The Countess (4 page)

Peter didn't say anything for the longest time. He walked away from me. He stroked his chin, a habit of long-standing. “Oh, my God,” he said, turning back to me. “I wondered why you turned down young Viscount Barresford, an excellent man and sincerely attached to you. And Oliver Trever—another very nice man who worshiped you—you went driving with him once, Grandfather told me, then you refused to see him again.

“You believe to avoid all unhappiness by running from life? By shackling yourself to an old man who swears he won't touch you as a man touches a woman?”

Blacking out of life,
that was what John had said. I shook my head. I was silent, there was nothing more to be said, but Peter didn't realize that. “Andy, listen to me. Not all men are like your father. I never heard that my father was unfaithful to my mother. Believe me, Andy, I am not like your father. When I take a wife, I will be faithful to her. Many more men are like me rather than like your father.”

Silence lay deeply between us.

He shook his head, and there was such sadness in his voice I wanted to cry. “No, I can see that you refuse to believe that.”

I said, then, for there was nothing else to say to reconcile him, “The wedding is Tuesday next. We leave immediately for Devbridge Manor. You are, of course, welcome to come if you wish.”

“This is dreadfully wrong, Andy,” he said, “and it breaks my heart.”

I did not reply, for my throat was choked with tears.

I heard him stride quickly from the library, the doors banging behind him. Through the windows I saw Williams, the groom, bringing around Peter's horse, Champion. He swung a leg over the saddle and was gone.

I curled up in the window seat and stared out at the gathering fog. Peter's final words rang in my head. “This is dreadfully wrong, Andy.”
Dreadfully wrong.

Was he right? Was I escaping life, afraid of repeating my parents' failure? Was I blacking out life? I dashed my hand across my eyes, trying to rub away the tears. And he had said that it broke his heart. But men didn't have hearts that broke, even Peter, though I had little doubt that he believed what he had said. I had no doubt either that he did truly love me. But he hadn't come home when Grandfather had died because he'd had other, more important things to do. And no one had thought very much of it. No one blamed him—no one except me.

No, men took and took and did just as they pleased. They were to be tolerated, perhaps even loved, but never trusted. Even cousins who were so close they were like brothers, and you loved them and they loved you. I would never find myself with child and thus dependent upon a husband.

Grandfather had been different. I prayed that my future husband would be as well.

There was a light tap on the door. Skinny Lord Thorpe, a name Peter had given Thorpe the butler ten years earlier, entered the library, stood straight and proud as any aristocrat in front of me, and announced the arrival of the Earl of Devbridge. I blinked in rapid succession to make the tears recede. Rising from the window seat, I quickly smoothed my gown and my hair.

“Andrea,” he said in his smooth, beautifully modulated voice. “Andrea.”

I jumped, startled, and looked quickly around me. I wasn't in Grandfather's library in Cavendish Square, but rather sitting across from my new husband in a gently swaying chaise.

“A
ndrea,” he said yet again, smiling at me, “have you been bored to death, my dear? Or mayhap dreaming a bit yourself? I do believe that I nodded off for a moment. Do forgive me.”

“I was just thinking of Peter,” I said, refusing to think more about what Peter had said and what I had said in return. Lawrence leaned over and patted my gloved hands. “I know it is difficult for you. I, too, was very disappointed when your cousin refused our invitation. Ah, well, he will grow reconciled once he sees how very happy and content you are with me. He will also be impressed when he sees how your funds continue to accumulate, since my man of business needs but look at a guinea and it leaps to become two guineas.”

I laughed. My husband made me laugh, just as John had. I frowned at myself. That man had appeared only three times in my life. He was long gone. He was nothing and no one. It was time to forget him.

“Do you think you can call me Andy, my lord? I
have never cared for Andrea. Grandfather only called me by my full name when he was irked at me for some misdeed.”

“Andy? A boy's name?”

“I answer to it easily, sir. It's like a very comfortable shoe.”

“Very well. It is odd, but I will try. I wish you had mentioned this to me before, then I would have been accustomed to it by now.”

“I didn't know if you would approve. I didn't wish to take the chance that you would flee if I told you about my unfeminine name before we were wed.”

He smiled at me, truly a charming smile. He really didn't look his age. Since he was tall and quite lean, there were no jowls to add years. His nose wasn't veined and red from too much drinking. His eyes were a dazzling dark blue, and one had but to look at him, listen to him converse for but a few minutes, to realize he was an educated man, a man of sensibility and refinement, whatever those two things meant. I had heard them so very often growing up, that I suppose they were important, and was thus as certain as I could be that he was fully endowed with both of them.

He was dark, his eyebrows full over his eyes. His hair was still thick, and thin streaks of white threaded through the darker brown hair. He was fine-looking, my husband.

Had he been my father, perhaps things would have been different.

And then he said, “Your upbringing was unusual, what with only your grandfather to see you after your mother died. There is much in it that is both charming and disconcerting. We will see.”

Whatever that meant, I thought. I watched my husband settle again against the comfortable upholstered cushions and stretch his legs diagonally away from me. He folded his arms gracefully across his chest and tilted his head slightly to one side, resting his chin lightly on his cravat. He seemed peaceful, calm. I was unused to a man who wasn't a volcano, as Grandfather had been. Always quick to rage and equally as quick to laughter.

I said, “Peter told me that you have two nephews who live with you. One of them is his age, Peter said, and he is also your heir.”

“Yes,” the earl said, “the older boy is my heir. We have, unfortunately, been somewhat estranged over the past years, but he is home, at least I pray he is, by now.”

“What happened?”

An eyebrow shot up immediately. He looked ready to blast me, and I suppose it made some sense since my question was on the impertinent side, but I was, after all, his wife now. Then he just nodded, as if to himself, making a decision, drew a deep breath, and gave me a smile that was as shallow as a mud puddle after a light rain. Still, he said easily, “It is just that he is too much like his father. He was greatly distressed when his parents were killed by bandits in the Lowlands of Scotland. He and his brother were only twelve and ten years old when it happened. I was their uncle; my wife had died without children. I had no desire to remarry. Thus they both came to me, and I groomed them to be the sons of the house. Thomas, the youngest, settled in quite admirably, unlike his brother, John, who fought me from the very first day he arrived at Devbridge Manor.”

He saw the question forming on my lips, and added, “He blamed me, I believe, for being alive whilst his father had died. He didn't believe it was fair.”

I hadn't meant that at all. “You said his name is John,” I said, a catch in my voice. Surely, I thought, surely it couldn't be the same John. There were dozens of Johns hanging about, showing their names everywhere, bunches of Johns coating the countryside, too many to even consider such a coincidence. I said, “I ask because I met a man whose name is John shortly after Grandfather died. All in all, he seemed a pleasant enough man.”

“What was his family name?”

“I don't know,” I said, and knew I sounded like an idiot. “He was just someone I saw on three different occasions. He enjoyed laughing. He also liked George. As for George, I believe he would have preferred staying with the man, if he could have been certain he would have been fed as well as I feed him.”

“Well, then, he can't be my nephew. I have never heard John laugh. He is a silent, somewhat sullen young man, not at all charming or at all remarkable when it comes to either dealing with me or dealing with estate matters. I have never even seen him with an animal to be able to estimate his charms in that arena. He is, however, something of a war hero, so perhaps he will improve with time.

“To be fair, he hasn't been home very often to have learned much. Yes, time will tell.”

“And Thomas?”

“Ah, my sweet, self-absorbed Thomas, who has never given me a moment's concern since he was ten
years old. No, he isn't at all selfish, I don't mean that. It is just that he is concerned with every ache and pain he ever feels. The truth is, he quacks himself. Whenever he hurts a finger or bangs an elbow, he must needs read and study every booklet he can find on possible cures. His wife, Amelia, deals well with him. I believe she has an entire closet filled with potions and herbal remedies to treat everything from hairy warts to belly cramps. Whenever the gypsies come around, she is off buying every restorative they possess. She is the daughter of Viscount Waverleigh, a vastly unusual gentleman. She is quite lovely, and something of a snob—a good thing in most situations, I've found.

“And now, perhaps, John is home to stay.”

He grew quiet again, and I looked out the carriage window, surprised at the sudden darkness of the afternoon. It began to drizzle, and I pulled the warm rug snugly about my legs. The chaise was well sprung and quite luxurious, I thought, as I fingered the pale blue satin upholstery. I removed a lemon kid glove so that I could touch the soft fabric, and in doing so, revealed the Devbridge family ring that covered my finger to the knuckle. I gazed at the massive emerald surrounded by diamonds, and realized with a start that I was now the Countess of Devbridge. Had Lawrence's first wife worn it? Had they taken it from her finger when she was dead? Now, that was a gruesome thought. And I wondered how George was faring with Miss Crislock. They quite liked each other, and she had insisted that it was only right that I be alone with my new husband, and not sitting there talking constantly to George.

Not an hour later we arrived in Repford, where
Lawrence had arranged accommodations for us at the Gray Goose Inn. No sooner had we pulled into the inn yard than several boys came running to hold the horses and open the chaise door.

We were greeted at the door with a very low bow from our landlord, who had not a single strand of hair on his shining head, a fact easily ascertained since he was very short. When he bowed, the top of his head was right under my nose.

“Good day, Pratt,” Lawrence said. “Your establishment looks prosperous.”

“Aye, my lord,” Pratt said, wiping his hands on his very clean apron. “I took the advice of yer business feller and am making meself a tidy profit.”

Lawrence just nodded. “I trust our rooms are ready? Her ladyship,” he added, smiling at me, “is quite fatigued.”

I wondered why it was always ladies who were fatigued and never gentlemen.

“Yes, indeed, my lord, if yer lordship and ladyship will jest come with me, I will show ye to yer private parlor.”

“Let me get Miss Crislock and George settled,” I said. “Then I will join you.”

“Surely Miss Crislock can settle herself. She and Flynt can see to each other. Indeed, Flynt can see to George's needs. I don't wish you to trouble yourself now that you are a married woman.”

I didn't particularly like Lawrence's valet, Flynt. He looked too much and said too little. “Miss Crislock is a nervous sort, my lord, unused to change or strange places. Also she was ill. I wish to make sure that she is feeling all right.”

“The Gray Goose ain't at all strange,” I heard Mr.
Pratt say under his breath. “It's common, but not strange.”

“Indeed, Mr. Pratt,” I said. “Even though I am now a married lady, I don't feel that it's any particular trouble. I will join you shortly, Lawrence.” Before he could say anything else I didn't agree with, I was back outside. Flynt, as was his wont, just stood there, silent, watching, doing not a single thing that was helpful. I waited as the coachman assisted her to alight from the carriage. As for George, no sooner had Miss Crislock's feet touched the ground than he leapt into my arms, his tail wagging faster than a windmill in a high wind. I fastened his collar and let him down to the ground. “I'll be back, Milly. Just ask Mr. Pratt to see you to your room.” I just looked at Flynt, who was studying his thumbnail, then laughed when George leapt up a good three feet to grab the stout lead out of my hand. “Oh, no you don't, George. You just trot on ahead. I'm right here.”

And so George and I walked and ran and leapt in the dying sunlight in the lovely countryside. He had more energy than I did. It was a good hour before he was content to go to Miss Crislock and settle down to his dinner and to bed.

The Gray Goose parlor was a cozy, wood-paneled room, with a brightly burning fire, smells of roast beef, and a thin veil of smoke that filled the air. I tossed my muff and pelisse on a chair, walked over to the bright fire, and fanned my hands toward the heat. Lawrence, who had been reading a newspaper, now gave orders to Pratt for our supper. When Pratt had bowed himself out, Lawrence joined me by the fire.

“Flynt should have walked George,” he said. “It isn't the duty of a married lady.”

Was there a list of specific duties a married lady was and wasn't to perform? I sincerely prayed that there wasn't. If there was, I would probably shortly find myself in deep trouble. I said, “Flynt doesn't know George. Moreover, Flynt doesn't wish to do anything for anyone who isn't you, namely, his master. What's more, George doesn't like him. He missed me and danced around me until he keeled over he was finally so tired.”

I thought my husband would say something more, but he didn't.

When Pratt came again into the parlor, he was followed by a large bosomy girl with a lovely wide smile, whose name, we were informed, was Betty.

Lawrence turned to me. “Would half an hour suit you, Andrea, er, Andy, before we dine?”

“Suit me for what? Oh, but I don't need to change.” I didn't want to move away from the heady smell of butter-drenched roasted potatoes seeping from beneath one of the silver-domed platters. “I will wash my hands, all right? They do smell rather like dog. Yes, I'll be back in five minutes, no more. Don't eat all that delicious roasted meat yourself, my lord,” I called out over my shoulder as I dashed from the parlor. Once in my room, I quickly washed my hands, petted George, and thus had to wash my hands again, kissed Miss Crislock even though her mouth was full of her own dinner and she couldn't kiss me back, then ran lightly back down the stairs.

I paused by a long, narrow mirror that was on the closest wall at the bottom of the stairs. I looked at the pale girl and frowned. I had no reason to be pale.
I'd been dashing about in the outdoors for nearly a full hour. What was wrong with me? I looked at the girl again. She looked very alone, very pathetic, really. But that was equally silly, I thought. I was used to being my own mistress and being alone. Now I was still my own mistress, but I was no longer alone. No, now I had a very fine husband. I remembered what Lady Fremont had said behind her hand to me when she'd come to visit the day after our engagement had been announced in the
Gazette.
“What a sly chit you are, Andrea Jameson.” Then she'd actually tapped her fan on my arm. It had stung, and I realized she had meant it to. “Here you have trapped one of the most eligible gentlemen about, and you refuse to tell anyone how you did it. But surely, my dear, it is too soon for you to wed? Your dear grandfather only passed from his mortal coil not six months ago? Isn't that right? Shame on you. But I suppose since you have no mama to tell you what is right and what is impulsive—”