Counterfeit Countess (20 page)

“Not a chance. Let me try to persuade you to stay. Another day, hmm?”

Two weeks later, Faith was still not married, still living in the large house in Grosvenor Square. Still sleeping in John’s bed.

In her dressing room, she stared at the carpetbag for a full half-minute before she walked away.

She had her new wardrobe. Easter was a recent memory and today she would attend her first society function, a huge ball that the Duchess of Drayton was hosting to mark the opening of the season.

Of course Faith had seen the season, but not from this angle.

Not this close. She’d attended a large society gathering before, but not as one of the anointed, merely a poor relation. She’d worn her green Pomona gown, the one she’d packed away in her bag mainly to stop Turvey disposing of it, or the subdued blue dress, more suitable for balls. Not that anyone noticed her in either outfit. Now she had clothes designed for her by the most sought-after dressmaker in London, a maid who cared for her extensive wardrobe and added the town bronze Faith couldn’t achieve on her own, and a husband. At least, a husband in appearance, if not in truth.

This new gown was grey silk. The folds fell from under her breasts to the floor, the white embroidery delicate and fine, with seed pearls worked into the pattern of snowdrops. At the waistline she wore a jewelled belt, worth more than her house in Red Lion Square she’d guess from the weight of the silver and the size of the pearls studding the centre. Not coloured jewels, of course. She
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could only wear jet, pearls and diamonds while in mourning.

Only! She laughed, and Turvey lifted her head from where she was ensuring the shawl had no creases or loose threads. The gauzy silk wouldn’t last long, a total indulgence, but Faith had seen it and wanted it.

Turvey threaded silver ribbon through her curls and pinned a swag of pearl flowers to one side of Faith’s dark head. She wore a modest pearl bracelet and earrings.

She hardly recognised herself. Polished to perfection, she tried an experimental swirl and watched the gleaming folds settle around her, the glitter of silver catching the attention before it disappeared.

Turvey turned, apparently satisfied and arranged the shawl over Faith’s arms and shoulders. She’d finished. After an hour and a half, done. It took her half that time, no, less, to prepare herself with Robinson’s help, but for this session Turvey had banished Robinson to fetching, carrying and holding.

Time to go into the main room, and to meet her—she still couldn’t call him husband. She should feel worse about it because in the eyes of God they weren’t married, but secretly, Faith was enjoying her status.

It gave her confidence, in a perverse way, to know nobody realised except herself and her—John. Except he was most anxious to make her a bride. He’d been run off his feet, he claimed, and she believed it. One of his ships had gone missing. It had taken the combined efforts of John and his agent to discover it had blown off course. It arrived in the Netherlands after three days battling high winds. Another two days arguing with the authorities and recovering the vessel, ensuring no one had tampered with the valuable cargo. John had personally supervised the unloading and checked the items off the manifest, an action the dowager had approved of to the extent that everything quivered. While she didn’t have jowls, the loose skin under her chin had trembled with rage.

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“This is the new world,” John had said. “Times are changing.

Wealth is no longer only in the land. The Graywoods own a small estate in Nottinghamshire. That is the richest piece of land we possess, not because of what it is, or where it is situated, but because of what lies underneath. One of the richest seams of high quality coal in the country.” He’d paused, exchanging a glance with Faith, but when they were finally alone, he’d told her he believed coal was a key to future prosperity. Faith hadn’t thought of the fuel in that way. After all, she knew nothing about coal, except it kept her warm in the winter and several large manufactories used coal to power their machinery.

She liked that John was so forward-thinking. An exciting new world and she could enter it by his side. If only she’d fall pregnant.

She’d never wanted that before, and the intensity had surprised her, but she was only just due, and she’d never had regular rhythms. It would be some time before she could suspect that she was in the family way.

Foolish to hope. That way lay madness. She had looked into the matter privately and discovered a title could to pass indirectly to someone not related or slightly related. Not passed on, precisely, but the crown could choose to re-create a title for someone else, if heirs of the blood weren’t available. That information pleased the dowager, because it meant her daughters could be instrumental in providing the Earl of Graywood of the second creation. Faith felt comforted, knowing the burden didn’t fall completely on her. It gave her the courage to stay. John was right. Running away was no solution.

She gazed into the mirror above the washstand and lifted her chin in a manner she’d seen several ladies enact. She’d come across a few, shopping or walking in the park, and they’d behaved towards her with icy indifference if the dowager had been present to introduce her. While they’d never treated her any differently, Faith knew they could be more friendly. Perhaps the dowager’s set was
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naturally arrogant and never noticed.

When Turvey opened the door for her, she sailed into her bedroom, the one she rarely used, only to dress and to rest sometimes, when John was out or busy. She’d practiced her walk, trying for an effortless glide and achieving something closer to her ordinary posture, just a little more elegant. It would do. Nobody expected her to have the deportment of a woman born to the aristocracy. Although they might hold it against her.

John was waiting. He didn’t move towards her but watched her come to him. Only then did he smile, the warm intimate caress he saved for her. “Magnificent,” he said and nodded at Turvey. “You have enhanced her natural beauty. I feared you would turn her into someone I didn’t know.”

Tears pricked Faith’s eyes. “What a lovely thing to say.”

He took her gloved hand and raised it to his lips. “Sincerity always is the best compliment and I’m telling nothing but the whole truth.”

She swallowed back her tears. She didn’t want red-rimmed eyes or dark shadows under them, not for her first society appearance.

Telling herself she would hardly be the focus of everyone helped a little. John took her from the room and they went downstairs, where the dowager and her daughters were already waiting. They still wore unrelieved black and they would not attend tonight.

While the dowager had deemed small gatherings appropriate, an event as large as the Drayton ball would not be seemly for the closest relatives of the deceased. Faith had used it as an excuse for them not to go but the older Lady Graywood had dismissed her concerns with a wave. “Go and make your mark. I only ask that you remember the dignity of the family you have married into. I have no doubt you will not disgrace us.”

Almost praise from the dowager. Now Faith saw the light of approval in her eyes. However, she said nothing, merely adjusted the fit of the black armband she wore underneath where the short
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sleeve of her gown ended. “Give my best regards to the duchess, if you please, and tell her I will be visiting next Tuesday, at her next at home.”

Charlotte and Louisa brightened. Amelia, standing in what had become her customary position just behind the dowager, smiled broadly. “You look wonderful, Faith.” Although the dowager disapproved, Faith had insisted that Amelia continue to use her given name.

“Thank you.”

John took her outside and handed her into the carriage with a flourish. Turvey already waited outside, and she arranged the folds of Faith’s gown for the least amount of creases. Faith felt like a fashion doll, arranged and primped for the satisfaction of someone else, the outside world. She said as much to John when the carriage had begun to move.

He took her hand and tugged it, so she had to lean closer to him, then he leaned in and delivered a long, luscious kiss. She’d become addicted to his kisses, but she tried to pull away this time. He only held her firmer until she gave in and let him have his way. When he finally released her they were both breathing a little heavier. “You are beautiful,” he said. “Remember that. Tonight I’ll show you some society beauties. They are no better than you are, you’ll see.”

Her smile felt natural for the first time today. That he thought her beautiful was enough.

Entering the huge house in St. James’ Square proved enough to tax Faith’s nerves. Flambeaux flamed outside in their holders either side of the imposing front door, thrown wide to reveal the glow of candles within. Liveried flunkies waited to spirit away their outer clothing, and maids stood by, ready to attend to the needs of the guests.

She’d known she would feel nervous, expected it, but she had never let anyone affect the way she felt about herself before and she didn’t like it. Deep down she still felt like the child in the vicarage,
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the one in the middle who nobody had much time for and had become adept at melting from view. No hope of that tonight.

She sniffed the air. The house smelled different, not of the rose-leaf pot-pourri the dowager favoured, but more like spiced oranges. The aroma plunged Faith back to her own home in Red Lion Square. Every winter she’d pushed cloves into oranges and put them on stands to permeate her rooms with the scent of the season.

This house smelled the same, providing the link she needed, the reminder that everyone at heart, under the fine clothes, shared a commonality.

A few heads turned as she entered the large salon on the first floor that had been turned into a ballroom for the evening. She had wondered at the duchess using a private residence to entertain two hundred guests. But with the complete range of state rooms thrown open to visitors, they had plenty of room. At least they did at the moment. This ball would turn into a squeeze, as society would have it, not successful unless the place was overflowing. The hundreds of candles and the press of guests would transform the place into a hothouse.

Even this early, at nine o’clock, the guests had arrived in good numbers. Enough space to move about. The duchess came forward to greet them, an affable smile firmly fixed to her face. “So pleasant to see you. Such a tragedy to hear your news!”

Faith correctly assumed she meant the death of the brothers, and put her features into the gravity such a discussion deserved.

“Indeed. We never expected this honour, much less to achieve it in an unhappy way.”

The duchess bestowed a nod on her. No snub, then, despite her tactless greeting. Faith had been half afraid everyone would turn their backs, a recurring nightmare over the last few days and one that had disturbed her dreams. Nobody did. As John took her around the gracious room and introduced her to various people, she noticed some drifting away. They didn’t give her the cut direct, the
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hurtful back-turning that would have equalled social death. No, it was far more subtle.

Enough guests agreed to meet them, and discussed the death of the brothers, which she supposed was natural, but she tired of it, then felt guilty. She should mourn them for longer than two weeks.

She’d known Stephen slightly, Vivien hardly at all, but she felt only mildly sad at their passing, and sorry for the loss of two upstanding young men.

She’d seen too much death, had the emotion leached out of her by years of watching men go off to die. Eventually welcomed the numb feeling that came with bad news, better than the sick dread and days of depression. Sometimes guilt made her try to care, but it never worked. Even when John had died she hadn’t felt any grief for a full month, but she put that down to delayed shock. Even then, she’d cried for John Dalkington-Smythe as much as for her husband.

Maybe her anxiety made her edgy, but she hadn’t relaxed into this ball, not at all, despite John’s assurances.

These people made her feel the same way she always had in their presence—apart, not a member of their exclusive club. She didn’t belong here and everyone knew it, including her. Her tension threatened to make her nervousness increase, then they would gossip about her and say how ill-bred she was. Determined to deny them that pleasure, Faith stuck her polite smile in place and continued to move and chat.

Once aware, she saw the glances cast their way, watched some guests move away from them. Subtle, but nobody would miss it.

Everyone there that night would know and would gossip. Some she knew by sight, and they seemed the most exalted guests and the highest sticklers. She danced once, with John, and then another time with another gentleman he knew well, a friend from the army.

By then she was fighting to hold back her tears. Rejection always hurt, however much she told herself it didn’t. Not that she’d
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allowed it to come between her and what she wanted. Until now.

At least no one was rude to her face. It was like trying to catch an eel—elusive. Just when she thought she had the answer, the reason for the not-quite rejection, it slid away from her. Everyone was too polite, and if she’d asked outright, they’d refuse to reply. Probably castigate her for an ignorant provincial, or boring, unforgiveable sins in the eyes of society.

“Such a tragedy about the earl.” If she heard that sentiment once more, she’d scream, but instead she nodded gravely and agreed.

Couldn’t think of an appropriate answer.

She longed to point out whatever part of society they belonged to, the constant harping seemed nothing short of rude. People should have consideration for John’s unfortunate position. Some glanced away when she looked in their direction. That told her they were having a fine old time gossiping about the new Earl and Countess of Graywood. Irresistible scandal about people they didn’t know, but people they considered below them.