Courting His Countess (A Historical Romance Novella) (3 page)

Her body shook violently. She couldn't stop
it. Couldn't breathe. She wanted to believe him. Wanted to
forget.

I have to get away from you.

But how could she forget words like that?
Their sharpness stabbed her every day, every time she woke up
alone, every time she thought of her husband in Lady Mossdale's
bed. Rose's handsome, charming husband with the smile that made her
knees weak. The husband who'd never taken any notice of her. Until
now, when he wanted an heir.

"If that's all," she said levelly, "I'll
leave you with the ledgers."

"Bloody hell, Rose, don't! I'd rather you
spat at me again than dismiss me."

Shock forced her to step back. Immediately,
his face softened and he moved closer.

"I'm sorry," he said and sighed. "Please,
don't look at me like that."

"Like what?"

"Like you're afraid of me."

"I'm not afraid of you."

"You're not? Despite my language and
tone?"

"I've heard worse language from the stable
boys, and as to the tone…" She shook her head, unable to complete
the thought. She wasn't afraid of him, but his passion had
surprised her. It meant he
cared
. She had not thought him
capable. "You do not frighten me," she said again. "I know you
aren't a violent man."

He arched an eyebrow. "I'm glad, but…how do
you know?"

"Have you forgotten that we were neighbors?
I've known you all my life."

He gave a single, soft laugh. "Yes, we were.
However I am embarrassed to admit that you seem to remember me
better than I remember you." His smile was somewhat wistful, sad,
and she hated how it tugged at her heart. She must not let him
touch it just so he could break it again when Lady Mossdale came
sniffing around. "All the memories I have of you are from that
night, and those I don't particularly like remembering," he
said.

He didn't? "I'm sure there is nothing about
me that you do not already know," she said briskly.

"Nothing?" He touched her fingers, not
holding them but lightly caressing. His eyes had turned smoky,
their depths fathomless. Desire smoldered there. "I think, Rose,
that there is a lot I am yet to learn about you. And tonight will
be my first lesson."

A fist closed around her heart and squeezed.
No. She would not give in to his charms. She snatched her hand
away. "Dinner will be at midday."

His breathing became labored and the lids
lowered over his eyes once more. It was impossible to tell what he
was thinking. "I will see you at midday then." He bowed low.

She curtseyed and left, but had to pause on
the landing to catch her breath. Her heart had swelled to twice its
size and lodged in her throat along with a torrent of tears she
refused to shed. The return of her husband had proved that she
wasn't as immune to his charms as she thought.

CHAPTER 4

Thomas acknowledged every dish paraded
before him with a nod and waited as the servants set them at
intervals down the long dining table. Finally, when the beef was in
place and the last servant seated, he signaled for them to eat.
None did. Not even when he took his first bite. Not until Rose had
taken hers.

It was another reminder that they adored
her. Ever since his return, he'd seen small signs of it. Yet adored
wasn't quite the right word. They looked to her for confirmation
when he gave orders. They asked
her
questions, not him.
Loyalty, that's what it was. They were loyal to her as they would
be to a master.

Interesting. Had it been that way when his
father was alive? Thomas must remember not to put that loyalty to
the test. He got the feeling he wouldn't win.

Every servant sat in the hall, from the
stable boys and kitchen maids to the land and house stewards.
Twenty-two in all, and every one of them wearing warm clothes and
good shoes suitable for winter. They chatted amiably to each other,
and none looked awkward dining with the master and mistress. It
must be a common occurrence. When his father had been earl, no one
except family and guests had eaten at the main table.

Rose, sitting beside him, passed the
trencher laden with turnips. "I'm sure you're used to a more lavish
feast," she said. "But we dine simply here."

"There is nothing simple about this food,"
he said, taking a turnip and passing the rest along. "I'm pleased
to see so much. None shall go hungry in this house."

"Any leftovers will be taken down to the
village and given to the poor."

He looked at her as she spooned peas onto
her trencher. "Thank you, Rose."

She paused and two peas rolled off the
spoon. "What for?"

"For taking care of everything and everyone
while I was away. Lockhart runs smoothly and I can see how much the
servants like you. I expect I'll find the same in the village and
on the farms."

She tipped the rest of the peas onto her
plate. "You don't need to thank me for doing a duty which I find
much joy in performing."

"Nevertheless, I wish I hadn't left you with
such a burden for so long."

"It wasn't a burden." Her eyes lifted to his
for the first time since he'd joined her in the great hall. They
were a remarkable blue, like a clear winter sky, and just as cold.
"And you didn't have a choice," she said, looking down at her
trencher. "You were commanded to go to Ireland."

From the stiffness of her back and the
sharpness of her tone, he could tell she didn't believe her own
words. Someone had told her that he requested the Irish post. But
who? His father? Hers?

A heavy weight pressed down on his chest.
Christ, he'd expected their reunion to be awkward but this
guilt...it was overwhelming. No wonder she hated him. He'd left a
new bride in her new home with a pompous, weak father-in-law. Yet
she claimed to enjoy her role as both mistress and master, and, he
suspected, she even relished it.

No, that wasn't why she hated him. He knew
why. Because he'd gone to Temperance on their wedding night. Rose
had every right to hate him. He hated himself. That at least hadn't
changed in six years. But it was only now he could see the damage
his actions had caused. He'd been foolish not to realize then the
magnitude of what he'd done. Foolish and blinded by anger. He
wished he could undo that night. He would do it all differently.
Six years, maturity and a guilt that grew like a canker with each
passing month had taught him that much.

"Rose." But he got no further. The servants
were listening and the dinner table was not the place for the type
of conversation he needed to have with her. There would be time for
that later, when he went to her bedchamber.

The land steward, seated on Thomas's other
side, asked him a question and saved Thomas from thinking too much
about his wife in her bed. They spent the remainder of dinner
discussing the improvements made to the estate since its return to
Avondale control under the terms of Rose's dowry. She remained
silent throughout, although Thomas sensed her leaning closer to
hear.

After the meal was finished, the servants
dispersed and Rose walked off to speak to two of the maids. He
watched as she fell into conversation with them about a newborn
babe in the village. She smiled a lot and laughed when told how the
two year-old sister reacted by petting the babe and cooing "good
puppy". She was capable of enjoying herself—just not with him.

Moon approached with a sealed letter. "My
lord," he said, handing it to Thomas. "The messenger says he
doesn't require a response."

Thomas opened the letter and immediately
wanted to burn it. But he couldn't. Thomas had decided to return
home and that meant facing
all
his demons, even the ones
that had driven him from Lockhart Castle in the first place. He
glanced up at Rose. She was watching him so he went to her. "It's
from your father," he said. "He's coming for Christmas, weather
permitting."

"Then let's hope the weather is foul."

He stared at his wife. "You do not want him
here?"

"No."

"I didn't know you disliked him so
intensely."

"My father and I have never been in accord
on any matter."

"Including his wish that you wed me?"

She flushed to the tips of her delicate
ears. "My father only ever does something if it advances his own
situation at court. Having me marry you was no exception." It
wasn't even a close answer to his question.

Thomas had always known that Wallan had set
up the marriage with his father to advance his situation at court,
as Rose put it. Being connected to the earl of Avondale was a
powerful ticket. It wasn't the arrangement itself that had angered
Thomas—most gentlemen in his position married for political or
financial reasons—it was the way in which Wallan had forced the
aged earl of Avondale to agree to the union. He'd acquired much of
the Avondale lands by encouraging Thomas's father to gamble it away
then offered to give it back when their children wed.

The manipulation had eaten at Thomas then,
and it still festered now. He supposed it was because he didn’t
like being controlled any more at twenty-nine than he did at
twenty-three. There were some things a man could not forgive.

Things would be different now that Thomas
had inherited the earldom. He refused to let the greedy,
sycophantic turd enjoy the fruits of his underhanded methods any
longer. Wallan would get nothing from Thomas. It was time to
confront him, but not if Wallan's presence troubled Rose. It was a
confrontation that could wait for another time and another
location. Her father had caused Thomas to hurt her badly once, he
would not let the cur do it again.

"Would you like me to send a response that
he is not welcome?" he asked her. "I don't want his presence to
upset you."

Her eyes widened. Blinked. "You don't?"

"Of course not. You think me so callous that
I would wish him upon you after what you've just told me?"

"I...I don't know what to think." That was
the best thing she'd said to him since his return. "But he should
come," she said. "He is my father and it is Christmas."

"As you wish." Thomas folded the letter. "He
says he's arriving tomorrow. I'll inform the maids."

"I can do that." She turned to go but
stopped abruptly. The hem of her brown woolen skirt swished across
the rushes. "Thank you, Thomas. It was good of you to ask me."

He watched her go, surprised that she should
thank him for considering her feelings in the matter. It seemed she
really did think him a beast. As if he needed any more evidence of
that.

He pressed his thumb and finger along the
fold of the letter and sighed. Why did Wallan have to visit at a
time when all Thomas wanted to do was make amends with his
wife?

CHAPTER 5

Rose had not seen her father in eighteen
months despite Lockhart being less than a day's ride from the
queen's favorite London palaces and therefore court. She didn't
know if he went home to his neighboring estate, nor did she care.
There was nothing at Wallan House for her anymore. There hadn't
been since her mother died fifteen years ago.

Now he was coming to make a nuisance of
himself once more. Why couldn't he leave her alone? It was
difficult enough having Thomas newly home, stirring up memories and
desires she thought buried, but to endure her father too! Why was
she being tested?

Thomas. He was coming to her rooms. Perhaps
he was already on his way. Her heart tripped over itself and her
legs buckled. She sat on her bed and pulled the edges of her
housecoat tighter across her chest.

The soft knock at her door made her
jump.

"Enter," she whispered, then cleared her
throat and said it again in a louder voice. She rose and dropped
her hands to her sides. She would not let her husband see how much
the thought of being with him made her nerves jangle.

He entered carrying wine and candied figs.
"Cook said these are your favorites."

Didn’t he know that sweets and courteousness
were unnecessary? She might be nervous but she was willing. Very
willing. She'd dreamt of this night since she was fifteen. Not that
she would tell him.

He placed the tray on the pedestal table
near the crackling fire and poured her a cup of wine. She sipped.
It was warm and spicy and strong, just what she needed. She drank
the whole cup. He raised a brow at her and his mouth tilted in
amusement.

"Another?" he asked.

She shook her head and returned the cup to
the tray. Well. It was time. So why didn't he do something? Why did
he just stand there, looking at her?

"I've never seen you with your hair down,"
he said. "It's beautiful. That is not empty flattery but the truth.
Ask any man."

Her face heated and she touched a curl at
her temple to hide behind her arm. He gently took her hand and
lowered it.

"
You're
beautiful." He breathed
deeply and let it out slowly. "I had no idea."

He'd called
her
beautiful?
Her
? She was pale and thin next to Lady Mossdale's glossy
black hair and generous bosom. Yet he'd sounded so sincere when he
said it. Sincere and...wondrous.

She swallowed the lump in her throat. She
must not believe him. The man knew how to charm. "Shall we begin?"
she asked.

"In a moment." He leaned forward and
suddenly kissed her, a light, barely-there brush of his lips across
hers. Then he pulled back.

She couldn't breathe, couldn't think through
the fog rolling into her mind. All she knew was that kiss hadn't
been enough. It had triggered something inside her and sent a shot
ricocheting around her body. She wanted to feel his mouth on hers
again, taste him. Hold him and be held by him.

She couldn't have that. Couldn't lose her
mind at such a crucial moment. "No kissing," she said.