Romancing the Countess (8 page)

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Authors: Ashley March

Tags: #Historical romance, #Fiction

BOOK: Romancing the Countess
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All thoughts of Angela fled, replaced by an image of the smiling, dark-haired deceiver. Three weeks. That’s how long it had taken for Leah George to betray her promise.
“Ah, of course.” He paused, calculating how long it would take for them to travel to the George estate. He nodded again, then turned back to the table where James sat.
“Sebastian?” James took another leisurely drink of his scotch. “Is everything all right? Your face is turning that lovely scarlet shade I so enjoy—”
“It appears Mrs. George is hosting a house party,” he bit out quietly. The tips of his fingers brushed the edge of the table. Not gripping, but a feather-soft touch to the dark polished wood—a testament to his control.
“Four months,” James mused. “That seems quite early.”
“Yes, and no one will be able to resist the scandal of it. The meek and mild Mrs. George, recent widow, hosting her own country house party.”
He could well imagine how the first scene would unfold: Leah greeting her guests as they arrived, sans widow’s cap, one of her bloody ridiculous smiles spread across her face. She might have even forsaken mourning clothes by now, dressed instead in a cheerful yellow or a provocative crimson that proclaimed to the world the joy of her new independence.
Reckless.
How she’d loved the word—
feasted
on it—her entire countenance lighting with glee. Had she already begun planning the house party when he’d visited her town house, or had he unknowingly sparked the idea with the use of those two little syllables?
But it made no difference. Whether she stood by her semantics of not directly
telling anyone of the affair
, the end result was that her actions risked the revelation of the truth. It didn’t matter that he would be revealed as a lovesick fool, the doting husband who’d never suspected he was being cuckolded. That gossip would eventually pass, and his pride would heal. No, there was another thought he could not bear for others to echo, one that haunted him every single time he looked at Henry: the doubt of his son’s legitimacy.
If only Henry could have had brown hair or green eyes. If only his face wasn’t rounded and he wasn’t so young, then he might show some feature or mannerism which would clearly mark him as Sebastian’s son. But all Sebastian saw now when he stared at Henry was a perfect little boy with Angela’s sweet, innocent face, his hair the same color as Angela’s . . . and Ian’s as well.
Ignoring the ache in his chest, Sebastian sat down heavily and reached for his untouched glass of scotch. He didn’t drink spirits often, but it seemed necessary to fortify himself for the rumors which would doubtlessly soon begin.
Why would the young widow George not mourn the husband so beloved by others? What could he have done to earn such disdain?
There seemed no possible answer
but
the truth.
Across the table, James raised a brow. “When is the party to be held?”
“In two days.”
Which meant Leah had already left London in preparation. He would never have enough time to travel to Wiltshire to convince her to rescind the invitations. And even if he could reach Linley Park early enough, there was little he could do. The scandal had already begun.
Sebastian set the glass down carefully; no thud against wood betrayed his masked calm. She must have known he’d disapprove of the house party. She also must have known he’d find out about it. Perhaps she didn’t think he’d been serious when he warned her about being reckless.
Unfortunately, now the time had come for Leah George to learn from her mistakes.
 
Not six hours into her house party, Leah already regretted inviting these random acquaintances to come into her home and gawk at her. Oh, they were more discreet than that, of course, their curious glances furtively concealed whenever she looked in their direction. Nevertheless, she had to suppress the impulse to have the butler dismiss them all.
She wasn’t accustomed to drawing such focused attention; even when she tried to play hostess, Ian had always been the one to entertain their guests. And despite the risks she’d taken in hosting the house party, even after nearly four months of widowed isolation, she was temptingly close to abandoning this next rebellion in exchange for the return of simple, blessed obscurity.
Looking down both sides of the dining table, Leah smiled. “I must beg your forgiveness, gentlemen, for requesting you forsake your cigars tonight. Instead, shall we all adjourn to the drawing room? I have an announcement to make before I tell you of our special entertainment this evening.”
With uplifted brows and veiled glances, her guests rose from their chairs. Leah led the way up the stairs, no escort at her side. After she had issued more than thirty invitations, only eight had come—and honestly, that was eight more than she’d expected. But perhaps they assumed she’d arranged the numbers unevenly on purpose, to emphasize her eccentricity amid the rumors caused by hosting a house party so soon after Ian’s death.
Once inside the drawing room, she waited for her guests to be seated. Although theirs were all familiar faces, none were particularly close friends to either her or Ian. Some were probably intrigued by the hint of scandal, some on the fringes of society and simply happy to receive an invitation. They might whisper about her and criticize her actions, but she’d made certain not to invite anyone who knew Ian well, or who might consider asking her uncomfortable questions.
With her heart fluttering wildly and her palms beginning to dampen with perspiration, Leah reminded herself that they were here for her amusement, nothing more. Taking a deep breath, she gestured to the large portrait of Ian beside her, the one she’d had removed from the gallery. “Thank you all for coming,” she began, a signal to quiet their murmurs of speculation. “I realize—”
Herrod, her butler, caught her eye at the doorway. “Excuse me for one moment,” she said, then slipped from the room, desperately grateful for the unexpected reprieve.
“I apologize for interrupting, madam, but a gentleman has arrived. The Earl of Wriothesly. He insists on seeing you at once.”
Wriothesly. She’d hoped he wouldn’t find out about the house party until it was over, to spare them both any attempt of his to restrain her. But he’d come. To berate her, to lecture her, to make her feel as miserable as he did, no doubt.
Immediately Leah’s nerves calmed, her heart steadying, her breath slowing. She might not be her best in front of others, but the challenge of Lord Wriothesly was another matter altogether. He meant to test her independence, though she doubted he had any idea of the strength she’d acquired since Ian’s death.
“Thank you, Herrod. Please see if my guests require anything while they wait,” she said, then nearly skipped down the stairs in her haste.
Now she looked forward to seeing him, the earl of the impossibly green eyes and the severe, brooding countenance. She was curious to see how she would respond this time to his requests, how she would ply her courage and stand firm in her defiance.
In a way, she pitied him. Although she continued trying to move forward, to distance herself from the person she’d become while married to Ian, she couldn’t forget the earl’s anguish when he’d visited the George town house, the fury when he’d sent Angela’s letters flying to the floor. Wriothesly clung to his misery, while she did everything she could to escape it.
How horrified he would be to discover she pitied him—probably even more so should he realize he helped strengthen her resolve. Regardless of what he said tonight, she wouldn’t bend to his wishes for her obedience—no matter that he was an earl, nor that part of her heart sank whenever she witnessed the despair in his eyes.
Wriothesly stood inside the front doorway with a valise at each side. Scowling, as usual. Leah felt rather a perverse creature for taking pleasure in the way his expression darkened as she approached. Although a smile pulled at her lips, she subdued the motion and curtsied.
“My Lord Wriothesly. I wasn’t aware you intended to come. The house party has already begun and we’re now—”
“Consider my arrival a response to the rumors you’ve created.” He took her hand, even though it had been clasped with the other in front of her waist, and lifted it toward his lips. While he disguised the movement as a courtly gesture, Leah was more than conscious of the heated iron of his grip, the velvet-soft threat of his kiss as his mouth swept across her glove. The air of desolation surrounding him was gone, replaced only by anger.
For the first time in their acquaintance of three years, she realized that the Earl of Wriothesly finally saw her. Not as another random society twit, not as Ian’s wife or widow, but as Leah George, individual and separate. Removed from the great horde of women who were not the seemingly perfect Lady Angela Wriothesly and placed into a much more specific category of one: Leah George. Despised. Loathsome. Enemy.
Perhaps pitying him had been a mistake.
Wriothesly released her hand. “I fear I’ve done you a grave disservice, Mrs. George. It appears I’ve overestimated your intelligence.”
Leah winced as she flexed her fingers, noting how he didn’t apologize for grinding her joints together. Now that his grief seemed to have given way for the moment, all his energy appeared to be focused on scolding her.
She tilted her head. “Are you sulking because you came too late for dinner?”
“I thought I made my request for you to avoid a scandal clear enough for even a simpleton to understand, and yet here we are.”
“Yes,” she murmured. “Here we are. Even though I never sent you an invitation.”
“I suppose I should be pleased you’ve decided to continue wearing proper mourning clothes, widow’s cap and all.”
“I decided to leave the silk night rail for my midnight tryst.”
“And that you’ve maintained some sense of decorum by not walking about grinning like—”
He broke off, treating her with a remarkably malevolent glare as she smiled from ear to ear. Leah reached up and patted his clenched jaw. It was a mistake, an action made only on impulse, and one that she regretted as soon as she touched him. But she couldn’t retreat now. “My poor Lord Wriothesly. It’s wrong of me to torture you, isn’t it? Please, come with me. I was about to make an announcement to our guests when you arrived.”
“Our guests?” he echoed as she walked away.
She began the ascent up the staircase, her back straight as she listened for his footsteps. Halfway up, he still hadn’t moved.
“
Our
guests?” he asked again when her feet touched the landing, his voice closer this time.
Leah glanced over her shoulder, prepared to deny she’d ever said such a thing and provoke him into following after her.
He stood at the bottom of the stairs, one hand clutching the newel post, his mouth formed in a narrow, demanding line. Recently it had been easy enough to relegate him to a masculine version of her mother: autocratic, impatient, unwilling to swerve from the strictures of society. But she possessed memories of Wriothesly before the carriage accident. The sound of his and Ian’s laughter drifting through the town house. The way he used to watch his wife with such love and tenderness, oblivious to the looks passed between Angela and Ian. The delight on his face when he paraded Henry in front of guests, and his pride when Henry first gave Leah a short, distracted imitation of a bow in exchange for her curtsy.
They’d both been changed by the betrayal. Leah liked to think she’d learned her lesson and though the pain was still great, had become the better for it. Perhaps she could exercise her independence without making him suffer; perhaps, in her defiance, she could somehow help him.
Sighing, she retraced her steps until she stood only a few stairs above him, a slight advantage which placed them eye to eye. “I know you wouldn’t be here if not for your fear that I might incite gossip about Ian and Angela. I know you’d prefer that I send everyone home, and then you could return to the misery you’ve created for yourself the last few months. But if you could consider this house party as a chance to enjoy life again, if you would allow me to help you, you would understand why I decided to—”
“I do not need your help,” he growled.
She shouldn’t have said anything. She’d known he wouldn’t welcome her interference, and yet still she’d done it anyway. “Perhaps not, but . . .”
She faltered as his gaze flickered over her face, animosity flaring in his eyes. “Is this how he was with you?” he asked.
Leah frowned. “I—I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Ian. Was he patronizing? Did he treat you like a child?” The words were spoken softly, sorrowfully, as if he were the one who pitied her. She stood silent, uncertain where his questioning might lead, unable to look away from the ruthless curve of his mouth.
“My poor Mrs. George,” he murmured, lifting his hand to brush the backs of his fingers across her cheek.
She knew he meant it as a mockery of her earlier gesture, but the slide of his leather glove across her skin felt too much like a caress, and she could no more halt the blush that rose to enflame her face than she could retreat from his touch.

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