How I Met My Countess (5 page)

Even a lady as unflappable as Lucy. At least she’d always thought of herself as immune to such charms.

“I mean to say, I don’t think—” she stammered, trying to recover some sense of control. It was hard to think when he looked at her so … so … oh, bother, as if he found her quite delightful.

Which he doesn’t
, she told herself.

Yet, here he was, pompous Lord Clifton, apologizing.

“Yes, yes, I’ve been most high-handed. So Miss Lucy, as a gentleman, I extend my sincere apologies to you if I’ve offended you in any manner.”

There it was again, that brilliant, boyish smile. The kind that beamed only for her. And demmit if Lucy’s heart didn’t beat just a little bit faster.

Oh, heavens. He would have to apologize right now. Just before she led him into her father’s trap.

A niggle of guilt ran down her spine. And at first, she barely knew what it was, for she rarely felt guilty over anything. Not even cheating at cards.

But her guilt, as it turned out, had a short-lived existence, for the earl continued on with his apology.

“I would be most remiss if I offended a lady such as yourself, and a pretty one at that.”

Lucy slowly tipped her bonnet and looked at him. Really looked. From that winsome, handsome smile meant to dazzle, up to the bright, concerned light in his eyes.

The man was devilishly attractive, much to her chagrin.

Sharp, dark eyes, the Roman nose of a gentleman, a smooth, solid jaw with a deep cleft beneath his sculpted lips.

Lucy fixed her gaze to the road beneath her feet as her heart once again danced with a haphazard tremble.

Oh, Lucy, don’t be such a nit.

For despite all his sweet words and smiling glances, Lucy Ellyson knew without a doubt that whatever he was up to, he was flirting with her for a reason.

The Earl of Clifton was piling Spanish coins at her feet, false flattery enough to fill a pirate’s hold, and if he thought his fine words could turn her head … nay, distract her …

Distract her?

Lucy’s boots scudded to a halt, and the man mistook her momentary falter for something else.

“Am I going too fast for you, Miss Lucy? Do you need to rest?”

“No, no, I am most sound,” she shot back, dispensing any further worries of guilt.
The demmed scurvy bast—
Why, he’d nearly convinced her he was sincerely sorry. “Thank you for your concern,” she added, glancing up at this enigma of a man to find his dark gaze fixed on her. “But please, call me Lucy.”

“Of course,” he said with an elegant nod. “Lucy it is.”

It was almost a shame that in a few minutes his smooth visage would be sporting a black eye, at the very least.

Terrible shame that. Perhaps you should warn him that he is about to be jumped and beaten
.

Then again, perhaps not. Lucy smiled up at him.

“My lord, truly there is no need to apologize, and I own I might have had a hand in our differences.”

Well, she’d certainly had a hand in asking the laundress to starch his cravats a third time.

They continued on in silence along the cheery lane, wild spring flowers, brilliantly yellow, blooming happily beneath the line of oaks. Dappled sunshine fell upon them, and it was, if Lucy held such inclinations, quite a romantic setting.

Say something. Talk to him. Distract him
, she could hear her father whispering at her.
Don’t let him suspect a thing
.

“I suppose you miss London,” she said. Most of the men her father worked with all complained about having to live in Hampstead, just out of reach of their usual haunts of White’s and Tattersall’s and Gentleman Jim’s.

“Not at all,” he replied. “I find life in London a necessary evil. I much prefer the country.”

There was something so utterly honest about his response that it left Lucy rather astounded. For she too had never taken to London and dearly loved the quiet of the Heath.

And worse, she discovered they had something in common.

“No, but you must miss the grand society and the entertainments,” she insisted, not wanting to concede to any sort of commonality between them. “The Season is in full swing, is it not? Surely the delights of Mayfair and all those pretty ladies are a far sight more to your tastes than Gertie at the Bog and Heath.”

He stumbled a bit and glanced down at her. “I beg your pardon?”

“Gertie. At the Bog and Heath. The inn where you and your brother have taken rooms. She always delights in entertaining father’s students.” Lucy lowered her voice. “But I fear she is getting a bit long in the tooth for working her trade.”

She watched with some satisfaction as the earl’s face colored a bit and he struggled to digest the conversation.

Most likely the first time he’d ever discussed a tavern wench with a lady.

“I-I-I, that is to say, I haven’t made the acquaintance … nor would I discuss such a person—”

“Gertie,” she supplied. “Her name is Gertie. Oh, you needn’t be so squeamish around me, my lord. I am three and twenty and have a good idea as to the ser vice Gertie provides—”

“Mind your step, Miss Ellyson,” he said, hastily cutting her off and steering her around a pile left by a horse.

Oh, yes, she had him at sixes and sevens now. And so she continued unabashedly. “I do believe Lord Roche found her quite accommodating.”

When I would not …

“Still, you might consider returning to London for the Season,” Lucy continued blithering on like Mariana might, “so as to find a wife.”

“A wha-a-a-t?”

She swore his shudder ran all the way down to his boots.

So the Earl of Clifton has a fear of matrimony.
That might work in her favor.

“A wife,” she supplied. “A countess. A lady of good bloodlines to supply you with an heir and a spare.”

“Yes, yes,” he said. “I know what a wife is for.”

“Aren’t you worried about leaving your title without an heir?” She paused and lowered her voice. “If you don’t come back, that is.”

He glanced over at her, a hint of annoyance flashing in his eyes.

Oh, she’d hit the mark with that one.

“I have an uncle who is in line,” he said stiffly.

“Excellent. Is he married?”

“Yes.”

“A sensible fellow, then?”

There was a long, measured pause from the earl. “Not particularly.”

“How unfortunate. But perhaps he has heirs with the necessary qualifications?” she asked.

“Yes. Two sons.” The answer came out like a dog snapping at a bone.

Lucy pressed her lips together to keep from grinning. Oh, she had him now. Then she composed her next sally very carefully. If only so it landed like a cannonball at his feet.

“So you’ll marry when you return—that is to say if you return.”

His brows knit together and his arm stiffened.

Lucy wondered if, perhaps, she might have pushed him too far.

“I’ll return.” He said this with a finality that should have been enough right there to end the subject—that is if this had been an ordinary polite conversation.

But it wasn’t enough to stop Lucy.

“Of course you will, my lord. Most certainly,” she said, patting his arm as if consoling him over a lost wager. And a paltry one at that. Then she continued, “What sort of lady will you look for?”

“Excuse me?” He stumbled a bit. Lucy waited for him to get his footing and composure realigned before she once again thrust her question into his chest like a dagger.

“Your countess? However will you know her when you meet her?”

“I haven’t given it much thought.” Again his tone suggested that the subject was finished.

But oh, Lucy wasn’t. “That is where most men fail in these sorts of things.”

“Fail?
”

“Yes, fail. Utterly. You men don’t give enough consideration to the sort of woman you want to spend your life with. Instead you rather just sort of pick, like one might a racehorse.”

“There is more to choosing a bride than that,” he said in a stuffy sort of manner.

“How so?” she asked innocently, as if such matters were well beyond her ken. Then again, he hadn’t the least notion that she was leading him into a trap.

“Well, I suppose I will have to consider a lady’s bloodlines,” he told her, in such a pompous manner that Lucy almost wished Rusty and Sammy would arrive now and save her from this lofty lecture. “Her education should be impeccable, and I will have to examine her suitability, her countenance, the way she holds herself in public.”

“Exactly as I said. Just as one chooses a racehorse,” Lucy pointed out.

“Not at all the same thing.”

She pulled to a stop. “By bloodlines, training and the turn of her lines. Isn’t that what you said?”

His jaws worked together, his gaze fixed and narrowed on the road ahead. “Yes.”

“Just like a racehorse, my lord.” With that, she tugged him back into the track in the road, and they continued on in silence.

Apparently the earl didn’t like being shown the shortcomings of his plans. Or the comparison of his future bride to an Arabian at Newmarket. “Miss Lucy, there is one difference you neglected to consider.”

“What would that be?” she asked, confident in her ingenious and disarming banter.

He glanced down at her, dark eyes smoldering with an intensity that sent a shiver of warning down her spine. He turned that devil-may-care smile on her, the one that suggested he was looking for something—or, rather, someone—to devour.

Passionately.

Lucy tried to ignore the tremor running down her spine. It wasn’t guilt, or anger, or even fear. But something else. Something she didn’t even want to know.

At least not with him. For when the Earl of Clifton looked at her that way, it reminded her that she was a woman, and that he was a very handsome man.

Too handsome.

“I’ve never been in love with a horse,” he said. “But I will love my future countess. Without a doubt, I will not marry without love.”

And this time Lucy stumbled.

Lo-o-ve?” Lucy Ellyson stammered.

“Yes, love.” Clifton glanced down at her and knew without a doubt that the tide of their conversation had changed. Or rather washed her off her lofty post. The sudden shift in their positions sent a wicked desire through him to meet her jab for jab. “Have you heard of it?”

“Of course I’ve heard of it,” she snapped.

“Have you ever been in love?”

“My lord, that is hardly—”

“Proper?” He shrugged. “Probably not. But I might remind you, Lucy, you did start this line of questioning.”

“I never meant—” She drew a breath. “That is to say, I didn’t expect—”

“For the winds to change?”

A noisy little
harrumph
erupted from beneath the wide brim of her straw bonnet.

Clifton smiled.
Point the sword of marriage at me, will you?
Oh, she’d had him on the ropes for a bit, but now … “So, Lucy, have you ever been in love?” he repeated.

“No. Most certainly not.” She glanced up at him, her lips set in a firm line.

The sort of line that either forbade a fellow from trying anything further, or one that challenged him to see if those rosy lips could be persuaded to open up … just a bit.

“No swain to sweep you off your feet?” He moved a little closer; to her credit, she held her ground.

“I’m not the sweepable sort, my lord,” she replied, shifting her basket from one hand to the other until it hung in front of her like a flimsy barricade.

Good. She was nervous.

As she should be.

“I suppose you aren’t,” he said, glancing at the basket between them and then up at her. “Sweepable, that is.” He edged a little closer, and this time she took a slight step back, the basket absently tumbling from her fingers.

“Try charming her, ”
Malcolm had suggested.

And so Clifton did, smiling wolfishly down at her.

“What does that mean?” she shot back, her defiance rising in high dudgeons, her eyes wary. “I’m not sweepable?”

“It’s just that you aren’t the sort of lady who would encourage a man to look twice—”

“My lord, I’m most certainly not—”

“No, no, Miss Ellyson, hear me out. If you want a man to fall in love with you, he needs to look twice.” And so Clifton did. He paused for a moment and took a good look at her. “Just to make sure.”

She stilled, hands on her hips, brows furrowed together. For the life of him, such a bossy, unnatural, fishwife sort of stance should put him off. Utterly.

But on Miss Lucy Ellyson, it lit a fire within him.

From the challenge in her green eyes. Her frothy mess of black hair rose about her pretty face like Boadicea’s heathen wreath. A warrior miss unwilling to relent an inch.

The sort of fiery misses who enflamed kings, who rose to infamy by their sheer audacity, who challenged a man to dig deep into his reserves and use all his wits to merit her affections.

But then again, she obviously didn’t realize that when she stood thusly it forced her frumpish and ugly gown to actually reveal the curves and feminine lines that it hid beneath its dull calico shield.

From where he stood, there was no doubt Lucy Ellyson was a curvy bit of baggage. No willowy debutante, no iconic, statuesque Original. No, she was a lady in all the ways that made a man’s head spin.

Or rather, got his blood up.

So when she declared that she’d never been in love, he found it hard to believe.

He grinned at her, seeing her in an altogether new light, because there was another way besides merely flirting with a lady to entice her to give up her secrets.

“Whatever do you think you are doing, Lord Clifton?” she demanded, edging another step back.

“Taking a second look.”

Lucy knew right there and then that the Earl of Clifton was going to kiss her.

And she also knew that while she should flatten him with a facer for such presumption, she wanted him to do this … right down to her toes, which at this very moment were curled up inside her scuffed and worn boots.

He’s an arrogant fool, Lucy Ellyson. Whatever are you thinking?

That in the last few moments, he’d gone from being a pampered gentleman to something more.

I will not marry without love.

Those words had challenged everything she thought of him. He hadn’t said them in an offhanded manner, nor had he made some impassioned, romantic statement.

He’d said them as a vow, in a way which said that of all the noble considerations for matrimony, love would be his single deciding factor. Those words, that notion, whispered to her.

Ignited her own longings—for she’d always dreamt of such a love as well. Lucy Ellyson put on a brave face, was the rock of steadiness for her off-kilter family, but deep inside bubbled a hunger for so much more.

For a man to love her for all her faults and follies … love her despite her bloodlines, despite her parents and unconventional upbringing.

Love her because he found her the most remarkable woman he’d ever laid eyes on.

So when Lord Clifton declared he was taking a second look at her … well, she found she couldn’t breathe.

For there was something about the way he studied her, as if she might possess that something he was seeking. That, and the dark, burning passion in his eyes held her with an uncanny power. It ignited a fire inside her, a desire for …

Oh, heavens, she didn’t know what she wanted.

Except to be kissed.

And he was going to, for he was drawing closer, moving to catch hold of her. Draw her up against him, put his lips to hers and make her insides whirl about in a dizzy flutter like the colorful ribbons of a Maypole dancing in an unexpected breeze.

Demmit
, she thought,
how has this man become so handsome, so charming, so utterly desirable?

How had she never noticed that his dark eyes were really a deep, dark blue—or the way they glowed with a dangerous fire? How had she not seen the strong, determined line of his jaw, the commanding line of his shoulders, the resolute set of his lips, parted and ready to steal from her the one thing she’d never in a thousand years thought she’d ever give to him?

A kiss.

But much to Lucy’s despair, this golden moment, this dreamt of chance—her first real kiss—was also the moment when Rusty and Sammy decided to spring their trap.

For one triumphant moment, Clifton thought he had Lucy Ellyson right where he wanted her. Her eyes, now wide with amazement, were fixed on his, and the entire world seemed to melt away as he found himself lost in the meadow green shadows of her gaze.

Distracted by her full, ripe lips, distracted by the thought of her lush—

And right then, his entire world lurched forward as a blinding pain erupted in the back of his head. Stars burst to life in front of his eyes, and they weren’t the sort you felt when you had a beautiful slip of muslin in your arms and thought the rest of the afternoon would be spent … well, not buckling to your knees, your senses blinded and only one thought ringing through your aching head.

Never let yourself get distracted.

It was George Ellyson’s first tenet of staying alive. One he had been pounding into Clifton’s and Malcolm’s thick skulls since the first day they’d walked into his study.

Never let yourself get distracted.

And he had. In Hampstead. On a single-lane track walking into the village. Within an hour of having heard Ellyson mutter those very words for about the hundredth time.

Yet here he was, oh, so very distracted. By a lady he had no rights to even consider for such a dalliance. For such a moment.

Clifton staggered up and turned to face his assailant.

No, make that assailants.

He blinked a couple of times until he was able to make the jumble of fellows in front of him focus into two discernable figures, the closest one being an oversized ruffian with bright red hair and a murderous light in his eyes. A man who wasted no time, no pleasantries, before burying his meaty paw into the earl’s gut, knocking the wind from his lungs and sending him sprawling onto his arse in the dirt and the dust.

So it’s going to be
that
sort of fight
, Clifton thought as he once again staggered to his feet, shook the stars out of his eyes and balled up his fists.

Oh, he’d been distracted. For a moment.

But he wasn’t now. And these two fellows had his full and complete attention.

Lucy had also landed on the hard-packed earth, down beside her long-forgotten basket. She cursed, using her father’s favorite expression, one that had gotten her banished at the tender age of seven from Mrs. Fishwick’s Boarding School for Young Ladies.

Instead of worrying over her indiscretion—the curse, not the kiss—she swiped at the wayward strands of hair falling over her face so that she could see what the devil was happening.

And it wasn’t a pretty picture.

Rusty and Sammy had Clifton boxed in, with the hedge at his back and no means of escape.

“Oh, dear heavens,” she managed to gasp. For as much as she had wanted to see the earl tossed around a bit, that desire had been before …

Before he’d been about to kiss her. Before he’d teased her. Tempted her. Turned the tables on her. Had left her so distracted that she’d forgotten about Rusty and Sammy and her father’s plans.

And now? Before she could manage another word, one that might put a halt to the entire proceedings, Sammy rushed in.

Lucy squeezed her eyes shut.
Oh, I can’t watch. I can’t watch.

For she knew what was going to happen next. Sammy would get a bear hold on the earl, then Rusty, with his big fists and rapid reflexes, would work their devilry up and down the earl’s midsection, cracking ribs as easily as one might crack a dozen eggs.

Not enough to do real harm, but enough …

“Oh, no, you don’t, you bastards,” she heard the earl say in a low, dangerous voice. The sort of warning a mastiff growls before it happily takes off a thief’s leg.

Her lashes sprang open just in time to see Sammy go flying, shaken off like a flea. The big lug landed hard, the air rushing out of him in a
whoosh
and leaving him dazed and stunned on the lane not far from where she lay sprawled.

She looked over at the dumfounded expression on the experienced fellow’s face—a sort of “how the devil did that happen?” shock that fled as his eyes rolled into the back of his head and he fell over, passed out cold.

Clifton shook off Sammy?
No,
she corrected herself,
he’d done Sammy in.

Lucy shivered, her father’s prophecy coming to fruition before her eyes.

I know you think Clifton a tiresome fool, but I think he’ll surprise you, Goosie.

She glanced up at the two men still standing and swallowed.

“Oh, you’ve got a bit of rum luck to you, do you guv’ner?” Rusty said, cocking his head back a bit, like a rooster ready to crow his supremacy.

Unfortunately for Rusty, that moment of brash impudence cost him.

For Clifton didn’t fight like a nobleman—all rules and Gentleman Jim order, with his fists held high and in plain sight.

No, he fought like a blacksmith’s son.

He dove headfirst into Rusty’s midsection, carrying them both to the ground, where they rolled a bit, fists flying, the brutal
thunk
of a hard paw as it found a fleshy target, curses rising like the dust, and suddenly it all cleared, the flurry of fighting coming to a momentary pause.

Lucy’s mouth fell open, or rather, it was already open, she didn’t know which, for Clifton had Rusty pinned to the ground, his hard, dangerous fist cocked and ready to land a punch that could stop a man cold.

“No!” she screamed, scrambling up and over, catching the earl’s hand. “Don’t hurt him.”

He turned to her, all wild-eyed and full of fury. “Why the hell not?”

Lucy’s breath caught in her throat, for she’d never seen a man so angry, so full of fire… . His eyes blazed with malice, and beneath her fingers she could feel his tremendous strength barely held in check, just on the edge of exploding.

She trembled but held fast, her father’s warning echoing through her frantic thoughts.

…
He’ll make a good accounting of himself.

A good accounting? That was an understatement.

He’d shocked her. He’d managed to tempt her into nearly kissing him, and now …

Oh, heavens! The way his hand shook with a fierce passion beneath her fingers … it made her … well, she didn’t want to know how it made her feel.

Because the dangerous desires it sent through her, the want to feel those arms around her, to have his solid chest up against hers, his lips taking what they wanted, was too treacherous to consider.

Especially now that she knew exactly what he was capable of.

He pulled his hand back further, hauling her along. “Give me a good reason not to darken this bastard’s lights.”

“Good heavens, my lord, he was supposed to do this,” she sputtered, clinging to his hand and utterly convinced he was about to consign Rusty to his just rewards.

Clifton’s fist hung in the air for a moment longer, then his tense and battle-ready muscles flexed, shaking her off, breaking her hold on him.

Rusty scrambled out from beneath the earl, crawling over to his friend and rolling him over. Sammy groaned and struggled up to a sitting position.

“What the bloody hell happened?” Sammy complained, his hand going to his head, one eye already swelling shut. “Did I get hit by a coach?”

“Miss Lucy! I demand an explanation!” Clifton said, getting to his feet and leaning over to retrieve his hat, which had rolled to a stop near her basket. He dusted off his pants, then raked his fingers through his hair before he slammed the tall beaver back in place. “What is the meaning of this?”

Lucy blinked and gaped up at him, for here he was again. The same arrogant, demanding fellow she’d been ready to toss to the lions half an hour ago.

Oh, better this, Lucy, than the man you were so willing to kiss.

“I demand an explanation now!” he ordered. Still, she didn’t know which angered her more— the fact that she lacked a wagonload of lions into which to heave him or that Rusty and Sammy couldn’t have delayed their arrival for just a few moments more.