The Substitute Countess (9 page)

The man looked aghast at the very thought. “Oh, no, sir, I would never presume.” He spoke in a near whisper. “It’s not done, you know.”

“Nonsense,” Jack replied. “It’s not as though you’re some vagrant off the street. I owe you a great deal and so does Laurel. You’ll stay. Unless you have other plans, of course.”

Hobson bit his bottom lip, quite obviously wanting to accept.

Only then did Jack think that the solicitor might inadvertently mention Laurel’s fortune and how it had been conveniently transferred to her new husband. “I would ask you to refrain from any discussion of finances in Laurel’s presence.”

Hobson nodded emphatically. “You needn’t ask. But you will reassure her that she need never worry about those matters, now or in future?”

“I have done so already,” Jack assured him.

Laurel entered the room and Jack immediately forgot all about money, the solicitor and supper. She wore a lovely, delicate green frock that skimmed her slender figure and flared out over her dainty emerald satin slippers. Dark green ribbons adorned her swept-up curls and cinched the gown just beneath her half-exposed breasts.

The urge to exclaim how beautiful she looked almost overwhelmed him, but he recalled his misstep of the evening before. She had not liked her looks complimented. So what could he say? As it happened, he had no need to speak.

“Mr. Hobson?” she cried and rushed across the room, both hands extended.

Hobson took them and raised them to his lips, kissing first one, then the other. “Lady Laurel,” he whispered. “My heavens, how you’ve grown!”

“Well, it has been
years!
” she said, laughing more freely than Jack had ever seen her do. “It is so wonderful to see you again! You haven’t changed at all.”

“You two have met?” Jack asked, though it was quite obvious they had.

Laurel answered, still holding on to the solicitor’s hands. “Oh, yes! Mr. Hobson was kind enough to visit the convent when I was ten and again when I was sixteen.”

She turned her attention to their guest again. “Remember that little poppet you brought me the first time? I still have it, one of my most treasured things. And the rosary you gave me, I use every day.”

The man beamed. “I’m very glad you decided to come back to England.” He glanced at Jack, then back at her. “And now you are a married lady. May I wish you every happiness?”

“Of course you may. And you will stay awhile and visit with me, won’t you, sir?”

“I’ve already asked him to sup with us,” Jack said, glad he had done something that she would approve. She gave him an open smile of gratitude.

He could hardly take his eyes off her. Hobson’s visit had added an animation that Laurel seldom exhibited and it lent her even more beauty.

Supper proved a simple affair with only three courses, but was elegantly served and enjoyed. Laurel carried the conversation, eagerly relating happenings at the convent and making light of what she termed her dismal failure as a governess.

“That’s because you were meant to be a countess,” Hobson declared, finishing his wine with a flourish. “And this fine gentleman has seen to it that you are. Thank you for that, milord.”

Jack nodded, worrying that the solicitor’s imbibing might be bringing him perilously close to revealing that the marriage had been his goal at the outset.

Jack rose and went to the back of Laurel’s chair to pull it out for her. “If you will excuse us, my dear, I believe we gents will enjoy port and a cigar.” Ladies retired from the dining room while gentlemen remained. He had been told this was de rigueur in a proper household and hoped Laurel had learned of it, too.

She looked puzzled, but took the hint and got up. “Then I shall say good evening, Mr. Hobson. Please do come again and often.”

Hobson reached for the hand she extended and placed another fervent kiss upon the back of it. “I will see you again very soon. Thank you for a wonderful evening, and may I say again how delighted I am to see you in such fine fettle.”

When Laurel had left the room, Hobson did not take his seat again for the promised port and cigar. “I should go now,” he said. “You were most generous to invite me and allow me time with Lady Laurel.”

“Why didn’t you tell me you knew her before? I had no idea you had ever been to Spain to see her.”

Hobson sighed as they walked to the door. “Because I feared you would insist that I go and get her instead, and I believed the task should fall to you for obvious reasons.”

“And it has all worked out exactly as you planned,” Jack said, nodding.

“So it has. Good night, milord,” Hobson said with a smile. “And congratulations. You are a
very
fortunate man.”

Jack thought so, too. Or at least he would be if he could bring about the happy reaction that Hobson had done with Laurel. He could almost be jealous of the solicitor if the man weren’t old enough to be her father and didn’t act as if he were.

As soon as Hobson departed, Jack knew he needed to get himself above stairs and offer that belated apology he had not been able to deliver last evening.

She would still be
indisposed,
he guessed, so there would be no consummation for a few more days, but he could begin to get in her good graces now in preparation for that.

Chapter Nine

L
aurel tensed when she heard footsteps in the dressing room. She clutched the hairbrush in both hands, wondering whether he would enter her room and if this was to be the night. The knock on her door was muted as if he wouldn’t wish to wake her. He had not before.

“Come in,” she said, quickly applying the brush to the locks spread over one shoulder. She wore her new blue silk nightdress and wrapper. The smooth fabric lay soft against her skin and without the corset and underpinnings of the day, she felt quite exposed.

She wished she were sitting on the bed to greet him instead of on the stool at her dressing table. How awkward it would be to move to the bed if he had come for the reason she imagined?

“Laurel?” he said, offering a tentative smile. “Am I welcome?”

“Of course,” she replied, unable to return the smile. Her face grew hotter as his gaze caressed her. Did he really know how handsome he was, how appealing? He wore a brown silk banyan over his breeches and open-necked shirt.

He stopped several feet away and looked down at the vacant slipper chair. “May I?”

She nodded. The brush seemed glued to her hair at half stroke.

“I came to apologize for last evening,” he said with a wry twist of his lips. “It seems I have a few things to learn when it comes to dealing with women.”

Laurel’s laugh surprised her, too. “I doubt that very seriously. And I admit I overreacted to your flattery. There’s no need to apologize.”

“Not flattery, merely honest observation. And I should not have said what I did about your shyness with people. In fact, I admire the way you’re adapting to such a new way of life. It’s a wonder you haven’t—” He stopped, as though her first comment had only just registered. “Why do you doubt it?”

She began brushing vigorously. “I think you must have dealt with a great many women in the past.”

His shrug looked weary. “Some, yes, but none like you.”

“Like me?” she demanded, the banished anger nudging her again. “Am I so odd then?”

He stood and paced, stopping at her window to stare out into the night. “Not odd in a bad way. Only incredibly different from those I have known. There’s Mother, of course. She has always been an effusive sort, as you saw for yourself. A businesswoman who had to take charge of her own life as well as mine when I was little. My father was ever away at sea, and after a while, so was I.”

“There were certainly other women in your life besides your mother,” she declared.

“The others,” he said on a sigh. “Well, as you might guess, we had precious little conversation.” He turned and looked directly into her eyes. “Laurel, if we are to have a decent future together, I think we must be friends, not only lovers.”

That shocked her into silence. She laid down the brush and waited for him to go on.

He sat down again, leaning forward in the low chair with his elbows resting on his knees. “Look, I want you to feel comfortable with me, not on edge, not searching for hidden meanings in everything I say. I want to be comfortable with you. Do you think that possible?”

“I suppose so,” she answered, a lie if she had ever told one. How could she ever be comfortable with him when his very presence made her tremble like leaves in the wind? When the sight of that mouth of his brought the memory of their kiss onboard the ship, of his hands on her waist, his arm around her shoulders? When she wanted more, to be a lover, not just a friend, and he seemed so ignorant of that?

He stood. “Well, that was what I came to say.”

“That’s all?” she asked, breathless with disappointment.

“That, and to tell you we will be leaving for Elderidge House tomorrow at noon. There will be plenty of time for your maid to pack your new things for you in the morning.”

“But I thought you came to...”

“No, no,” he said with a sympathetic smile as he reached for the door handle to the dressing room. “I
do
know enough of women to delay when I must. Sleep well, Laurel.”

She sat there staring at the door, wondering what in the world he had meant by that.
Delay when he must?
Why? She had not asked a delay, had not indicated in any way she wanted one.

Sleep well, indeed! She threw the hairbrush at the door and watched it bounce.

The next morning Laurel could barely function. She held Jack responsible for the headache she endured. Betty had packed the new gowns and accoutrements that had been delivered. Chocolate and toast had been dutifully consumed and the maid was now applying the curling tongs to Laurel’s hair.

“A bit of rouge to the cheeks, ma’am?” Betty asked. The dark blue traveling costume and bonnet did little to compliment a pallid complexion. Laurel nodded.

When she went downstairs, Jack was in the foyer with Mr. Hobson. “Good morning!” she said, addressing both as she interrupted their conversation.

“Good morning, Laurel. Mr. Hobson is accompanying us,” Jack told her. “This time we shall have a proper introduction when we arrive.”

“I took the liberty of sending a messenger to inform the staff of our arrival.”

“How kind of you, Mr. Hobson,” Laurel said with a nod. She hid her disappointment that she and Jack would not be alone in the coach. Then she remembered that Betty and George would also be going, so they would not have had privacy anyway.

George rode atop with the coachman Mr. Hobson had hired, so they were four inside. Betty looked smart and very proud in a black traveling outfit Miranda’s maid had given her. She offered Mr. Hobson a sidelong smile that was nearly a flirt when he joined her, opposite Jack and Laurel.

“Mr. Hobson, this is my maid, Betty,” Laurel said, making the introduction. “Betty, Mr. Hobson is our solicitor.”

“
Thornwhistle,
now I’m a proper lady’s maid,” Betty said with a succinct nod. “Nice to meet you, sir.”

“Delighted, Miss Thornwhistle,” Mr. Hobson replied with a grin. “Unusual name. Have you a mum at the baker’s on Pierson Lane by any chance?”

Betty’s eyes widened. “My auntie! I do declare, you know ’er, then?”

“Best pies in the neighborhood for the past fifteen years,” he said. “I’d likely have starved without them.”

Laurel listened with interest for a while until they exhausted their mutual acquaintances and lapsed into a comfortable silence.

Jack had said nothing but shifted restlessly as if he wished to be anywhere but where he was. Laurel realized he must have much on his mind, not the least of which would be ordering a large estate and who knew how many employees.

“How far must we travel?” she asked, having no inkling where Elderidge House might be located.

“Only six hours or so, including stops,” Mr. Hobson answered. “And the weather is perfectly fine for it.”

It rained ceaselessly for the last two hours of the trip and was still pouring when they arrived at Elderidge House.

Laurel tried not to gape. The place was gigantic, larger than many of the buildings she had seen in London. The stone facade looked forbidding as it loomed out of the near darkness of late afternoon.

Two footmen in blue livery rushed out to open the doors and stretch oiled canvases over the new arrivals. Jack lifted her down. All four hurried inside the enormous oak doors someone had thrown wide.

When she looked up from her soaked hem and travel boots, she almost gasped. Two long rows of servants lined either side of the marble-floored atrium. There were more footmen, identical in their blue coats. Maids wore blue frocks, snowy aprons and mobcaps.

An elderly fellow and a portly woman, both in black stepped forward, bowed and curtsied.

Mr. Hobson cleared his throat. “Mr. Trimble, the butler, Your Grace,” he said to Jack. “And Mrs. Mundy, housekeeper.”

“Welcome to Elderidge House, milord, milady,” Trimble intoned in a sonorous voice. He gestured for them to proceed down the receiving line and took over introducing each staff member by name.

Laurel tried to absorb it all as each bobbed in turn, but knew she would not remember. Still, she held a smile, met every eye and kept her chin up. Jack would not fault her for timidity this time, not if she could help it.

“Milord, supper will be served in half an hour if that is acceptable,” Trimble announced.

“Quite, thank you, Trimble,” Jack replied, taking Laurel’s arm. “Mrs. Mundy, if you would be so kind as to show us to our chambers?”

The woman dipped and turned to lead the way up the winding marble staircase.

Laurel determined she would not act impressed no matter how grand were their rooms. She figured they could hardly surpass the opulence of those at the town house anyway.

She discovered she was wrong. The countess’s chamber was nearly twice the size and dressed completely in white with accents of periwinkle. Even the furniture had been painted white. The dark polished wood of the floor contrasted beautifully with the patterned rug of blue and white. The windows were nearly floor to ceiling with gorgeous toile hangings.

She raked off her bonnet and looked up at Jack to see his reaction. He wore a frown.

“This will do nicely,” she said in a blatantly bored tone. His lips quirked as if he were suppressing a sudden smile.

As in the town house, a dressing room similar to the one in London separated the two bedchambers. The housekeeper led the way, opening the doors for them as she swished through. “Milord,” she said as she moved aside for him to enter his own room.

Laurel followed. His room was a great deal larger, but decorated in greens and browns, much like the other in the city. She supposed those to be the former earl’s favored colors.

Fires had been lit in both rooms but the warmth had not yet extended to the perimeter. It brought memories of the big chapel at the convent that was too large to warm with two fireholes blazing. She shivered just thinking of it.

“Ooh, milady, you must be freezing! Come, let us change,” Betty whispered. Laurel jumped. She hadn’t realized that Betty had followed. But of course she had. That was her job. Behind her stood George, waiting for them to move so that he could attend Jack.

Lord, would she and Jack ever be left alone again?

She turned and went back into her own room, where a footman was depositing her two brand-new trunks full of the dresses and things she had purchased. Laurel also noticed the old tapestry bag she had brought all this way from the convent.

Betty closed the dressing room door and shooed the footman out the other. Then she turned, fingertips to her lips as she giggled. “Have you ever?”

Laurel shook her head, unable to pretend ennui a moment longer. “No, never,” she whispered as she looked in wonder around the room that was to be hers.

“You must change now, mum,” Betty said, dropping to her knees beside one of Laurel’s trunks. “Let me shake out a gown for you. The pale pink one, you think?”

“The sapphire,” Laurel answered, thinking of the livery worn by the help. Perhaps they would appreciate a lady who had taken note of the colors of Elderidge. One must begin somewhere.

A half hour later, she entered the cavernous dining room on Jack’s arm. He escorted her to one end of the thirty-foot table and seated her, then proceeded to the other. Obviously someone had given him instructions on where to sit. Neville, probably.

Laurel sighed. Mr. Hobson was not present, but then he was probably having a much more casual meal elsewhere, lucky man.

Except for their servers, she and Jack would dine alone and probably in silence unless one of them decided to shout at the other down the length of the table. She could not even see him unless she leaned to look around the massive floral centerpiece.

The London house began to seem cozy by comparison, Laurel thought as she ate methodically. She was cold in her bare-shouldered, nearly bare-breasted frock. Her head had begun to ache from holding her chin as high as possible. And her stomach roiled after eating the cold fish soup.

Before the next offering was served, she started to wonder whether she would be expected to excuse herself shortly and allow him to remain by himself to enjoy port and a cigar. She fervently wished that she and Jack could dash upstairs hand in hand, blow out the lamps, huddle together and pretend they were not here in this grand old mausoleum.

But perhaps he was enjoying all of this or felt he would come to do so. Laurel sighed when the next course was presented and it did not appear to be dessert. Her corset was too tight to allow more food anyway. She held up a hand and shook her head, refusing it.

“Madame would care for something else?” the server murmured.

She blinked hard and shook her head again. “No, madame is finished.” Then she pushed back her own heavy chair and stood.

Jack rose immediately. “Laurel, are you unwell?” he asked as he quickly walked the length of the table to where she was. His brow furrowed as he reached for her hand.

“I am very tired. Please excuse me and enjoy the remainder of your supper.”

“Nonsense, I will accompany you upstairs and see that you aren’t ill.” He turned to the nearest server. “Send someone for Bet...Thornwhistle.”

The footman looked confused.

“Lady Laurel’s maid,” Jack clarified impatiently.

Then he hurried her out and to the stairs. “Are you ill, Laurel?” he demanded as they ascended.

“No,” she replied. “Only tired. It has been an exhausting day and the food was entirely too much for so late in the evening. We will gain two stone within the month.”

He laughed softly and added in a near whisper, “I hope that was only the cook’s attempt to impress us and this won’t be an everyday affair. Dreadful, wasn’t it?”

“Do you think we could order up a tray for every meal? I loathe that dining room,” she admitted.

“Surely there is a more intimate arrangement to be had other than for formal occasions and I certainly hope there are few of those required.”

“So do I!” Laurel began to enjoy their quiet conversation and the camaraderie fostered by their peculiar situation. She wished he had not sent someone to fetch Betty.

How perfect it would be if he simply took her to her room and stayed on. The scent of him, the feeling of his warm hand linked with hers and his concern for her stirred Laurel’s need for further closeness.