Read My Favorite Countess Online
Authors: Vanessa Kelly
My Favorite Countess (4 page)
A charged silence fell over the room. His host glared at him and Littleton shook his head again, but John couldn't bring himself to apologize. He could forgive many things, including the Dellworthys' cheerful vulgarity and boastful displays of wealth, but not their callous lack of charity.
“Nothing about the Royal Family bears thinking about.” Lady Randolph's voice, as dry as the expensive champagne they drank, sliced through the tension. “A more useless lot has never walked the earth, and the Prince Regent is the worst of them. I, for one, thought it a great tragedy that the marksman missed his shot.”
Lady Dellworthy gasped with outrage. Out of the corner of his eye, John saw Miss Elliott grow rigid with indignation. But Littleton was having trouble repressing a laugh, and Lord Randolph, having been frozen into submission some time ago by one of Lady Randolph's killing glares, merely looked useless.
Lady Randolph carefully dissected a poached pear, seemingly oblivious to the salvo she had fired into the room. She glanced at him, and he caught a flash of mischief and of, what? Defiance in her bright eyes? As her gaze lanced through him, his anger drained away.
“Why, Lady Randolph, are you a radical?” His voice came out on a husky, deeper note, but he didn't care.
Her imperious eyebrows rose with elegant disdain. “Hardly, but I detest vulgarity. No one is more vulgar than the Prince Regent. He should be hanged for that offense, if no other.”
Sir Philip tried to stifle a groan and failed. He stared pointedly at his wife, social panic stretching his face into a grim mask.
Lady Dellworthy leapt into the breach. “Well, ladies,” she cried, lurching to her feet. “Shall we leave the men to their brandy and cigars?”
She scurried from the dining room before the men could stand, Miss Elliott and the other female guests trailing in her wake. Lady Randolph patted her pink mouth with a spotless napkin, rose in a leisurely, graceful movement, and nodded to the men. They came to their feet as one, staring at her like a group of idiotic schoolboys.
He couldn't help but smile. Her ladyship had the tongue of a viper, but she was nothing short of magnificent.
As she drifted from the room, her soft green skirts whispering against a body made for pleasure, he felt every muscle tighten with an overwhelming sexual intent. It had been months since he'd taken a woman to his bed. If he had his way, that was about to change.
Bathsheba's migraine thudded inside her skull like the beat of a kettledrum. She supposed she could ask Lady Dellworthy for some headache powders, but her hostess would more likely give her arsenic. She almost couldn't blame her.
Blast.
What had possessed her to come to Blackmore's defense? The man had stated his case admirably. Not that she necessarily agreed with everything he said, but she loathed prattling fools, and both the Dellworthys fell into that category.
And the discussion about Mrs. McCartney and her baby had unnerved her. Bathsheba had also sat vigil by a child's sickbed, long years ago. She had watched helplessly as fever brought her sister to the brink of death, and then robbed her of any semblance of normal life. When Lady Dellworthy had brushed aside Mrs. McCartney's tragedy, she felt the old pain clawing at her heart. She should be grateful Blackmore had taken their hosts to task and saved her the trouble.
But then why had she jumped into the fray, except to respond to some elusive emotion she had glimpsed in his extraordinary gray eyes? She couldn't seem to attach a name to that emotion, and she didn't think she wanted to.
Miss Elliott cleared her throat, glowering at her from across the tea table, as did Mrs. Spencer and two other women whose names she couldn't remember. They must think they harbored a seditious traitor in their midst, although Bathsheba couldn't think of one person in London who didn't hold Prinny in complete contempt. But that kind of opinion would never do in the country, especially amongst the womenfolk.
“More tea, countess?” Lady Dellworthy regarded her as one might a rabid dog.
“Yes, thank you,” she replied, handing over her cup with a smile. Her hostess took it and snatched her arm away, as if she expected Bathsheba to take a bite out of her flesh. She refilled it, then gingerly slid it back across the table.
Bathsheba repressed a sigh. Perhaps she should fall to the floor and begin foaming at the mouth. They likely wouldn't be a bit surprised.
Tomorrowâand her return to Londonâcouldn't come soon enough.
The conversation picked up again, but the other women pointedly ignored her. As she sipped her teaâan excellent and very expensive Lapsang souchong, of courseâBathsheba tried to amuse herself by wondering when respectable women had begun to hate her so much. It had happened so gradually that at first she had barely noticed, or had written it off to envy. But even before Reggie's death the slights had become obvious, thanks in large part to the rumors of her adulterous affairs. Rumors started by her insanely jealous husband. It didn't used to bother her, but now she wished she could talk as other women talked, about the things women talked about. But she had lost the knack for domestic conversation long ago.
The doors of the blood-red drawing room swung open and the men came in. Matthew threw a nervous glance around the room, as if half expecting that Bathsheba would have knifed the ladies while the men sipped brandy and discussed politics. In a reversal of the natural order, the other men avoided her as well, taking empty seats away from the tea table or squeezing onto the sofas and love seats with the other ladies.
All except the annoying Dr. Blackmore, who fixed on her like a hound on a scent. He strode straight across the room, hooked his arm around a chair, and pulled it right up next to her. She edged as far away from him as she could, disconcerted by the flush of heat that raced over her skin. Moisture began to mist her face and she had to resist the temptation to blot it away.
As Lady Dellworthy prepared his teacupâtreating him as if he belonged in a kennel with the other mad dogâBathsheba dared to give him a quick inspection.
Oh, Lord.
The man was handsome. Long and lean, but muscular. Broad-shouldered. And obviously easy in his own skin. Just sitting next to him made her pulse pound almost as hard as her throbbing head. She felt hot and jumpy, and wished she could call for her carriage, drag Matthew out by the ear, and flee to the uncertain safety of Compton Manor.
Even more alarming than his handsome face and big, masculine body was the way he had watched her all throughout dinnerâwith a predatory gaze all too familiar, since that was the way Reggie had studied her, too. The foolish girl inside still responded to that male intensity, preening with delight, even though the woman she had become knew how utterly dangerous a man in the grip of such a dark passion could become. Bathsheba had promised never to fall victim to that twisted emotion againâno matter how compelling the man who felt it might be. And the man sitting next to her was so much more compelling than her husband had ever been.
As Lady Dellworthy gave Blackmore his tea, her hand shook and the tea washed out of the cup and into the saucer.
“Oh,” she gasped. “Do forgive me, Dr. Blackmore. I don't know why I should be so clumsy.”
The doctor gave her a rueful smile. “You were no doubt unsettled by my foolishly heated arguments over dinner. Please forgive me, my lady. I can only hope you will excuse the poor manners of a man of science who ventures little into polite company.”
Lady Dellworthy relaxed under the easy warmth of his apology, rewarding him with a girlish giggle. In a trice, she seemed to have forgotten the whole episode, chattering on to him about a visit she planned to make to London.
Bathsheba swallowed an unladylike snort. Obviously the good doctor knew exactly how to behave in polite company, and wrap said companyâespecially the female varietyâaround his little finger. She suspected that ten thousand apologies on her part wouldn't make a whit of difference to Lady Dellworthy, or any other woman in the room, for that matter. But they all appeared to have quickly forgiven him, since they were now hanging on his every word with breathless anticipation.
She took a gulp of tea and burned her tongue. Cursing silently, she banged her cup and saucer onto the tea table, attracting both Blackmore's and Lady Dellworthy's attention.
“Is everything well, Lady Randolph?” the doctor enquired in a mild voice.
“Yes, thank you. Please continue with your conversation.”
Her hostess began to flutter nervously. Again. “If you'll excuse me, I'll just go see if Lord Randolph wants another piece of plum cake.” As Lady Dellworthy scuttled away, Blackmore switched his unnerving quicksilver gaze back to Bathsheba.
“Lord Randolph says you rarely visit Ripon, preferring to live in the city. Why is that?” he asked.
Blast the man. Why wouldn't he leave her alone?
“I should think the answer is obvious,” she replied in a nasty voice. “Because I hate the country.” Perhaps if she were rude, he would go away.
No such luck. Instead, he began to query her about friends, seeking to discover if they had any mutual acquaintances. He settled into his chair, long limbs relaxed, his manner casual, but she wasn't fooled. She saw the sharp gleam in his eyes and the hungry way he studied her mouth. Perspiration dampened the inside of her thighs and the back of her knees, and she had to call on all her discipline not to squirm in her seat.
After several minutes of conversationâstilted on her part, completely at ease on hisâBathsheba saw Miss Elliott make her determined way toward them. No doubt she thought to save the doctor from her infamous coils. Unfortunately the pursed-lip spinster didn't realize she was the one who needed rescuing.
Miss Elliott planted herself in Lady Dellworthy's vacant chair, looking down her thin nose at them from her selfrighteous heights. “Sir, Dr. Littleton tells me that you originally hail from the country. The Lake District, I believe?”
“That is true, Miss Elliott. I was born and raised in a village near Keswick.”
She bestowed a beneficent smile upon him while doing a fine job of ignoring Bathsheba. “So lovely, the Lake District. You must miss it. And you must be glad to escape the grime and heat of London in the summer to enjoy the quiet beauties of Ripon and the glories of the surrounding dales.”
Perhaps her headache was to blame, but Bathsheba could no longer tolerate more social inanitiesâor being treated like a pariah. “Good God, Miss Elliott. What are you talking about? The only thing worse than Yorkshire in the summer is Yorkshire in the winter. No person of intellect would want to spend any amount of time here. It's the most boring place on earth.”
Too late, she remembered the spinster considered herself a person of intellect. She sighed, inwardly correcting herself. The only thing more boring than Yorkshire in the summer was a bluestocking in a fit of pique.
Miss Elliott's firm mouth thinned into an outraged line. If the woman had a pistol, there was little doubt she would aim the damn thing at Bathsheba's head and pull the trigger.
At least that would get rid of this headache.
She choked back a laugh as the spinster excused herself and stalked across the room to join Matthew.
“Why do you do that?” Blackmore asked, looking irritated.
“I don't know,” she mumbled, suddenly tired of fighting. “Perhaps it's my headache. I believe someone is firing cannons inside my skull.”
He reached out a big hand and took her wrist in a light but firm grasp. She tried to jerk it away.
“What are you doing?” she spluttered.
“Feeling your pulse. Sit still,” he ordered.
She tugged, but his grip was unbreakable. Hard, warm fingers on the fragile skin of her wrist sent a shuddering wave of excitement through her veins all the way to her heart.
“Tumultuous,” he pronounced. “I'll send over a powder tonight and stop by Compton Manor tomorrow.”
“Don't bother,” she said, finally able to snatch her hand back. Clearly, he had let her do so. “I'm returning to London tomorrow. I'll be fine once I'm away from the quiet beauties of Ripon,” she finished sarcastically.
He regarded her with a cool arrogance. “I wouldn't advise that, Lady Randolph. You need rest, not travel.”
“Thank you for your advice, Doctor. Shall I pay you now, or will you send me a bill for your services?”
As he studied her, the flinty look in his eyes gradually softened. “It's obvious something troubles you, my lady. Tell me what it is. Perhaps I can help.”
She gasped, and he unleashed an engaging grin. Her heart fluttered madly in her chest.
“Doctors are all professional busybodies, Lady Randolph. We're trained to notice small thingsâsigns of trouble. Your nails, for instance. You bite them, don't you?”
Her throat closed around the pain that lodged there. She couldn't move or speak. But she must. She must get away. Blackmore was the most dangerous man she had ever met.
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