Romancing the Countess

Don’t tell me you know how I feel. Do you know the joy in my heart when you’re near, or the desolation when you depart? No, I fear you do not, and I am alone in my heartache.

Sebastian took a slow breath as he surveyed the room. It stank of old titles and little wealth, the heavy fog of cigar smoke lining his lungs as he inhaled.

“I regret it already,” he murmured to James. He hadn’t ventured into the gentleman’s club since Angela’s death. It wasn’t that he didn’t welcome the sight of people, or company; James had made himself such a fixture in the town house that Sebastian was surprised the maids hadn’t begun polishing him along with all the other furniture. No, it was the normalcy of the club, the same reason he now avoided dinner parties and musicales. It was as if Ian’s and Angela’s deaths had never occurred, as if his life hadn’t collided with the somber coldness of reality four months prior.

“You may regret it all you wish,” James answered as they moved to a table in the center of the room. Not one in the corner—God forbid—but directly in the middle of things. “Just be thankful I didn’t tie you to my horse and drag you through the streets to get here. It was a tempting thought.”

Around them, conversations carried over the usual currencies: weather, politics, war on the Continent and, with greater enthusiasm—women. The chair at Sebastian’s back was too soft and cushioned; he longed for rigidity, for punishment. Hands curled over his knees, he watched James motion a server for drinks.

His brother sat back across from him and smiled, one arm resting on the table in front of him, the other hanging lazily at his side. “God, you look like hell.”

Sebastian pressed his lips together as the server set the drinks before them. His gaze flicked to the scotch, a pale gold, then moved away. James sipped at his glass and stared at him in much the same way he’d been staring at him for months—with a patent expression of patience, only slightly marred by the frustrated slash of his mouth.

To Sebastian’s left, Mr. Alfred Dunlop was speaking with the young Baron Cooper-Giles. “I must go. I don’t care if there’s a scandal. Walter told me that Miss Pettigrew would be there.”

“Yes,” Mr. Dunlop replied. The word held a grim note to it. “Lost the shipping investment a week ago when the Reynard sank. By the end of the week, I intend to have a marriage acceptance in hand.”

Sebastian shifted his gaze over James’ other shoulder and listened to Lord Derryhow spew on about his new Thoroughbred, a dark roan hunter. James’ sigh swept across the table, and Sebastian met his gaze with a half smile. It seemed the more he practiced those, the easier they became.

“You want to bed a woman?” James’ voice increased in incredulity, and Sebastian scowled. Had his little brother always been able to see through him so easily?

Yes, he wanted a mindless fuck, someone to erase Angela’s memory from his arms. Someone else’s skin and scent and hands. But at the thought, his body rebelled, his muscles tensing and his lungs seeming to cave in. His breath spasmed, caught on that ever-constant, silent whisper of her name. Angela.

“Never mind.” He turned toward the large window facing the street, over the heads of Baron Cooper-Giles and Mr. Dunlop. They were talking about a house party now.

But James continued to play along, his voice tinged with amusement. “Shall I send one to you tonight? Or perhaps we should leave now, and I’ll do my best to find Lady Carroway. You did fancy her a few years ago, didn’t you?”

“Of course,” James said, “the widow Carroway is quite a bit older than she once was. I suppose some men would be put off by the gray hair. Myself, for example.”

“Good day.” He inclined his head to Dunlop, then Cooper-Giles. Civilities. Those also became easier when practiced. The impulse to rage and destroy was weaker now than it had been a few months ago. A broken chair, a shattered window, walls forever indented with the impression of his fists. The fire poker hurled across his bedchamber after he’d resisted burning Angela’s portrait. These days, his rage was more controlled. Only the mangled ruins of his cravats in the mornings bore evidence of the anger still lurking beneath the gentleman’s exterior.

Dunlop exchanged an uneasy glance with Baron Cooper-Giles, and immediately Sebastian knew. He hadn’t misheard. “Whose party is it, if I may ask?”

Dunlop didn’t quite meet his eyes. “The widow George, my lord. We’re leaving tomorrow . . . We were leaving tomorrow for Wiltshire . . .” His voice trailed away. Likely he expected Sebastian to be upset; even though Dunlop couldn’t know of the affair between Ian and Angela and Sebastian’s subsequent agreement with Leah to keep it quiet, the idea of the recent widow of Sebastian’s close friend hosting a house party was absurd enough.

All thoughts of Angela fled, replaced by an image of the smiling, dark-haired deceiver. Three weeks. That’s how long it had taken for Leah George to betray her promise.

“Ah, of course.” He paused, calculating how long it would take for them to travel to the George estate. He nodded again, then turned back to the table where James sat.

“Sebastian?” James took another leisurely drink of his scotch. “Is everything all right? Your face is turning that lovely scarlet shade I so enjoy—”

“It appears Mrs. George is hosting a house party,” he bit out quietly. The tips of his fingers brushed the edge of the table. Not gripping, but a feather-soft touch to the dark polished wood—a testament to his control.

“Yes, and no one will be able to resist the scandal of it. The meek and mild Mrs. George, recent widow, hosting her own country house party.”

He could well imagine how the first scene would unfold: Leah greeting her guests as they arrived, sans widow’s cap, one of her bloody ridiculous smiles spread across her face. She might have even forsaken mourning clothes by now, dressed instead in a cheerful yellow or a provocative crimson that proclaimed to the world the joy of her new independence.

How she’d loved the word—feasted on it—her entire countenance lighting with glee. Had she already begun planning the house party when he’d visited her town house, or had he unknowingly sparked the idea with the use of those two little syllables?

But it made no difference. Whether she stood by her semantics of not directly telling anyone of the affair, the end result was that her actions risked the revelation of the truth. It didn’t matter that he would be revealed as a lovesick fool, the doting husband who’d never suspected he was being cuckolded. That gossip would eventually pass, and his pride would heal. No, there was another thought he could not bear for others to echo, one that haunted him every single time he looked at Henry: the doubt of his son’s legitimacy.

If only Henry could have had brown hair or green eyes. If only his face wasn’t rounded and he wasn’t so young, then he might show some feature or mannerism which would clearly mark him as Sebastian’s son. But all Sebastian saw now when he stared at Henry was a perfect little boy with Angela’s sweet, innocent face, his hair the same color as Angela’s . . . and Ian’s as well.

Ignoring the ache in his chest, Sebastian sat down heavily and reached for his untouched glass of scotch. He didn’t drink spirits often, but it seemed necessary to fortify himself for the rumors which would doubtlessly soon begin.

Which meant Leah had already left London in preparation. He would never have enough time to travel to Wiltshire to convince her to rescind the invitations. And even if he could reach Linley Park early enough, there was little he could do. The scandal had already begun.

Sebastian set the glass down carefully; no thud against wood betrayed his masked calm. She must have known he’d disapprove of the house party. She also must have known he’d find out about it. Perhaps she didn’t think he’d been serious when he warned her about being reckless.

Not six hours into her house party, Leah already regretted inviting these random acquaintances to come into her home and gawk at her. Oh, they were more discreet than that, of course, their curious glances furtively concealed whenever she looked in their direction. Nevertheless, she had to suppress the impulse to have the butler dismiss them all.

She wasn’t accustomed to drawing such focused attention; even when she tried to play hostess, Ian had always been the one to entertain their guests. And despite the risks she’d taken in hosting the house party, even after nearly four months of widowed isolation, she was temptingly close to abandoning this next rebellion in exchange for the return of simple, blessed obscurity.

Looking down both sides of the dining table, Leah smiled. “I must beg your forgiveness, gentlemen, for requesting you forsake your cigars tonight. Instead, shall we all adjourn to the drawing room? I have an announcement to make before I tell you of our special entertainment this evening.”

With uplifted brows and veiled glances, her guests rose from their chairs. Leah led the way up the stairs, no escort at her side. After she had issued more than thirty invitations, only eight had come—and honestly, that was eight more than she’d expected. But perhaps they assumed she’d arranged the numbers unevenly on purpose, to emphasize her eccentricity amid the rumors caused by hosting a house party so soon after Ian’s death.

Once inside the drawing room, she waited for her guests to be seated. Although theirs were all familiar faces, none were particularly close friends to either her or Ian. Some were probably intrigued by the hint of scandal, some on the fringes of society and simply happy to receive an invitation. They might whisper about her and criticize her actions, but she’d made certain not to invite anyone who knew Ian well, or who might consider asking her uncomfortable questions.

With her heart fluttering wildly and her palms beginning to dampen with perspiration, Leah reminded herself that they were here for her amusement, nothing more. Taking a deep breath, she gestured to the large portrait of Ian beside her, the one she’d had removed from the gallery. “Thank you all for coming,” she began, a signal to quiet their murmurs of speculation. “I realize—”

Herrod, her butler, caught her eye at the doorway. “Excuse me for one moment,” she said, then slipped from the room, desperately grateful for the unexpected reprieve.

Wriothesly. She’d hoped he wouldn’t find out about the house party until it was over, to spare them both any attempt of his to restrain her. But he’d come. To berate her, to lecture her, to make her feel as miserable as he did, no doubt.

Immediately Leah’s nerves calmed, her heart steadying, her breath slowing. She might not be her best in front of others, but the challenge of Lord Wriothesly was another matter altogether. He meant to test her independence, though she doubted he had any idea of the strength she’d acquired since Ian’s death.

Now she looked forward to seeing him, the earl of the impossibly green eyes and the severe, brooding countenance. She was curious to see how she would respond this time to his requests, how she would ply her courage and stand firm in her defiance.

In a way, she pitied him. Although she continued trying to move forward, to distance herself from the person she’d become while married to Ian, she couldn’t forget the earl’s anguish when he’d visited the George town house, the fury when he’d sent Angela’s letters flying to the floor. Wriothesly clung to his misery, while she did everything she could to escape it.

How horrified he would be to discover she pitied him—probably even more so should he realize he helped strengthen her resolve. Regardless of what he said tonight, she wouldn’t bend to his wishes for her obedience—no matter that he was an earl, nor that part of her heart sank whenever she witnessed the despair in his eyes.

Wriothesly stood inside the front doorway with a valise at each side. Scowling, as usual. Leah felt rather a perverse creature for taking pleasure in the way his expression darkened as she approached. Although a smile pulled at her lips, she subdued the motion and curtsied.

“Consider my arrival a response to the rumors you’ve created.” He took her hand, even though it had been clasped with the other in front of her waist, and lifted it toward his lips. While he disguised the movement as a courtly gesture, Leah was more than conscious of the heated iron of his grip, the velvet-soft threat of his kiss as his mouth swept across her glove. The air of desolation surrounding him was gone, replaced only by anger.

For the first time in their acquaintance of three years, she realized that the Earl of Wriothesly finally saw her. Not as another random society twit, not as Ian’s wife or widow, but as Leah George, individual and separate. Removed from the great horde of women who were not the seemingly perfect Lady Angela Wriothesly and placed into a much more specific category of one: Leah George. Despised. Loathsome. Enemy.

Leah winced as she flexed her fingers, noting how he didn’t apologize for grinding her joints together. Now that his grief seemed to have given way for the moment, all his energy appeared to be focused on scolding her.

He broke off, treating her with a remarkably malevolent glare as she smiled from ear to ear. Leah reached up and patted his clenched jaw. It was a mistake, an action made only on impulse, and one that she regretted as soon as she touched him. But she couldn’t retreat now. “My poor Lord Wriothesly. It’s wrong of me to torture you, isn’t it? Please, come with me. I was about to make an announcement to our guests when you arrived.”

He stood at the bottom of the stairs, one hand clutching the newel post, his mouth formed in a narrow, demanding line. Recently it had been easy enough to relegate him to a masculine version of her mother: autocratic, impatient, unwilling to swerve from the strictures of society. But she possessed memories of Wriothesly before the carriage accident. The sound of his and Ian’s laughter drifting through the town house. The way he used to watch his wife with such love and tenderness, oblivious to the looks passed between Angela and Ian. The delight on his face when he paraded Henry in front of guests, and his pride when Henry first gave Leah a short, distracted imitation of a bow in exchange for her curtsy.

They’d both been changed by the betrayal. Leah liked to think she’d learned her lesson and though the pain was still great, had become the better for it. Perhaps she could exercise her independence without making him suffer; perhaps, in her defiance, she could somehow help him.

Sighing, she retraced her steps until she stood only a few stairs above him, a slight advantage which placed them eye to eye. “I know you wouldn’t be here if not for your fear that I might incite gossip about Ian and Angela. I know you’d prefer that I send everyone home, and then you could return to the misery you’ve created for yourself the last few months. But if you could consider this house party as a chance to enjoy life again, if you would allow me to help you, you would understand why I decided to—”

She shouldn’t have said anything. She’d known he wouldn’t welcome her interference, and yet still she’d done it anyway. “Perhaps not, but . . .”

“Ian. Was he patronizing? Did he treat you like a child?” The words were spoken softly, sorrowfully, as if he were the one who pitied her. She stood silent, uncertain where his questioning might lead, unable to look away from the ruthless curve of his mouth.

She knew he meant it as a mockery of her earlier gesture, but the slide of his leather glove across her skin felt too much like a caress, and she could no more halt the blush that rose to enflame her face than she could retreat from his touch.

“You were always his quiet little shadow, weren’t you? Content to echo Ian’s every word and movement. And I see you’ve studied him well, although your attempt at mimicry is somewhat tedious. I am not a child, Mrs. George. I do not need your help.”

“I assure you, my lord, it isn’t my intent to act condescending. If it weren’t for the circumstances of Ian’s death, I wouldn’t have anything to do with you at all. In fact, I believe it might be best if you leave. Your presence here is neither required nor desired.”

Wriothesly returned his hand to his side. “Alas, leaving you alone is no longer an option. And do not think to send the guests home, either. Doing so now would only cause more gossip. The party will continue, and with the least amount of scandal.”

“You believe you can control me,” she said, crossing her arms, then uncrossing them because it felt like something a little girl would do. How had he taken the power away from her so easily?

Leah stared at the vase of pansies on the table across from the staircase, her fingers slowly uncurling from the fists she’d formed. No matter how deeply she breathed, she couldn’t seem to steady herself. A movement caught her attention by the door, and she turned to find a footman standing near the earl’s valises, waiting for her direction.

She then returned to the drawing room, glancing neither right nor left as she moved toward the portrait. Ian stared at her, his mouth drawn in that perpetual hint of a smile. Perhaps his charm had occasionally come across as patronizing in the last months, but that was probably because his shining armor had been reduced to nothing more than dented, rusty tin in her eyes. Yet even if he’d been condescending, even though he’d given her plenty of cause to be hurt, humiliated, and angry, he had never intentionally insulted her.

Leah signaled for a footman to bring her a glass of the wine Herrod had supplied to her guests in her absence, then turned and waited for everyone to quiet. As before, her heart thudded rapidly against her chest, but this time it wasn’t from anxiety. Her gaze skipped around the room until she found the earl, sitting near William Meyer and Baron Cooper-Giles. A warning glinted in his eyes as he nodded his acknowledgment, and Leah raised her glass toward him, well aware that everyone in the room observed their exchange.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” she began, “I realize hosting a house party so soon after the death of my husband is rather unorthodox. Some might call it scandalous, even.” Lifting a brow, she allowed her gaze to drift from Wriothesly to the others in the room. “However, if you knew Ian at all, you also know that he was a man who deserves more than our tears and grief. He had a way of living that many of us envied—myself included. He laughed, he danced, he debated politics, and he recited literature, all with a passion that somehow seemed too great to be contained in one man. And yet it was.”

Leah glanced at his portrait. It was meant to be a touching moment, one where everyone assumed she’d become too emotional to continue speaking. Although no tears came, she well remembered the man she spoke of, how easy it had been to fall in love with him . . . how, once upon a time, she thought he’d loved her as well.

“For the next week, I would request that instead of mourning, we celebrate Ian’s life. You will find the meals prepared with many of his favorite dishes, and I have already planned several activities in the coming days which he particularly enjoyed. Ian’s dearest friend, the Earl of Wriothesly”—she gestured with a wave of her hand, not bothering to hide her smile—“has also joined the house party so he might make further suggestions. For now, I propose a toast. To my beloved husband, friend, and one of the greatest men I ever knew—to Ian George.”

One by one, glasses were raised across the room. “To Ian,” they echoed again, then drank. Leah glanced toward Wriothesly. Although his mouth touched the rim of his glass, the liquid inside remained placid, the glass level. The stillness extended to his expression, a pale mask of studied politeness; only the sharp cut of his eyes toward her revealed surprise and a promise of retribution.

Satisfied, Leah took another sip of her wine before motioning toward Herrod. “And now, as promised, please allow me to present our special guest, who will entertain us with several of Ian’s favorite songs: Miss Victoria Lind.”

As the enthusiastic murmurs of approval dwindled to a hush and the opera singer opened her mouth for the first soaring note, Sebastian tilted his glass and swallowed. A toast—not to Ian, but to his widow. Like Leah George, the liquid was deceptively sweet, hiding the truth of its strength in its delicate, innocent overtones.

With the opera singer situated at the far end of the drawing room, it was impossible to keep Leah in sight while pretending to give Ms. Lind the proper attention. Even so, he could feel Leah’s presence beyond his left shoulder, a force he would no longer underestimate.

He wished he could continue thinking of her as a young widow who wanted to explore her sudden freedom through any outrageous means possible. A widow who was likely to take a dozen lovers simply because she could, or act the eccentric because she had no husband to attract and no one to impress. While indiscreet and irresponsible, her behavior would have made sense. Given a few quiet moments without the thunder of train or carriage wheels and a head clear of liquor, Sebastian could have predicted her next course of action. He could have endeavored to find a way to forestall whichever ridiculous plan she devised next.

But she was more cunning than he had anticipated, and the motivations he’d so quickly ascribed to her now seemed little more than his own foolish assumptions. She hosted a party, but she wore full widow’s clothing—including a widow’s cap—and had invited a mixture of bachelors, married couples, and a young woman with her companion. Certainly it wasn’t anything to violate one’s sense of morality. She’d even managed to turn any gossip on its head by arranging everything as a tribute to Ian’s memory. How could anyone ever forget how devoted she’d sounded during that oh so touching speech of hers?

However, though the party itself was the only scandalous behavior she’d engaged in so far, Sebastian wasn’t convinced. He might not yet understand her method or even her motivation, but he knew she wasn’t as selfless as she appeared. Leah George wanted to be reckless. And although he’d misjudged her cleverness and the reason for her rebellion before, he would be sure not to make the same mistake again.

When the first song ended and everyone applauded, Sebastian looked over his shoulder, found Leah’s gaze, and smiled. By the lift of her chin, he knew she understood the meaning of his expression: not as pleasure, not as happiness, but a warning.