Romancing the Countess (9 page)
His hand stilled along the line of her jaw and he tilted her chin up. Only the challenge in his eyes kept her from snapping at his fingers.
“You were always his quiet little shadow, weren’t you? Content to echo Ian’s every word and movement. And I see you’ve studied him well, although your attempt at mimicry is somewhat tedious. I am not a child, Mrs. George. I do not need your help.”
“I assure you, my lord, it isn’t my intent to act condescending. If it weren’t for the circumstances of Ian’s death, I wouldn’t have anything to do with you at all. In fact, I believe it might be best if you leave. Your presence here is neither required nor desired.”
And he could go rot in hell, for all she cared.
Wriothesly returned his hand to his side. “Alas, leaving you alone is no longer an option. And do not think to send the guests home, either. Doing so now would only cause more gossip. The party will continue, and with the least amount of scandal.”
“You believe you can control me,” she said, crossing her arms, then uncrossing them because it felt like something a little girl would do. How had he taken the power away from her so easily?
He edged around her skirts and began climbing the stairs. “No, madam. I
will
control you, by whatever means necessary.”
will
control you, by whatever means necessary.”
Leah stared at the vase of pansies on the table across from the staircase, her fingers slowly uncurling from the fists she’d formed. No matter how deeply she breathed, she couldn’t seem to steady herself. A movement caught her attention by the door, and she turned to find a footman standing near the earl’s valises, waiting for her direction.
“You may take his lordship’s things to the blue room,” she said, although she was far more inclined to order them destroyed.
She then returned to the drawing room, glancing neither right nor left as she moved toward the portrait. Ian stared at her, his mouth drawn in that perpetual hint of a smile. Perhaps his charm had occasionally come across as patronizing in the last months, but that was probably because his shining armor had been reduced to nothing more than dented, rusty tin in her eyes. Yet even if he’d been condescending, even though he’d given her plenty of cause to be hurt, humiliated, and angry, he had never intentionally insulted her.
Not
, she thought blackly,
like Wriothesly did
.
, she thought blackly,
like Wriothesly did
.
Leah signaled for a footman to bring her a glass of the wine Herrod had supplied to her guests in her absence, then turned and waited for everyone to quiet. As before, her heart thudded rapidly against her chest, but this time it wasn’t from anxiety. Her gaze skipped around the room until she found the earl, sitting near William Meyer and Baron Cooper-Giles. A warning glinted in his eyes as he nodded his acknowledgment, and Leah raised her glass toward him, well aware that everyone in the room observed their exchange.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” she began, “I realize hosting a house party so soon after the death of my husband is rather unorthodox. Some might call it scandalous, even.” Lifting a brow, she allowed her gaze to drift from Wriothesly to the others in the room. “However, if you knew Ian at all, you also know that he was a man who deserves more than our tears and grief. He had a way of living that many of us envied—myself included. He laughed, he danced, he debated politics, and he recited literature, all with a passion that somehow seemed too great to be contained in one man. And yet it was.”
Leah glanced at his portrait. It was meant to be a touching moment, one where everyone assumed she’d become too emotional to continue speaking. Although no tears came, she well remembered the man she spoke of, how easy it had been to fall in love with him . . . how, once upon a time, she thought he’d loved her as well.
After a moment, she lifted her gaze and stared at the top of Lady Elliot’s head, seeking to remember the rest of her speech.
“For the next week, I would request that instead of mourning, we celebrate Ian’s life. You will find the meals prepared with many of his favorite dishes, and I have already planned several activities in the coming days which he particularly enjoyed. Ian’s dearest friend, the Earl of Wriothesly”—she gestured with a wave of her hand, not bothering to hide her smile—“has also joined the house party so he might make further suggestions. For now, I propose a toast. To my beloved husband, friend, and one of the greatest men I ever knew—to Ian George.”
One by one, glasses were raised across the room. “To Ian,” they echoed again, then drank. Leah glanced toward Wriothesly. Although his mouth touched the rim of his glass, the liquid inside remained placid, the glass level. The stillness extended to his expression, a pale mask of studied politeness; only the sharp cut of his eyes toward her revealed surprise and a promise of retribution.
Satisfied, Leah took another sip of her wine before motioning toward Herrod. “And now, as promised, please allow me to present our special guest, who will entertain us with several of Ian’s favorite songs: Miss Victoria Lind.”
As the enthusiastic murmurs of approval dwindled to a hush and the opera singer opened her mouth for the first soaring note, Sebastian tilted his glass and swallowed. A toast—not to Ian, but to his widow. Like Leah George, the liquid was deceptively sweet, hiding the truth of its strength in its delicate, innocent overtones.
With the opera singer situated at the far end of the drawing room, it was impossible to keep Leah in sight while pretending to give Ms. Lind the proper attention. Even so, he could feel Leah’s presence beyond his left shoulder, a force he would no longer underestimate.
He wished he could continue thinking of her as a young widow who wanted to explore her sudden freedom through any outrageous means possible. A widow who was likely to take a dozen lovers simply because she could, or act the eccentric because she had no husband to attract and no one to impress. While indiscreet and irresponsible, her behavior would have made sense. Given a few quiet moments without the thunder of train or carriage wheels and a head clear of liquor, Sebastian could have predicted her next course of action. He could have endeavored to find a way to forestall whichever ridiculous plan she devised next.
But she was more cunning than he had anticipated, and the motivations he’d so quickly ascribed to her now seemed little more than his own foolish assumptions. She hosted a party, but she wore full widow’s clothing—including a widow’s cap—and had invited a mixture of bachelors, married couples, and a young woman with her companion. Certainly it wasn’t anything to violate one’s sense of morality. She’d even managed to turn any gossip on its head by arranging everything as a tribute to Ian’s memory. How could anyone ever forget how
devoted
she’d sounded during that oh so touching speech of hers?
devoted
she’d sounded during that oh so touching speech of hers?
However, though the party itself was the only scandalous behavior she’d engaged in so far, Sebastian wasn’t convinced. He might not yet understand her method or even her motivation, but he knew she wasn’t as selfless as she appeared. Leah George wanted to be reckless. And although he’d misjudged her cleverness and the reason for her rebellion before, he would be sure not to make the same mistake again.
When the first song ended and everyone applauded, Sebastian looked over his shoulder, found Leah’s gaze, and smiled. By the lift of her chin, he knew she understood the meaning of his expression: not as pleasure, not as happiness, but a warning.
Chapter 6
Tell me again, darling. Tell me a hundred times, a thousand. I will never forget the first time you whispered it in my ear. It will never be enough. Tell me you love me.
It could have been a beautiful day. The late-morning sun shone brightly overhead. A fleet of pristine white clouds drifted lazily across the sky. An early autumnal wind swayed the leaves on their branches, quietly stirred the water, and sifted gently through Sebastian’s hair.
It
would
have been a beautiful day, if not for the black figure marring his view of the landscape: the formerly inconsequential Leah George, who’d quickly managed to make herself into a pestilence.
would
have been a beautiful day, if not for the black figure marring his view of the landscape: the formerly inconsequential Leah George, who’d quickly managed to make herself into a pestilence.
How innocent she appeared, from the tip of her black parasol to the hem of her black skirts. In fact, he could have applauded her—she used the widow’s veil to add to her facade of quiet rectitude, the crepe lending her solemnity while lies issued one after another from her mouth.
“. . . boating at Linley Park was one of his favorite pastimes . . .
“. . . and we thought he’d gone missing, only to discover he’d spent the entire afternoon on the lake.”
His gaze followed her gesture toward the four wooden skiffs bobbing at the lake’s edge. Various male servants had been summoned from the house to attend to the guests, and each one stood with a rope in his hands, mooring the boats to the shore.
“Once he was gone, I found a few pieces of poetry he must have written while he was out here. About a bird landing on the bow, of the different colors of the water throughout each of the seasons. Of the immense peace he felt in his soul when he was alone on the lake.”
Head swiveling, Sebastian stared incredulously at Leah. There were lies, and then there were gaudy, excessive leaps of imagination. Ian might have been known for his recitations of poetry and literature, but he did it solely to gain favor with the ladies. The only poem Sebastian had ever known him to write was a limerick about a sailor’s whore and a wooden dick.
“Oh, how lovely they sound,” Mrs. Meyer said, the other ladies concurring with her. “Perhaps you might read them to us this evening?”
“I . . .” Leah made an inarticulate noise. Though the others likely assumed she’d been overcome with emotion, Sebastian preferred to think it was the sound of sputtering. “Yes, of course. Perhaps. But I’ve spoken for too long. With four boats, I believe it best to split everyone into two groups of two and two groups of three, with the gentlemen as the oarsmen.”
She paused, and even with the parasol mostly obscuring her profile, he could see the calculating tilt of her head as she determined how to divide the guests. No matter where she placed him, he planned on refusing her direction. Besides being curious bits of fancy, her lies made it clear he couldn’t trust any decisions she made.
Boating.
Ian’s favorite pastime
, for God’s sake.
Ian’s favorite pastime
, for God’s sake.
“Miss Pettigrew, Mrs. Thompson, why don’t you join Mr. Dunlop?” she directed. “Lord Elliot and Mrs. Meyer in the next boat. Mr. Meyer, Lady Elliot, and Lord Wriothesly. Which then leaves myself and Lord Cooper-Giles.” Her parasol shifted, and a beam of sunlight pierced through her veil to expose the small smile she aimed at the baron. “That is, if you don’t mind listening to me reminisce about Mr. George for a while.”
“Of course not, madam,” Cooper-Giles replied. “It would be my pleasure.”
Sebastian crossed his arms and frowned. It wasn’t that the unmarried Cooper-Giles was a scoundrel who might influence Leah to further corruption and scandal; in fact, besides his proclivity for gossip, the young baron probably had the truest moral compass of them all. No, it was Leah he worried about. No matter how well she tried to pretend, he doubted five minutes would pass before Cooper-Giles discovered how singularly happy she was to have a dead husband rather than a live one.
“I apologize, Mrs. George,” Sebastian said, stepping forward. “If I had known about the boating excursion earlier, I would have spared you some trouble. You see, I’m afraid I can’t join you. Motion sickness, you understand. But I don’t mind standing here—alone—and watching. I’m sure it will be just as amusing.”
The sun highlighted the corner of her mouth and the curve of her cheek as her chin slowly lifted toward him. Her eyes remained shadowed behind the veil. “Why, Lord Wriothesly. I’m very sorry. How dreadful a malady.”
“Yes, it is.”
“My cousin Herbert is exactly the same way,” Mrs. Meyer volunteered. Sebastian smiled at her.
“Is he?” Leah asked. “I must confess, I’d heard of becoming ill at sea, but never on an inland body of water.”
“Oh, yes. Even the smallest waves upset him terribly.”
“How extraordinary,” Leah murmured before looking once again at Sebastian. “Of course we understand, Lord Wriothesly, but I wouldn’t dream of asking you to stay here by yourself. Perhaps you would prefer to retire to the house until the boating ends?”
Sebastian waved his hand. “No, no. I’ll be fine, as long as I don’t go on the lake.” Glancing around at the other guests, he added, “Please, enjoy yourselves. I’ll just stay here.”
Miss Pettigrew looked hesitantly at Leah, then at Sebastian. “Mrs. Thompson and I would be happy to keep you company, if you like.”
Almost immediately Mr. Dunlop, who had been assigned as the oarsman for Miss Pettigrew and her companion, offered, “I will stay as well.”
Sebastian raised a brow. Mr. Dunlop wasn’t being very subtle in his pursuit of Miss Pettigrew. Sebastian sighed and shook his head. “But I wouldn’t wish to spoil the day,” he said. “Mrs. George clearly wished for her guests to enjoy boating on the lake . . . just as Ian did.”
As Mrs. Meyer opened her mouth to speak, Sebastian suspected everyone might soon return to the house. After all, an earl still curried more favor and ingratiation than the lower-ranking widow of a viscount’s son, regardless of how eloquently she spoke of her deceased spouse.
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