A Notorious Countess Confesses (PG7) (26 page)

If he defended her overtly, it would merely feed their suspicions and gossip.

And God help him, he wasn’t certain she warranted the defending. And quite briefly, he loathed all of these women in the moment for hurling kindling on his own doubts. For tainting a memory.

“Since I know you’re the kindest and most charitable of women, I do hope you consider your decision carefully.”

Mrs. Sneath merely smiled brightly at him and refrained from answering.

“We’ve a gift for you, Reverend, before you go.”

She handed to him a uselessly tiny pillow exquisitely embroidered with ivy and roses.

Ornately stitched in the center were the words “Proverbs 6:25.”

The text of which read: Lust not after her beauty in thine heart; neither let her take thee with her eyes.

Proverbs 6 was in fact filled to brimming with admonitions about lust.

He slowly levered his head up.

And suddenly all the room twitched like ants beneath a magnifying glass at whatever burned from his eyes.

The. Bloody. Gall.

He’d held their babies, cried their bans, ushered their loved ones into peaceful deaths, absolved. He’d seen their faces every Sunday, eaten at their tables, counseled them in their griefs and woes. He knew they harbored fantasies and hopes about him, and there was no denying this had likely made his job both easier and harder.

And they held his future in their hands.

He felt as if their hands were around his throat.

And yet … perhaps they truly thought they were trying to save him from her.

Perhaps he needed saving.

Perhaps he was the only one who couldn’t see it.

The thought tasted like cold metal in the back of his throat. He was tempted to rend the pillow in two, watch the shreds rain down on all of them.

He lowered it away from him instead.

“Thank you.” A more ironic expression of gratitude was never uttered. “How I do appreciate your gifts. Next to the Bible, I’ve always found pillows to be the most reliable form of moral guidance. Perhaps one of you talented ladies would be so kind as to complete my collection? It seems be missing one of my favorites. John 8, verse 7.”

Let he who is without sin cast the first stone.

More fidgeting.

“Or perhaps you think Mathew 19:12 offers more appropriate words for me to live by?”

There are eunuchs who have made themselves eunuchs for the sake of the kingdom of heaven.

He could see which ones were true biblical scholars by the dropped jaws.

“Mrs. Sneath’s niece was kind enough to give me one that says “Love thy Neighbor.” And look what happened, he left unspoken.

Mrs. Sneath’s eyes flew wide in alarm.

He’d better leave before he said something he truly regretted.

“I’ll give the Mathew a try, Reverend!” Miss Charing piped. Somehow not quite grasping the point.

He leveled a look at her. Parted his mouth to say something. Thought better of it.

“Thank you, ladies, for your good work on behalf of the poor, and for your tireless efforts at keeping the stain of sin from the souls of Sussex.” Irony was his permanent dialect now, it seemed.

“You’re quite welcome, Reverend,” Mrs. Sneath said sincerely.

“I shall see all of you at the ball?”

Much mutedly enthusiastic nodding.

“And Miss Pitney.” He said it so curtly everyone flinched.

She was instantly all righteous, erect posture and arrogant, hiked jaw. Her color was defensively high.

The color of guilt, he suspected.

“Ask Lord Haynesworth if he knows a gentleman by the name of Mr. Bartholomew Tolliver.”

He touched his hat to them and saw himself out so briskly it fluttered up the ribbons on their bonnets.

Chapter 18

TWO HOURS LATER, Lord Haynesworth offered his arm with a look so warmly appreciative, Amy felt herself blush scarlet to her scalp.

She looped her arm less and less tentatively through his each time he did this. He felt so much like a man; the muscle beneath his coat was sturdy and thrillingly hard, a little frightening, a little alien, beneath her hand. They walked across the carriage drive of her home, past the fountain, toward the small wooded walk she’d known since she was a child.

“I can scarcely believe the Winter Ball is just two days away,” she told him.

She wondered if she would be an engaged woman by then. The thought made her so breathless that, for an instant, the green expanse blurred before her vision.

She wondered when a man felt sufficiently confident of a woman’s regard to ask for her hand in marriage. She felt as though she was participating in a ritual with defined steps, each of them steering her closer to a conclusion. It was considerably less romantic than she’d thought it might be. Rather more like a game of backgammon.

Perhaps it had to do with years of relying on being clever instead of pretty. She couldn’t break herself of the habit of thinking. Thinking and stifling torment had been her chief pastimes when it came to men, it seemed.

And yet … she’d seen how Josephine now stared at Simon.

How the vicar looked at the countess when they’d danced the waltz.

It didn’t appear as if any of them had even been capable of thinking.

Her stomach knotted. It was so desperately unfair. And yet her prize would seem to be the greatest of all of them.

But now thanks to the vicar’s blue, relentless eyes and his disciplinary little tone as he’d bade them all farewell an hour ago, all she could do was think. His words had inserted themselves into her haze of hope like a burr.

The vicar is a good man. Please think about why you believe this is so.

No matter what she believed of the countess, she knew this was true. Reverend Sylvaine was a good man. He would never lose his mind over her, of course, for she hadn’t green eyes and an effortless charm, but he’d never been anything but kind and truthful.

“I can hardly believe the Winter Ball is just days away,” she said to Haynesworth. Who likely had no idea how rapidly the wheels of her mind were spinning. A normal girl would have been besotted.

“Too far away. What a pleasure it will be to dance with you again, Amy.”

He did always seem to know precisely what to say. Years of practice in London, no doubt. Deflecting advances. Saving himself just for her.

How did she become sardonic in her thoughts?

Perhaps it was a matter of simply stopping the run of them.

“Tell me, Walter.” How strange, how mature, it felt to use his given name. Walter. Walter. Walter. The more she thought it, the stranger it felt, and it occurred to her he still felt something like a stranger. This prize of a man whom she thought of in terms of a string of qualities that really had nothing to do with his character: handsome, rich, attentive, mine. She was ferociously proud of him. She was desperately hopeful.

She was freshly furious at the countess for making her think.

“Do you know of a gentleman named Mr. Bartholomew Tolliver?”

The arm she was so proud of holding tensed.

Please please please answer straightway. And once again, her nerves blurred her vision.

The hesitation was infinitesimal. And yet. And yet. She feared that little silence was the sound of a man deciding what to say. When really the answer was simple.

“I know of an attorney by that name. Why do you ask?”

“An acquaintance of mine mentioned you might know him since you both have so many business dealings in London,” she expounded.

“A pleasant man,” he decided upon.

And smiled at her. At least she couldn’t think when he smiled; it was like looking into the sun. This much he had in common with the Reverend Sylvaine. And she suspected this was why he’d done it.

“Is your father at home, Amy?” His voice was urgent, soft. He sounded like a swain who could scarcely wait to claim her.

And yet he’d never tried to kiss her. He’d been all that was proper.

She was haunted again by an image she’d seen so swiftly, it might as well have been a dream: the twin expressions of on the faces of the countess and the vicar. They’d each felt something so powerful it could just as easily been anguish or ecstasy. She’d been dumbstruck by it through the carriage window as she’d rolled up to the O’Flahertys’.

She knew she hadn’t imagined it.

Even a good man can withstand a little scrutiny, the countess had said.

And even as she hated the countess just a little right now, she half wished she was here.

“Father’s away visiting a neighbor, she told Haynesworth.

“What a pity,” Haynesworth said softly, with great feeling.

And even as Amy surged toward the words, hope flickering in her chest, she pictured her father sitting upstairs even now. And when Lord Haynesworth took his leave, she would go upstairs and give the name Mr. Bartholomew Tolliver to him.

THE FINAL EVENT of the Winter Festival was ball to be held at the Redmonds’, who, like the Everseas, did like to take their turn in offering largesse and didn’t seem to particularly hold the fact that Adam was related to the Everseas against him. Blue, white, and green streamers, the color of Sussex sky, sea, and clouds, fanned from the ceiling, tenting the dancers.

Flowers of the hothouse variety in every color imaginable had been donated to the cause of the Winter Ball and were now stuffed into urns picturesquely positioned about the ballroom. Creating excellent nooks for couples to flirt or for wallflowers to hide their misery.

Or for countesses to hide from murmurs.

“You’ve done naught wrong.” Henny was incensed on Eve’s behalf when the ladies had stopped calling upon her, and when she’d been informed the decorating committee wouldn’t need her services after all, since they had it all well in hand.

Nothing outright had been said to her, of course, apart from Amy Pitney’s outburst. And she supposed it could all be coincidence that the ladies had been busy for a week, too busy to call. And perhaps they truly hadn’t needed her help with the decorations. And perhaps it had been pure whim they’d all, en masse, decided not to go to church, the day after Amy Pitney had pointed an accusing finger at the cross around Eve’s neck.

Perhaps. Then again, Eve might be scandalous, but she wasn’t stupid, to paraphrase Amy Pitney.

She also wasn’t a coward.

She’d dressed in garnet silk, and she’d gone to the ball.

Because she wanted to see Adam. For she hadn’t seen him since his voice had echoed in that nearly empty church, and she wanted to look into his eyes to see what all of this meant to him.

THE NOOKS WERE also convenient, discreet places for the breaking of hearts and shattering of dreams and the ripping off of blinders.

Miss Amy Pitney stood motionless behind one. Stricken and furious.

Lord Haynesworth stood before her, equally motionless.

“At least now you know the worst about me,” he finally said, quietly. “It wasn’t a proud moment in my life, and it’s why I hesitated to tell you anything more about Tolliver.”

“Mr. Tolliver told Papa that you nearly ruined him.” Amy felt raw and foolish. “That you owe him thousands of pounds in gambling debts.”

“I intend to repay him.”

How strange it was that he felt more real to her now, exposed for the fortune hunter he in all likelihood was.

“With my fortune?” she said grimly.

“Amy …” His handsome face was pleading; his voice soothed. “Surely you care a little for me. Haven’t we come to mean something to each other? My heart … please don’t break my heart.”

She studied him. And it did look like something was breaking. Given how white he was about the mouth and the sweat beginning to bead his brow.

He made so bold as to drag a finger along her arm. She shivered.

“I swear to you those days are all behind me. I only want a quiet life. And a confession about the owing of debts is hardly the way to win the woman you admire more than any other in the world, is it? I’ve never met another soul so knowledgeable about botany.”

She almost smiled. She was almost convinced. She willed her formidable mind to accept his explanation. For the alternative was not only unpalatable but unthinkable: The countess had been right. Amy herself had been unfair. And this man could very well be her last chance at matrimony.

Surely, she could do better. And that heretical thought was courtesy of the countess, too.

He read her mind. “Please don’t allow a woman like that to poison your thoughts, Amy.”

“A woman like …”

He nudged his chin in the direction of the countess, similarly ensconced in a nook. “I hated so to tell you, but she recently offered herself to me in exchange for money. Her fiscal circumstances not being what they once were, you understand. I told her my affections were powerfully engaged elsewhere, and it was out of the question.”

“Off-off ered herself … ?” Amy choked, and her face went up in flame. “What do you …”

“It means what you think it means.”

“Why … why would you tell me such a thing?”

“To prove my affection for you. She’s utterly ruthless, Amy, and has no morals, despite what appearances may be.”

She stared at him. “Said the pot about the kettle.”

“I beg your …”

“ Leave me. Leave me now.” Amy covered her face in her hands, shoulders heaving in outrage. “When I uncover my face, I want you to be out of my sight. I’m counting. One … two … three …”

“I’ll give you a little time alone, shall I?” Haynesworth said agreeably.

As if it this were just another female mood that would pass like a breeze.

“Go!”

WHEN ADAM STEPPED into the Winter Wonderland the Lady’s Society had created from the Redmonds’ ballroom, the first person he saw was Mrs. Sneath, presiding like a commander at the helm of the room.

The next person he saw was Miss Amy Pitney. She stood clothed in icy righteousness, enjoying the protective hovering of a bevy of indignant, cooing, silk-clad females. Her face was stunned. He thought he could see the tracks of tears down one cheek.

It appeared the Winter Ball was off to a roaring start.

“So … how goes the festivities?” he asked Mrs. Sneath with cheery irony.