Courting His Countess (A Historical Romance Novella) (2 page)

"Why did you hurry home?" she asked.

"To see you, of course."

He said it with such sincerity she would
have believed him if there had ever been any affection between
them. Instead, his manner taunted her, picking at old wounds with
the intent of opening them. Wounds she refused to let him see
again.

"Rose," he said as she turned away.

"Yes?"

His frown returned. "It doesn't matter.
We'll speak more tomorrow, when the emotion of this first meeting
has subsided."

She doubted the emotion of seeing him could
ever subside. That had always been her problem where Thomas was
concerned. With everyone else she was sensible and in control. With
Thomas, she was contrary. It was almost impossible to maintain
self-control when the twin passions of desire and hatred jostled
for supremacy within her.

Almost, but not quite.

She was no longer a child and she'd learned
much in the last six years. She would need to draw on all of her
self-control to get rid of her husband after she'd performed the
necessary wifely duties. She would not let him stay and take away
the pride she'd struggled so hard to claw back.

CHAPTER 2

Thomas slept solidly and awoke the next
morning to a feast of warm beef and boiled eggs. He ate alone in
the small closet attached to his father's bedchamber—
his
bedchamber now—then went in search of his wife.

She was not in either of the parlors or the
great hall, nor was she in the kitchens or bakehouse although his
detour gave him the opportunity to speak to the servants he'd not
yet seen. Most were familiar to him. Only two maids were new.
Nothing else about Lockhart Castle was different, however. It was
still the same crenellated fortress of centuries past with thick
walls and big drafty rooms. The only modernizations were the bay
windows and the extension of the eastern range, completed before
his father lost all the Avondale money. Or, more accurately, before
Rose's father, Henry Wallan, cheated him out of it.

The furnishings were unchanged too.
Dressers, tables and coffers stood in exactly the same positions,
and there was so little furniture that some rooms looked
uninhabited. The place was as barren as when Thomas had left six
years prior. Money had been scarce in those days, and the furniture
was the first thing to be sold.

The last was Thomas's freedom.

But there was lots of money now. The queen
had favored him well, granting him a good salary and a license to
export broadcloth, and all the funds had been sent to Thomas's
father. Not that the old man deserved it, but it was a husband's
duty to keep his wife in comfort and since Rose had lived with his
father after the wedding, Thomas had directed all the money be
given to them and not sent on to him in Ireland. Yet it seemed
nothing had been spent. Even his mother's cushions still clad the
chairs. Why hadn't Rose put hers out? Did she not like embroidery?
He didn't know. He didn't know anything about her. He'd asked her
questions in his letters, tried to smooth things between them, but
she'd never replied. Now he knew she'd not read a single one.

It was time to learn more about his wife. It
would make bedding her less awkward.

He found her in the study sitting at a desk.
His
study. She looked up when he entered and frowned as if
annoyed at being disturbed.

"Good morning, Rose," he said. "I've been
looking everywhere for you."

"I've been in here."

"So I see, but if Moon hadn't told me, I
wouldn't have found you."

They called her the Ice Maiden. Thomas had
hated that name from the moment he'd heard it from a friend who
attended court. Apparently his wife went rarely to the royal
palaces and had earned the name after dancing little and chatting
less on her brief visits. But now, watching her with her pale skin
and hair bundled up under a white cap, he thought the moniker
fitting. It wasn't just her looks, it was the way she held herself,
with more poise than a queen, her back straight and chin tilted a
little upward, revealing the delicate skin of her throat. A blue
vein throbbed there, the only sign that she was ruffled by his
presence. Her face gave nothing away.

She glanced down at the desk, covered in
papers and ledgers, and returned the pen to its stand. She stood
and stepped aside for him to sit. He didn't move and she finally
looked up, questioning. Her face flushed a delicate pink, proving
that it was possible to disturb that icy composure. It was a small
victory but an important one. He smiled and her blush deepened.

"Good day," she said and made for the
door.

He caught her arm and felt her tremble. Was
she afraid of him? Or did she desire him? He'd wager desire—no
woman had ever had reason to fear him—yet there didn't seem to be
any passion simmering in her cool blue eyes.

"We need to talk," he said.

She shook herself free, dispelling the
desire theory further. "Yes."

He rounded his desk and watched her through
lowered lids so as not to embarrass her again. She hadn't liked his
flattery the day before, and he didn't want to begin their
re-acquaintance by angering her again. But he did want to look at
her, commit her to memory, replacing the outdated vision he held.
She was a smallish woman, reaching to the middle of his chest, and
a little thin. He tried to remember if she'd been a similar size
when they first wed but he couldn't. He could hardly remember her
at all. She'd been…sixteen? Still a girl, when he'd been
twenty-three and thought himself in love with a woman his own age.
Surely Rose couldn't have been anything like the beauty she was now
or he would have remembered. Even in the old clothes and with her
hair hidden beneath a simple cap, her face was captivating. It was
the sort of face poets wrote sonnets about. Heart-shaped, her skin
unmarked, her blue eyes wide and clever.

It made the prospect of being a proper
husband all the more appealing. But first he must crack through the
ice. He wasn't sure how to begin so he started with a simple,
non-confrontational topic.

"Who has been managing the estate since
Father died? I know it was only three months ago, but I assume
Metcalf has kept everything in order," he said, referring to the
land steward.

"Your father has not been well enough for
some years, but Metcalf has done a fine job."

Some years? She'd never indicated his father
was that ill. Admittedly Thomas had received few letters from her,
and none from the earl, but those she did send had not mentioned
his father's incapacity. "I'm sure Metcalf has been very helpful,
but under whose guidance if Father wasn't well enough to
manage?"

Her gaze caught his and it was his turn to
tremble. Beneath the sheen of iciness, a fire burned bold and
bright. His pulse throbbed.

"Mine," she said.

"I see." He ran his finger over the neatly
written figures in the bound ledger then flipped back through the
pages, scanning each entry to the beginning of the year. The detail
was concise and every pound, shilling and penny recorded.

"Ledgers for other years are in that trunk
over there," Rose said, pointing to the largest trunk in the
corner. "All extra monies have been locked away in the dungeon. You
won't find any of it missing."

"I'm sure I won't, but...."

"Yes?"

"These figures clearly show that you have
spent generously and wisely on the farms and in the village, but it
doesn't account for the majority of funds. The dungeon must be
awash with coin."

"Not quite awash," she said. "We are hardly
in danger of drowning if we venture down there."

He laughed. His wife certainly had a dry
wit.

"Moon is the only one with the keys apart
from myself," she said, unsmiling. "If you'd like to count it—"

"Count it? You make it sound like I don't
trust you."

She simply lifted one shoulder and continued
to hold his gaze, that cool and somewhat blank expression boring
through him. The fire he'd spotted earlier had gone out. Damn.

"Let me assure you, I do trust you." He
indicated the old and simple furniture in the study. "I can see the
evidence of your lack of spending everywhere."

She flinched. Had he upset her? "I assumed
you were accusing me of spending it elsewhere," she said. "Or of
giving it to someone else, perhaps."

"Who?" But as soon as he said it, he
realized she meant her father. "Did you?" he asked. If she had
given it to Wallan he would…what? Ask for it back? Unlikely. Wallan
had probably already spent it.

"No!" She put more vehemence and passion
into that one word than any she'd spoken since his arrival. "I
wouldn't give him a penny of your money."

"He didn't ask for it?"

"He did."

Ah. So she'd defied her father. Even more
intriguing. "I'm glad," he said. "But not because I want to punish
him. I don't like the thought of you going without to pay for your
father's luxuries."

She pressed a hand to her stomacher and her
lips parted. Why had those words startled her? Surely she didn't
think him such an ogre that he would want his wife to live in
poverty? He'd ensured the money came to her for
her
comfort.
Did she not know that?

He was beginning to think she didn't.
"Rose—"

"He doesn't."

"Doesn't what?"

"He doesn't live in luxury anymore, he only
has the appearance of it. I expect him to visit you very soon to
beg for funds."

Let the greedy prick try. He would fail. The
earls of Avondale had given enough to Henry Wallan.

"Thank you for the warning," he said. "Now,
there is something else we must discuss." He stood before her and
took her hands. They were warmer than he expected, and her fingers
long and fine. "I want to apologize—"

"Don't." She withdrew her hands and turned
away.

"But I must."

"No. You must not."

"Rose—"

"No! We'll discuss estate matters and the
business of...of getting an heir. Nothing else."

Bloody hell. He'd expected a cool reception,
but if she wouldn't read his letters or hear his apology, how could
he ever make it right? "The
business
of getting an heir," he
said, rather stupidly to her rigid back. "Yes." He swallowed the
rest of the words he'd wanted to say. He'd had six years to think
about them and how he would approach this moment, but it all seemed
wrong now. His unspoken apology felt hollow and meaningless. She
didn't want to ear it anyway.

For the first time in his life, he was
utterly, completely at a loss.

CHAPTER 3

Rose tried to keep her gaze steady with her
husband's but those liquid brown eyes made it difficult. It felt
like he was looking right into her heart and knew how wildly it
beat for him. She'd hoped this reunion would prove that she'd set
aside her childish infatuation, but it seemed she had not.

Indeed, the man standing across from her was
even more compelling six years after they'd wed.

"Go on," she said because he had stopped.
She was not going to make this easy for him.

He cleared his throat. His eyes had darkened
to a swirling black, half-hooded beneath his lids. "I need an heir,
Rose." His voice rumbled from deep inside his chest, quiet yet
powerful. "And I would like to start making one as soon as
possible. Tonight, if you're in agreement."

"You are
asking
me if you can come to
my bedchamber?" she said before she could stop herself.

"Would you rather I demanded?"

"No, I…I…" How could she tell him she hadn't
expected such consideration from her husband? She'd thought he
would stride in, take her maidenhead and walk out of her life, back
to court and Lady Mossdale.

Rose dipped her head and drew in a deep
breath to steady her nerves. "I'll be ready for you tonight, my
lord."

"Thomas. I won't make love to anyone who
calls me 'my lord'."

How many women had he bedded? And did Lady
Mossdale know about them? Rose ignored the sharp stab of jealousy
and instead pictured Lady Mossdale's face when she thought her
lover had been playing with the local women in Ireland. The
celebrated beauty would have a tantrum to rival the queen's.

"Why are you smiling?" he asked, a
questioning tilt to his lips. Before she could answer, he added:
"You should do it more often. You're even more beautiful when you
smile."

She tensed. How dare
he
judge
her
. A thousand cutting responses flashed through her mind.
Thank you for noticing. What a shame it took you six years.
Or:
I used to smile all the time but I forgot how after you
slept with your mistress instead of me on our wedding night.
But it was the least cutting that she spoke. "Empty flattery is
unnecessary. I've already agreed to your proposal."

His lips flattened. A muscle throbbed in his
jaw. "You think my remarks false?"

"I think them spoken by a gentleman who
wants an heir and knows the wife who hates him is his only chance
of getting one. Any man would turn to false flattery under such
circumstances."

He rocked back on his heels as if a strong
wind had pushed him. He rubbed his jaw and slowly the shocked look
in his eyes disappeared. "I suppose I deserved that."

It was her turn to be shocked. She expected
him to deny it, perhaps compliment her again, tell her she was his
adored wife. Assure her that he loved no other.

"But you're wrong," he said, leaning forward
once more. "Not every man would use flattery when faced with such a
forthright wife as yourself. Whether you think I speak the truth or
not, it doesn't matter. I have come home to get you with child and
to be a good father to any sons or daughters we me have. I want to
try and be a good husband too. Perhaps one day you will believe it,
if not today."