A Countess by Chance

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My heartfelt gratitude goes out to my talented editor, Lauren Plude, for all of her cheers and wonderful insights. And to my agent, Helen Breitwieser, for her support.

And special thanks to my writing sisters, Jennifer Haymore, Brenna Aubrey, and Maria Powers, for their tough, amazing, painful, and insightful critiques. This story wouldn’t be intelligible without you ladies.

And to my husband and children for being so damn amazing. I love you guys.

H
e’d come.

Against all of Olivia Dewhurst’s hopes for a quiet, peaceful visit to her cousins’ country estate, Adam Rycroft, newly minted Earl of Huntington, had arrived last night.

It was inconsiderate, really. This was
her
cousin’s house party, after all, and Huntington had no conceivable reason to invade it with his dashing good looks and roguish charm. Indeed, every woman present had nearly swooned before he’d even dismounted from his horse.

All night, she’d imagined the clever things she would say when they finally spoke. In every scenario she was completely at ease, exuding charm, wit, and effortless poise. She was grace itself.

When the sun finally rose, she joined the rest of the ladies for their morning ride. She’d dressed in a pale green riding habit and mounted a chocolate-colored horse, cleverly named Chocolate, which the stable hand assured her was unusually gentle.

Yes, well, “gentle” translated to slow and lazy, apparently. Chocolate refused to move unless Olivia swatted her on the rump with such vigor that the creature was forced to acknowledge her presence.

The other ladies were tolerant for a long while, but by the end of the first hour, their patience had given way to thinly veiled annoyance. Their loud exhalations and pointed glares were like needles to her pride. If a hole had opened up right then, she would have gladly climbed into it.

“You don’t mind if we go on ahead, do you, Miss Dewhurst?” Annabelle Wood said with an edge of censure in her voice. The others smiled atop their horses and said nothing, poised to ride off the moment she gave her consent. Her cousin Margaret, ever the incompetent hostess, had already wandered ahead of the group, unknowing or uncaring if the rest followed.

“No, not at all,” Olivia lied. Anxiety swamped her, but she’d die before she let it show. “Please, go on ahead. I’ll be along shortly.”

The words had hardly left her mouth before they were off, leaving her completely alone with the beastly horse in the middle of a muddy field. Meanwhile, Chocolate had found a patch of freshly sprouted grass, and was munching away happily, with no inclination to move whatsoever. Not even a swift kick to the flank could inspire movement.

Olivia was sitting, looking out over the field, then looking back at the house, now just a white speck in the distance, when a strong, male voice rang out somewhere to her left.

“Well, well.”

She twisted to see Lord Huntington approach, and her heart instantly leapt into her throat. Mortification swept over her, and she wished were
anywhere
but here. She’d wanted him to see her strong, in control, confident…
not
stuck on the back of a horse, helpless.

He rode a grey, sleek-looking mount with the agility of a true horseman, his body swaying gracefully with each movement, strong and in control.

He sidled up to her. “Miss Dewhurst.”

Her eyes met his. Her cheeks flamed, and for a moment, her breath held. He was just as handsome as she remembered, with dark, wavy hair and chocolate brown eyes that flicked over her with interest.

It’d been two long years since she’d seen him last—since the night she’d jilted him. He was much the same—authoritative with a hint of devilish charm. Only his outward appearance had altered. No longer did he wear the crisp, serviceable attire of a tradesman. This morning, he wore a blue coat of the finest quality, tan breeches and a pair of Hessians that were a stark reminder of his new, elevated station.

His smile was slow and lazy, as though he sensed her unease and relished it.

Her heart thudded wildly against her ribs. She closed her eyes and tipped her head up casually, as if enjoying the sunshine. “Hello, my lord. Beautiful morning, isn’t it?”

“You appear to be having difficulties.”

If she had any sense at all, she’d ask him to help her dismount and drag the plodding beast back to the stables. Instead, she lifted her chin a notch. “No, indeed. Chocolate and I are just enjoying the sunshine.”

“In a muddy field?”

“As you see.” She spared a quick glance at him. He was looking down at her suspiciously. “What’s wrong with a muddy field?”

He shrugged his broad shoulders. “If you ever wish to return to the house, that horse won’t do.”  

Chocolate’s ears twitched, as though she sensed the criticism, and she moved to another patch of grass, taking Olivia right along with her, as though she were nothing more than a flea on her back.

“She’s a bit stubborn,” Olivia admitted. “I think she may have issues with authority.”

“She just needs a strong hand, like most females.”

Olivia pursed her lips. She remembered his strong, capable hands, and the wicked things he’d done to her. While she was still strictly a virgin, they’d stretched the definition of the word to its very limits.

“A strong hand.” She rolled her eyes. “What a masculine thing to say.”

He didn’t even have the decency to flinch at her comment. “Why on earth would you consent to such an outing when you clearly have no talent for riding? You would have done better to stay home.”

She stiffened, indignant. “I ride exceptionally well, thank you kindly.”

He smiled, flashing that damnable dimple in the side of his cheek. “I think we both know you can ride only marginally well. I wouldn’t even venture to call your skills on a horse sufficient. Certainly not well enough to be traipsing through muddy fields alone.”

Her cheeks heated. How dare he! The truth of his statement was of little consequence. Her pride flared, and before she could think better of it, she said, “My skills can hardly be measured while riding such an impossible creature. This horse is unnaturally ornery. I venture to say that even
you
, my lord, couldn’t command her.”

“You are wrong about that, Miss Dewhurst. I can be quite persuasive when the mood strikes.” His hot gaze raked down her body, briefly stopping at her breasts, then meandering down to the V between her thighs. His lips twisted into a delicious, knowing smile. “Or don’t you remember?”

Heat surged through her like a cresting wave. Of course she remembered. One didn’t easily forget passion so potent, so unyieldingly intense.

Swallowing, she glanced away. “You seem quite sure of yourself.”

He shrugged. “I’m capable enough.”

She licked her lips. “In that case, how about a little friendly wager?”

Her father, a retired gambler, had taught his only child a great many things. First among them, strike quickly when you have the advantage. Huntington would be fortunate to get Chocolate to move, let alone
run.

His lips twisted into that arrogant smirk that had never failed to annoy her. “That all depends on the prize, Miss Dewhurst.”

“Two hundred pounds says you cannot outrun me with this horse.”

With his sleek gelding, she was sure to win. And two hundred pounds would be enough to pay for her father’s medicine, and a little extra besides. She smiled sweetly.

He leaned in, his big, imposing body impossibly close. “Two thousand.”

Her breath caught. She had no hope of paying him two hundred pounds if she lost, let alone two thousand. “You know I don’t have two thousand pounds.”

It was no secret. While she and her father struggled to conceal the true desperation of their situation, all of England knew the money—everything—was gone. Only the family estate remained, derelict and neglected, but untouched by creditors.

Boldly, he reached out and traced her lips with the tip of his finger, a barely there touch that sent shivers of awareness skipping down her spine. She should push him away. It was the proper thing to do. Instead, her eyelids fluttered closed as she absorbed his touch. It took every drop of self-control not to reach out and pull him into a deep, delicious kiss. She still remembered the feel of his lips against hers, the fierce, unrelenting need that followed in the wake of his touch.

“As it happens, you do have something I want.” His voice was low, seductive, and it reminded her of the warm afternoons they’d spent together, talking, laughing, kissing…

His hand fell away and she opened her eyes, blinking. That she had something he wanted seemed impossible. She was destitute, on the brink of ruin. She had nothing.

He leaned in closer, his warm breath brushing over her cheek, and whispered in her ear. “Two thousand pounds if you win.”

She swallowed. “And if I lose?”

“I get
you
.”

A
dam watched all the blood drain from Miss Dewhurst’s face with a sort of sick satisfaction. For two long years he’d dreamt of her, remembering how her smooth, creamy skin felt beneath his fingertips. The taste of her lips and the smell of her hair were branded in his memory forever. Together they’d planned to build a home, a family. But in one breath, she’d snatched it all away.

He tensed at the memory of that day, of that moment, suspended in time. Her words had stricken him like a knife to the chest, severing the connection between them.

She blinked several times, as though trying to comprehend his proposition. “
Me
?”

“Yes, Miss Dewhurst—
Olivia
—you.” He leaned closer, and drew in her soft, flowery scent. Lilacs. “More to the point, your virtue.” His hand fell to the swell of her breast. Even through the stiffness of her corset, her breast filled his palm. That had always intrigued him, the way she fit him so perfectly, as though she were made for his hands alone. “It’s high time I take what should have been mine years ago.”

She drew in a sharp breath and her cheeks flushed a deep, becoming shade of pink. He smirked. She was remarkably easy to fluster.

Her eyes glinted with determination and she extended a dainty hand. “Very well, my lord. You have a deal.” He took it in his own and shook. “But you won’t win.”

He dismounted and walked around to her. He placed his hands on her slender waist and lifted her off her horse, then onto his grey gelding, Champion. Hiking her skirts up to accommodate the saddle, she exposed her smooth, shapely calves to his gaze. Tantalizing. More tantalizing than they should be for a man of his experience. Images flashed in his mind: her naked, writhing, those calves hooked around his waist as he slowly pushed into her…

She glanced quickly at the ground, and then snapped her head up, gripping the reins tight. Her skin had a white, sickly pallor.

“Are you well, Miss Dewhurst?”

She pressed her lips into a firm line and nodded stiffly.

Uneasiness swelled unwelcome in his chest. Sitting atop Champion, she looked so small, so damnably vulnerable. Deuce it. He unfastened the sidesaddle on her horse, untangled it from the reins, and threw it aside. “We can call this off if you like. We don’t have to race.”

She glanced at him then flashed him a tight smile. “Afraid of being bested, my lord?”

The formal use of
my lord
grated—especially coming from her lips. To her, he’d always been Adam. Her use of his formal title was testament to the wide, yawning gulf that had opened up between them since last they’d spoken.  

He smirked. If she won, it would be by his design, not by chance. Using a nearby boulder as a step, he mounted her mare.

“Very well, we race from here…” He pointed to a copse of trees in the distance, across the wide expanse of the neatly trimmed lawn. “To those trees.”

With a tilt of her chin, she looked out over the distance. She appeared much the same as she had two years ago, with wide green eyes and honey-colored curls, pulled up, exposing her slender neck. She was still stunningly beautiful. Not in the conventional sense, but in a wild, untamed sort of way that never failed to make his breath catch and hold.

His gaze flicked over her pale green riding habit, that looked as though it’d been mended one too many times, the seams slightly frayed, worn—but despite her obvious hardships, she held herself with the grace and dignity of a queen.

“You aren’t afraid, are you, my lord?” She gripped the reins tighter as Champion shifted restlessly beneath her.

He chuckled. Even in the face of her own fear, she challenged him. “Not in the least. And to prove it, I’ll give you the advantage. Thirty seconds.”

She lifted a brow, clearly surprised by his chivalry. “A smart woman would take it, so I will.”

And with that, she was off. Thirty seconds later, she was already several lengths ahead. With a curse, he gripped his riding crop and cracked it over the mare’s flank, causing the creature to bolt. He gained on Olivia quickly, then surpassed her, his eyes firmly fixed on the trees ahead.

Triumph boomed in his chest as he reached the first tree. Pulling back the reins, he brought the mare to a halt and smacked his palm against the nearest tree trunk.

Victory.

He turned, expecting to see her barreling toward him. She wasn’t. Champion had veered to the right and was heading away from the copse of trees, toward the house. Olivia glanced over her shoulder at him, hair tumbling out of her bonnet, a smile stretched across her face.  

Christ.
She was pushing Champion too fast.

If she didn’t slow down, she’d injure the horse, which would put her own foolish life at risk. But instead of slowing, she seemed to be gaining speed. Too late, she seemed to realize her mistake. Desperately, she tried to pull back the reins, to no avail. She let out a shriek, and he instantly bolted into action. Spurring his horse on, he moved up behind her. He had seconds to react, a mere window of time before Champion would be too far ahead to catch. When she was within reach, their horses galloping just inches apart, he reached over and took hold of the reins. With his right hand, he pulled back with such violence Champion was forced to slow his pace. He guided Champion to a halt. The horse’s sides heaved, and rivulets of sweat dripped down his flanks.

The moment the horse was stationary, Adam dismounted, gripped Olivia by the waist and lifted her to the ground as well. Anger flooded him. “What in God’s name were you thinking?” he snapped.

She glared, though her hands were shaking. “You had no right to do that. I could have stopped him, if I’d wanted to.”

He gripped the handle of his crop tighter. She’d deliberately put herself in danger, deliberately pushed his horse to his limit to prove a point. Good God, did she have any sense at all? “You could have killed yourself!”

Pursing her lips, she stomped a dainty foot and tried to push past him. He moved to stand directly in front of her, reached out and curled a hand around her wrist. He tugged her close, flush with his body. “Where the hell do you think you’re going?”

“Back to the house.”

“I tell you when we’re through, Olivia, and we aren’t even close.” Despite his anger, he loved the way her cheeks flushed, the way she swallowed compulsively. “I believe you owe me something.”

He didn’t know why he said it. At some point, he’d already decided not to collect his prize—but something inside, the man from two years ago, couldn’t let her go so easily.

Inching backward, her wrist still in his grasp, she bumped up against a tree trunk. “I owe you nothing. It was an idiotic wager.”

He smirked at that. “The only idiocy was pushing a horse you’d never ridden too fast. I should punish you for your foolishness.”

Her breath caught at the word
punish
, just a slight hesitation that would have gone unnoticed by anyone but him.

“Do you remember how I used to touch you?” He pressed his lower half to hers, effectively pinning her to the tree. He still held his riding crop in one hand, her wrist in the other. “You promised me the world, Olivia, then you snatched it all away.”

“I had no choice.”

“There is always a choice.” She’d chosen to leave him for the prospect of winning Lord Whitmore’s affections. It was a cruel, cutting blow that had destroyed him. Ultimately, her choice had been ill fated. Lord Whitmore had died three months later in a bee attack.

She swallowed, her breaths coming in quick, erratic bursts. “There wasn’t, I assure you.”

He almost believed her. Almost. Until he remembered what a grand manipulator she was. How she’d had him falling in love the first moment he saw her across that crowded ballroom. For a brief, breathless moment, their eyes had caught. Then she’d smiled at him, a coy tilt of her lips that had pulled at him in like a siren’s call. She’d lured him in with her intelligence and vivacity. Tempted him with her sweet honeyed lips, then just as quickly ripped it all away.

“In any case, I intend to collect on what should have been mine years ago.” He released her wrist and let his hand fall to her slender waist. She sucked in a breath as he gathered the fabric of her riding habit, exposing her right thigh inch by tantalizing inch. Out here, they were completely alone, shielded by the trees, where not a soul would witness what he was about to do.

“Please,” she whispered—to stop or to continue on?

He shifted his weight off her, to give him better access to her body. With her skirts inched high, he smoothed a hand over the lush warmth of her thigh. She was so soft, so enticingly smooth. A shudder rolled through her body, but she didn’t push him away.

“Turn around.”

There was a long stretch of silence, and he wondered if she’d comply. At length, she turned and faced the trunk of the tree.

Inching her hemline up, he exposed her perfectly rounded backside. Seeing her like this, vulnerable, trusting, made his cock swell and lengthen. How easy it would be to free himself and slide into her. He could smell the dark, heady scent of her arousal. She would be wet, ready for him.

“You will not risk your safety like that again.”

She leaned her head against the tree trunk. “No.”

He brushed the tip of his riding crop across the swell of her arse. She flinched, but didn’t move to pull away. He leaned in, and whispered in her ear. “Should I punish you, Miss Dewhurst?”

He remembered how well she liked this game, how she’d always begged for more.

She nodded, a barely there nod that set his blood aflame. His lips stretched into a smile. It’d been too long since he’d had her like this, vulnerable, trusting, and it spoke to something deep and primal within him. Hot, restless energy pulsed through him.

“Adam,” she breathed.

“Patience.” He gripped his crop tighter, flicked it lightly over her skin. She shifted restlessly. It wasn’t rough enough, he knew. She needed the sting of pleasure, the sharp bliss of pain. But this wasn’t about her pleasure. It was about her torment.

Leaning in, he kissed the nape of her neck, drawing her scent, her essence into his lungs. With his free hand, he reached around and tugged on her low neckline, freeing one creamy breast. It spilled into his hand, all warmth and softness, her nipple tight, beaded, begging for his tongue.

Drawing the crop back, he flicked it, hard, over her arse. She let out a sharp gasp, then instantly relaxed against the tree, the tension draining out of her. “Adam,” she breathed again.

Another flick, then another, until her arse was a beautiful shade of pink.

Tossing the crop aside, he found the heat of her sex, and slid a finger through her hot, slick folds. He leaned in and licked a path up the length of her nape, to the lobe of her ear, then nipped. She drew in a tight breath and shifted, inching her thighs wider, giving him better access.

“That’s it, love. Give yourself up to it.”

He didn’t know what his plan had been precisely—he’d mean to torment her, to make her pant and moan with the promise of pleasure—then walk away, never truly taking her virtue. Now, he wondered if he
could
walk away. Her little breaths, the way she subtly arched her body into his, heated his blood, made his cock swell painfully.

He wanted her. Christ, he
needed
her.

She tilted her head back, exposing the smooth, creamy column of her neck. “You intend to claim your prize here, now?”

It would be so easy. She was ready, her core slick with desire. He could free his cock and be inside her in three breaths, pumping his seed into her sweet, lush body. For two years he’d dreamed about it, and now here she was—wet, ready for him.

He took a step back, reluctantly allowing his hand to fall way. Her skirts fell back into place, drawing a veil over those glorious thighs. She turned to face him. He clenched and unclenched his fists at his sides—resisting the urge to pull her back into his arms and kiss that shocked and slightly desperate look off her beautiful face.

Two long years ago, she’d played him for a fool. Now it was
his
turn to walk away.

Without a word, he turned on his heel and mounted his horse.

“Good day, Miss Dewhurst.”

Olivia watched in a sort of haze as Adam mounted and galloped away. She blinked several times, her blood still humming from the spark of his touch. What in heaven’s name had she allowed him to do?

Now, away from the heat of the moment, she was appalled by her own depraved behavior. One touch and she’d melted in his arms. She might be poor, destitution taking what few shreds of dignity she had left, but she was still a lady of breeding.

With a steadying breath, she righted her bodice and smoothed her hands down her skirt. She swallowed. She could still feel his big hand gripping her breast as his crop cracked against her backside, leaving behind a delicious sting that had vibrated through her entire body.

She glanced at Chocolate, grazing on a patch of grass at her feet. “You treacherous beast. Thanks to you, my virtue now belongs to the most devilish man this side of London.”

But he wouldn’t collect his prize, surely. He’d come very close just minutes ago, and the more she considered the situation, the more she was convinced he’d only meant to tease her, punish her for jilting him two years prior.

Yes, that’s certainly what it was.

She had nothing to fear from Adam Rycroft. Nothing in the least.