The Countess Misbehaves

“I know what that is on your upper arm!” Madeleine hotly accused. Armand de Chevalier smiled, said nothing. “How dare you wear my garter for all the world to see!” she raged.

“Now, Maddie, no one but you and I know that it’s your garter.”

Unconvinced, she charged, “You are bent on ruining my life simply because I…because we…”

“Made memorable love in a summer’s storm?” He softly finished her sentence.

“Shhh!” she hissed. “Give that garter back to me!”

“Can’t do that,” he said, lifting then lowering his wide shoulders. “It’s my good luck charm. Besides, it’s all I have of you.”

“It’s all you’ll ever have of me, de Chevalier!”

“Ah, you’re wrong there, Maddie,” he said with irritating cockiness. “You know you are.” A sudden warmth radiated from his eyes when he added, “One day we’ll be together again.”

Countess Madeleine Cavendish swallowed with difficulty. Then she narrowed her eyes and promised him in a soft, acid-laced voice, “You’re the one who’s wrong, Creole. That day will never come!”

“Yes, it will, chérie.” He smiled seductively and predicted, “Perhaps sooner than you think.”

Nan Ryan “writes beautifully. Her style, plotting and characterizations are skillfully developed.”

—Wichita Falls Times Record

Also available from MIRA Books and NAN RYAN

WANTING YOU

The Countess Misbehaves

Nan Ryan

For

Katonna Smothermon

A super talented lady, a beautiful woman, an excellent mother and a treasured friend.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

One

Liverpool, England

August 1856

She knew he was trouble the first time she saw him.

And the first time the Countess of Ballarat saw Armand de Chevalier, was as she boarded White Star’s luxury liner, the S. S. Starlight, for the long voyage to America.

The Countess, known to most as Lady Madeleine Cavendish, lifted her skirts, stepped onto the ship’s long gangway, and then paused to look up. She immediately spotted a tall, strikingly handsome, raven-haired man lounging against the ship’s railing and boldly giving her the once-over.

He smiled disarmingly at her. But the wise noblewoman did not return his smile. Instead, she quickly looked away. She had no wish to encourage him in any manner. She knew his kind well. Too well. She had married just such a man when she was a young, impulsive girl and it had been a disaster.

Lady Madeleine’s delicate jaw hardened at the unpleasant recollection. She had fallen deeply in love with him and the passion between them had raged white hot. In his arms, she had experienced incredible ecstasy, but it had lasted only for a very brief time. They had barely returned from the Italian honeymoon before her bridegroom—a charming commoner her mother had warned her not to wed—began behaving as if he had no wife. He began drinking heavily and gambled away great sums of money. Money that was hers, not his. Worse, he was soon seeking diversion in the arms of other women, humiliating her. It was a nightmare of a kind she was determined never to experience again.

After three miserably unhappy years as the neglected wife, Madeleine Cavendish had been widowed at age twenty-one when her wayward husband was killed in a drunken brawl over another woman.

Now as she ascended the ship’s gangway, Lady Madeleine impatiently shook her bonneted head to clear her mind of those events. The action turned her thoughts to the present.

Was the dark, dangerous-looking man still at the ship’s railing? When she reached the huge vessel’s polished teak deck, she couldn’t restrain herself from casting a quick glance in his direction.

He was, to her genuine surprise, still there. Still staring. And still smiling at her in a disturbingly affable way that enforced her earlier impression that he was indeed trouble. Uncharacteristically flustered, Lady Madeleine made a misstep and almost fell. In an instant, the tall, jet-haired admirer was at her side, steadying her.

The startled Countess abruptly experienced an unwanted rush of excitement when the dark stranger’s powerful right arm went around her waist and he pressed her close against his side. Awed by the granite hardness of his lean male frame, she suddenly felt very small and vulnerable.

Lady Madeleine looked up with intent to thank him, but his flashing midnight eyes arrested her so completely she could not speak. She said nothing. Snared by his hot gaze, she felt her heart begin to pound alarmingly and she knew that she must, on this long journey to America, stay as far away from this sinfully handsome man as possible.

After a long, awkward moment, she finally recovered. “Let me go!” she ordered in a most imperial tone.

She was totally caught off guard when he immediately released her. Struggling to regain her balance and her dignity, the Countess was shocked and highly incensed that this tall stranger offered no further assistance. Instead he stood there with his arms crossed over his chest, laughing.

He was laughing at her, the rude cad!

Nonplussed, she opened her mouth to hurl stinging oaths at him, but closed it before saying a word. To censure someone with such abominably bad manners and such a twisted sense of humor would be a waste of her precious time. He wasn’t worth the effort.

She lifted her noble chin, looked daggers at him, turned about and haughtily flounced away.

Continuing to laugh, an amused Armand de Chevalier watched the angry woman storm off down the crowded promenade deck. Armand liked what he saw. Very much. He decided then and there that he would get to know the lady better during the crossing. He had no idea who she was, but he knew that she possessed a remarkable beauty and fiery spirit.

His kind of woman.

Their face-to-face meeting had been brief, but her image was indelibly etched into his memory. She was, he surmised, about five-six or five-seven. He stood six-two in his stocking feet and the top of her head reached the level of his mouth. Her hair, dressed elaborately atop her head and partially concealed beneath a fussy hat, was an intriguing shade of red-gold. He could all too easily envision it spilling down around her bare shoulders.

A muscle danced in Armand’s tanned jaw and his chest grew tight at the pleasant fantasy.

She was such an uncommon beauty. Her pale skin was as flawless as fine alabaster and her large eyes were a deep emerald green. Her mouth, even tightened in anger as it had been when her face was close to his, was full-lipped and decidedly tempting.

Tall, slender, with a natural grace despite her momentary loss of equilibrium, she was a dazzlingly pretty woman and she had effortlessly arrested Armand’s attention. He wondered who she was and where she was going. And how long it would be before she was in his arms?

This late-summer crossing was, Armand decided, going to be far more pleasurable than he had hoped.

Once she was safely inside her elegantly appointed stateroom, Lady Madeleine was careful to maintain her calm composure. She didn’t want her hired attendant to know that she was upset. She hardly knew Lucinda Montgomery, the young woman who had agreed to be her traveling companion in exchange for passage to America.

“Lucinda, will you please have some ice water sent up at once? I’m very thirsty,” the Countess requested in an effort to have a few minutes alone.

“Yes, my Lady,” Lucinda replied and she hurried out of the stateroom to do her mistress’s bidding.

Alone at last, Lady Madeleine sighed with relief, then immediately shivered and hugged herself. The brief encounter on deck with the impertinent stranger had left her breathless, oddly disturbed and anxious. Which was not at all like her.

She had always led a very social life, one in which she mixed often with the great and near great and took their admiration as her due. She was well aware of her beauty and knew that she possessed a natural talent for charming people. From the time she was a young girl she had been completely comfortable in the company of powerful men. And she had learned early on that she need put forth very little effort to have males, be they young or old, handsome or plain, eating out of hand. She was accustomed to being fawned over, flirted with, panted after and she took it all with good grace and a grain of salt.

So what on earth was bothering her now?

Granted, the stranger was so darkly handsome and potently masculine no female could help but notice and be affected. Tall, slim, impeccably dressed, he appeared to be quite the gentleman. Yet his flashing eyes and audacious manner were contradictory. And, no well-bred gentleman would laugh at a lady the way he had laughed at her.

He was, undoubtedly, a reckless rogue whose outrageous behavior some women would find appealing. Not her. She found him coarse. Common. Vulgar. Not worth wasting another minute’s thought on.

Madeleine decisively shook her head, then took off her bonnet and tossed it on a velvet-covered sofa. She crossed to the bed, turned about, and sat down on its edge. She sighed, stretched and slowly sank down onto the brocade-covered bed.

She raised her arms above her head and sighed once more. And she gave silent thanks that the man to whom she was officially engaged, was a kind, cultured nobleman.

Madeleine smiled as she pictured Desmond Chilton, Fourth Earl of Enfield, whom she was to wed next spring. A distant cousin whom she had known since childhood but had rarely seen, Lord Enfield had left their native England more than a decade ago.

The earl had settled in New Orleans where Madeleine’s dear uncle, Colfax Sumner—her deceased mother’s only sibling—had lived for the past forty-five years. The two men had become good friends and when she had visited her uncle during the past summer, the handsome blond earl had spent a great deal of time at Colfax’s French Quarter mansion. A week before she was to return home to England, the earl proposed and she had accepted.

Lord Enfield would, she felt sure, treat her as a wife should be treated. He clearly adored her. And, if she was less than passionately in love, that presented no weighty problem as far as she was concerned. She much preferred being the ‘beloved’ as opposed to the ‘lover.’ Desmond was most definitely the lover. She his beloved. Which was as it should be, as it would remain.

Never again would she risk being humiliated by a mere mortal man.

Armand de Chevalier remained on deck for the next hour, strolling unhurriedly from stern to bow as the huge vessel moved slowly out of the Liverpool harbor and made its way to the open sea.

Excited, well-dressed travelers had lined the ship’s railing, waving to those left behind. Others, like Armand, promenaded around the ship’s polished decks, greeting fellow voyagers, laughing, talking, anticipating an enjoyable adventure.

Many of those happy passengers were, of course, women. Some with husbands or family members. Others traveling together in groups of two or three. Still others were alone, save for a servant or attendant. There were, Armand noted, dozens of unattached, attractive women.

But not one captured his attention as the stunning woman with the red-gold hair. He couldn’t get her out of his mind. He wanted to see her again, and he searched the milling crowds, hoping that perhaps she would take a stroll once they were on the open sea.

She did not.

After a couple of frustrating hours, Armand gave up and made his way to the gentleman’s tavern. There in the darkly paneled club, he stepped up to the long polished bar, ordered a bourbon straight and downed it in one swallow.

As the barkeep poured another, Armand couldn’t help overhearing a conversation taking place between two gentleman standing next to him who were sipping port.

“She’s a British noble lady,” said a short, balding gentleman with muttonchop sideburns. “The only child of the fifth earl of Ballarat and his American-born wife, both of whom are now deceased.”

“Is she now?” replied his drinking companion, a tall, cadaver-thin man in a brown linen suit with a boutonniere in his buttonhole.

Armand knew, instinctively, that they were talking about his red-haired beauty. “Excuse me, gentlemen,” he said and the port-drinking pair turned to look at him. “Does the noblewoman of whom you are speaking happen to have red hair?”

The tall, skinny fellow nodded, and said with a slight touch of wistfulness, “An unusual shade of red-gold that is incredibly striking against her pale-white skin.”

“Who is she?” Armand asked bluntly.

“Why she’s Lady Madeleine Cavendish, the flame-haired Countess,” said the short man with the muttonchop sideburns. “One of the most renowned beauties in all Europe.”

“Undoubtedly,” said Armand before he downed his second whiskey. “Gentlemen,” he said as he nodded good-day then turned and walked out of the tavern.

Armand was unfazed by her lofty status. Un-bothered by the fact that she was a Countess. An inherently confident man, Armand had learned, long ago, that beneath fine satins and laces, often beat the passionate heart of a hot-blooded woman.

He’d bet everything he owned that the lovely Lady Madeleine Cavendish was such a woman.

Two

After a restful afternoon nap followed by a long leisurely bath, Madeleine Cavendish was again feeling like her old self. Relaxed. Self-assured. Looking forward to her first evening at sea.

When the blinding summer sun had finally slipped below the horizon and full darkness had fallen, Madeleine was humming happily as the surprisingly talented Lucinda meticulously dressed her long hair. It took a good half hour, but when Lucinda had finished, Madeleine’s heavy locks were skillfully fashioned into a shiny coronet of thick braids atop her elegant head. The style was quite flattering to Madeleine as it accentuated her graceful, swanlike neck and beautiful throat.

Madeleine had chosen, for the first dinner at sea, a shimmering green silk ball gown with a low-cut bodice, an uncomfortably tight waist, and billowing skirts that spilled attractively over yards and yards of crinoline petticoats.

By ten minutes of nine she was fully dressed and ready for dinner. But she waited another half hour before leaving the stateroom.

Arriving fashionably late, she swept into the immense dining hall with its blazing chandeliers, deep lush carpet and gleaming sandalwood walls. A uniformed steward ushered her directly to the captain’s table. A dozen diners were seated at the enormous round, white-clothed table.

All the gentlemen stood as a chair was pulled out for her. Nodding and smiling as she was presented to the well-dressed group, Madeleine noticed that one table companion was even later than she. The gilt chair next to hers was vacant. Perhaps the guest who was to be seated there had come down with a bad case of mal de mer. Poor miserable soul. She recalled, all too well, her first crossing years ago, when she had suffered from sea sickness.

As a white-jacketed waiter shook out a large linen dinner napkin and draped it across her silk-covered knees, Madeleine glanced up and saw the stranger from the railing. He was dressed impeccably in evening clothes and was making his way across the crowded room.

Dear lord he was coming straight toward the captain’s table!

Lady Madeleine stiffened. She gritted her teeth as he pulled out the empty chair on her right and sat down. The captain made the introductions and she learned her rogue was Armand de Chevalier, a New Orleans native on his way home after a lengthy summer stay in Paris. The elderly, gray-haired gentleman on her left, a New York banker, leaned close and whispered that de Chevalier was an aristocrat. A wealthy Creole who often traveled to Europe. He was, it was rumored, of the chacalata—the highest born of the Creole elite. Madeleine nodded. She knew that the haughty Creoles were the descendants of the early French or Spanish settlers who had been born in America. She also knew that they were considered the nobility of New Orleans.

Conversations resumed. Diners began to sample the vichyssoise. Armand de Chevalier turned away to politely reply to a question from a stout, expensively dressed woman seated on his other side.

Lady Madeleine suffered a mild twinge of alarm knowing that she and this raffish Creole were to be dwelling in the very same city. At the unsettling prospect, she involuntarily shivered.

“Are you chilly, my Lady?” Armand de Chevalier, turning his full attention to her, softly inquired. “If so, I could…”

“I am quite comfortable, thank you, Mr. de Chevalier.” She icily set him straight and reached for her wineglass.

From the corner of her eye she saw that the Creole’s full lips were turned up into a hint of a sardonic grin. Her dislike and distrust of the man increased.

It was, for Madeleine Cavendish, a miserable meal. Her usual healthy appetite missing, she pushed the food around her china plate and forced herself to smile and engage her fellow diners in idle conversation. All but de Chevalier. She said nothing to him. And, further, she silently, subtly let him know that she was not interested in hearing more about him nor did she intend to tell him anything about herself.

He didn’t press her.

Still, she was greatly relieved when at last the seven-course meal finally came to an end.

At the captain’s insistence, the smiling countess courteously allowed the beaming, white-haired ship’s officer to escort her into the ship’s mirrored ballroom. Leaving Armand de Chevalier behind, Madeleine immediately began to relax and enjoy herself.

Lavishly dressed dancers were spinning about on the polished parquet floor as a full orchestra in evening wear played a waltz. Warmed by the wine and relieved to be free of the bothersome Creole, Lady Madeleine was gracious when the aging captain lifted his kid-gloved hand and led her onto the floor.

She smiled charmingly as the barrel-chested captain turned her awkwardly about. And she laughed good-naturedly when he stepped on her toes and quickly assured him she was unhurt, no harm done.

Her smile was bright and genuine as the captain, soon wheezing for breath and perspiring heavily, continued to clumsily turn her about on the floor.

But her smile evaporated when Armand de Chevalier appeared and tapped the Captain on the shoulder. He brashly cut in, decisively took her in his arms and deftly spun her away.

She was trapped. Everyone was watching. The other dancers abruptly stopped dancing to watch the Countess and the Creole. Madeleine couldn’t make a scene. She couldn’t forcefully push de Chevalier away and storm out of the ballroom. She was left with no choice but to smile and endure the dance.

Madeleine’s smile was forced.

She was as stiff as a poker.

At least at first. But that quickly changed. The Creole was such a graceful dancer and so incredibly easy to follow, Madeleine—who had always loved dancing—found herself relaxing in his arms. And enjoying herself. Too much.

Soon she was no longer aware of the watching crowd. She was aware of nothing and no one save the man who held her and turned her and spun her about. His lean body barely brushed her own, yet she sensed his every movement as if she were pressed flush against his hard male frame. It was as if they were one body, hers so finely attuned to his, she could easily anticipate even the slightest nuance of movement before it took place.

It was strange.

It was exhilarating.

All her senses seemed suddenly to be heightened. Her vision was so sharp that as she looked at him, the thought struck her that this handsome man’s aquiline profile could have been traced from a drawing of a conquistador.

Her hearing, too, was nothing short of incredible. She could hear, above the music and commotion, his deep, steady breathing and even the heavy, rhythmic beating of his heart. His clean, unique masculine scent, so subtle, so intoxicating, caused her to inhale deeply.

Most pronounced of all was her sense of touch. His hand at her back, gently guiding her about, was warm and persuasive, the tapered fingertips only lightly touching her waist, but seeming to burn through the silk of her ball gown. His other hand lightly clutched her own slender fingers and pressed them against the solid wall of his chest. The heat emanating from him was intense; her sensitive fingertips, which touched against his muscled chest, felt as if they were on fire.

A thrill rippled through her.

She was overwhelmed by the sight, sound, smell and touch of this sinfully handsome man. Guiltily she wondered about that other sense. The sense of taste. What would it taste like to be kissed by him? Covertly, she glanced at his sensual lips and felt butterflies take wing inside.

Quickly she looked away.

And saw—reflected in the ballroom’s mirrored walls—duplicate pairs of the dancing duo. He so tall and dark and broad-shouldered. She so pale and slender and bare-shouldered. The two of them moving perfectly together. Swaying seductively to the music.

It was a powerful image and Madeleine felt quite faint. Her partner immediately sensed her condition and artfully danced her out of the warm ballroom and onto the ship’s deserted deck.

Armand solicitously steered Madeleine to the railing where the salt-laden sea breeze cooled them. He gave her a chance to catch her breath, watched as some of the color returned to her cheeks.

“Better?” he asked.

She nodded and took a couple of long, deep breaths. Then she gripped the railing tightly, lifted her face into the wind and closed her eyes. In silence Armand stared at her in frank admiration. What a lovely vision she was with her noble head thrown back, her delicate chin lifted, her long dark lashes fluttering restlessly over her closed, beautiful eyes. He noted, and not for the first time that evening, that she possessed the most exquisite shoulders and bosom he had ever seen.

The bodice of her emerald-green gown was cut low enough to reveal the tempting swell of her milky-white bosom. At the same time the gown’s fabric rose high enough to modestly conceal her soft, rounded breasts.