Counting on a Countess. Eva Leigh
already agreed to go,” Miss Pearce answered. “And I want to go. I like him.” She sounded astonished by this fact.
A quick burst of brightness popped in his chest.
“Besides,” she continued, “I don’t think he’s a poor investment.”
“He’ll make a terrible husband,” Lady Daleford warned. “Men like him take mistresses. They stick their wives in the country and never see them. He’ll be exactly the same.”
Damn—the older woman seemed to have read his mind. He’d never desired marriage, but to hear her discredit his husbandly attributes irritated him.
“He’s precisely what I need,” Miss Pearce countered.
And what might that be? he wondered silently.
But whatever her motivations, the end result matched his own desire for a woman he could see himself marrying, and a woman who would be amenable to the world’s shortest courtship. She also seemed unconcerned by the fact that he’d have lovers or deposit her at a far-flung country estate.
“I will go,” Miss Pearce concluded in a tone that would brook no argument.
He couldn’t decide whether or not it was a good thing that she possessed a strong spine. If they were to marry, she would have to accept the fact that he had no intention of changing the way he lived his life. So long as he kept her comfortable, he reasoned, she’d have no cause to complain. He’d give her a comfortable allowance while he used the lion’s share of his income to fund the pleasure garden. Everyone would have what they wanted.
But all that was irrelevant unless she agreed to marry him. Though she might not if she found him lurking in corridors and eavesdropping, so he hurried to the foyer to wait.
Miss Pearce smiled at him as she entered the vestibule, then she passed Kit to go upstairs and change. She made a pretty shape as she ascended the staircase, moving with confidence mixed with instinctive sensuality.
Kit could hardly wait for the wedding night. If she agreed to marry.
“Ahem.”
He turned in mid-ogle to see Lady Daleford glowering at him.
She advanced on him, her eyes sharp and piercing. “I know why you’re calling on Tamsyn,” she said darkly. “You’re panting to get your hands on Lord Somerby’s blunt, and she’s the key.”
“It doesn’t seem like my being an earl, and making her my countess, is an abominable fate,” he answered blandly.
“The title doesn’t trouble me,” she retorted. “It’s your reputation. Gaming hells, demimondaines, opera dancers . . . hardly the pursuits of an honorable gentleman.”
“Perhaps I can reform,” Kit replied. I won’t.
“You won’t.” Lady Daleford sounded confident. “Tamsyn deserves better.”
Kit wasn’t precisely the ideal upper-class man, however her words were little barbs digging into his flesh. He might not be admitted to Almack’s, but, damn it, he’d fought Napoleon. One didn’t return from the blood and mud and boredom and terror without needing some relief—and it wasn’t found at the bottom of a cup of watery lemonade.
“Let’s allow Miss Pearce to decide what she wants,” he countered.
It looked as though Lady Daleford wanted to say more, but her mouth clamped shut as footsteps sounded on the stairs.
Kit turned to see Miss Pearce descending the steps, a shy but eager smile playing about her lips. His chest constricted with pleasure at the sight of her, and he felt his blood quickening.
He barely noticed a ruddy-cheeked woman in plain clothing trailing behind her—instead, he couldn’t tear his gaze from the young woman. She’d donned a lavender redingote and wore a straw bonnet with a matching pale purple ribbon, making her look like a flower from a tropical climate. The color highlighted her complexion and made the light brown of her eyes shine. Everything about her spoke of freshness and vigor, and she seemed ready to meet any experience with unconcealed energy.
Even though she knew he watched her, she didn’t make a show of descending the stairs, prolonging his admiration. Coming to stand in front of him, he caught her fragrance—something warm and spicy—and he flared his nostrils, trying to inhale her all at once. She tilted up her chin. This close, he could see the many tiny freckles that danced over her skin.
Each one a place to kiss, he thought unexpectedly, and wondered if they covered just her face or if there were more on her body.
“Shall we?” He offered her his arm.
Wordlessly, she moved to stand beside him and placed her fingers on his forearm. She wore gloves, and he a coat and shirt, so there was no flesh-to-flesh contact. Just the same, his heartbeat jolted at the pressure of her hand on him.
Normally, he associated with women of a far faster character. Their touches were more bold, but from this simple contact, his whole body came alive.
Miss Pearce’s fingers pressed down with more firmness, meeting the solidity of his arm. She glanced at him quickly, as if surprised by the feel of him. He wasn’t a brawny country lad, but he had been a soldier, and he continued to visit the fencing and pugilism academies to keep his body healthy and strong. Kit allowed himself a moment’s vanity by flexing the muscles of his arm, and was gratified by her interested look.
“Don’t forget that we’re expected at the Newtons’ tonight,” Lady Daleford reminded her.
“I’ll have her home in time for supper,” Kit promised.
Lady Daleford looked unappeased, but Miss Pearce didn’t seem fazed by the older woman’s disapproval.
Realizing that his future depended on this innocuous walk, Kit led Miss Pearce out the door and into the sunlight and uncertainty.
Tamsyn tried to will her heart to beat at a steadier pace, but it staunchly refused to listen, thudding away with abandon as they ambled down the street. She couldn’t help her mingled nervousness and excitement. He clearly needed to wed quickly, but she didn’t know how long he’d spend courting her—provided she allowed him to.
“Russell Square isn’t far,” Lord Blakemere said as they walked.
She chanced a look at him through lowered lashes. The sunlight was his ally, tracing the planes of his long, handsome face with a loving hand. She felt flushed all over from being this close to him and sensing the potency of his body.
Tamsyn had often heard that a life of sin left its mark upon a person, yet that hardly seemed the case with him. Potency and virility radiated from him, as if nourished by his dissolution.
Perhaps if any of her acquaintances ever fell ill, she would recommend a thorough course of gambling and debauchery to set them back on the path to health.
She looked back at Nessa. Her old friend mouthed something at Tamsyn that she couldn’t understand, but judging by Nessa’s ogling of the earl, she approved of Tamsyn’s choice for a potential husband.
“A little green park isn’t far from here,” she noted. “There’s a good deal more privacy there than Russell Square.”
“By all means,” he said readily, “lead us there.”
It was a strange dance they did, she and Lord Blakemere. She imagined that he’d made inquiries about her, and knew some—but not all—of the reasons for her eagerness to wed. Further, he likely understood that she knew the nature of his own predicament. Yet neither of them could address this directly. Not yet, at any rate.
“London’s rife with entertainments,”