaps Ian and Angela hadn’t lost, not precisely. They’d done what they could to be together; they hadn’t allow society’s expectations—moral or otherwise—to rule their lives. Angela’s letter bore echoes of her misery and loneliness when they’d been apart, but if her writing was any indication, her desolation was only more acute because of the joy they’d shared when they were together.

Leah opened the drawer again and slid the letters inside, the scent of vanilla and lavender no longer an offensive stench to her senses. It was something more. A reminder she would not forget. An encouragement she hadn’t known she needed.