Counterfeit Countess (2 page)

He shook his head. “It’s patchy. I think my memory is at full strength about a year before.” He stopped and picked up a glass of wine from the table on his other side. She remembered her own drink and took a fortifying sip of what remained. Lord knew she needed it. He continued with his story. “After Waterloo I got out of that medical tent in a week. Nobody wants to linger in those places and once I was out of danger they required the space for the worse-off. The man in the bed next to me had decided to leave Europe for the New World. It sounded an excellent idea to me, so we took ship to Canada as soon as we could get a berth.” He turned a sombre gaze on to her. “You helped with the wounded?”

“Pray do not tell me you saw the injuries!” Lady Graywood exclaimed and her eldest daughter Charlotte shivered, more, Faith thought, in excitement than horror. But then, she hadn’t been there. Journalists, storytellers, could make it sound exciting.

Newspapers did it all the time.

“Everyone did,” she said. “Ladies of high renown did all they could to help too.” Even though she’d hated every minute she’d helped, the wails of the wounded terrifying her. She’d never forget the moment when they passed from life into death and left everything behind. The soldier became—not a person any longer.

Only a carcass. Perversely, the sight had increased her sense of the spiritual, that something had gone. Not that it assisted her at the time. She’d moved on to the next wretch, who was as likely to curse her or vomit on her, depending on the state of his wounds.

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“Not a scene I would wish my daughters to witness,” Lady Graywood said.

“But a service the injured were immensely grateful for,” John said, and squeezed her hand. Camaraderie. Kinship of a kind that went beyond blood. She felt the shared experiences flow through them, and knew here was one person she could talk to who would understand. Except, of course, she couldn’t. She had to keep her guard up around him, more than anyone else.

“I rejoiced to see the back of Europe,” he said. “I had nothing at home, or I thought I did not. By the time I reached dry land, most of my memory had returned, but I saw no reason to return to England. My parents were dead, I was an only child, and two healthy men stood between me and the earldom. I sent a letter to inform you of my decision to stay away, although I understand that it never arrived, and I set out for the wilds of Canada. I found work when I needed it and kept moving. Eventually I discovered a trade.

Fur trapping. I made a reasonable amount of money, enough to buy a house in a more civilised area, and employ a few people.” Yes, he was dressed respectably, not in the first stare of fashion. His coat didn’t fit him like a glove. It looked as if he could remove it for himself, rather than have a manservant peel it off his form, but a Corinthian would envy the figure under.

He was the husband she’d always secretly dreamed of.

Except he wasn’t her husband.

The moment he saw her face John regretted his decision to prevent any attempt to give Faith the news of his survival. He’d wanted to see her reaction untarnished by prior knowledge. He’d only arrived at the house that afternoon, having taken a day to rest and consult with his man of business in London. That meant the dowager countess hadn’t exactly had time to gather her thoughts, either.

When he’d given her the news about her sons she’d retreated to her private chambers. She hadn’t re-emerged until half an hour ago, still dressed in her morning gown. He’d taken it on himself to cancel the dinner for that evening. From what he remembered of her, this was as unlike her usual behaviour as to suggest the sad tidings he’d delivered had affected her more than she revealed publicly.

John sensed that if he let go of Faith’s hand, she’d bolt for the nearest door. Or window, if she couldn’t find a door close enough.

Faith Dalkington-Smythe had fooled the dowager completely. Lady Graywood was one reason he’d shaken the dust of Europe—or the mud—off his boots with such alacrity. Fur trapping beat soldiering any day of the week, although he could have horrified her delicate ladyship with tales of the conditions he’d lived through. She’d never have received most of the men he called friends in her elegant drawing-room.

He kept his grip on Faith. It anchored him to reality, reminded him of his nature, what he was, what he wanted. Because she wasn’t the only one whose mind whirled. Keeping his attention on his
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story stopped that happening. When his cousins had suggested a brief visit home, he’d firmly told them he would spend only a month in England, then he’d head back to Canada. Certain they’d made a mistake with their account that he had a widow waiting for him in London he’d set out, determined to put Europe behind him for good. Until the tragedy at sea. Then he knew he’d never see his home in Canada again. Unhappy with this new twist of fate, he decided to do what he would face up to his burden of responsibility.

At least he’d had time to get used to his new circumstances.

He’d decided to spring the news on the woman to shock her into confessing the truth—that she wasn’t married to him.

Then Stephen had mentioned his “widow”’s first name and his memory had shot back. He had so many visions of Faith in his mind, of her working in camp, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, sitting outside her tent mending her ragged clothes, all without protest or complaint. Braver than any other woman he knew, she never failed her husband. His main recollection was of the inappropriate erection he sometimes sported when he allowed himself to dwell on her too long. Completely inappropriate, absolutely ungentlemanly and his problem to bear and conquer alone. His own private battle, one he’d never quite managed to win.

When he’d seen her valiantly erecting temporary shelter, playing a foolish game with the children or cooking for her husband on an open fire outside some makeshift accommodation, he’d wanted to sweep her up. He’d take her somewhere safe, where he could pamper her.

The woman posing as his widow in London couldn’t possibly be that Faith, his Faith. But it was. Seeing her had sent a jolt of recognition that had nearly buckled his knees. His desire for secrecy had redounded back on to him, and he received as much of a shock as she had.

The woman with the scraped-back, dark hair had become a beauty, soft curls framing her face, her skin glowing with health.

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Lynne Connolly

No, she’d always been a beauty to him. He’d hardly dared believe the woman he’d watched for so long was the wife who’d fallen into his hands like a ripe peach.

Now he had her, and he didn’t intend to let her go until he’d had his revenge. Dragging him back to a life he didn’t want, didn’t ask for, claiming his protection when in reality he had no claim on her—he needed to hear her story first. Most of all he wanted her, his erection performing the same antics it had every time he saw her.

“I spent most of my first year in the wilderness.” Too enthralled to think of anything except what was happening to him. Too fascinated by the country and its people. “I didn’t live in a place that took post regularly. I wasn’t aware anyone would miss me.” And cared less. “When my cousins visited me, I agreed to return for a short time.” His lips thinned when he recalled they’d asked him to try to create an heir for the earldom with his wife. “I admit it surprised me to discover that my married cousin hadn’t produced offspring, but it didn’t concern me.” The other was hardly likely to produce an heir, for reasons of his own. “Two healthy males stood between me and the title so I considered myself a free agent. I was until recently. They prevailed on me to come home for a visit, and we took ship.”

“The danger of the three heirs to an ancient title taking the same vessel is shocking,” Lady Graywood said, the tremble in her voice more apparent. “It was a mercy you didn’t all perish.”

John remembered his mother, so loving and careful of her children. So unlike the dowager, sitting opposite him. The summers he’d reluctantly spent at the family seat were some of the coldest of his life, despite the sun shining for most of the time. He could only bless his good fortune he’d not spent more time there.

If Faith thought she’d heard the worst news, she had a shock coming.

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He turned to her, ignoring the others. “The journey passed without incident until a week before we landed. A storm whipped up from nowhere, and before we could gain the safety of our cabins Stephen slid down the deck and fell overboard. Vivian tried to save him.” He gripped her hand tightly.

She swallowed, her face white. “Stephen is dead?”

He nodded. “Vivian too.” No whitewashing the facts. The Faith he’d known had faced death multiple times.

Her ladyship heaved a sigh, and when he glanced at her, John could have sworn he saw a touch of genuine sorrow in her eyes. So far she hadn’t shown even that. He’d given her the tidings this afternoon, as soon as he’d arrived. Perhaps she had grieved in private.

“I could save neither. The sailors tied a rope around my waist to secure me to the railings behind me. Without that I would have died too.”

“But you didn’t,” Faith murmured, her expression calm, but her eyes stricken.

“No,” he agreed. “Self-evidently, I didn’t. I’m particularly glad about that part. I’m sorry.” He paused, remembering the men he’d known for most of his life but only truly understood during that last journey. “Truly. I’d have done anything to save them.”

The storm had come out of a blue sky, the clouds scudding across to cover the sun. Torrents of heavy rain pelted down with the suddenness of the tropics. Stephen didn’t have a chance with the sailors milling around, heading for the sheets and the sails getting in his way, tripping him. They wore rope shoes that had a heavy grip, but Stephen had his ordinary boots on, no purchase on the smooth leather soles. When the ship lurched he was nowhere near anything he could catch hold of.

“Are there any other heirs to the title? Any closer than me?”

Silently he prayed to every god he’d ever heard of.
Let there be an
heir!
“Anyone else at all?”

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Lynne Connolly

Lady Graywood’s voice broke into the still silence that fell after the question he had to ask. “No. You are the sole hope of the family.

However I have Roker, our man of business, researching the matter.

The third earl had a large family, which included five boys so the possibility exists.” She sniffed. “An adventurous family, the Dalkington-Smythes. You are the
de facto
Earl of Graywood.”

John felt Faith stiffen, a slight quiver shivering through her delectable body. Because he had to face it, she had a lovely form, one he could scarce fail to notice. Even though her gown was a little too old in style for her, the neckline too high, the fabric too loose to flatter. He added another needle to prickle her skin, wondering how she would respond. Would his challenge please her? Was the rigidity a sign of her delight or her dismay? “At least I have my countess waiting for me.” He lifted her gloved hand and merely touched it with his lips. Even that gesture was a trifle forward, but the woman was his purported wife so if anyone should kiss her hand, he should.

When she turned her head towards him for an instant, he caught a fleeting expression. Panic, terror, something of that nature.

Certainly not delight, not pleasure. She didn’t want to be a countess any more than he wanted to become an earl.

Before that look, he’d considered her an adventuress, pure and simple, but in that case she’d have been delighted at this change in fortune. That unconsidered, fleeting glimpse he’d had wouldn’t have happened.

He’d willingly stand in the middle of a battlefield naked rather than face this stress. He’d fled half way across the world to avoid this kind of disturbance, right after Lady Graywood had declared he must marry one of her daughters. That had formed the final spur to his desertion of his homeland. Two years had passed and the girls weren’t married yet.

He glanced at Faith again, took in her clear skin, the thick, curly hair, gleaming in the candlelight. Desire seized him by the balls, a
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place he shouldn’t be thinking about here. It seemed a long time since he’d had a woman.

“I have called upon Roker to attend at your convenience.” The dowager sounded as if she was addressing a public meeting. “He will instruct you on your duties.”

She spoke as if he had no idea what the duties involved. He’d endured summers at the country house so they could give him the basic instructions in How To Be An Earl, or to be more precise, how to be an earl’s steward. Something he’d run from with huge relief, not least because of the constant humiliations handed out by the existing steward’s son, David Carlisle. He could have been playing cricket, or fishing, or any other damned thing. But no, he’d spent days, weeks, in the damp muniments room with the rent table in the middle studying books and ancient documents.

Opportunities for Carlisle to sneer at and belittle him.

They’d been sitting here for about an hour, as far as he could tell.

The withdrawing room clock was one of those delicate, feminine affairs without a chime, impossible to read if he stood more than three feet away. His watch ticked happily in his pocket, but he could hardly press the repeater button in company. Frustrating, with so many timepieces around, that he could only assess what the time was and how soon he could get away.

“If my wife is agreeable we will meet Roker together.” He gave the countess a regal nod, then turned to Faith. “Are you content with that, my dear?” He bestowed a positively honeyed smile on Faith.

Here came that blush again. He found the pink tinge enchanting, and a welcome change from the haunted glances she kept shooting him when she thought he wasn’t watching.

Before she could speak, the dowager jumped in. “Women have no part in such discussions.”

He begged to differ. “If there’s no law against it, I’d prefer my wife present. If she can bear it, of course.”