Romancing the Countess (6 page)
It was done with, after all. Ian and Angela were dead, the affair ended. There would be no more nights listening for him to come home, no more attempts to empty her mind as he touched her and filled her body, no more weeks passing by in strained silence as they waited for the absence of her courses. What benefit was there in reading the letters? Surely they held only reminders of her heartbreak and disillusionment. Did she wish to wallow yet again in her own ignorance and foolishness?
Leah lifted her head and stared at the opposite wall with its blue flower script and yellow trim. She looked at the beige and gold Savonnerie rug, the rosewood chairs upholstered in damask jacquard. How she hated this room, and everything she’d done within its confines. Even with a low fire burning in the middle of summer, the air was cold. Images from the past haunted her, from their first four blissful months of marriage.
There, on the chair, she’d sat as Ian slipped her dressing gown off her shoulders.
And there, against the wall, he’d taken her—pinning her with her legs around his waist.
On the floor, bent over like an animal—oh, how decadently sinful and tempting she’d believed herself to be.
Leah closed her eyes.
And here, on this bed, after she’d discovered Ian and Angela together. For months she’d lain beneath him, trying to ignore the sensations created by his hands and mouth. She’d bitten her lip until it bled to suppress the moans that rose unbidden from her throat. And she’d allowed him to take her . . . over and over and over again.
Soulless. That’s what she’d resigned herself to become. A pale mirror image without control, without strength. After discovering him with Angela, she swore she would never give Ian another piece of her heart . . . but in the end, without even realizing, she’d given him everything.
Lord Wriothesly didn’t understand her behavior. He expected her to abide by society’s expectations for mourning, to act the way she’d been before: obedient, submissive. But she couldn’t. She’d tried to be a good wife and daughter in the past and she’d lost herself. And now, after Ian’s death, she didn’t know if she could survive relinquishing the independence she’d found.
Leah looked down at her hands. Moving them to her sides, she released the locket, the ribbon, the eleven love letters. Lord Wriothesly had been correct in one instance at least: burning them was an excellent idea.
Leah nodded at the footman holding the door open to the George town house. A weary smile lifted her lips; she could almost feel the circles beneath her eyes from acting as hostess of the dinner party the night before and then getting up early this morning to have breakfast with her mother.
At the thought of her mother, her shoulders went rigid, and Leah deliberately loosened her muscles, turning her head to stretch her neck from side to side. It didn’t matter how many times Adelaide had indirectly criticized her this morning in front of the other women or insulted her more than once by interrupting Leah when she spoke. She was home now, and her bed was beckoning.
But first, Ian.
The weary smile shifted, a subtle transformation from a pleasantly polite expression to one of happiness.
Ian.
He’d said he would be home today to review estate business for Linley Park—admitted it with that singular pout that always reminded her of a schoolboy admonished to come in out of the dirt and sunshine to a dull and dreary classroom. But when she knocked on his study, no answer came. Peeking inside, she discovered the room was empty, his chair turned away from the desk as if he couldn’t bother straightening it before he left.
“Roberts,” she said to the footman at the door. “Has Mr. George gone out? Do you know when he’ll return?”
“No, ma’am. He’s gone upstairs. Lady Wriothesly came by to retrieve the shawl she left last night and he went to meet her.” Roberts’ eyes were focused above her head, not meeting her gaze, and Leah had the urge to jump up and down, forcing his attention to her.
She didn’t, of course, merely murmured a “thank you” and climbed up the stairs to the drawing room where she’d found Angela’s burgundy shawl last night once everyone had left. The soft wool had touched the bare, vulnerable skin between her gloves and the sleeves of her gown as she folded it, and she wished—for a fleeting, embarrassing moment—that she might be as lovely as Angela. To never hear her mother’s comments again on her figure, hair, or complexion; to be able to wear violet without fear of her skin turning sallow; to have the confidence of a woman whom the entire world considered beautiful.
But she cast the thought away, ashamed of her momentary envy. If anything, she should be jealous of Angela’s sincere and sweet nature which drew people to her like flowers opening to the sun. Leah wanted to have that effect, too, to be like the sun—only she had no real desire to be sweet or sincere. Unlike Angela, she couldn’t listen to Miss York drone on and on about the fate of spinsterhood or sit patiently beside Lord Dowbry as he wheezed and snorted, all the while sneaking glances at her bosom. Not to mention that Leah didn’t even have much of a bosom; it was to her woe that Lord Dowbry seemed happy to leer at small chests as well as large ones.
There was no doubt: Angela was the angelic one, and her reward for being beautiful, kind, and all things wonderful was to have Lord Wriothesly as her doting husband. Leah, on the other hand, was above average on the plain side and veering toward sarcasm rather than kindness. However, she was fortunate enough to have won Mr. Ian George through an arranged marriage. And he loved her.
Leah’s smile grew wider as she approached the drawing room. In truth, there wasn’t any reason at all to envy Angela.
She heard Angela’s voice carry through the half-open door, and Leah called a cheery, “Good afternoon!” as she walked inside.
No, she’d meant to say it, but the words became lodged in the back of her throat, words that she couldn’t breathe around, words that spoke altogether too much of her innocence and her belief in love, friendship, and the rightness of the world.
She stared at her husband, his golden head lowered to Angela’s breast, pleasuring her with his lips and tongue as Leah watched. Angela’s bodice hung at her waist, her hands clutching Ian’s hair, her features twisted in ecstasy. On any other woman it would have appeared as a grimace. On Angela, however, the expression simply transformed her from a seraph to a full flesh-and-blood seductress.
Was it strange that the first thing Leah did was to think what her mother would do? She probably would have turned around without making a sound and gone on to pretend as if nothing had happened.
But Leah couldn’t. She stood, transfixed by the sight, her hand lifting toward her mouth of its own volition. Oh, but of course. She was shocked, horrified. Yes, that’s why her eyes were widening, filling with tears. And now she would dislodge the words from her throat, and instead of “Good afternoon!” they would be “Goddamn you!” and “I hate you!”
She would throw things—that vase of tulips, or the ormolu clock sitting on the mantel. She would race around the perimeter of the room, hurling heavy objects at their heads while screaming at the top of her lungs like the fiercest banshee.
The scene played out in her mind as she watched Ian shift his attention to Angela’s other breast, then move up to bury his mouth at her throat—all while the tears streamed down Leah’s face. And the words that finally escaped were not curses or angry accusations, but a quiet whisper, so soft she was surprised to gain their attention. They both startled and looked at her. Leah would never forget Ian’s face at that moment: his pleasure erased swiftly, the chagrin in his eyes branding him with his own guilt.
“How could you?” she repeated in a small, bruised voice.
Angela jerked her gaze away, covering herself as a deep blush ran crimson up her throat and over her face. And Ian—Leah sobbed; oh, God, how pathetic she was. Ian, her dear, beloved husband, stepped in front of Angela. Shielded her from Leah’s gaze.
Protected
her.
Protected
her.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
She wasn’t fierce at all. She was weak, and small, and she’d been a fool to ever believe he loved her. With an anguished cry, Leah whirled around and fled the drawing room.
“May I help you?”
Leah yanked her finger away from tracing over the dress patterns and looked at the modiste’s assistant. “I’d like to look at the designs you have for mourning.”
The girl curtsied and disappeared again into the back of the shop. Leah’s gaze returned to the patterns laid out on the counter before her: tea dresses and ball gowns and riding habits sketched with bows and flounces, in muslin and velvet, silk and taffeta. Despite her inward chastisement, her hand lifted again and touched upon the yellow tea dress trimmed with white lace. Her heart gave a tiny, aching lurch inside her chest. Not until next spring would she be able to wear something so pretty again.
“Everything we have is in here,” said the assistant as she returned. Leah snatched her hand away and buried it in her skirts, feeling like a child caught trying to steal a biscuit.
“Thank you.” She almost smiled in an effort to hide her guilt.
A week had passed since Lord Wriothesly’s visit; an entire seven days for loneliness to set in again. She’d felt it hovering after the physician told her she wasn’t carrying, but was able to keep it at bay by staying busy sorting through Ian’s things. But in the last week it had closed in on her, suffocating, until she could no longer stand one more moment inside the town house.
The seamstress stepped aside to sort through bolts of cloth while Leah surveyed the offerings. It was all the same. Bombazine. Bombazine. Crepe. Bombazine. Oh, and more crepe. All black. All dull, without even one tassel as a token of frivolity. Eight months she’d spent wrapped up and packaged, her actions restrained and emotions bottled while she lived as Ian’s wife, alone in her despair. Even now she couldn’t escape her obligation to him, but must turn herself into a dreary black memorial for his sake.
Leah flipped the book of widow’s patterns closed and looked up. She smiled, but quickly composed herself as the seamstress met her gaze.
A smile. Only a simple smile. It wasn’t what a proper widow would do; and she’d learned all the proprieties at the behest of her mother. It wasn’t what a woman who wanted to keep her secrets should do, as Lord Wriothesly had pointed out to her in his best aristocratic tone. With all the restrictions and rules burdening her shoulders, it was a wonder she was even able to stand up straight.
“I don’t think I want to order any of these today,” she said.
Wariness writ itself across the assistant’s brows—possibly due to the low, secretive whisper Leah used. “No, madam?”
“I’d like to see your fabric. Black, of course. But do you have anything other than crepe or bombazine?”
The girl’s eyes lowered, her lips pursing to the side. “Just a moment, please.”
Leah glanced around the room as she waited: at the shell pink upholstered chairs with a table between, at the piles of pattern books at the end of the counter. The walls were papered a blue-and-white Oriental theme, clean but peeling at the seams. A tapping sound echoed in her ears, and she glanced down at the nervous drum of her fingers on the counter. Taking a breath, she forced them still and watched the back curtains part to reveal the seamstress again.
In her arms she carried a bolt of black organza, shimmering like the darkest blue in waves of light as she walked. “Ordered for a ball gown, but the other lady decided not to use it.”
There was no reason Leah’s heart should have sped like it did; it was only a piece of fabric, and still black. She wouldn’t be able to adorn it with bows or beads, or have it cut into one of the fashionable patterns. If she wore it, it would be made into a widow’s garment, proper and respectable and without any hope of gaiety.
And yet, as she reached out and slid her hand over the organza, the material rasping beneath her black kid glove, she was unable to resist. It was a small rebellion, but it was enough.
“I’ve changed my mind,” she murmured, unable to take her eyes off of the blue-black material. “I would like a dress made, after all.”
“Which pattern, madam?”
Leah flipped the pattern book open and found a random dress which looked exactly like any of her other two dozen mourning gowns. “This one is fine.”
“Would you like to have your measurements taken now?”
“Yes.” Leah stood straight, reluctantly drawing her arm away. “When will it be ready?” she asked, then almost laughed. It wasn’t as if she’d be wearing it anywhere except in her own house. As a recent widow, no one sent her invitations or expected her to attend balls or dinner parties. She certainly didn’t expect her mother or Beatrice to come calling anytime soon. And the friends she’d once visited with over tea had all been Ian’s admirers; yes, they’d sent the requisite sympathy cards, but otherwise they had no use for her anymore. They’d only needed her in order to flirt with Ian.
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