Read My Favorite Countess Online
Authors: Vanessa Kelly
My Favorite Countess (5 page)
He gazed down into her face, waiting confidently for her to break. She dredged up every ounce of willpower, calling on years of discipline, hard-fought and won in the face of her husband's tormenting ways.
Forcing herself to rise gracefully from her chair, she signaled with a nod to Matthew that she wished to go home. She turned and glanced down at the doctor. He looked anything but pleased.
“You flatter yourself, Doctor,” she said coldly. “I have no troubles. And if I did, you would be the last man on earth I would go to for help.”
Chapter 3
Matthew stared at Bathsheba, his irritation obvious even in the dim light of the coach lamps. Despite the shadows obscuring his face, she couldn't mistake that look. Sadly, they had at least another twenty minutes to Compton Manor. Plenty of time for a lecture from her aggrieved cousin.
“Good God, Sheba. Must you always play the harridan when you come to Ripon? For once, you might think about how your behavior reflects on me.”
She rounded her eyes, feigning confusion. Then she fluttered her lashes, just for good measure.
“Stow it, cousin,” Matthew growled, his basset face unusually fierce.
She grimaced and braced herself as the carriage jostled through another craterlike hole.
“I'm sorry, dear,” she said, trying to sound apologetic. Matthew so rarely got angry she felt compelled to make amends. “I was joking, you know. I don't really think Prinny should be hanged. Not really. Well, maybe just a little.”
He ignored her halfhearted apology as he went on to catalogue all the offenses she'd committed over the course of the evening. She didn't try to defend herself, since she was guilty as charged. Her friends and acquaintances in London had grown used to her sharp tongueâthey expected and even looked forward to when she unleashed her vitriol on some hapless fool. She'd grown tired of the act some time ago, but it seemed like a second skin she couldn't shed.
Matthew finally wound down, subsiding into a grumpy silence. She dredged up a contrite smile, hoping it didn't look as rusty as it felt.
“I'm truly sorry, Matthew. If we ever have dinner with the Dellworthys again, I shall attempt to be on my best behavior.”
He snorted. “Don't count on any more invitations. Lady Dellworthy looked ready to bolt out the front door into the night.”
“Oh, no, dear. She would never do that. Not with all those evil gangs roaming the countryside, lying in wait to snatch up such a tasty morsel as Miranda Dellworthy.”
That won her a grudging laugh, but he still appeared troubled.
She sighed. “You can blame it on my dreadful headache. That part, at least, is the truth.”
Her head still throbbed to the sickening tempo of the migraine, one of her worst in months. Now that she thought about it, it had been foolish to refuse Blackmore's offer to send powders. These days the only thing that stopped the pain was laudanum, but she loathed the mental fog that came with it. Perhaps the doctor had some new potion in his bag of tricks that could provide her with some relief. But when he had gazed at her with that arrogant, all-knowing expression on his face, she had reacted instinctively, pushing back as hard as she could.
Bathsheba gave a little shiver as she recalled the feel of Blackmore's strong hand on her wrist. For those few seconds, while his long fingers probed for her pulse, she had forgotten her headache, the blood-red drawing room, and even Lady Dellworthy. She had been all sensation, the blood pounding through her veins as heat flushed her skin.
She shifted on the velvet squabs, irritated by the tightening in her belly and the growing softness between her thighs.
“Really, Matthew,” she groused, trying to divert her wayward imagination, “you can hardly blame me for losing my temper. Sir Philip and his wife are such parvenus. And that house. Ridiculous!”
“They're not my first choice for an evening's entertainment, either, but I won't excuse your behavior. However, I must say I found the rest of the company quite pleasant, didn't you?”
She rolled her eyes. Pleasant? Fearfully dull was more like it, with their supposedly happy marriages and their respectable lives, hiding any number of nasty secrets behind a facade of gentility. There were always secrets. Always nasty secrets. Bathsheba hated them for pretending otherwise.
Peering out the carriage window into the fading summer evening, she wanted nothing more than to brood in silence, alone with her gloomy thoughts. But those thoughts made her squirm even more, because once Matthew stopped his yammering all she could think about was Blackmore. The blasted doctor with his beautiful but merciless eyes had breached her defenses, trying to pull her own terrible secrets into the glaring light of day. Just thinking about the consequences of that revelation stole the breath from her lungs.
She fought back another shiver and huddled deeper into her silk cloak. With a little luck, she'd be back in London in a few days and would completely forget Blackmore.
Matthew cleared his throat and tapped his walking stick on the carriage floor. She met his gaze.
“Yes, Matthew?”
“What did you think of Miss Elliott? A most intelligent woman, wouldn't you say?”
The hesitant but eager note in his voice made her sit up straight. She studied his face, startled to see him looking so shy. Even in the dim light of the lamps, she could see him blush.
“Yes,” she answered cautiously. “Miss Elliott does appear to be a very intelligent woman.”
He grinned, reminding her of a happy dog that had just been tossed a hefty soup bone.
“Isn't she? And she's a wonder around the village. Reverend Spencer says he wouldn't know what to do without her. She's always full of schemes to help everyone, and does so much for the deserving poor.”
It took an effort, but she managed to hold back an acid retort on behalf of the undeserving poor. Do-goodersâespecially bluestocking do-goodersâmade her break out in a rash.
“Is that right?” she replied in a mild voice.
He nodded enthusiastically. “And do you know what else?”
“I can't imagine.”
“She loves antiquarian books almost as much as I do. Why, she said my latest
Canterbury Tales
is finer than any she has ever seen! And she should know, since her brother teaches classics at Oxford.”
Canterbury Tales
is finer than any she has ever seen! And she should know, since her brother teaches classics at Oxford.”
He prattled away, happily recounting Miss Elliott's many virtues, as Bathsheba's headache swelled to epic proportions. Doom had just edged a bit closer.
Matthew had feelings for Miss Elliott, and the force of that realization hit her like a blow. She quickly replayed the events of the evening, trying to recall the interactions between her cousin and the starched-up spinster. In the drawing room, they had chattered away with all the comfort of old friends. And now that she thought about it, Miss Elliott had seemed quite taken with Matthew. Either she returned his affections or she had lately discovered a burning ambition to become the next Countess of Randolph.
Which would make Bathsheba the dowager countess, totally dependent on a man who could be swayed by any woman with a strong will. And Miss Elliott's will was strong, indeed, almost as strong as her dislike of Bathsheba.
As she leaned her aching head against the squabs, visions of life in Compton Manor's shabby old dower house flashed through her brain. She would be forced to leave London. Her widow's portion was minuscule, since her father had been desperate to have the bulk of her settlements at the time of her marriage. Only Matthew's generosity and her own ability to secure extravagant gifts from her lovers had allowed her to maintain an elegant lifestyle since Reggie's death.
She looked up to find Matthew eyeing her with a knowing arch to his eyebrows.
Oh, Lord. What else?
“You seemed quite cozy with Dr. Blackmore in your corner of the drawing room,” he said with a sly grin.
Bathsheba's mouth dropped open when he winked at her.
“Don't try to deny it,” he said with a waggle of his finger. “The man was clearly entranced with you. If you're looking for a husband, Sheba, you could certainly do worse.”
Frustration and nerves bundled into a hard knot in the center of her chest.
“Don't be ridiculous, Matthew. Dr. Blackmore is an immensely irritating man. Besides,” she said pettishly, “he's not nearly rich enough. And, he's also a physician. He must have to work all the time.”
Matthew shook his head. “Blackmore's not just a selfmade man. His family is good. Landed gentry somewhere up . . . now, where did Miss Elliott say he was from?”
“Keswick,” she replied, unable to stop herself.
“Right. His family is quite wealthy, too. Own a very tidy estate, so Miss Elliott says. Unfortunately, Blackmore is a younger son, so he won't inherit. But he must get some income from his family and I know he has a thriving practice in Mayfair. With a little luck, he could be as successful as Dr. Knighton, or at least that's whatâ”
“Miss Elliott says.” She finished his sentence in a waspish tone.
“I'm just saying you should keep him in mind,” Matthew replied in an injured voice. “Everyone in the room saw he was very interested in you.”
She scowled, annoyed by how much that pleased the foolish girl within. “Dr. Blackmore is the kind of man who flirts with any passably good-looking woman.”
He began to splutter in protest but she held up her hand.
“No more. We're in deep trouble, Matthew, and Dr. Blackmore is certainly not the answer. Our finances require a great deal more than he could provide. I'll return to London tomorrow, and I'm sure I can find myself a rich husband before the Season starts in October. The ground is rather thin in town these days, but I'll manage.”
He eyed her doubtfully but held his tongue.
“I don't even like Dr. Blackmore,” she snapped, unable to keep her mouth shut. “He can keep his pulse-taking and his advice to himself.”
Matthew's eyebrows shot up. She clamped her teeth shut, furious that she had revealed so much. Even with the blasted fellow miles away, Blackmore could make her blurt out the most foolish things.
Fortunately, the carriage had already turned into the long drive leading up to the manor and was now coming to a gentle halt by the south front door. Matthew helped her alight and she swept past him and into the hallway.
Sewell, the butler, gave a deep bow. “My lady.”
She continued past him, heading to the stairs. If she didn't take something for this migraine immediately, her head would explode.
“My lady.” Sewell's voice held a note of urgency.
She swallowed a groan and turned around, keeping one hand on the banister.
“Yes, Sewell?”
“An express came for you this evening, madam. From Thirsk.”
Alarm shot along her already jangling nerves. Her sister resided in Thirsk, with the Wilsons. They would never send an express unless something was very wrong.
She stood paralyzed on the bottom step, overwhelmed with dread, unable to face yet another addition to her enormous mountain of problems.
Matthew took the missive from Sewell and came to her side.
“Come, my dear.” He gently steered her into the library. “We'll read it together.”
She dropped wearily into the old leather armchair, praying that time would slow downâeven reverse itselfâas he brought her a large brandy.
“Do you want me to read it?” he asked.
She nodded, taking a gulp from the crystal tumbler. The liquor poured a welcome heat into her stomach and through her cold limbs.
Matthew scanned the short note, his brows drawing together in a heavy frown. Bathsheba's heart took a sickening dive to her feet.
“Rachel is ill,” he said. “Very ill. A putrid infection of the lungs that came on quickly.” He looked up, his droopy eyes full of sympathy. “The doctor is doing all he can, but . . .”
“Oh, God,” she whispered, fighting back a hollow, ringing despair.
She wanted to crawl away and hide. Someplace deep and dark, where she didn't have to think or be responsible for one more person. The thought of sitting next to Rachel again, watching the life drain out of her, was almost more than she could bear. Bathsheba knew how deadly these fevers could be, the havoc they could wreak. And, coward that she was, part of her feared that if she went to nurse her sister she would fall ill, too. She might end up like Rachel, her mind and body all but destroyed.
“You don't have to go,” Matthew blurted out, divining her thoughts. “The Wilsons will do all that needs to be done.”
For a moment, she gave in to the fear that seemed to reside permanently in her heart. As much as she loved Rachel, she had gradually come to loathe her sister's physical weakness. But Bathsheba was the weak one now, and she loathed herself for it.
She pushed herself out of the chair. “No. I must leave immediately. If you would see to the carriage, I would be grateful. It will only take me a few minutes to pack.”
“You can't leave now,” he exclaimed. “It's after nine o'clock.”
She moved toward the door, barely pausing to glance back. “It's not full dark yet, and the night promises to be fine. The moon's almost full and my coachman is used to driving at night.”
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