Romancing the Countess (13 page)

Authors: Ashley March

Tags: #Historical romance, #Fiction

BOOK: Romancing the Countess

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“Ah,” he said, their conversation from yesterday surfacing in his mind. The one he had tried throughout the night to forget. “You seek an apology for my rudeness.”

“No, I’ve accepted the fact that rudeness is inherent to your nature. Like your other flaws, it must be difficult for you to resist.”

Setting the pencil down, Sebastian slid his stool away from the easel so he could see her without obstruction. His fingers twitched with the impulse to remove her veil; all of a sudden he wanted to see if the mouth which had been so persistent in sulking earlier now tugged upward with her own wit. “My flaws, you say?”

“Are you surprised to hear the plural?”

“Yes, in fact. I wasn’t aware I had any.”

She snorted, which elicited the beginning of a chuckle from his throat. Stifling his laughter, he said, “Please, do go on.” Then he held up his hand. “Wait. Will it take very long to recite this list of the multitude defects in my character?”

The veil swayed as her head tilted to the side. “I’m not certain. I may not be able to remember all of them at the moment.”

“But you shall try.”

She nodded.

“And I shall paint.” He stood and walked across the garden path, the small rocks crunching beneath his feet. Even though he couldn’t see her eyes, he bent until they were at the same level. Reaching forward, he grasped the hem of her veil in his fingertips and raised his arms. Slowly, without any reason for such hesitation. Over the slender arch of her bodice, past the pale ivory column of her throat. Her mouth—he paused when it was revealed, pretending to lose hold of the hem. He stared at the bountiful curve of her lips, so full and lush that the small indent at the top of her upper lip was almost nonexistent.

He would never tell her that Angela’s mouth had not once entranced him like this.

Clenching the crepe between his fingers, he pulled the veil above her nose, the delicate sculpture of her cheeks. His eyes met hers, and he could no longer pretend they were a plain, ordinary brown. This close, amber striations glinted in their sherry depths, the color made even more stunning by the frame of her dark eyelashes, lavishly thick. Her breath drifted across his lips, an involuntary, invisible kiss, and Sebastian shook, his gloved fingers grazing the slope of her forehead as he dragged the hem over her head.

Immediately he spun upon his heel and returned to the easel, away from her wary gaze. Unable to deny how the breath surged from his chest and the blood pounded in his veins. Disturbed by the sudden, arousing effect of Leah George’s unveiling.

“Besides not letting me be alone with my guests, I suppose you don’t trust me to lift my own veil, either?” she asked. Her voice had lightened with an idle curiosity, and he could feel her watching him as he settled once more behind the easel.

“Consider it one of my flaws,” he said, striving for indifference. As if nothing untoward had happened. “You were going to enumerate them, remember?”

“Ah, yes. I believe I shall begin with . . . controlling.”

Sebastian stared at the sketch. Several outlines of leaves, the top of the garden wall, the curve of her cheek. No detail was yet given to her face, but he could imagine each feature, from the stubborn rounding of her chin to the hint of a widow’s peak revealed by her veil. Whether he wished it or not, every little aspect of her countenance was imprinted on his vision with startling clarity.

Speak
, he commanded himself. She was silent, waiting for him to respond to her comment.

“If I am controlling, it’s only to counterbalance the recklessness of your behavior.”

“Recklessness?” Her voice came from in front of the easel. “You mean my desire to go boating and practice my archery?”

“The house party. You know it’s inappropriate.”

“Hmm.”

He could almost see her accompanying shrug. But nothing could compel him to glance around the easel at the moment; he’d rather prefer her to be invisible than admit this physical attraction. Instead, he focused on drawing the lines of the brick wall.

“Another one, then,” she said a moment later. “You’re also very quick-tempered.”

“Rarely,” he amended, then frowned at the sketch. “And only with you.”

“No, no. You can’t blame me for your faults, Lord Wriothesly.”

“Yet you are the only cause for my aggravation.” Moving from the wall, he began the delineation of each leaf on the shrub to her right.

“I see. You refuse to accept responsibility for your own behavior. Shall the next flaw be cowardice?”

Even knowing she meant to provoke him, Sebastian couldn’t help the stiffening of his shoulders. “When may I begin to recount the list of your flaws, Mrs. George?” he asked, his gaze flickering to the blank expanse of her face on his portrait.

She laughed softly, and Sebastian closed his eyes. He shouldn’t be here. He should be in London with Henry, or now that it was August, moved to the country estate in Hampshire. He wasn’t supposed to be in Wiltshire with her, wishing she would confide her secrets to him, listening to the delight in her quiet chuckles, discovering an unexpected allure in her once rather ordinary appearance.

“You may begin now if you like,” she said, humor touching her voice the way he imagined it also lit her eyes. “But I can assure you that I’m already well familiar with each of them.”

With a deep breath, Sebastian lifted his pencil again, quickly finishing the shrub before he moved on to the next plant. “There is the difference between you and me, Mrs. George. I’ve learned from my mistakes. While you do not hesitate to recite my faults, I’m far too polite to do the same for you, though I may be sorely tempted.”

He waited, then smiled at the following silence. He rather enjoyed the feeling of putting her in her place.

“Self-righteous.”

The tip of his pencil stuttered, a long line marring the sketch.

“That’s another of your flaws,” she said. “In addition to being controlling, quick-tempered, and cowardly.”

Unaccountably, the smile stretched wider across his face as he tried to erase the stray mark. “Is that so?”

“Oh, but I forgot the rudeness. That’s how we began this conversation, after all.”

Sebastian selected his first watercolor, unable to stop smiling. “Tell me, Mrs. George. Is there anything at all in my character to recommend me?”

Again, silence followed his question.

“You know, this is where your habit of lying might be useful,” he said.

Another moment passed. “You have nice eyes,” she said at last, almost begrudgingly.

“Thank you. But I must point out that my eyes have nothing to do with my character.”

“Yes, well, that’s all I could think of. For the most part, I find you very irritating.”

Before he could stop himself, Sebastian leaned to the side to look at her. “That’s comforting to hear, for I don’t have very much regard for you, either.”

It was a mistake. Immediately, as his eyes met hers and he saw the reluctance in her matching smile, the futility of creating a faceless portrait became clear. Her features were still committed to his memory. His unanticipated and inappropriate attraction to her still remained.

“We’ve admitted it, then,” he said. “Neither of us likes the other. You will continue to do as you please, and I will continue trying to ensure your actions don’t lead to speculation about the truth. We are opponents.”

She nodded, her smile fading, her gaze never wavering. “Yes,” she replied firmly. “Enemies.”

Chapter 8

Tonight was a mistake. If Lord F—hadn’t consumed three glasses of sherry at dinner, I’m certain he would have seen us hiding there. Oh, but how I despise these clandestine meetings. Still, every stolen moment with you is worth a thousand scandals.

Later that night, after dinner and three rounds of whist, after everyone had retired for the evening, Leah lay awake. For nearly three hours, she’d been unable to erase from her mind the look in Lord Wriothesly’s eyes when he lifted her veil in the garden. She told herself she was unsure about what she’d seen. She told herself she had to be wrong. Most of all, she argued that she hadn’t felt the same awareness of him, either.

As she prepared to turn to her right side yet again, a quiet knock came at the door. Leah gladly answered the summons.

It was the butler, Herrod, a lamp lighting the crags at the corner of his mouth and the hint of jowls sagging from his chin. “Pardon me, Mrs. George, but it appears one of the guests has availed himself of the late Mr. George’s brandy. He’s in the study, and became quite surly when I suggested he retire for the night. Would you like me to leave him?”

Leah pulled her wrapper tighter around her waist. “Who is it?” she asked, although she already suspected his identity.

“Lord Wriothesly.”

Nodding, she grabbed another lamp from her escritoire and prepared to leave, then thought better of it. “You may go on, Herrod. I’ll attend to his lordship in a moment.”

“Very good, madam.”

Closing the door, she set the lamp aside and searched for a cloak to wear over her wrapper, a pair of shoes to slip on her feet, and a handful of pins to secure her hair in a bun at her neck.

Then she checked the mirror to ensure there was nothing improper in her appearance, reached for the lamp again, and headed downstairs.

Wriothesly was sitting upon the sofa before the fire when she arrived. At the sound of the door opening, his head turned toward her. She didn’t know what she’d planned on saying to him, but at the sight of his fevered eyes and flushed cheeks, she faltered.

“Lord Wriothesly?”

He didn’t answer.

“Are you—are you quite all right? Herrod told me you were here.”

She inched toward the sofa, unnerved by the way the flames and shadows reflected in his eyes, setting an unholy gleam in his gaze. She would have welcomed any words to break the silence, even if it meant another lecture. But he only continued to stare, watching with a savage intensity as she approached.

She came to a halt a few feet from him, at the end of the sofa. “Would you like me to retrieve a footman?” she asked. “Do you need assistance returning to—”

“Come closer.”

The words were low, not slurred as she’d expected. Still, she spied a brandy decanter clutched in one hand and a snifter in the other. The decanter was nearly two-thirds empty.

“Come, Mrs. George. Do not act the timid waif with me now. I’ve been waiting for you.”

She remained firmly in place. Even though she wouldn’t ordinarily consider Wriothesly a dangerous man, something about the way he looked at her made her think that she had a right to be timid tonight. In fact, she should probably run back to her bedchamber and let him drown his grief and anger with the liquor. But although she didn’t take a step forward as he requested, neither did she retreat.

“Why have you been waiting for me?” she asked, folding her arms across her waist as if it could provide a buffer from his gaze. As much as she loathed her widow’s entrapments, she wished for the security of her veil tonight.

His eyes narrowed at her disobedience, but then he shrugged and poured himself another finger of brandy. He consumed it with one swallow, tilting his head back so that the firelight stroked across the muscles of his throat as he drank.

Leah averted her gaze to the decanter, concentrated on the side-to-side swirl of liquid as it slowly steadied. When the snifter lowered beside the bottle on his lap, she looked at him again.

He was smiling, but it wasn’t a real smile. Only one side of his mouth angled upward, his lips stretched not with humor but with a challenge. “Come closer, Mrs. George,” he repeated. “I wish to smell you.”

Yes, he’s drunk
, she decided. Fortified by this conclusion, she laughed and lowered her arms. Leaning against the arm of the sofa, she asked, “Smell me, my lord? Haven’t you already said I don’t smell like a woman? Surely there’s no reason—”

He waved her off with the decanter. “I don’t remember what you smelled like in the garden today. I want to know if you’re wearing the rose perfume again.”

Leah shook her head. “My lord, I know that you’re inebriated, but I don’t understand your meaning.”

“Last night. I saw you, in that same cloak, walking up the stairs. You smelled like roses, and I thought . . .” His brow lowered, and he looked away, into the fire.

“I was in the flower garden.”

“Yes. Of course you were.”

“The roses are in bloom.”

He nodded, then poured more brandy into his glass.

“But . . .” She gave a disbelieving laugh. “You thought I wore rose perfume for you? Because of what you said?”

He swallowed the entire amount again.

“My lord, I do believe I shall have to add ‘arrogant’ to your list of flaws.”