How I Met My Countess (4 page)

“Go get it yourself,” Malcolm suggested. “Come to think of it, have you ever fetched your own tea?”

As loathe as he was to admit it, the earl shook his head.

“Do you both some good,” his brother said. “Go on down. Try charming her.”

Clifton had turned toward the door, but that last bit of Malcolm’s statement stopped him in his tracks. “Do wha-a-at?”

“Charm her. Show her that you aren’t a pretentious nit.”

“I’m not a—”

“No, no, of course not,” Malcolm said, a sparkle of mirth in his eyes.

“I cannot believe you are even suggesting that I go down there and charm that … that …”

“Pretty lady?”

Clifton wagged his finger in protest. “
Harridan
is more apt.”

“Harridan? I suppose that is better than harpy.” Malcolm slanted a glance at him. “Charm her, Gilby. If you can manage it.”

Clifton ruffled at such an affront. “I can charm a lady.” There was a loud snort from the other side of the room, which only served to insult the earl further. “What does that mean?”

Malcolm leaned back in his seat. “Well, little brother”— there were times when Malcolm liked to remind Clifton that while he might be the heir, he was still the younger of the two—“it is just that being a rake isn’t really your forte.”

The earl opened his mouth to argue, but there wasn’t much to say. For there was some truth in it.

Well, more than some.

“Go practice with Lucy,” Malcolm advised. “No, no, not another word out of you. I can see from your horrified expression that you cannot fathom why I would suggest such a thing. But tell me this, Gilby, have you not given a single thought to what that glorious mane of hers would look like if it finally escaped its pins?”

“No, I haven’t,” the earl lied. “Not once.”

Malcolm laughed. “I didn’t think so. That would be inappropriate, wouldn’t it?”

Utterly
, Clifton thought as he went down the back stairs. Completely and utterly inappropriate. Why, she’d look like the devil’s own siren with those black tresses of hers undone and cascading down her fair shoulders.

Enchanting enough to tempt a man to breach the walls of hell.

Which would be quite the same as finding oneself tangled up with that termagant, he mused as he paused on the landing. And as he stilled, the rising tide of an argument inside the kitchen reached his ears.

Now, he’d always considered himself above eavesdropping, but apparently in his new profession such a skill was considered a talent to be possessed.

He took a careful, silent step closer, and not, he told himself, because it was Miss Lucy’s earnest tones that had taken hold of his curiosity.

“You are utterly mistaken about him, Papa,” she was saying. He could almost envision her hands on her hips, the steely, determined glint in her eyes. “You and Pymm both. Mark my words, he is a stuffy, arrogant, overbearing …”

Clifton didn’t need to guess as to the subject of her protests. Nor was he surprised by her vehement defamation of his character. He’d have been more surprised to hear her praising his virtues.

Mr. Ellyson’s bemused laughter filtered up the stairs. “Oh, enough, Goosie. I know you don’t like him, but I insist you keep your opinions to yourself. And no dosing his stew,” he admonished so severely that Clifton could envision the man wagging his finger at his daughter. “He is no Lord Roche.”

“Harrumph,” she sputtered. “I beg to differ.”

Clifton’s head swung up.
Roche
? That horse’s rump? The sting of being compared to that fool was enough to almost bring him into the conversation. And yet curiosity and a wild desire to prove Miss Ellyson wrong stayed his boots.

“Oh, certainly, Roche was a poor choice, I’ll grant you that—” Ellyson began.

“And just as sure of himself as this fellow Pymm has forced upon us. Mr. Grey will do well enough, but the earl … well, Papa, I think you are quite mistaken on the matter.” There was a noisy
harrumph
that finished her sentence.

“Come now, Goosie, you are too severe by half. Clifton has more mettle to him than you give him credit. He’ll surprise you in the end. You’ll see.”

There was the ruffle of straw and ribbons, her bonnet most likely being shaken in vehement denial of such a claim.

Ellyson’s laughter echoed up the dark stairwell.

“You are just put off by his lofty manners, and that he hasn’t flirted with you.”

“Papa!” she protested. “That is ridiculous! I don’t want that man—”

“Stand down,” her father chided. “I think this has more to do with the fact that the earl is the first one of them who’s come through here who hasn’t fancied himself in love with you.”

“You know I don’t care about those things,” she protested.

“Oh, I know. But one day you will, and that’s the day I fear.”

“Well, you needn’t fear on my account over the Earl of Clifton.” There was another one of those
harrumph
s that made her sound like Malcolm’s grandmother. The blacksmith’s wife. A beast of a woman who could bend iron with her bare hands.

“Good,” Mr. Ellyson said, as if that settled the matter.

As if there was any matter to be dealt with. It was all Clifton could do not to go blustering into the kitchen and agree with the man’s daughter.

Her father had nothing to fear on his account.

Lucy Ellyson, indeed
. Clifton shuddered.

“For he won’t have you, Goosie. None of them will. Not in a way that is honorable,” the man was saying with a resigned sort of sigh. “I’ve raised you both to be ladies—”

Clifton’s brow arched at such a notion. Lucy Ellyson a lady? He wanted to correct her father on that point, but he thought the better of it.

“—don’t ever think for a moment that one of them will look past your bloodlines, such as they are, no matter what they say to charm you.”

“I’m not the sort to be charmed, Papa.”

Truer words were never spoken
, Clifton mused.

“So there it is, Goosie. You can’t abide the man, you’ve made that abundantly clear, but the truth of it is that Pymm wants him trained, and trained is what we will do.”

There was a moment of silence before a resigned, feminine sigh broke the quiet.

“So you’ll help?” her father asked.

There was a rustle of a basket being plopped down on a table. “Oh, aye. You know I will. And if Uncle Toad wants it done—”

Uncle Toad
? She referred to Pymm, England’s spymaster, the most feared man in the Foreign Office, as “Uncle Toad”?

Clifton didn’t have much time to digest such a notion before Miss Ellyson was once again spouting off.

“—I have to admit I won’t mind seeing that arrogant fellow set down a peg or two—”

“Goosie—” her father warned.

“Papa, you always say lessons in humility are the hardest to swallow. I daresay for the earl, today shall be most unpalatable.” She paused for a moment before she added, “Could turn out rather badly.”

She needn’t sound so hopeful, the little minx.

Clifton straightened.
Want to see me set down, do you?
His eyes narrowed, and a deadly calm came over him. Convinced that he wouldn’t pass muster when faced with a challenge, was she? Oh, he’d show her a thing or two, this odious miss.

Coughing loudly, he finished his descent down the steps, knit his brows together in the most imperious line he could fashion and stepped into the kitchen. “I rang for tea, but no one brought it.” He paused and surveyed the seemingly domestic scene before him, then arched a brow at Miss Lucy, as if to indicate that she should have seen to the matter.

Promptly.

She, in return and true to her character, scowled back.

Most likely wishing she could dump a scalding potful over his head.

“Ah, Clifton, good timing,” Ellyson said. “I have a favor to ask of you.”

“Certainly, sir,” he replied, inclining his head slightly. “How may I be of ser vice?”

“Goosie must go to the village for Mrs. Kewin, but alas, there is no one to go with her. Bess is sick … and Mrs. Kewin is busy … and Mariana and Thomas-William are off … off … ” he stammered a bit before glancing at his daughter for help.

“Carrying baskets to the poor,” Miss Lucy finished with the sweet, modest tones of a vicar’s daughter.

Which she wasn’t. And furthermore, while Mariana Ellyson was a generous and friendly bit of muslin, he’d wager his last year’s rents that she was about as likely to be out doing charity work as she was out robbing coaches.

“Would you mind, my lord,” Mr. Ellyson said, “escorting my dear girl up to the village? I dislike having my daughters venture out unprotected.”

Clifton took one furtive glance at the old spy’s daughter. The chit was good, for she appeared as innocent as her tones had implied, but there was a dangerous light to her eyes.

A challenge that dared him to refuse.

And what Miss Lucy, in all her pride and prejudice, did not realize was that he loved a good challenge.

Almost as much as he loved winning.

“Most certainly, sir,” Clifton replied. “I would be remiss in allowing a young lady to go about unescorted.”

At least not until I discover what it is you two have in store for me
.

Lucy found herself at odds as she left her father’s house in the company of the Earl of Clifton.

“Would you do me the honor, Miss Lucy,” he asked in a gallant manner, holding out his arm to her.

“Lucy, my lord. Please call me Lucy,” she told him as he carefully settled her hand onto his sleeve and led her down the path as if she were a real lady and he was taking her for a fashionable stroll in a London park.

“But Miss Lucy,” he averred, “I wouldn’t want to impugn your reputation by having anyone assume—”

“Oh, good heavens, Lord Clifton!” she said, losing all patience with the man. “No one calls me ‘Miss Lucy.’ That is reserved for the vicar’s sister.”

There was a pause before he asked, “And someone might confuse you with the vicar’s sister?”

This wry comment took Lucy aback. She glanced up to see if the man was teasing or just being insulting, but neither was in evidence on his handsome features.

“The weather is admirable,” he commented blithely, as he opened the gate for her and they made their way to the lane.

“Yes, quite,” she replied, suspicious all the same.

“Do you walk to the village often?”

Lucy glanced over at him. Was the man a simpleton? “Yes, my lord. Every day.”

“Extraordinary!” he replied. “Take care here, it appears the road is uneven.” He steered her through the alarming hazard of an overturned stone and a dirt clod.

Good heavens
,
I’m not made of porcelain
, she wanted to exclaim, trying unsuccessfully to free her hand, but he’d clamped his other one atop it and held her fast.

Why, she made this outing nearly every day and most often alone, for there wasn’t a lad or troublemaker within a good five miles who would think to give Lucy Ellyson anything but a wide berth and a good measure of respect.

And as she was used to her independence, she found it ever so disconcerting to be walking along in the earl’s shadow, her fingers trapped on his sleeve.

Up this close he was taller than she’d realized— or rather wanted to think of him being—for he quite towered over her, and if it could be believed, he seemed, well, rather imposing.

Well, not completely imposing
, she thought, glancing up the road and wondering where Rusty and Sammy had hidden themselves, suddenly feeling a bit of ill ease.

What if her father was right and the earl did make a good showing against them?

She shook her head. Impossible. He was a spoiled, indulgent nobleman. That was all. Just another Lord Roche.

Her fingers flexed on his sleeve, and beneath her gloves there was nothing but solid muscles.

Something inside her fluttered at the sensation.

Are you so sure he’s just a fool, Lucy?

“Have you lived in Hampstead all your life?” the earl asked.

“Excuse me?” Lucy replied, coming out of her reverie, her gaze absently fixed on his forearm.

“Hampstead? Have you lived here all your life?” he repeated, smiling at her as if he was speaking to a child.

“Most of it,” she said, a bit disconcerted by the dazzling smile on his handsome face. “I was born in Rome, though I have no memory of the place.”

Egads, whatever had possessed her to reveal that?

“Rome, you say? How unique,” he declared.

Not so if your mother is Italian
, she wanted to say in sharp retort, but that would only lead to an explanation of her mother.

A subject Lucy avoided at all costs, and she was glad for the silence that fell between them.

At least for a moment or so.

“How nice of your father to allow me the pleasure of your company this afternoon,” he said, picking up their lapsed conversation. “It afforded me an opportunity to speak to you …
alone
.”

Alone
? The word ruffled down her spine.

Goodness gracious, whatever could this man want to say to her alone that he hadn’t said already?

Perhaps he wanted to comment on how she’d had his shirts starched. Twice. Or was it three times … she’d lost count.

She smiled back at him, bracing herself for another overbearing request.

“Miss Lucy—” he began.

Here it comes …

“I fear we’ve gotten off to a bad start,” he continued. “And I believe it is entirely my fault.”

Lucy blinked. Had she heard him correctly? That sounded suspiciously like an apology. She glanced up and stared into his contrite expression, which held not a hint of sarcasm or mirth to betray his intent.

Egads! It was an apology.

She took another look at him. No, it couldn’t be. She must have tied her bonnet on a little too tight, that or Rusty and Sammy had already knocked him over the head and she’d missed the event entirely.

“My brother tells me I’ve been a bit high-handed—” he continued.

“A bit?” she sputtered, then realized she’d said that aloud.

Again he smiled at her as if he hadn’t heard her rude little outburst. The blinding glare of his straight white teeth and the sincere light of his eyes were capable of leaving a lady a bit off kilter.