Authors: Barbara Pierce

Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #Historical Romance

Courting the Countess (9 page)

BOOK: Courting the Countess

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She frowned, trying to understand what he was telling her. “That does not seem like love, Mr. Claeg.”

“Mallory,” he corrected. “I never share my secrets with strangers.”

She accepted his justification with a nod. “Fair enough.”

He shook his head in disappointment. “That is what I have been trying to explain, Countess. Rarely have I indulged in fair play. My time with Mirabella was spent painting by day and the nights in profligacy.”

Mallory refrained from confessing the nasty particulars of those evenings. They had lived like nomads, moving from house to house, party to party, always the same circle of
people challenging one another, escalating their devilment. Some of his singular recollections were tainted with a smoky haze. In hindsight, it seemed he and Mirabella had taken turns nudging each other toward the precipice of their own destruction.

“Are you unwell?” Lady A’Court inquired, staring down at him from her higher perch.

He was sweating despite the cool breeze. Mallory removed his hat and used his sleeve to mop his forehead. “Just thinking about how different my life might have been if I had chosen another path. Regret,” he said, the word rising like bile in his throat. “It is the cruelest emotion.” He faced her and wryly smiled. “Perhaps you have the right of it, turning away from your old life. Incising the past like a surgeon does the flesh when he removes a tumor.”

She leaned over and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. “You accused me of hiding or running away. You are too strong to take a coward’s path.”

“I am unworthy of your praise, Countess.” His eyes squinted against the blinding sunlight that surrounded her head like a radiant halo. “I had done my share of running. Do you know who really murdered my wife?”

“You do not have to tell me.”

Lady A’Court pitied him. He hated pity almost as much as he did regret. These were not the feelings Mallory wanted to awaken in this woman. He could have accepted her offer and ended his tale. However, the countess was right: he was too strong to take the coward’s path.

“Yes, I do. I murdered Mirabella.”

Mallory Claeg had a distinct flair for melodrama. His chilling confession had effectively doused her rising sympathy. Brook did not believe he had murdered his wife, but he had unquestionably slain their tête-à-tête.

“No words of comfort, Countess,” he softly taunted.

She slid off the stone she had been sitting on. He automatically caught her by the waist and set her on the ground.

“How am I supposed to reply to such an outlandish boast?” she demanded. “‘Oh, good for you, Mallory! She likely deserved it! Share all the grisly details, if you please’?”

As he heard the false sweetness and light of her delivery, Mallory’s brow quirked in disbelief. “Well, I was not expecting the sarcasm. Who knew you could be a bloodthirsty little fiend?” He held on to the bottom edge of her spencer, keeping her close.

She had managed to surprise him by not reacting in the manner he had anticipated. The flash of humor had diminished the grim bleakness that had been brewing in his demeanor.

“You did not shoot your wife, Mr. Claeg.”

“Mallory,” he absently reminded her. A few seconds later, his body visibly jerked and his pale blue eyes glowed with a burning attentiveness as the meaning of her statement became clear. “You seem awfully certain for someone who was not present that night.”

“You loved Mirabella. It was not feigned like my—” Honey had caught her attention when her pursuit of a sure-footed seabird ended with the bird taking to the air and her sister almost falling on her face. The antics had Brook smiling mistily. Glancing at Mallory, she shrugged apologetically. “Anyway, I sense you blame yourself for not preventing her death. That part of the gossip about her participating in a duel was correct, was it not?”

As if his legs could not bear his weight, he slid down onto the sand and dragged her down with him. She braced herself with his shoulders to keep from toppling over and then settled beside him. The sand was cool and dry to the touch. Her housekeeper, Mrs. Gordy, was not going to be pleased when they returned bringing half the beach with them into
her
house.

Mallory was not worrying about the sand or watching Brook’s sisters play in the surf. Pensive, he stared unseeing into the past she had dredged up with her questions. “Our nomadic existence had led us north to Mr. Justus Henning’s country house.”

“Who is he?”

“Someone whose name you should forget. He and his wife fit nicely into our odd circle of friends. It was our mutual passion for art that garnered an invitation to one of their exclusive summer gatherings. The circle had an inner circle and Mirabella and I were naively flattered that we were included in the upper echelon.” He took up her hand and idly traced a pattern on her palm.

He was unaware of what his touch was doing to her. Considering the trouble she had gotten into the last time, she was grateful he was distracted by his story. “Was the invitation less than you expected?”

“Quite the opposite. It was much more than promised. There was a reason why Henning kept his gatherings remote and exclusive. It was a feast of appetites, Countess. There were no limits; a man could let his creativity soar into ecstasy or mire in the filth of brutal self-indulgence.”

Brook felt he was choosing his words carefully, as if he was worried of divulging too much detail about the life he had shared with Mirabella. It also seemed he needed her to understand this piece of his past. “I thought we had established that you are the kind of man who thrives without limits.”

“Yes, an unfettered existence held a great amount of appeal,” he said, his expression subdued. “At first, my days were spent exploring and appreciating his extensive collection of art. Those hours fired my imagination. I took notes, sketched, and planned.”

“And your nights?”

He hesitated. “Lavish suppers. Music. Beautiful women and men fulfilling our every whim. There was enough
food and drink available to feed half of London’s poor. Amusements both public and private tailored to his guests’ peculiarities.”

She crinkled her nose. “Peculiarities?”

Mallory dismissed the word with a gesture. “Indulgences … obsessions, if you prefer. Our host, for example, not only had an enviable art collection; he also could sit discussing color and technique for hours. He also developed a habit of taking young boys into his bed.”

“Good heavens!” she exclaimed.

“Heaven had nothing to do with the Hennings. Mrs. Henning preferred men to boys. Any gentleman would do. Another
friend
thought it was entertaining to have a young maid flogged in front of us. There was another fellow who relished the lash on his own flesh.”

She was aghast. “You considered these people your friends?”

“These were their dark secrets, Countess. They went about their daily business like you or me. You could have sat beside one of them at a late supper or consented to be their dance partner at a ball.”

“I
know
some of these people?”

Mallory did not reply to her question. “You are missing the point,” he said, grimly amused by her horror. “Those intimate gatherings were an outlet for the darker pleasures. It was merely fantasy for some of the meeker players, exquisite pain for a few, and overindulgence in many guises.”

The notion of such a gathering sickened her. She touched her stomach, trying not to think how Mallory had entertained himself those nights. Brook frowned. “You cannot convince me that you and your wife … that you were like the others.”

He studied her; his enigmatic expression gave her no hint of what he was thinking. “No, Countess, we were not like them. Nevertheless, we had a child’s curiosity for things beyond our experience. No one was bullying us to do anything
other than observe their wicked play. Henning had hoped access to his art collection would smooth over my discomfort and, regrettably, it had. Mirabella and I remained.”

Mallory dug into his inner coat pocket and removed a small flask. Removing the top, he drank. She wondered if it was dryness or fortification. He offered her the flask, but she refused.

“I blame no one but myself. The Hennings had provided the arena; we seduced ourselves into playing their games. Of course, the soporifics helped us along.” He took another healthy sip.

“Your host drugged you?”

“I cannot prove it,” he said quickly. “Maybe something was slipped into the wine. It is still a little hazy, but I seem to recall a pungent incense fouling the air. Perhaps a hypnotic was common practice to relax everyone. All I know is that I lost interest in Henning’s art collection and the long night never ended.”

“What happened to you?”

“Who knows? Even I cannot be certain what parts I dreamed and what was real.”

He was lying. Brook did not have the heart to press him. He was right. Everyone had secrets. “And Mirabella?”

Thrusting his hand through his hair, he did a thorough job snarling it. “We were … separated. I cannot tell you for how long, since time had no meaning. When I did remember to look for her, the duel had commenced. The pistols discharged before I could fight off the hands that held me back. There was nothing anyone could do. The ball had hit her in the chest.” He stared down at his empty hands. “She died in my arms.”

The tears Brook could never cry for herself streamed down her face for a woman she had never known. “Please tell me that someone was punished for her death?” No one deserved to die for a game!

“For an unfortunate accident?” He made a tsking noise. “No one was sober and everyone had gone without sleep for days. Witnesses said it was Mirabella’s idea to stage the duel. She chose her opponent. I was assured the pistols had been loaded with only gunpowder. There would have been an impressive discharge of fire and smoke, and very little risk. Who is the villain, Countess?”

She felt a smidgen of his frustration. “But … what about Henning and his penchant for exclusive parties? The hypnotics?”

“No proof. And even if I could prove that I was drugged, Henning could always claim that I had ingested it freely,” he explained, obviously having considered all the angles of his situation. “Oh, there is something else I should tell you.”

“What?”

“That night.” He cleared his throat. “The reason … why I was not there with my wife when she proposed the duel …”

“You can tell me.”

“I was in bed, Countess.” He threw back his head and laughed. The wild, hysterical sound tickled down her spine. “While my wife was setting the stage for her own death, I was diligently slamming my hard member into Henning’s wife as he and his young lover watched.”

Chapter Nine

What was she to do? The man was making her crazed, she mused hours later. The horrible tale he had told her was remarkable. It would have been simpler to brush it aside as a manipulative ploy to gain her sympathy. She certainly would have slept better at night. However, his anguish had been genuine. Whatever her opinion of the man, he had recounted the tragic events that had led to Mirabella’s death as he recalled them.

He had seduced Mr. Henning’s wife.

Brook had tried to be open-minded. Why had she acted like he had betrayed her? Her reaction had bordered on ludicrous. Her only excuse was that she had been ill prepared for that aspect of his story. The immediate revulsion she had felt was plainly evident on her face.

Mallory had solemnly waited for her to pass judgment. He had anticipated her response, which explained his previous hesitation to reveal the entire sordid tale. She had been speechless. Accurately interpreting her silence as condemnation, he had politely thanked her for listening to his ramblings and had abruptly departed for his cottage. May and Brook’s sisters had called out for him to wait, but he had ignored their jovial pleas to return. He left it up to Brook how she explained away his rudeness.

It shamed her that he thought she had judged him so
harshly. When had she turned into a smug paradigm of perfection? Lyon was constantly telling her—no, she was not going to think about what he thought. He was dead. She had control of her life again.

Or did she?

Nothing made sense to her anymore. Ham wanted her as his countess. Mallory longed for a less permanent arrangement with her. Her mother-in-law expected her to dedicate her remaining life to mourning Lyon. All her mother wanted was for her eldest daughter to return to London. Somewhere along the way she had stopped listening to her own needs and filled the emptiness with everyone’s desires.

Although it had not been his intention, Mallory had opened her eyes about the stagnancy that had become her existence. The man had known loss, and yet it had not prevented him from continuing on. Brook might disapprove of how he had gone about it, but she admired him for trying. She should have told him that, instead of condemning him like everyone else had when he had run off with an inappropriate woman.

The need to correct her mistake agitated her empty stomach. She lifted the drapes and grimaced at the fading light. If she hurried, she might reach the dwelling before the last of the sunset slid into the sea.

Mallory dragged a chair in front of the picture he had finished, sat down, and studied the work he had completed an hour earlier. As he worked by candlelight, the absence of his model had not deterred him. The image of her lying in the bluebells had been scored into his brain. He reached for the bottle of port and refilled his glass.

Holding up the glass to the picture, he said, “To you, Lady A’Court. The most exasperating, humorless, puritanical hypocrite I have ever had the pleasure of meeting.” He emptied the glass, wondering why he had told her about the Hennings
and Mirabella. Others had asked and he had given them just enough details to satisfy their ghoulish curiosity. When the widow had kindly asked, he had held nothing back. He still could not believe he had told her about his ignoble activities with Mrs. Henning. God, what a fool! Mallory reached for the bottle again and poured. He closed his eyes as if the act could erase Lady A’Court’s revulsion from his mind. What demon had prodded him into revealing that old ugliness? If he had wanted to drive the countess away, he had succeeded remarkably. Even if she allowed him into her house again, his sordid history would stand between them.

I murdered Mirabella.

Lady A’Court had not believed him capable of killing his wife. Even now the knowledge warmed the inner depths of him that had grown cold years ago. How had he repaid her generosity? He had ruthlessly smashed the illusion that he was worthy of her precious gift. Mallory stared into the shy blue cat eyes that gleamed at him from the portrait. After what he had told her, she must despise him.

Used to having servants around him, Mallory did not immediately react to the faint knock at the door. Mrs. Whitby was gone and likely in her own bed. He could have hired someone to attend him in the evenings, but it seemed too much trouble for a man who neither expected nor craved company. When he finally managed to stumble to his feet, the knocking had ceased. Curiosity prompted him to open the door.

The wind had picked up. He fought to maintain his grip as the blustery currents buffeted his face and the wooden door. The sketching book he had left on a chair fluttered its pages. Peering into the darkness, he did not trust the apparition he saw.

“Good, you are awake,” Lady A’Court said, clearly relieved to see him. “When no one came to the door, I feared
you had retired for the evening.” She cocked her head and looked behind him into the cottage. “You can smell the rain in the air. Do you mind if I step inside before it blows onto land?”

Leaning on the door for support, he widened the gap, allowing her enough space to slip through. She threw back the hood on her cloak and moved to the center of the room. Under the cloak she clutched a small leather satchel. She looked at him expectantly.

“Forgive me, Lady A’Court. My manners are rusty. Usually the women who see me alone in the evenings are not particularly fussy about pleasantries.”

“Please, do not belittle yourself,” she entreated, making him feel ashamed. “I am the one deserving of your derision. I would have waited for the morning, but I worried that you might leave before I had the opportunity to apologize.” She held up her satchel. “I brought a peace offering.”

Mallory closed the door. He did not want her apology any more than he wanted her pity. Brooding, he crossed his arms and leaned against the door. “Leave? I assumed the drifting clouds of dust from my carriage wheels leading away from Loughwydde would give you cause to rejoice.”

Her soft lips quivered. “Not when it was my heartlessness that drove you away.”

Her eyes were sad and luminous in the candlelight. Lady A’Court was melting his resentment by just looking at him. She had left her braided hair down, but the wind and hood had done their damage. Wisps of blond hair swayed free. His fingers itched for his black lead pencil. “Impossible. If anything, Countess, you have too much heart.” The wind surged, rattling the door at his back. “It is rather late for you to be wandering about the countryside alone. Did you walk?” The area seemed safe enough during the day, but there were unseen dangers, especially at night.

“No, I rode one of the horses.” She held out an appeasing hand at his curse. “I am a capable rider, I assure you. I
thought about hitching the horse to the cart. It just seemed too much trouble.”

He fought back the urge to scold her. Throttling her had merit, too, for the risk she took in visiting him. In this gusty wind, a fallen branch could have spooked the horse and caused it to throw her. Sitting in a tiny cart would not have spared her if it had overturned.

“I could have walked,” she admitted, growing steadily wary of his strained silence. “But the sky was darkening and the wind showed signs of worsening.”

Yelling at her served no purpose except to vent his spleen. “Sit,” he ordered. “I will see to your horse. Let us hope that if it has run off it has more sense than its mistress and returned home.”

“Hey, I resent that, Mr.—Mallory,” she meekly amended when he took a threatening step toward her.

Ah, now she chose to be prudent. “Stay out of trouble. I will return as soon as I am able.” He did not give her a chance to argue.

Stomping off, he opened the door and braced his body against the wind. The first icy droplets of rain hit his face. The storm she had worried about had arrived. It appeared his fondest wish had been granted. He and the countess would be sharing a bed.

Brook pushed aside Mallory’s discarded coat and sat down on the overstuffed sofa. Remembering the satchel, she unfastened her cloak and pulled the leather strap over her head and placed the bag on the table. She jumped up and then sat back down. Should she remove her cloak or was that presumptuous? He was seeing to her horse. Maybe he wanted to check the saddle before he plopped her backside on it and sent her on her way. No, he was angry with her. He was not being cruel. Sometimes she forgot that not all men welded those two emotions together.

The door burst open and rebounded against the wall. She jumped up and rushed to it. A startled scream came out as a squeak when Mallory filled the dark entrance.

“Are you crazy? Get back inside, woman!” he roared over the storm.

There was no point in replying. Together they pushed the door closed again. He put his hand on the frame to brace himself. He was drenched from the rain, and his lungs were puffing like bellows from his outdoor exertions.

“I was not leaving. The door popped open and I got up to close it.”

He fingered the edge of her cloak near her throat. “You are still wearing your cloak.”

Her grin was sheepish. “You said that you would see to my horse. There was no mention about what you had planned for me.”

He let his head drop onto his damp sleeve and groaned at her logic. “Only you, Countess.”

She softened at the gentle teasing. Brook realized he was dripping on the floor. Suddenly all business, she crisply said, “Where is my head? You need dry clothes and something warm to drink before a chill settles in your lungs.” She moved to get him a towel to dry off his face and then realized this was not her house. “You can see to yourself. I will put the kettle on and tend the fire.”

Mallory returned minutes later. She glanced back at him before adding more coal to the hearth. “You must have raced up and down those stairs to be dressed in the short amount of time you have been gone.”

He bent down and removed her cloak from her shoulders. She had forgotten that she still had it on. “I did not want to give you too much time alone. I was afraid you might talk yourself out of staying.” He tossed the outer garment on a chair.

He hunkered down in front of the hearth and nudged her
away. Mallory had untied his dark brown hair from its queue. The wet, dark length had twisted down like hundreds of tiny snakes and dangled in front of his face. If it bothered him, he showed no sign of discomfort. Brook moved out of his way while he made adjustments to her efforts. In front of the fire, he seemed wholly a primitive male, with his broad shoulders defined without the covering of a coat and his feet bare.

“I would be as crazy as you accused me of being to go out in that foul weather. I am safer here,” she said, her tone huskier than usual.

“Are you?” was his soft reply.

“The kettle!” She grimaced, chastising herself for being so thickheaded. “I forgot—”

“Leave it.” He stood and dusted off his hands. “I prefer my tea cold.” He stalked across the room, his sharp gaze searching for something.

Understanding lit her gaze as she observed him retrieving his abandoned glass of port.

“I have another glass, if you would care to join me.”

“No, thank you,” she said, cringing at how prim her refusal had sounded. “It makes me sleepy.”

Mallory lifted his brow at her confession. “Well now, we wouldn’t want that.” He winked at her and moved closer to the hearth.

They were friends again, she thought, not grasping why she wanted to weep. Recalling what had impelled her to seek him out, she leaned earnestly forward. “Mallory, I never thanked you for trusting me with your accounting of your ordeal with the Hennings and your wife’s death. I swear that I regard what you told me as private. You do not have to concern yourself with gossip.”

He shrugged negligently. “If I was worried about gossip I would have never told you.”

Mallory loomed over her, his expression forbidding. Perhaps mentioning their discussion had not been sensible. She
tried smoothing over the awkwardness with another explanation. “You told me this extraordinary, horrifying tale. Did you think that I would not have any reaction to it?”

He scowled at her. “No, Countess, your response was entirely predictable.”

She was positive he was being deliberately offensive. “I still do not agree with your ridiculous statement that you murdered your own wife.”

He contemplatively sipped his wine. “No. But even you wonder why I was fornicating with my host’s wife when I should have been protecting my own.”

She was having trouble getting past that part of his tale. “Why did you tell me? You could have omitted it. I would have never known.”

“My sin was so grievous. Maybe I needed a confessor,” he helpfully suggested.

“I doubt it.” She rubbed one of her fingernails with the pad of her thumb as she reviewed the facts in her mind. “I got it wrong. You let me think you seduced Mrs. Henning. It was just the opposite. With the assistance of her husband, she seduced you.”

Mallory turned away, leaving her guess unconfirmed.

Curling her legs under her, she was confident she had hit upon the truth. “You were drugged. It was not your fault.”

BOOK: Courting the Countess

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