Counting on a Countess

Would his title be nothing but a courtesy with no fortune to support it, or would the money slip away and be granted to that distant relative in Bermuda?

The only way to land the blunt is to climb the sodding stairs, he told himself sternly. Miss Pearce was also at the top of the steps, and that quickened his pace and brought him to the front door.

He knocked smartly before a footman opened it with a polite, professional expression, the one he surely used for visiting hours.

Kit handed the servant his card.

“Is her ladyship expecting you, my lord?” the footman inquired politely after reading it.

“Well, no,” Kit admitted. He hadn’t gotten permission to call. Lady Daleford hadn’t told him where she lived, either. That information had been gleaned from Anderson, his valet, who was a trove of information about matters both high and low, and knew the addresses of everyone in the ton. “Just present them with my card.”

The servant murmured, “You may wait in the foyer, my lord.” He stepped back to admit Kit into the house.

With a bow, the footman strode down a hallway, leaving Kit alone. The servant didn’t ask to take Kit’s hat, since it was known that callers never stayed for more than fifteen minutes—which suited him very well, since he hadn’t the luxury of long, protracted conversations.

As he waited, a throb of edginess moved through him. Idleness often gave space for wariness to move in—a habit from so many years in combat.

There are no enemies here. You’re in the heart of London, and safety is all around you.

As he pushed the wariness back, unexpected anticipation rose up and strummed silver fingers along his arms and the back of his neck. Miss Pearce had vitality and spirit, with a hint of daring, as evidenced by her willingness to accept his staking her cards, and the directness of her gaze. Their mutual attraction couldn’t be ignored, either.

Come find me, her eyes had said as she’d left the card room.

Kit didn’t hunt, but he knew a lure when he saw one.

He couldn’t question his rationale as to why Miss Pearce had been the lone woman to snag his interest. His instincts had kept him alive for nearly a decade of warfare, and he wouldn’t ignore them now.

A clock somewhere chimed the quarter hour, and he checked his pocket watch to see that a full ten minutes had passed since the footman had departed with Kit’s card. Which meant that he was currently being debated by Lady Daleford and Miss Pearce.

Straining to hear, he caught faint tones of women’s voices speaking in hushed, urgent whispers. A corner of his mouth curved up ruefully.

The voices reached a peak, and then stopped abruptly. Kit’s heart thudded in the silence. His fate had been decided. Had Lady Daleford won? Or did Miss Pearce emerge victorious?

The footman appeared, but the expression on his face gave nothing away.

Kit’s breath halted.

“Follow me, my lord,” the servant said.

Kit exhaled, thinking to himself, Well done, Miss Pearce!

He trailed after the footman down a short corridor before stepping through the doorway to a drawing room.

“Lord Blakemere,” announced the footman before disappearing.

A wall of windows permitted sunlight to stream into the chamber, forming halos around the furnishings. Miss Pearce, standing with her back to a window, became a fiery saint as her vivid hair caught the light. She wore an equally brilliant smile, full of surprised pleasure as she turned to face him.

For a moment, Kit forgot the mechanics of breathing before they came back to him in a rush. Both he and Miss Pearce took a step toward each other.

He held out the flowers. “Forgive my presumption, but I was compelled to bring these.”

She crossed the room, her eyes bright as she accepted the bouquet. “Daisies! My favorite!”

Perhaps she was telling the truth, or perhaps she prevaricated for the sake of politeness. Yet he had the feeling she wasn’t given to dishonesty, and his smile grew to see the picture she made, cradling the cheerful flowers. The flowers’ vivid hue matched the lushness of her mouth—a mouth that was perfectly made for kissing.

A maid appeared and took the flowers from Miss Pearce. It was only then that Kit remembered that they were not alone in the drawing room. He turned to the older woman seated with an embroidery hoop near the fire.

“Lady Daleford,” Kit said, bowing. “I am glad to find you at home.”

The woman could not have looked more displeased to see him. Her lips were thin and her cheeks nearly red with indignation. “Lord Blakemere.”

How had Miss Pearce convinced the old dame to admit him? Though he was curious, he would gladly accept the results.

He glanced to Miss Pearce, who watched him with lively, curious eyes. Their looks caught. The distance between them seemed to dissolve to nothing, and the presence of Lady Daleford became a vague, remote annoyance.

Kit felt her gaze like a hot caress down his back. A lick of lust uncoiled, centering in his groin and curling outward with a probing, curious touch.

Her eyes widened, as though she, too, had felt that sudden flare. A candid, carnal flush bloomed in her cheeks. With her redhead’s complexion, she wasn’t able to hide her responses.

Intriguing, their reactions. As though they were both surprised, and neither had anticipated anything other than dutiful acceptance of an unwanted situation.

She cleared her throat. “Tea, my lord?”

Lady Daleford coughed with displeasure.

“A kind offer,” Kit answered. “The company is refreshment enough.” He inwardly grimaced. What a bloody trite thing to say.

A corner of Miss Pearce’s mouth turned up as if recognizing the ridiculousness of the situation. She waved toward a chair. “Please.”

He took his seat as she sank down on a nearby sofa.

A small clock on the mantel ticked. They sat in silence for a full minute.

What could he say to Miss Pearce now, anyway? We don’t know each other at all but let’s join our lives together forever seemed like an odd way to begin a conversation. I want to touch you everywhere and feel your hands on my naked skin also seemed inappropriate. And with Lady Daleford hovering like a vulture, he found it even more difficult to speak.

He had to think of something. “Are you enjoying London, Miss Pearce?”

“I get so blessedly confused here,” she said honestly. “The minute I set foot outside the door I don’t know west from east or north from south.” She spread her hands. “The curse of the first-time visitor.”

“You’ve never been here before?” He oughtn’t be astonished by this. Many people lived away from London, but other than his years fighting, he’d always returned to the metropolis. Anything a man wanted could be found here.

“All my life has been spent in Cornwall.” Her smile turned self-deprecating. “I must sound like the country mouse.”

“There’s very little about you I’d ascribe to being a mouse, Miss Pearce.”

Her lips pursed into an amused bow. “There’s another thing I’m not acclimated to—a city gentleman’s suavity.”

“I’ll endeavor to speak more coarsely so I can put you at ease,” he teased.

Her laugh was low and rich, sending another flicker of sensual curiosity careening through him. “If you could curse like a disgruntled fisherman, I’d be ever so much more comfortable.”

Kit’s laugh caught them both by surprise. He hadn’t felt much like laughing these past few weeks—but she brought lightness out in him.

Lady Daleford audibly grumbled.

“May I interest you in a walk to Russell Square?” he asked Miss Pearce. “For once, the smoke in the air is tolerable enough. We might even be able to see a glimpse of blue sky.” He glanced at Lady Daleford. “Of course, we’ll bring along your maid. It will be entirely appropriate.”

Lady Daleford opened her mouth, but Miss Pearce spoke first. “Yes, please.”

“I’ll await you in the hallway,” Kit said, standing as she also got to her feet. He bowed at the older woman, who looked as though she gnawed on salt cod.

He took a few steps past the door before stopping in the hallway. It was absolutely unforgivable that he eavesdrop, but Kit never claimed to have unimpeachable morals. In fact, his amorality had long been one of his greatest strengths.

“My dear,” Lady Daleford said lowly and urgently. “Please reconsider. Feign illness or a turned ankle. Anything rather than giving that man a moment’s privacy. He is a poor investment.”

What’s wrong with me? Kit’s pride gave an indignant throb.

“I’ve already agreed to go,” Miss Pearce answered. “And I want to go. I like him.” She sounded astonished by this fact.

A quick burst of brightness popped in his chest.

“Besides,” she continued, “I don’t think he’s a poor investment.”

“He’ll make a terrible husband,” Lady Daleford warned. “Men like him take mistresses. They stick their wives in the country and never see them. He’ll be exactly the same.”

Damn—the older woman seemed to have read his mind. He’d never desired marriage, but to hear her discredit his husbandly attributes irritated him.

“He’s precisely what I need,” Miss Pearce countered.

And what might that be? he wondered silently.

But whatever her motivations, the end result matched his own desire for a woman he could see himself marrying, and a woman who would be amenable to the world’s shortest courtship. She also seemed unconcerned by the fact that he’d have lovers or deposit her at a far-flung country estate.

“I will go,” Miss Pearce concluded in a tone that would brook no argument.

He couldn’t decide whether or not it was a good thing that she possessed a strong spine. If they were to marry, she would have to accept the fact that he had no intention of changing the way he lived his life. So long as he kept her comfortable, he reasoned, she’d have no cause to complain. He’d give her a comfortable allowance while he used the lion’s share of his income to fund the pleasure garden. Everyone would have what they wanted.

But all that was irrelevant unless she agreed to marry him. Though she might not if she found him lurking in corridors and eavesdropping, so he hurried to the foyer to wait.

Miss Pearce smiled at him as she entered the vestibule, then she passed Kit to go upstairs and change. She made a pretty shape as she ascended the staircase, moving with confidence mixed with instinctive sensuality.

Kit could hardly wait for the wedding night. If she agreed to marry.

“Ahem.”

He turned in mid-ogle to see Lady Daleford glowering at him.

She advanced on him, her eyes sharp and piercing. “I know why you’re calling on Tamsyn,” she said darkly. “You’re panting to get your hands on Lord Somerby’s blunt, and she’s the key.”

“It doesn’t seem like my being an earl, and making her my countess, is an abominable fate,” he answered blandly.

“The title doesn’t trouble me,” she retorted. “It’s your reputation. Gaming hells, demimondaines, opera dancers . . . hardly the pursuits of an honorable gentleman.”

“Perhaps I can reform,” Kit replied. I won’t.

“You won’t.” Lady Daleford sounded confident. “Tamsyn deserves better.”

Kit wasn’t precisely the ideal upper-class man, however her words were little barbs digging into his flesh. He might not be admitted to Almack’s, but, damn it, he’d fought Napoleon. One didn’t return from the blood and mud and boredom and terror without needing some relief—and it wasn’t found at the bottom of a cup of watery lemonade.

“Let’s allow Miss Pearce to decide what she wants,” he countered.

It looked as though Lady Daleford wanted to say more, but her mouth clamped shut as footsteps sounded on the stairs.

Kit turned to see Miss Pearce descending the steps, a shy but eager smile playing about her lips. His chest constricted with pleasure at the sight of her, and he felt his blood quickening.

He barely noticed a ruddy-cheeked woman in plain clothing trailing behind her—instead, he couldn’t tear his gaze from the young woman. She’d donned a lavender redingote and wore a straw bonnet with a matching pale purple ribbon, making her look like a flower from a tropical climate. The color highlighted her complexion and made the light brown of her eyes shine. Everything about her spoke of freshness and vigor, and she seemed ready to meet any experience with unconcealed energy.

Even though she knew he watched her, she didn’t make a show of descending the stairs, prolonging his admiration. Coming to stand in front of him, he caught her fragrance—something warm and spicy—and he flared his nostrils, trying to inhale her all at once. She tilted up her chin. This close, he could see the many tiny freckles that danced over her skin.

Each one a place to kiss, he thought unexpectedly, and wondered if they covered just her face or if there were more on her body.

“Shall we?” He offered her his arm.

Wordlessly, she moved to stand beside him and placed her fingers on his forearm. She wore gloves, and he a coat and shirt, so there was no flesh-to-flesh contact. Just the same, his heartbeat jolted at the pressure of her hand on him.

Normally, he associated with women of a far faster character. Their touches were more bold, but from this simple contact, his whole body came alive.

Miss Pearce’s fingers pressed down with more firmness, meeting the solidity of his arm. She glanced at him quickly, as if surprised by the feel of him. He wasn’t a brawny country lad, but he had been a soldier, and he continued to visit the fencing and pugilism academies to keep his body healthy and strong. Kit allowed himself a moment’s vanity by flexing the muscles of his arm, and was gratified by her interested look.

“Don’t forget that we’re expected at the Newtons’ tonight,” Lady Daleford reminded her.

“I’ll have her home in time for supper,” Kit promised.

Lady Daleford looked unappeased, but Miss Pearce didn’t seem fazed by the older woman’s disapproval.

Realizing that his future depended on this innocuous walk, Kit led Miss Pearce out the door and into the sunlight and uncertainty.

Chapter 5

Tamsyn tried to will her heart to beat at a steadier pace, but it staunchly refused to listen, thudding away with abandon as they ambled down the street. She couldn’t help her mingled nervousness and excitement. He clearly needed to wed quickly, but she didn’t know how long he’d spend courting her—provided she allowed him to.

“Russell Square isn’t far,” Lord Blakemere said as they walked.

She chanced a look at him through lowered lashes. The sunlight was his ally, tracing the planes of his long, handsome face with a loving hand. She felt flushed all over from being this close to him and sensing the potency of his body.

Tamsyn had often heard that a life of sin left its mark upon a person, yet that hardly seemed the case with him. Potency and virility radiated from him, as if nourished by his dissolution.

Perhaps if any of her acquaintances ever fell ill, she would recommend a thorough course of gambling and debauchery to set them back on the path to health.

She looked back at Nessa. Her old friend mouthed something at Tamsyn that she couldn’t understand, but judging by Nessa’s ogling of the earl, she approved of Tamsyn’s choice for a potential husband.

“A little green park isn’t far from here,” she noted. “There’s a good deal more privacy there than Russell Square.”

“By all means,” he said readily, “lead us there.”

It was a strange dance they did, she and Lord Blakemere. She imagined that he’d made inquiries about her, and knew some—but not all—of the reasons for her eagerness to wed. Further, he likely understood that she knew the nature of his own predicament. Yet neither of them could address this directly. Not yet, at any rate.

“London’s rife with entertainments,” he said as they headed toward the tiny park. His voice was deep with a faint, delicious huskiness. “I hope you’ve had a chance to visit some of them.”

“Lady Daleford has no fondness for frivolity. She sees assemblies and balls as a necessary evil, but won’t countenance other amusements.”

“That’s a shame. A pretty young woman needs her share of pleasures.”

Her stomach leapt at his suggestive words. She had the feeling he wasn’t referring to Astley’s Amphitheatre or strolls in the park.

“You sound like one well familiar with the city’s . . . pleasures.”

His gaze turned wicked and knowing. “There’s no better guide. Although,” he murmured half to himself, “the places I’m most familiar with aren’t quite appropriate for a gentlewoman.”

She didn’t doubt it. He could probably put to shame a sailor on leave.

“Before I return to Cornwall,” she mused, “I’ll convince Lady Daleford to let me see something of the city. Vauxhall, at the least.”

He grinned. “Pleasure gardens are amongst my favorite places.”

“From what I’ve heard, they’re rather wild.”

His grin widened and his eyes gleamed with excitement. “Precisely—the mix of all walks of life, the ecstatic chaos, the unpredictability and dedication to wringing joy out of every minute.” He looked as though he was about to say something further, but then seemed to reconsider it and was silent.

“I’m not much familiar with gentlemen of fashion and their interests,” she confessed. Farmers, fishermen, and smuggling sea captains—those were the men she knew best, but she couldn’t tell him that.

He lifted his brows. “I’m a gentleman of fashion?”

She eyed him, from the crown of his beaver hat to the toes of his gleaming tall boots. Today he wore buff breeches, a wine-colored waistcoat, and a bottle-green coat, all of the finest materials and assembled with an expert hand. No one in the whole of Cornwall had a fraction of his sartorial gloss, and that included Penzance. But he didn’t quite resemble a dandy, given the fact that the body wearing the garments seemed more suited for the battlefield. Or the bedroom.

“You’re no elderly farmer,” she replied.

He shook his head and exhaled. “I suppose that’s better than most of the names I’ve been called.”

That comment would have to be explored in greater depth—another time.

He guided her around a puddle on the sidewalk. “For one with scant practice talking to a polished gem such as myself, you’re doing admirably. London’s not known for plain dealing, but you speak your mind.”

“I try to be truthful.” Which was only partially true. “I’m not always successful.”

“No one can be completely honest all the time,” he said with the air of a man who had a few secrets of his own. What were they? Did she dare find out?

“I agree.” There was only one secret that she kept, but it was a big one.

They reached the tiny square, tucked between homes. It was a little treasure enclosed by iron railings, with a handful of trees and green grass currently occupied by a pair of pigeons. A wooden bench stood in the middle, as if waiting for two people on an assignation.

“I discovered this place on a walk,” Tamsyn explained as she and the earl approached the bench. Nessa stood a small distance away, feeding the birds with bread crumbs she pulled from the pockets of her coat.

“Given Lady Daleford’s chary eye,” Lord Blakemere said wryly, “I’m surprised she let you amble out of her clutches.”

“She was taking a nap,” Tamsyn admitted, “and I bolted.”

His crooked smile was a roguish thing with the power to weaken her knees. He didn’t admonish her for being disobedient, or seem particularly alarmed that she’d gone out on her own.

“If you grasp freedom again,” he advised her, “be sure to go to Catton’s. The best iced cakes in the hemisphere. It’s run by a woman, Isabel Catton.” He leaned closer and her mouth went dry. “She’s a scandalous woman, Mrs. Catton. A marquess’s daughter who shocked Society by marrying a commoner.”

Tamsyn barely paid attention to the words he spoke. All she could focus on was his nearness, and the warm, masculine scent of his skin.

“I hadn’t heard of the place,” she said, struggling for calm. She sat down on the bench and he sat beside her, leaving an unfortunately respectable distance between them. “Now I’ll be certain to go before I leave London. I do love a scandalous woman.”

“Me, too,” he said in a low, confiding voice. A frown suddenly creased his brow. “You plan to stay for the entirety of the Season, I hope.”

“I haven’t decided the length of my stay,” she answered, which was a better response than, I need to find a husband with heaps of money so I can keep smuggling.

He drew in a breath, then slowly exhaled. His profile was turned to her, so she could see the clean lines of his face, his slightly large nose, the angles of his jaw. His brows were drawn down, as if in thought.

“Let’s agree to honesty between us.” He turned to her, his expression serious, which seemed an odd contrast to his usual levity.

She made a noncommittal sound. Fortunately, he took that as a sound of agreement.

“In the spirit of that honesty,” he went on, carefully selecting his words like a man picking out precious stones, “I’ll state it plainly—I need to wed within five days.”

Hearing him say it out loud made her heart speed up. “I know,” she replied as evenly as she could.

He waited for a moment, as though expecting her to demand to be taken home. When she didn’t, he continued. “Your circumstances are known to me, as well.”

Her heart knocked into her ribs. “What do you know?”

“You’re from an old family,” he recited. “You were orphaned, but there wasn’t a will, so you have no dowry.” He cocked an eyebrow. “Did I miss anything?”

She forced a thin smile. “From stem to stern, that’s everything.”

Planting his hands on his knees, he went on. “Knowing what you know about me, would you be amenable . . . to becoming my wife?”

Her breath deserted her. She couldn’t speak.

“The short of it is,” he continued in her silence, “I need a wife and you need a husband. We’ll suit each other’s needs.”

“What a romantic proposal,” she said wryly. “‘You’ll do.’”

He grimaced. “I’ve never proposed before, so my skill is negligible. My apologies.”

She shook her head as she accepted the death of her final hope for affection. “Romance never figured into the picture for me, anyway.”

“Again, I’m sorry I have to be so businesslike,” he said with regret. “Time is slipping away, faster and faster. I can vow that, if you say yes, I will make your life very comfortable.”

She didn’t care about that—all that mattered was buying Chei Owr and keeping Newcombe from the deadly grip of poverty.

But she would also be married. She’d become Lord Blakemere’s property after years of almost-complete liberty.

Yet for all that the country considered her to be his possession, the same could not be said about him. He would not belong to her. She would give up her independence, and he’d keep his freedom, which hardly seemed fair. A husband could sue for divorce on the grounds of infidelity, but she wouldn’t have the same recourse unless he was physically cruel to her or a bigamist.

“Will you be faithful?” she asked.

He was silent for a long while. “I cannot guarantee my fidelity,” he finally said. Grimly, as though delivering a verdict.

Her sinking regret was expected, but that didn’t make it less painful. “I see.”

“Once you have given me an heir,” he added quickly, “you can take a lover. I won’t be jealous of you, and you won’t be jealous of me.”

She knew how city marriages worked. Even so, she confessed, “I didn’t think it mattered that we might be monogamous, but hearing it spelled out so plainly is”—she searched for the right word—“strange.”

He looked rueful, but not repentant. “Understandable. But I must say again that Lord Somerby was a very wealthy man. His wealth will be mine. You will have any material comfort you desire, so long as your spending is within reason.”