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Authors: Vanessa Kelly

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BOOK: My Favorite Countess
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“Bathsheba, what are you going to do about Rachel?”
Her heart jolted with a hard, extra beat. Why did Matthew have to bring her sister up now? Didn't they have enough to worry about? “I'm not going to do anything about Rachel. She's fine just where she is.”
He fiddled with his papers some more. “I was thinking we could bring her here—to Compton Manor. I could look out for her, and I've more than enough servants to tend to her needs. That, at least, would relieve you of the expense of her upkeep.”
She stared at him, stunned by the suggestion, fighting back incipient panic. To the world, her sister had died long ago. The scandal of her reappearance would surely doom Bathsheba's chances of securing a rich husband.
“Absolutely not.” Her voice came out sharp as a blade. She cleared her throat and tried again. “Thank you for the offer, but Rachel is happy where she is. The Wilsons love her and would be very sorry to lose her.”
That much, at least, was true. On her visits to Rachel, it was obvious to Bathsheba that her sister was happy, and that her caretakers were genuinely fond of her. No matter how much it cost—and it cost a great deal—she must keep Rachel safely hidden away in the countryside. A rich husband could help her do just that.
The earl gave her countenance a thorough inspection. She calmly met his gaze, refusing to squirm or show any discomfort.
“Don't you think it's time for another physician to examine her?” he asked abruptly. “Perhaps something could be done for her.”
She took a moment to quell the stab of anger and guilt that pierced her. “There's nothing that can be done to help. She's like a child, Matthew. The fever robbed her of both her speech and her wits. Rachel will never recover, and no one will understand why my father insisted we hide her away, or why I maintained the fiction of her death after Papa died.”
Because you were a coward.
The words whispered through her brain, but she ruthlessly beat them back. She might have been a coward, but Reggie had left her no choice.
“But . . .”
She leaned forward in her chair and glared at him. “Leave it alone, Matthew. I mean it.”
As always, he crumbled before her will. “Well, she's your sister,” he conceded. “I just wanted to help.”
“Thank you, but she's my responsibility, not yours.” She knew she sounded heartless, but Matthew's sentimentality—and naiveté—tried her patience. She was too weary and discouraged to pretend otherwise.
Bathsheba rose, smoothing down the silk of her skirts, taking comfort, as always, in the slippery, rich feel of the material draping her body.
“If you'll excuse me, I must speak to my abigail. We leave for London first thing in the morning.” Now that her mind had been made up, she couldn't wait to shake the dirt of Yorkshire from her slippers and return to the city. Where she belonged.
Matthew rose, too, but suddenly looked as if someone had stuck a burr down the front of his breeches.
She sighed. “Is there something else?”
“Sir Philip Dellworthy and his lady heard you were back and sent round an invitation to dine with them tomorrow.”
Bathsheba closed her eyes. Of course they had. She had arrived in Ripon only twenty-four hours ago, but she so rarely came north that her visit was bound to cause a stir amongst what passed for the local gentry. They would all want to see the Countess of Randolph and hear the latest gossip from town. And there was nothing she hated more than having to hobnob with a drawing room full of vulgar mushrooms, beefy squires, and disapproving, countrified matrons.
“And you told them what?”
He gulped. “That we would be happy to dine with them.”
“Matthew!”
He cut her off. “It won't do to run away, Sheba. They'll think something's wrong, and that will cause gossip.” He gave her a placating smile. “Must keep up appearances. That's what you always say, isn't it?”
She flung herself back into the creaky leather chair. “Yes, that's what I always say. Pour me a brandy, will you? And make it a generous one. I'm going to need it.”
Bathsheba wedged herself into the corner of her luxurious carriage, resting her throbbing head against the squabs as the vehicle bumped over the appalling country roads. She let her eyelids droop, allowing herself to slip into velvety darkness. Sleep began to thread its foggy tendrils through her brain. Worries slowly dissipated as she drifted into welcome oblivion.
A loud thump, and then her head slammed into the side of the carriage as a wheel plunged into a hole the size of Westminster Abbey.
“Oh, I say, old girl,” said Matthew, peering at her with concern. “Hope you didn't hurt yourself. The roads are ghastly, what with all the rain we've had lately.”
She stifled an unladylike curse and raised her hands to smooth her coiffure.
Another twenty-four hours of country living had done nothing to improve her humor. After an intensely boring dinner with Matthew—who had brought the new copy of
Canterbury Tales
to the table with him—Bathsheba had retired to bed early. She had tossed and turned most of the night, kept awake by the quarter hours of the casement clock outside her door and by her gloomy thoughts. Sleep had finally come near dawn. A few hours later she had been awakened by a cacophony of birdsong, which somehow seemed a great deal louder and much more annoying than all the tumult and bustle of the London streets.
Her day had passed with all the speed of a hobbled tortoise. After thoroughly depressing herself with an inspection of the overgrown gardens and shabby manor house, she wrote several letters, read a book, and went over the ledgers again with Mr. Oliver. By the time she and Matthew set out for the Dellworthys at the absurdly early hour of four
P.M
., Bathsheba was ready to shriek with boredom and frustration. When she was young she had loved the country. Now she had no idea how it had ever appealed to her.
“Where in God's name is Dellworthy's estate? Scotland?” she groused. “We've been driving for ages.”
Matthew smiled, ignoring her miserable temper. “Not much farther, my dear. And it's not really an estate. More like a smallish park. But the house is only a few years old, and Dellworthy spared no expense in the building of it. The man made a killing in the wool trade. Rich as Croesus, they say.”
Bathsheba hated him already.
A few minutes later they bowled up a graveled drive through a small park, trimmed and landscaped to within an inch of its life. As the carriage pulled into the sweep in front of the house, Bathsheba jerked upright to stare out the window.
“I thought you said they built the house a few years ago.”
Matthew nodded.
“It looks like a castle,” she said. An absurd, miniature castle. Loaded down with battlements, chimney stacks, and what appeared to be a small Gothic chapel sticking out into the front courtyard.
She looked at Matthew. “You must be joking.”
He shrugged.
Sir Philip and his lady greeted them in an entrance hall crammed with Roman statuary, then escorted them into a red drawing room festooned with elaborately draped curtains—also red—held up by gilt carved eagles. Large pier glasses, bright crimson sofas in the French fashion, and an Egyptian chimneypiece added up to a stylistic assault. In the late afternoon sun, the entire room seemed to pulsate and throb as if it were alive. Bathsheba surreptitiously rubbed her temples, feeling the building ache of a migraine.
Lady Dellworthy introduced her to the other guests, including the vicar and his wife, some other respectable and boring local worthies, and Miss Amanda Elliott, a middleaged spinster whom Bathsheba vaguely remembered from a previous visit. Miss Elliott, however, clearly remembered her, and not with fondness, if her coldly correct greeting was any indication.
Lady Dellworthy tapped Bathsheba's arm with her fan. “And here is our local physician, the worthy Dr. Littleton. And his friend and former student, visiting from London. Perhaps you have met him already. Dr. Blackmore, may I present Lady Randolph, cousin to the current earl, Lord Randolph.”
Bathsheba turned away from the chill of Miss Elliot. She looked up, looked higher, and felt the breath clog in her throat as she found herself staring into the compelling gaze of a very tall and very broad-shouldered man. The throbbing, wound-colored drawing room faded away, as did the pain in her temples.
Like an untried schoolgirl she stood motionless, fascinated by the color of his eyes—a shivery, wintery gray. They were hooded and penetrating, with a weariness that called out to her, sneaking past her defenses, setting off a bittersweet ache in her chest.
He didn't speak or move. She let her gaze drift over toolean features that were beautiful in a starkly masculine way. There were deep lines around a sensual, generous mouth, and a hard jaw shadowed with the hint of a night beard that matched the black of his unfashionably short hair.
Bathsheba blinked hard and tried to look away, but she couldn't. She had the bizarre notion she could stare into Dr. Blackmore's face for days on end, and never once feel bored.
Amusement began to replace the weariness in those amazing eyes. The doctor bowed, then straightened to his considerable height. She felt like an awkward child standing before him.
“Lady Randolph,” he said, his deep, smooth voice sending a velvet hum up her spine. “It is a great pleasure to finally meet you. I have seen you at routs and concerts in London, of course, but have never had the honor of an introduction.” His smile grew knowing, as if he sensed her discomposure and found it entertaining.
She jerked herself to attention, irritated by her uncharacteristic loss of control.
“Why, Dr. Blackmore,” she replied in her best seductive purr. “How remiss of you not to secure an introduction. I'm sure I should be insulted. Perhaps if I bother to think about it long enough, I will be.”
He looked startled. Lady Dellworthy squeaked and fluttered helplessly beside him.
Bathsheba turned away to address Dr. Littleton. Fortunately, she did remember him, and took refuge in asking questions about the general health of the local villagers. The physician happily obliged her, launching into a detailed recital. But Dr. Blackmore still loomed over her, a disturbing presence that set her nerves jangling like a steepleful of demented bells. She ignored him, studiously listening to his colleague. After a few minutes—although it felt so much longer—he walked away.
She gradually let out her breath, doing her best to pretend she was listening to Dr. Littleton drone on about Mary something-or-other's consumptive complaint. Why had she reacted so strongly to Dr. Blackmore? Certainly, he was a handsome man, but she had known dozens of handsome men, and taken a few of them into her bed. No. There was something else. Something that plucked a chord deep within her memory—something her conscious mind wanted to push away.
She dared a peek across the room, where Dr. Blackmore now stood talking with Miss Elliott and Matthew. As if she had tapped him on the shoulder, he glanced over, meeting her gaze with a direct, hard look.
Hard, but not cold. In fact, she felt burned by the heat in his eyes, and it frightened her. In a flash she suddenly remembered why. That was exactly how Reggie had looked at her when first they met. As if he already possessed her, body and soul. That look had sucked her in, consumed her, and had eventually made her life a long purgatory of despair. Standing at her husband's graveside four years later, she had vowed she would never succumb to passion again.
Bathsheba stared into Dr. Blackmore's intense gaze a moment longer, then turned away.
Chapter 2
Lady Randolph was a finished piece of perfection, the most alluring John had ever encountered. Seated across from him at dinner, she ate with a dainty precision that utterly seduced him. From a distance, as he had seen her before in London, she was lovely—petite and lush, with gleaming coils of russet hair. But up close her beauty became a devastating weapon, one so powerful he had been knocked into speechless idiocy when Lady Dellworthy introduced them.
Even trapped in a labored conversation with Sir Philip, Lady Randolph sparkled with life. Her luminous green eyes shone with intelligence, presenting an enticing contrast to the pretty bow of her mouth. John had been tempted to lean down and taste that sweet, innocent-looking mouth when she stared up at him in the drawing room—Lady Dellworthy and her respectable guests be damned.
But then she had parted those soft lips and leveled him with a frosty insult. That had surprised him, given her initial response. She had certainly been affected by their meeting, unable to hide the evidence of her arousal. Her dilated pupils, the flush across her cheekbones, the hitch in her respiration, all told him she had responded in a visceral, sexual way. And, like a crowing fool, he'd been startled into giving her a triumphant smile that sent her running for the hills.
“What about you, Dr. Blackmore?” asked Sir Philip. “What do you think?”
He dragged his attention from Lady Randolph's entrancing face back to his host. “I beg your pardon, sir. I have been inattentive, which I can only blame on the excellence of the goose.”
Sir Philip, seated at the head of the table, gave a congenial laugh as he leaned over and jabbed him in the bicep. “Oh, aye, the goose! I saw you with your eye on the countess. Not that I blame you. I can hardly pay attention to my own dinner, what with such great beauty next to hand.”
He waggled his graying eyebrows at Lady Randolph, who sat at his left. She stared back at him before lifting her lips in a decidedly vicious sneer. Sir Philip smiled and carried on, apparently oblivious to the gaze that would have struck terror into the soul of a more perceptive man.
“Dr. Blackmore,” he said, leaning back as one of an endless number of footmen removed his plate and replaced it with another, “I asked you and her ladyship what you think of our little castle. My lady worked hand in glove with the architect, and to great effect, if I do say so. Of course, it's nothing to compare with the beauties of Compton Manor. But still, I flatter myself that our efforts were not quite wasted.”
Lady Randolph's sneer turned lethal. “Very few houses in Yorkshire can compare to Compton Manor,” she said in a cold voice. “It's a pity that so many people these days fail to understand the principles of good taste. I always think it a great mistake when amateurs take upon themselves the work of experts.”
Sir Philip flushed the color of faded brick. She smiled and turned back to her plate, delicately spearing a single, perfect strawberry and raising it to her mouth. Despite his irritation at her rudeness, John couldn't help but notice the moist fullness of her lips as they closed around the red berry or the smooth column of her slender throat as she swallowed. An inconvenient erection began to swell against the placket of his trousers.
“Oh, Dellworthy,” called his wife from the other end of the table. “Are you boasting about the house again?” She gave a hearty chuckle. “He loves to talk about our little manor and my small role in its creation. My dear Lady Randolph, I assure you I tell him that he mustn't.”
John smothered a grin at the stunned look on Lady Randolph's face. Her narrowed eyes and flaring nostrils registered her distaste with Lady Dellworthy's slapdash manners. In London, one would never call down the dining room table, at least not in a formal gathering. He suspected Lady Randolph rarely attended informal ones.
As oblivious to danger as her husband had been a few minutes earlier, Lady Dellworthy carried on. “My dear countess, did my husband point out to you the vaulted ceiling?”
John winced. The lady's voice had a peculiar, carrying quality. Even her husband and some of the other guests looked embarrassed. Lady Randolph looked ready to spit nails.
Their hostess waved an arm at the ceiling, her numerous gold bracelets clinking with a cheery little jangle. “I wanted to create the effect of a Norman cathedral. A nave in miniature. From the outside of the house, the dining room resembles a chapel. Perhaps you noticed that when you arrived? I think it a great success.”
Obediently, the guests directed their gazes to the ceiling. All except Lady Randolph.
Not wishing to appear rude, John also looked up at the ceiling, a mad jumble of Norman and Gothic styles, with moldings and arches and painted chevrons, and even a few mythic beasts writhing away in the corners of the room.
He lowered his gaze to Lady Randolph's face. Her eyes flashed, her lips parted, and he jumped into the conversation to cut off what would surely be another devastating insult.
“The ceiling is quite splendid, my lady,” he said. “Did you develop the design for the chevrons yourself, or did you model them after an existing pattern?”
Lady Dellworthy blushed like a maiden, but Lady Randolph glared at him with eyes narrowed to irritated slits. He gave her a bland smile, even though he had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. The entire house was an exercise in overblown vulgarity, but that was no excuse for rudeness. The imperious little countess—clearly a snob—needed schooling in simple courtesy, and part of him wished he could be the man to take on the task.
His conversational dodge worked, as Lady Dellworthy prattled on in answer to his question. Several other guests chimed in with their opinions and the crisis passed. He let his gaze roam the table before returning it to the red-haired vixen. Lady Randolph eyed him resentfully, then suddenly looked down. He was amazed to see a faint blush cross her cheeks, the clear wash of pink and the downcast eyes riveting his attention.
A discreet throat-clearing on his right recalled him. Miss Elliott, seated next to him, gave him a faint smile.
“A question, if I may, Dr. Blackmore,” she said. “I understand that in addition to having a successful practice in Mayfair, you are also a member of the staff at St. Bartholomew's Hospital. Dr. Littleton says you hope to set up a lying-in ward at the hospital. Are there not already several such institutions in the city? Why do you feel it necessary to establish another?”
He set down his fork and studied her clever, narrow face. Few people, particularly those of the upper orders, displayed the slightest interest in his work. If they did, it was to enquire about the most effective treatment for gallstones, or the best way to wrap a gouty foot. But Miss Elliott actually seemed to want an answer.
“You are correct. Several lying-in hospitals already exist in the city,” he replied. “But their role in caring for women both before and after they give birth is limited.”
The spinster nodded encouragement, so John launched into a detailed description of his dream to establish a ward at Bart's for impoverished pregnant women, including prostitutes. The staff would do more than just deliver their infants and then throw them back out into the street. They would also teach new mothers how to care for themselves and their newly born babies. Miss Elliott listened attentively, interjecting occasionally with interest and a surprising degree of knowledge.
Only when John had embarked on a graphic description of the dangers of childbed fever did he notice all the guests at the table had fallen silent. He looked around. Sir Philip stared at him with bug-eyed horror, Lady Dellworthy had turned a sickly shade of green, and Mrs. Spencer, the vicar's wife, seemed ready to swoon.
As for Lady Randolph, with her elbow planted on the table and her perfect chin resting in her palm, she looked . . . bored. He met her emerald gaze. One delicate brow twitched up, as if to signal her disdain.
“Well, John,” said Dr. Littleton, breaking the uncomfortable hush. “We must remember that the ladies are unused to such discussion.” His old teacher's eyes laughed at him. “Especially at the dinner table.”
“I disagree,” Miss Elliott said in a lofty voice. “I have found it most invigorating.”
Lady Randolph rolled her eyes, and John had to fight the overwhelming desire to reach across the table and shake her.
Instead, he directed an apologetic smile at his host. “Forgive me, Sir Philip. I have a tendency to forget myself when discussing my work. Dr. Littleton has often remarked upon it.”
Sir Philip hemmed and hawed, extracting a large handkerchief from his pocket and wiping his perspiring brow. Fortunately, Miss Elliott came to the company's rescue again.
“Dr. Littleton,” she said, “please tell me how Mrs. McCartney is faring. I mean to visit her this week, if you tell me the danger of infection has passed.”
Littleton's expression turned grave. John knew his friend had spent much of the last week treating a family of poor villagers. Husband, wife, and all three children had fallen ill with a putrid infection. The smallest child—little more than an infant—had died.
“Mrs. McCartney is recovering from the fever, although I fear she will not soon recover from the loss of her baby.”
John heard a small gasp from the other side of the table. He looked at Lady Randolph.
“This woman. Mrs. McCartney. She lost her child to a fever?” she asked Dr. Littleton.
“I'm sorry to say so, my lady. But yes. The child passed yesterday.”
John frowned, puzzled by the sudden pallor of Lady Randolph's countenance. She blinked and, for a moment, he thought a mist of tears obscured her gaze.
“Oh, Dr. Littleton,” interrupted Lady Dellworthy. “Please tell me there is no risk of contagion in the village. One hears such dreadful things these days. Disease and riot. Where will it end? I live in dread of gangs roaming the countryside. Why, just look at what happened in Pentrich. I vow! We shall all be murdered in our beds. That is if we don't all die of the typhus first.”
“Oh, tut-tut, my dear,” soothed Sir Philip. “Nothing of the sort. The Crown will see to it that the Pentrich mob gets its comeuppance. The ringleaders will swing by year's end. Hang the whole lot of them, I say. That'll teach them to challenge their betters.”
He smiled reassuringly at his wife, and several others around the table nodded their satisfaction that the poor bastards who had led the uprising in Pentrich—decent men, by most accounts—would be executed for high treason.
John clenched a fist around the slender stem of his crystal goblet. Anger pulsed through his veins. Thousands of men and women had been laid low by famine and disease this past year alone, some of those men loyal soldiers who had returned from the war with no employment to support their wives and children. But still the aristocracy retreated behind their high walls and gated estates, enjoying their privileged lives in willful ignorance.
Safely ensconced on a tidy and prosperous estate in the country, John's own family was no better. How often had his mother nagged him to give up his work with the poor and concentrate only on building a lucrative medical practice to the ton?
He struggled to keep anger out of his voice. “Perhaps, Sir Philip, if those in power attempted to alleviate the poverty that has befallen so many of our countrymen, addressing the food shortages in particular, we would not find ourselves having to contend with uprisings.”
“Oh, I say, I don't think—” Sir Philip began to protest.
John cut him off. “As a doctor, every day I see lives cut short by starvation and disease.” Littleton shook his head in warning, but John ignored him, too caught up in the frustration always lurking below the calm exterior he struggled to maintain.
“Can you imagine the despair that plagues a man when he cannot feed his family, or afford a doctor for his sick child? How many women die in childbirth, shrieking in unbearable agony, for want of a doctor or a midwife they could not afford? Who can blame a man for fighting such intolerable injustice? You might as well hang me, for I would likely do the same if I could see no other recourse.”
He let his gaze sweep the table, not bothering to hide his disgust. The Dellworthys and their guests averted their eyes. Only Lady Randolph, her face pale and composed, looked at him. Her hand, now resting on the table, slid a few inches across the starched linen before she jerked it back into her lap.
He frowned, his anger diverted as he noticed her nails were ragged and filed to the quick. No lady of the ton that he knew had such unkempt fingernails. Hers might have belonged to a child, one who compulsively bit them from nervous habit.
“Really, Blackmore!” Sir Philip's furious voice boomed out, bringing John back to the discussion. “It's treasonous to speak of such things. This is England, man, not France. We must crush these uprisings. Look at what happened to the Prince Regent just this past January. He was almost shot dead on his way to Parliament.”
Lady Dellworthy gave a faint shriek. “Oh, do not remind me, husband. I didn't sleep for weeks after that horrific event. To imagine the Prince murdered . . . it doesn't bear thinking about!”
BOOK: My Favorite Countess
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