Romancing the Countess

Tell me again, darling. Tell me a hundred times, a thousand. I will never forget the first time you whispered it in my ear. It will never be enough. Tell me you love me.

It could have been a beautiful day. The late-morning sun shone brightly overhead. A fleet of pristine white clouds drifted lazily across the sky. An early autumnal wind swayed the leaves on their branches, quietly stirred the water, and sifted gently through Sebastian’s hair.

It would have been a beautiful day, if not for the black figure marring his view of the landscape: the formerly inconsequential Leah George, who’d quickly managed to make herself into a pestilence.

How innocent she appeared, from the tip of her black parasol to the hem of her black skirts. In fact, he could have applauded her—she used the widow’s veil to add to her facade of quiet rectitude, the crepe lending her solemnity while lies issued one after another from her mouth.

His gaze followed her gesture toward the four wooden skiffs bobbing at the lake’s edge. Various male servants had been summoned from the house to attend to the guests, and each one stood with a rope in his hands, mooring the boats to the shore.

“Once he was gone, I found a few pieces of poetry he must have written while he was out here. About a bird landing on the bow, of the different colors of the water throughout each of the seasons. Of the immense peace he felt in his soul when he was alone on the lake.”

Head swiveling, Sebastian stared incredulously at Leah. There were lies, and then there were gaudy, excessive leaps of imagination. Ian might have been known for his recitations of poetry and literature, but he did it solely to gain favor with the ladies. The only poem Sebastian had ever known him to write was a limerick about a sailor’s whore and a wooden dick.

“I . . .” Leah made an inarticulate noise. Though the others likely assumed she’d been overcome with emotion, Sebastian preferred to think it was the sound of sputtering. “Yes, of course. Perhaps. But I’ve spoken for too long. With four boats, I believe it best to split everyone into two groups of two and two groups of three, with the gentlemen as the oarsmen.”

She paused, and even with the parasol mostly obscuring her profile, he could see the calculating tilt of her head as she determined how to divide the guests. No matter where she placed him, he planned on refusing her direction. Besides being curious bits of fancy, her lies made it clear he couldn’t trust any decisions she made.

“Miss Pettigrew, Mrs. Thompson, why don’t you join Mr. Dunlop?” she directed. “Lord Elliot and Mrs. Meyer in the next boat. Mr. Meyer, Lady Elliot, and Lord Wriothesly. Which then leaves myself and Lord Cooper-Giles.” Her parasol shifted, and a beam of sunlight pierced through her veil to expose the small smile she aimed at the baron. “That is, if you don’t mind listening to me reminisce about Mr. George for a while.”

Sebastian crossed his arms and frowned. It wasn’t that the unmarried Cooper-Giles was a scoundrel who might influence Leah to further corruption and scandal; in fact, besides his proclivity for gossip, the young baron probably had the truest moral compass of them all. No, it was Leah he worried about. No matter how well she tried to pretend, he doubted five minutes would pass before Cooper-Giles discovered how singularly happy she was to have a dead husband rather than a live one.

“I apologize, Mrs. George,” Sebastian said, stepping forward. “If I had known about the boating excursion earlier, I would have spared you some trouble. You see, I’m afraid I can’t join you. Motion sickness, you understand. But I don’t mind standing here—alone—and watching. I’m sure it will be just as amusing.”

The sun highlighted the corner of her mouth and the curve of her cheek as her chin slowly lifted toward him. Her eyes remained shadowed behind the veil. “Why, Lord Wriothesly. I’m very sorry. How dreadful a malady.”

“How extraordinary,” Leah murmured before looking once again at Sebastian. “Of course we understand, Lord Wriothesly, but I wouldn’t dream of asking you to stay here by yourself. Perhaps you would prefer to retire to the house until the boating ends?”

Sebastian waved his hand. “No, no. I’ll be fine, as long as I don’t go on the lake.” Glancing around at the other guests, he added, “Please, enjoy yourselves. I’ll just stay here.”

Sebastian raised a brow. Mr. Dunlop wasn’t being very subtle in his pursuit of Miss Pettigrew. Sebastian sighed and shook his head. “But I wouldn’t wish to spoil the day,” he said. “Mrs. George clearly wished for her guests to enjoy boating on the lake . . . just as Ian did.”

As Mrs. Meyer opened her mouth to speak, Sebastian suspected everyone might soon return to the house. After all, an earl still curried more favor and ingratiation than the lower-ranking widow of a viscount’s son, regardless of how eloquently she spoke of her deceased spouse.

But Leah interceded. “Nonsense. I will stay here with you, Lord Wriothesly. Miss Pettigrew, Mrs. Thompson, and Mr. Dunlop will go boating as planned. Lord Elliot, Mr. Meyer, and Mrs. Meyer will go in the second boat, with Lord Cooper-Giles and Lady Elliot in the third.”

“Please, my lord,” she murmured. “You were Ian’s closest friend, so dear to him. How could I ever abandon you? He would think I had betrayed your friendship, something he would never have done.”

Sebastian stiffened. How sweet and beguiling her tone as she fired the first volley. A reminder of Ian’s betrayal, of the reason Sebastian had to endure her presence during this little house party: to conceal both his friend’s and his wife’s unfaithfulness. It had been meant to wound, and she had met her mark.

Although he couldn’t help but flinch at her words, he was careful to maintain a polite expression before the others. Once they turned toward the lake, he followed Leah to a stone bench shaded by the meandering branches of a yew tree, ducking beneath her parasol when it would have pierced his eye—and not accidentally, he suspected. The other guests stepped into the boats with the help of the servants. Baron Cooper-Giles looked remarkably relieved, he noticed, to not have to listen to Leah muse on and on about Ian for the next hour or so.

He sensed her go rigid, saw her hand grip the parasol tighter out of the corner of his eye. “If you are implying he sought out Lady Wriothesly because I—”

“That’s exactly what I’m implying.” He shouldn’t have sat so close to her. He could smell her again, that clean, soapy, strictly unfeminine scent. “It’s a valid assumption, since you’ve never had children. Could he not bear to touch you? You’re not beautiful like she was, or soft and womanly. And you’re loud. Hell, you don’t even smell like a proper woman. Angela—”

He refused to look at Leah. But he could feel her stare, and twin lines of heat scored his upper cheeks. No other person had ever made him so easily ashamed; then again, he’d never had reason to regret his behavior before. She’d meant to apologize, and he hadn’t even allowed her that courtesy. He forgot to leash his fury around her, forgot to be a gentleman.

He and Leah sat beside each other on the stone bench, the sun sneaking through the tree’s cover to dapple the ground with random beams of soft, golden light. One minute after another passed, until the sound of her breathing next to him seemed to enter his subconscious with a quiet permanence, and he could predict the spacing of each slow inhalation.

Sebastian shifted, uneasy with the silence beneath the yew tree, one that became even louder after the echoes of laughter died away. Even strained and oppressive, it felt too intimate. He might be curious about her motives, might need to know why she behaved as she did so he could prevent her future foolishness, but he didn’t want to know her like this. Not her scent, nor the pattern of her breathing, nor even the calm dignity she maintained when responding to an undeserved attack.

In the end, it was she who spoke first, her voice light and ironic. As if they were simply two ordinary people engaging in an ordinary conversation. “With your illness, I assume you didn’t go boating with Ian much.”

She, too, looked at him, and this close, even with her veil as a mask, he could see her face. The sherry tint of her brown eyes. The slim point of her nose. The overfull decadence of her mouth, as if God had felt guilty for not giving her any feminine curves elsewhere.

Grimacing at this detailed analysis of her features, Sebastian focused again on her eyes. Her rather plain, unexceptional brown eyes. “In fact, I don’t remember going boating with Ian at all. Or seeing him go boating. Or hearing of him boating. Rather, I distinctly recall Ian telling me how he feared any body of water larger than a stream after his near-drowning incident as a boy.”

“The first, of course. Then again, you’re the only one here who would have known. I made sure to invite only those who weren’t close to Ian. And obviously even I didn’t know him as well as I thought, since he never confided his fear to me.”

He’d never told anyone else, as far as Sebastian knew. Ian only informed him when Sebastian had found him shivering and crying after the Eton masters made everyone participate in a swimming competition one day.

Cocking her head to the side, she gave her parasol a lazy twirl. “I suppose I did get carried away, didn’t I?” Then her mouth curled upward in a coy, flirtatious little smile. He stared, discomfited by the realization that Leah George knew how to give a coy, flirtatious smile.

He didn’t give a damn about Miss Pettigrew and her potential suitor, not when his mind had suddenly become too busy torturing him with lurid images of Angela and Ian—of him pleasuring her with his hands, of her bucking beneath his thrusts. The good mood he’d been inclined to indulge in abruptly disappeared. “Tell me, Mrs. George. If you wanted to go boating, why not simply go boating? You have servants to accompany you. Why invite scandal by hosting a house party? Why disregard my request for this?”

“My apologies, my lord. I believe the boating excursion is almost over, and our picnic—” She took a deep breath, then smiled. It was a small, polite gesture, and for once, Sebastian found himself missing the grand, obscenely extravagant curve of her lips. “I do hope you enjoy it,” she finished, then turned away.

There weren’t many trees on this side of the Linley Park estate. Near the chalk hills, the land was mostly rolling grassland, with only a few oaks and yews dotting the landscape.

To keep the guests shaded during the picnic, the servants constructed an awning and laid out food on tables below: lobster tails, poached chicken, iced champagne, berry tarts, fresh custard with cream, and more. Satisfied, Leah dismissed the servants and returned the few yards’ distance to the lake.

Wriothesly was helping Lady Elliot and Baron Cooper-Giles out of their boat, with the other two vessels rowing to shore close behind. Though she stood still as she waited, a slight breeze lifting and teasing the hem of her veil, her heart continued to thump erratically inside her chest.

It wouldn’t be difficult to tell him the reason why she’d decided to host the house party. After the welt of humiliation from being compared to Angela, explaining her loneliness couldn’t have made the wound to her pride any more painful. If he would be willing to listen, he might appreciate the careful thought she’d given to how she could host the party with the least amount of scandal possible, how she’d even written Viscount Rennell for his permission first. Yes, she might have planned the activities for her own pleasure, but everyone believed she did it to honor Ian’s memory. In terms of reprehensible behavior, she had a far way to go to either disgracing herself or raising suspicion about the affair.

Still, even though the truth might appease him, she couldn’t help wanting to keep a little of herself locked away. For two years she’d given while Ian took. Although she’d tried after a while to hide her feelings from him, to show him nothing but polite courtesy, she knew by the regretful way he looked at her sometimes and the thoroughness of his lovemaking that he saw everything. Her anger, her sadness, the fading hope that one day he would end the affair and return to her. Even if it was only loneliness she felt now, didn’t she have a right to leave that small piece of vulnerability unspoken?

“What a marvelous idea,” Lady Elliot exclaimed as she caught sight of Leah. “I can well understand why Mr. George enjoyed boating here so much.”

With the same smile she’d pasted on for Wriothesly, Leah gestured toward their makeshift pavilion. “I’m so glad you liked it, my lady. It’s such a beautiful day, I thought we might also have a picnic.”

Lady Elliot, middle-aged with an inquisitive beak of a nose and a wry pinch at the corners of her mouth, leaned in. “If I may be honest, Mrs. George . . .”

“Yes, well . . .” Lady Elliot smoothed her skirts as they began walking toward the awning. “Although it’s not quite the amusement I had hoped for, your devotion to the late Mr. George is most touching. I’d like to think Lord Elliot would do the same for me were I to pass before him, but I can’t imagine he’d do anything more than lift a glass of whiskey in my name. Perhaps light a cigar. Or tumble one of the housemaids.”

Laughing, Lady Elliot waved her off. “No, of course not. He’d be too afraid I would come back and haunt him. But this—well, Mrs. George, let’s just say that you’ve almost made me believe in love again.”

“My husband was . . . a very special man,” Leah said, lowering her eyes to the ground. Somehow the lies didn’t roll off her tongue as easily when she was alone with one of her guests. Hoping to bring someone else into their conversation, she glanced over her shoulder.

Flushing, Leah jerked her gaze ahead. Strange how she’d always been able to dismiss her mother’s criticisms so easily, but Wriothesly’s outburst had made her doubt herself. Even now, with the knowledge of his proximity and how he looked at her, she couldn’t help being acutely aware of the straight, unswerving line of her body—from the slimness of her shoulders to the narrowed angles of her hips.

Perhaps Ian thought her as plain as the earl did, but he’d made her feel beautiful. Not just with words, but with the way he looked at her, with the way he touched her. Until she’d realized how deceitful even his silence had been.

Thankfully, they reached the awning before the exchange with Lady Elliot necessitated further adulation for Ian on Leah’s part. In a short while, the women had arranged themselves on the blankets while the men strolled about doing their bidding: fetching plates of food, pouring glasses of champagne, and chasing after Mrs. Thompson’s parasol when the wind sent it spiraling toward the lake.

Leah breathed a sigh of relief when Wriothesly planted himself on the opposite side of the blankets. With Mr. Meyers and Lord Cooper-Giles’ heads between them, it appeared possible to pass the entire picnic without having to see his face.

“I think I’ll have to make a regular trip to Wiltshire from now on,” Mrs. Meyer declared. “The weather is much more hospitable here than it is in Northumberland.”

Leah swallowed a spoonful of custard. “You should come in April. There are woods to the northwest of the house where the lavender covers every inch of ground for weeks.”

Mrs. Meyer shook her head. “We only have snow in Northumberland in April,” she said mournfully, then leaned in. “Mr. Meyer continues to be stubborn, but I have hope yet of convincing him to let a town house in London the year-round. Even with the stench and heat, it would be far preferable.”

Lady Elliot waved this away with her glass of champagne, the liquid swirling dangerously near the top. “You must go to the sea for at least a few weeks during the summer. Not Bath—it’s not quite the place it used to be. Lord Elliot and I thought about going to Italy this year, but someone told us there’s still a bit of unrest since the revolutions.”

Leah took another bite of custard. How wonderful it would be, to be able to explore the Continent at will—or even England for that matter. To choose where one wanted to go, not because so-and-so was hosting a party or because that’s where the fashionable set went on holiday, but simply because she was free to do as she pleased.

Perhaps she would do just that after the party ended. She could go to Cornwall, or Sussex, or even Northumberland. Ireland wasn’t very far away, either. And, oh, how her mother would have an apoplexy if she were to go to Ireland.

Beyond Mrs. Meyer’s shoulder, Miss Pettigrew stood from where she’d been engaged in conversation with Mrs. Thompson, Mr. Dunlop, and Lord Cooper-Giles. “I believe I’ll go for a walk,” she said. Although both gentlemen immediately rose to escort her, she turned toward Leah. “Mrs. George, would you mind accompanying me?”

With Cooper-Giles having moved from his position, Leah could see Lord Wriothesly once again, his arms stretched out behind him, idly chatting with Lord Elliot and Mr. Meyer. Even though he continued speaking to his companions, his eyes once again settled on her. That intense green gaze flickered over her face, studying her, as if he stared long enough he might understand all of her thoughts and secrets.

The girl was quiet as they strolled away from the picnic. She was probably only a couple of years younger, but Leah found it difficult to think of her as a woman with the soft innocence that seemed to permeate the air around her.

Once they’d walked for a few minutes, Miss Pettigrew stooped to pick a wildflower. “I meant to thank you for inviting me to your house party, Mrs. George. Linley Park is quite beautiful.”

With Miss Pettigrew carrying the flower in her hand, they meandered around the edges of the lake. “I’m sure it’s not de rigueur to say this, but this is the first house party I’ve ever been invited to.”

“My father hired Mrs. Thompson as my companion, thinking that she’d be able to transform me into a proper gentlewoman. But all the ton ladies see is the daughter of a banker, and the fact that I’m wealthy does nothing to win their favor. Even Mrs. Thompson is barely able to conceal her dislike.”

“Is a very good actress,” Miss Pettigrew finished, her gaze fixed on the water. “When we’re alone, she can hardly bring herself to speak to me.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Leah said. She probably expected Leah to give her some sort of advice to help her change the situation. After all, hadn’t she spent the past twenty years being groomed and lectured on how to be a proper lady, how to become a desirable wife to a lord and a hostess that all the women envied? Leah tried to hide her amusement as Miss Pettigrew bent for another flower. Now she was more likely to suggest the young woman run off to explore Ireland with her, society be damned.

But Miss Pettigrew didn’t ask her advice; she only acknowledged Leah’s sympathy with a slight nod of her head. When she straightened and faced Leah, her blue eyes shone feverishly, a remarkable contrast to the paleness of her cheeks, the demure clasp of her hands. “I believe I might be in love, Mrs. George.”

“Oh, no. No one suitable at all.” Miss Pettigrew darted a glance across the lake where the others were picnicking. Leah followed her gaze, curious at her silence.

No one suitable. If not the two bachelors, then that left the married gentlemen, Mr. Meyer and Lord Elliot. While certainly inappropriate, Leah couldn’t believe that Miss Pettigrew would find either particularly charming or attractive. Not with Mr. Meyer’s thinning blond hair and slight lisp and Lord Elliot’s whale of a stomach.

True, Lord Wriothesly wasn’t bosom-heaving handsome in the way Ian had been, but Leah knew very well how easily he could mesmerize a woman with his eyes, creating an illusion of intimacy with nothing more than the touch of his gaze and the stroke of his voice. It was that illusion which made it easy to forget he’d designated her as his enemy, that intimacy which had made his earlier insults seem particularly vicious.

“Oh, it’s not him either,” Miss Pettigrew said with a little laugh. “No, that would be too convenient—loving someone my father might actually approve of. Shall I tell you my secret, Mrs. George? Will you promise not to tell anyone?”

“How you made Mr. George love you. That’s why I wanted to walk with you. And to thank you for inviting me here, of course. But the love you seemed to share—I’ve never heard of anyone doing something like this. You must have loved him very much, and he you. Tell me, how did you convince him to marry you?”

“I . . . I—” Leah looked ahead. Thank God. The picnic area was only a short distance away. “Honestly, I married him because it’s what my parents desired. And I believe his family wanted the match, also.”

“Oh.” Miss Pettigrew nodded glumly at her flowers. “I beg your pardon, Mrs. George, for being so forward. I’m afraid Mrs. Thompson would be quite embarrassed for me.”

“But I did love him,” Leah added. It felt like a hundred years ago . . . another time. Another Leah. But she had. She couldn’t deny it. He’d been the fulfillment of her girlhood dreams, her golden knight come to rescue her from her mother, from herself and her own fears that she’d never be enough. And she’d loved him for that, for making her enough. Just as much as she’d hated him for revealing her dreams to be nothing but lies.

It was a statement, not a question, for which Leah was thankful. Although she’d become rather adept at falsehoods of late, she couldn’t have attempted to answer that one . . . especially when even she didn’t know the truth.

As they climbed the hill back to the pavilion, Miss Pettigrew handed her one of the flowers she’d picked—a dainty pink cerise bud. “You won’t tell anyone of my secret, will you, Mrs. George?”

Miss Pettigrew returned to Mrs. Thompson’s side, where Mr. Dunlop and Lord Cooper-Giles soon found her again. Clutching the flower in her hand, Leah headed toward the bucket of iced champagne for another glass. She smiled at the guests as she passed. They each smiled back, all except for Lord Wriothesly.

No matter how many times he’d visited Linley Park, he’d never seen Ian in this study. He couldn’t even imagine him sitting behind the desk, his head bent to the estate accounts or some other paperwork. He knew Ian must have maintained his responsibilities at his father’s request, but he hadn’t enjoyed them. Instead, Ian had preferred to lend his mind and his charm toward other things, such as—

Sebastian pivoted away from the desk. Not tonight. He’d done enough dwelling on the subject; tonight, at least, he wouldn’t think of them together.

Besides, it was thoughts of Henry which had kept him awake. This in itself surprised him. He hadn’t expected the longing to see his son’s face, to discover which new words Henry had learned while he was gone. He’d been away from Henry before, of course, for weeks at a time. But not since Angela’s death. And somehow although it had seemed fine before for a little boy to spend all day with his nurse, now Sebastian was jealous of those moments. He wanted to see his son, to play with him . . . to be reassured when he threw his arms around Sebastian’s neck that yes, Henry did belong to him. But instead of being able to return to Henry now, Sebastian was forced to watch over Ian’s widow.

A faint light flickered in the corridor outside the study. Sebastian moved to pull the door completely shut; it was well past midnight, and he didn’t want anyone to enter and ask questions about his intrusion into Ian’s private office. Even he wasn’t sure why he’d chosen to come here. There was nothing to find, no papers or clue to indicate why Ian had betrayed him. Everything was neat and orderly. Clean. Unused.

He paused before the door could latch. Perhaps it was intuition, or he’d somehow smelled her particular scent, but he opened the door again and quietly slipped out, certain he would find Leah doing something she shouldn’t.

As he crept down the corridor, the light fled before him, until he was no longer chasing the light but the shadows it cast on the wall in its wake. Footsteps sounded on the staircase, and he rounded the corner to see her climbing to the next floor, the lamp swaying in her grip.

She wore no widow’s cap or veil, and her cloak was a deep royal blue instead of black, but still he knew it was her. He’d spent enough time watching her today, searching to discover the secrets she refused to reveal. From their time at the lake, at dinner, and through two tedious hours of charades afterward, he’d studied her until he could have closed his eyes and envisioned her face, could have predicted the nervous habit she had of rubbing her third finger and thumb together on her right hand.

And now Sebastian knew the truth. He should have realized it before, from the first time he saw Leah after Ian’s funeral. She’d been almost happy to see him, although at the time he’d attributed it to a sordid relief that Ian was dead.

Again at the George town house, when she’d invited him to look through Ian’s things, she might have been in good spirits when he arrived, but she didn’t smile until she saw him.

And earlier today, among her guests at the picnic, her face lit up when in conversation with the ladies sitting around her. She jested and laughed, offered her opinions and even roused the others to join her in what she declared was Ian’s favorite song. That is, when she wasn’t stealing glances at Sebastian, trying to see if he still stared at her.

But he did stare—and he studied her. He was rewarded that evening during the charades, when he finally realized that Leah’s attentiveness to her guests was something he’d never noticed before. All the times in the past when he and Angela had visited the George residence for a party or dance, Leah had stayed in the background, only speaking when someone addressed her. But now she purposefully engaged others, and the quiet wallflower he’d once known shone like a rare diamond, newly polished and cleaned.

Why would a recent widow who’d never before violated any rule of etiquette suddenly invite all manner of rumors by defying society’s unspoken rules? Instead of the expected flirtations and outrageous behavior, why would she invite respectable men and women to her country house party and try to justify it as a celebration of her dead husband’s life?

Three months spent isolated in her widow’s weeds, following a year of keeping the secret burden of Ian and Angela’s affair all to herself. No wonder she scoffed at his lecture on obedience being better than recklessness; she’d nearly been entombed in her own adherence to society’s expectations.

He might have been inclined to feel sympathy for her, or to applaud her courage, if not for the fact that she threatened both Sebastian and Henry with her actions. But he understood her better now, which meant that as long as he could help assuage her loneliness, he might be able to keep her from further scandal.

But though his tongue touched the roof of his mouth for the first syllable of her name, no sound emerged. He let her escape without even demanding to know where she’d been, or where she was going. Instead, he remained frozen on the bottom step, the air where she’d just passed swirling around him, surrounding him.