The Countess Confessions (15 page)

“There,” he said as her trembling subsided, and the air in the carriage turned cool again. “I’ll suffer in misery until I return to the inn. Perhaps I’ll have another dream about you tonight. In case you’re still concerned about him, the coachman can put on his muffler if he wants warmth.”

Emily was fully awake by the time the carriage settled to a stop in front of her house. “Despite your teasing, I had a wonderful time tonight,” she told Damien. “With the exception of the physician’s wife looking at you as if you were on the menu.”

“I didn’t notice her.”

“You’re only saying that to make me feel better.”

“I’d be an idiot to antagonize my bride-to-be.” He cupped her chin in his hand. An involuntary shiver ran down her shoulders. He lowered his head, his mouth touching hers for a deep kiss. “It will be different after we’re married. You’ll wish, perhaps, for another person in the room to distract my notice then.”

“Why?” she asked, guessing what he meant but wanting to hear him admit his desire.

“It’s understood that in return for my name you’ll give me the right to your body.”

Her mouth stung where his lips had touched hers. “Couldn’t we build a friendship first?”

“Of course we shall become friends. I don’t wish to be my wife’s enemy.”

She waited for him to kiss her again. She even closed her eyes in anticipation, only to feel him draw away at the approach of footsteps in the drive. “That’s your father,” he murmured. “Tonight I’ll hand you to back him. And the day after tomorrow, he will give you to me.”

She hung back as the carriage door opened. She wasn’t in the mood to talk to her father or Iris or
anyone
. She wanted to hurry upstairs to her room and sit alone in the dark before the indescribable magic of what Damien had done to her wore off. Was this exquisite intimacy what the future held? If this were only a prelude to other acts, what else would he demand of her?

She had a vague idea. She and Lucy had discussed such matters in depth. But in all of Emily’s imaginings, there had never been a man like Damien, whose knowledge made her eager to understand the unspeakable mysteries of marriage.

•   •   •

Winthrop was waiting at the inn when Damien returned home from the party. “A day later and I would have been forced to send Mr. Rowland,” he said to the valet. “There were no problems?”

“None.” Winthrop opened his greatcoat to reveal an interlining of concealed pockets that contained documents allowing him passage into high places; the middle row held an arsenal of pistols and knives.

“Good God,” Damien said. “I don’t know how the horse can carry all that extra weight.”

“Half of it is for Mr. Rowland.”

“As I recall, Michael has a considerable talent with a knife. I witnessed him throw his blade and hit a target before anyone blinked an eye.” He frowned. “What is that I see beneath that dueling pistol?”

“The marriage license.”

Damien frowned. “Placed between your personal armory? I hope that is not another prophetic sign.”

“Is your fiancée trained in weaponry, my lord?”

“I never thought to ask. I have felt no concealed weapons on her person the few times I’ve been close enough to notice.”

Winthrop glanced away. “An oversight that you will no doubt correct in due time.”

“Are you suggesting that I search my fiancée’s person?”

Winthrop lifted his pistol case to the table. “It wouldn’t hurt to take a detailed inventory.”

“The ceremony will be held the day after tomorrow, Winthrop. Lady Fletcher and the baron have invited the entire village to witness the happy event. I do not anticipate having to disarm my bride at the altar. That pleasure has to wait for the wedding night.”

Winthrop smiled as he examined his master’s pistol. “But you
will
be armed during the ceremony?”

“With the anarchists unconcerned over who they must kill for their cause, I would be irresponsible if I had no means of protecting my bride.”

T
he dressmaker had managed to finish Emily’s blue tissue wedding dress by the morning before the wedding. It was a simple gown, the only adornment a row of silver silk rosettes with seed pearls on the skirt’s hem. She had never worn anything as fragile before. It draped her curves in a way that the earl would have to notice. Whatever happened in the future, she wanted on this one day to feel desirable. She wanted everyone in the village to watch her exchange vows with the earl and wonder how their awkward Emily had become a countess, when all signs had indicated that she would lead a lonely spinster’s life.

She shopped that afternoon in the village for a small trousseau, all the while aware that the villagers who had been lukewarm toward her for years now went out of their way to acknowledge her.

“Everyone is staring at us,” Iris said, at Emily’s side.

“No,” Emily said, smiling ruefully. “They’re staring at
him
.”

The earl had insisted he would accompany Emily on her most trivial errands. If she needed a new hairbrush, he stood by to offer his opinion.

By the end of the day she wanted to shake him. “I hope you don’t intend to shadow me like this for the rest of my life.”

“Like a thundercloud, sweetheart.”

Oh. She knew she ought to scold him when he teased her. She ought to feel more anxiety as their wedding day approached. She ought to feel anything but the inexplicable anticipation that built inside her whenever she heard his gently mocking voice.

•   •   •

Lucy and her stepmother, Diana, brought their own three maids and a hairdresser to help Emily prepare for the ceremony, which would be held at Fletcher Manor. Iris gave an audible sigh of relief when the army of women arrived. The windy day would turn Emily’s hair into a bird’s nest if it was not properly secured, and Lady Fletcher had a talent with cosmetics that might prevent Emily from walking to the altar like a ghost risen from her eternal repose.

“She’s as pale as a corpse,” Lucy said over and over, pinching one of Emily’s cheeks while Diana vigorously smoothed rouge across the other.

Her pallor was nothing to worry about, Emily thought.
Wait until the wedding night, when the earl demands repayment for his protection.
She would be blushing from head to toe as she kept her part of their arrangement.

D
amien stood at her side in Lord Fletcher’s chapel, the pews packed, onlookers crowding at the doors. People he’d never met smiled at him as if he were a favorite son. Some ladies wept, but Emily wasn’t at all teary-eyed. Stoic, she repeated her vows in a steady voice that he found somewhat startling.
Who
was he marrying? Didn’t she feel some uncertainty about the commitment they were embarking on?

She showed no signs of it. Perhaps she looked a little pale, but that blue gown accentuated a body that sent his pulses soaring. The scent of lilies twined in her hair wafted to him whenever she turned her head to give a wave at someone who called out a blessing.

Dear God. What was he going to do with her after the ceremony? Well, of course he knew what he would do tonight, and presumably for the next few weeks, but what would happen once they reached London and had to settle into a life together?

He would introduce her, as his wife, to the family who might not even recognize him. Would Emily be surprised to know that she was better acquainted with him than his own brothers were? She knew almost as much about him as did his valet. He was a solitary person and it was the way he had always lived his life. Now that must change.

He could just imagine how the conversation with his Boscastle relatives would go.

“How did the pair of you meet?”

“Well, I knew her brother.”

“But
when
did you fall in love with her?”

“We exchanged many letters.”

“That’s rather dull for the start of a Boscastle seduction.”

“I didn’t seduce her,” he would insist, although he doubted anyone would believe she had told his fortune and entangled their destinies.

This was only a role. She was playing her part, as he was his. He couldn’t forget that Michael and Winthrop were both standing at the back of the chapel, armed beneath their jackets in case Ardbury or his journalist had made the connection between a gypsy girl and the serene, bright-haired bride who was calmly taking her vows.

Husband and wife.

He kissed her on the mouth. To his approval, she swayed and closed her eyes. He wanted to crush her in his arms. A group of young people, her friends, apparently, laughed. One shouted, “We never thought we’d live to see this day.”

But her father did not smile. He stood back and watched in wistful silence. Perhaps he’d also thought the day would never come when his daughter would marry. Now she would be gone for good.

Damien had sworn before God that he would take care of her for the rest of his life. And yet he was taking her away from her family. From the village she had always known. From the cricket player whose love she had sought.

At the reception he drank champagne and played the attentive groom next to the bride, who laughed less and less as the day wore on. “This might be the last chance we have to celebrate together for some time,” he said, pressing his face against her scented hair.

The blossoms had fallen off one by one. While he and Emily broke into two lines in the ballroom, the last lily slid down her back and into his hand. He tucked it into his vest pocket. Perhaps one day she would press it in a Bible as a keepsake.

The band launched into a country dance. Damien suppressed a groan. He had too much on his mind to prance about like a puppet. Protecting Emily from curious eyes. Escaping from Hatherwood. Their first night together as man and wife. He did not give a damn about dancing. He’d behaved himself long enough. Once they reached the castle there might not be many opportunities to sleep with Emily, uninterrupted by duty. Even their wedding reception would be cut short if they were to reach the next village by evening. He didn’t want an exhausted bride in his wedding bed.

The ladies had assembled in one line. The gentlemen stood parallel in another. It reminded Damien of a firing squad, only now the weapons employed were come-hither smiles and graceful movements. Was Emily’s smile for him or someone in the crowd?

She swung around before he could decide. His gaze dropped from her face. Had her sleeve slipped off her shoulder? There was no need for him to panic; there was no identifying mark marring her shoulder any longer. That didn’t mean he wanted the world to admire her creamy skin. He grasped her hand so tightly that she gave a gasp.

“Mind the shoulder,” he said under his breath.

And the lady on his left, who had taken hold of
his
hand said, “The soldier? Is that a variation of the dance?”

Emily crossed before him, whispering, “It’s covered in lace.”

He stared at her as she moved down the line. How was it that she seemed more beautiful by the moment?

“Excuse me, my lord,” a vaguely familiar voice said a few inches below his shoulder. “May I claim the next dance with the countess?”

The countess?
Damien felt a shock of realization. He had a countess now, a counterpart to share in all the intrigue and hopes he had kept hidden from the world. It struck him in that moment that he didn’t feel like sharing her with anyone yet, even though he wasn’t sure what he would do with a wife.

He saw Emily bite her lip to conceal a smile. He glanced around reluctantly to see Camden bowing at his back. Emily looked up at Damien, her eyes asking his permission. He felt a flare of . . . he didn’t know what it was. Something dark, unpleasant. Uncivilized.

He wanted to refuse. They couldn’t spare the time. They had to return to her house with her father. Damien had last-minute instructions for Michael. The excuses mounted in his mind, each one emptier than the last. He pressed his lips together. Let the little bugger skulk off. After all, it was Emily’s infatuation with the nodcock that had thrown Damien’s life off course.

“My lord?” Camden said uneasily as the band began another set.

Damien allowed his thoughts to wander. It was rather insulting to realize that he was this boy’s replacement, not that Emily had chosen Damien any more than he had chosen her. If he refused, Emily might conclude he was jealous when, of course, such an emotion was beneath Damien’s dignity. But did he want to set a precedent? He and his wife might never see this bat player again.

“One dance,” he said, and felt ridiculous, like King Arthur to Lancelot and Guinevere.

•   •   •

Emily’s heart wasn’t in dancing with Camden. She’d lost her place in line on purpose and contemplated dancing off the floor when Camden looked the other way. She was more concerned with Damien’s apparent lack of interest in who partnered her than she was in a consolation dance with Camden. After Camden had approached the newly wedded couple, Damien had retreated from her without another word of complaint.

Did that mean he was relieved to be gone from her? She’d known his mind was a hundred miles away from the wedding. From her.

But she craved his attention for the afternoon. She wanted him to laugh and toast their marriage and make her feel the illusion of love for a few hours.

But, then, he had desperate matters on his mind. And soon she and Damien would leave here, and she would rely on him for everything.

“Emily, did you hear what I said?” Camden asked, startling her when he took her hand.

She saw Camden now as if he were the stranger that Damien had once been. How odd that she had envisioned this very moment down to the last detail—dancing with him at her wedding reception—except that all the details had changed. He wasn’t her groom. She wasn’t a bride bubbling over with uncontainable happiness. And there had not been a dark nobleman standing beneath the wall tapestry waiting for her, with his arms crossed over his chest.

The courtship was over. Their marriage was about to begin. She would be in her husband’s bed before the moon rose over the village.