Secrets of a Proper Countess (7 page)

A frisson of annoyance shot through her. The daft man had no idea he'd made love to her only hours ago. Of course, a rogue like Blackwood was probably so used to such encounters that he forgot his lovers the moment they left his bed, or in this case, his borrowed bench.

She swallowed a hysterical giggle. It was a very good thing he did not recognize her. “Silly,” she murmured under her breath.

“Your pardon?” he asked, his eyes on her at last.

She felt her face heat. “Oh, it's nothing, Lord Blackwood.” She looked straight ahead, hiding under the brim of her bonnet. “Nothing at all.”

“You were Robert Maitland's wife?”

“Yes,” she replied simply, focusing on the movement of his polished black boots next to her gray skirts as they took each step. “He's dead,” she said, unsure of what else to add, feeling the butterflies beginning to circle her stomach again at the very idea of making polite conversation with Blackwood about her husband, of all topics.

He didn't offer condolences. In fact, he barely seemed to have heard. She fumed silently. Really, the man hardly deserved his reputation as a charming rogue. In the light of day he was a complete boor. His gaze roved over every other woman in the park.

Blackwood made it clear he found her dull in the extreme, and she was, she supposed, compared to the fashionably dressed ladies in his sights. Pride poked at her, goading her to anger. He did not even find her worth the effort of polite conversation.

She withdrew her gloved hand from his sleeve as if it burned and made a fist so tight the fine kid leather squeaked a protest. He paused to look at her, his expression patiently polite, the way one might look at an elderly and annoying dowager.

“Look, there are the boys.” She hurried toward Robin, desperate to get away from him so she could gather her wits enough to bid Marianne a proper good-bye.

Her mind worked to come up with a suitable excuse not to attend Miranda Archer's debut ball, but her brain was filled with only one thing.

Blackwood
.

She could not spend another evening in his disturbing company. He would not notice her, but she would be aware of every step he took, every society beauty he danced with.

She did not want to stand in the shadows and watch him spirit his next conquest away to the privacy of another dark garden. She shuddered, more with desire than disgust, even now. No, it was obvious her nerves could not handle the strain.

She would go home and compose a note refusing the invitation to the ball.

“Oh, Robin, you're very wet!” She bent to brush at the worst of the mud on his linen breeches. He grinned at her, flushed and happy.

“James has other ships at home. He said he'd bring them tomorrow. We're going to launch a whole fleet!”

“But Robin, we can't—”

“Oh, do say yes, Isobel!” Marianne caught her hand. “James would not have offered to share his precious ships if he didn't like Robin exceedingly well. Think of my poor great-aunt. She would be most grateful for an hour or two of silence, much as she adores Jamie.”

Isobel looked down at James De Courcey's earnest face.
He regarded her with his uncle's intense gray eyes. She read the plea there that was absent from Blackwood's flat gaze.

“Yes, all right.” She bit her lip, trying to think of a way to get her son out of his Latin lesson for the second afternoon in a row. Perhaps if Mr. Cullen accompanied them to the park and taught Robin the names of trees and flowers in Latin, it would suffice.

“Excellent! And you must come to tea sometime very soon, Isobel. Or I should call on you at Maitland House? Which would be better?” Marianne prattled on as if they'd known each other for years.

“We have appointments to keep, my dear,” Lord Westlake said, taking his wife's elbow. “You can send a note.”

“Just one?” Blackwood asked, smiling indulgently at his sister. “It usually takes Marianne at least six notes to arrange even the simplest tea.”

Isobel smiled. She couldn't help herself. Blackwood was so handsome, so charming as he teased his sister. He caught her expression from the corner of his eye and turned fully to look at her. Isobel bit her lip, felt herself grow hot under his stare.

“Have we met before, Countess?” he asked softly. “You seem…” His brow furrowed for a moment as his eyes moved over her again. “No, I am mistaken,” he said as his gaze reached the hem of her gray gown.

Pride commandeered Isobel's tongue and what was left of her wits. “No, my lord. I am most certain we have not. We hardly travel in the same circles.” She could have bitten her tongue in half. She sounded as prim as Evelyn Renshaw, as rude as Honoria.

She watched his eyes narrow at the set-down, and she turned away in horror to rub at the mud on Robbie's coat. She felt the cold dampness soak through her glove to her skin, and stared at her palm. The glove was ruined. She shut her eyes and her hand, and waited for serenity to return.

It hadn't really been an insult. Not with his reputation. Nor was it truly a lie when she said they had not met. He had spent an enchanted evening with an exotic lady called Yasmina. He had most definitely not met dull, dowdy, and dutiful Isobel, and he'd just proven that he would never even
glance
at her, never mind—Well, never mind indeed.

She clutched her son's small hand like a lifeline to sanity. “We must be going.” The words came out husky, breathless. She fixed her smile on Marianne, avoiding Blackwood's eyes. She could not look at him. Not now. Probably not ever again.

She managed a brief curtsy, turned away and let Robbie tug her toward Nurse, and safer ground. She dared to glance over her shoulder only once, but Blackwood's eyes were on a gaggle of chirpy females tripping along the path by the pond. She swallowed a bitter sigh.

She had been dismissed and forgotten.

“W
ell, I liked her exceedingly,” Marianne said as they drove away from the park. Jamie was asleep on his mother's knee, the precious model ship clutched under his arm.

“You can say that only because you never met Robert Maitland,” Adam said with disdain. “Am I right, Phin?”

Phineas was only half listening. He assessed and dismissed another group of ladies—not one of them was tall enough or graceful enough to be Yasmina—and looked at Adam blankly. Marianne laughed and swatted his knee.

“Pay attention, Phineas! We were talking about Isobel Maitland. I liked her, but Adam did not. What did you think?”

Adam interrupted before Phineas could reply. “I did not say I didn't like
her
. I said I did not care for her husband, or her brother-in-law, for that matter. You are most unfair, sweetheart. I hardly know the lady well enough after five minutes in her company to form an opinion.” He grinned at Phineas. “She set you on your ear, though. It was very smoothly done, was it not?”

An insult was an insult, and all the worse coming from a dull creature like Isobel Maitland. Phineas opened his mouth to say so, but Marianne cut in.

“Never mind, Phin. You'll have ample opportunity to
change Isobel's mind. She's coming to Miranda's debut. You can dance with her, escort her in to supper and charm her into thinking well of you.”

Phineas suppressed a shudder. Dance with her? Escort her? Why should he?

“Are you certain she plans to attend?” Adam asked. “If that horribly dull gown she was wearing was any indication, it looks as if she's still in mourning, and won't be doing any dancing. Either that or she's about to take holy vows and become a nun, eh, Phin?”

Phineas didn't bother trying to answer. He'd almost forgotten how impossible it was to get a word in when Adam and Marianne were arguing, or
discussing,
a situation they felt passionately about. He had absolutely no intention of dancing with the insulting frump. He'd save his charity dances for deserving ladies like Great-Aunt Augusta and Evelyn Renshaw.

“Since when did you start noticing ladies' fashions, Adam?” Marianne sniffed. “And such a critic too! Of course Isobel's coming. She said she'd received an invitation.”

Phineas glanced at her as she paused for breath, a rare occurrence with Marianne.

“Actually, I think I shall send a personal invitation to Isobel the moment we get home. Her son is a perfect playmate for Jamie.”

“Ah, so that's it,” Adam crowed. “Next you'll be declaring Phineas the perfect escort for the boy's mother too, and demanding that he come to tea with her, and squire her to the opera, and the theatre, and—”

Phineas stared at his brother-in-law in horror. Even in jest, making such a suggestion to Marianne was like waving a red flag before a bull. She'd charge it without a second thought as to how it would affect
him
.

“Adam, don't even—” Phineas began, but Marianne rounded on her husband, the fire in her eyes consuming
every ounce of Adam's attention. Phineas ran a finger under his cravat. It was getting warm in the confined space of the coach.

“I don't see why he should not do so. She is a lovely person!”

“She's dull,” Adam said.

“The cut and quality of her garments were of the best.”

“She's prim.”

“She has excellent manners! If you'd bothered to look, you would have noticed that her eyes were pretty, and she is a lady to her fingertips!”

“Despite her mud-stained gloves, I suppose,” Adam muttered. “And you know very well that you'd have my hide for stockings if I dared to notice another woman's pretty eyes. And what about the set-down she handed Phin without so much as a blush? Phineas hardly deserves to be saddled with her. Did he do you some dreadful childhood wrong, that he owes you such a debt?”

“Really, Adam, it isn't going to—” Phineas started again, but Marianne was glaring at her husband, and Adam was glaring back. His sister never looked away first, and Adam was just as stubborn. Phineas sighed and gave serious consideration to throwing himself out of the moving coach.

When the vehicle pulled up at Augusta Porter-Penwarren's vast mansion, Marianne let the footman take her sleeping son, and stalked up the steps into the house in high dudgeon. Adam looked after her hungrily, and Phineas rolled his eyes. Fighting always ended this way for the Westlakes. No one would see either of them for the rest of the afternoon.

Adam waited until his wife entered the house and the door closed behind her before turning to look at Phineas. “There. That's settled. You understand what you have to do?”

Phineas raised his eyebrows. “Not in the least.”

“Did you know Lady Isobel's husband was shot and killed
during a smuggling raid? Since her brother-in-law might likewise be up to something he shouldn't be, I'd say Marianne's budding friendship with the widow makes a perfect opportunity to find out more. Use your seductive touch,” Adam ordered. “Consider it duty, old man. It will also make Marianne happy, and it will keep you out of trouble while your grandfather is in Town.” He glanced at the front door. “Look, I dare not let Marianne's anger simmer too long. I won't bother to ask you in. With Miranda's ball tomorrow night, it's sure to be hell's playground inside. My coach will take you wherever you wish to go.”

Phineas watched him climb the steps two at a time, hot on his wife's trail, and ordered the coachman back to White's. In a single day his life had become even more of a complicated tangle of intrigue and mayhem than it usually was.

He stared at the model ship that had slipped from Jamie's hands in his sleep and now lay forgotten on the floor of the coach. He was tempted to redirect the coachman to the docks and get on the first outbound ship he came to. He shut his eyes and rubbed the idea away with thumb and forefinger. He could not, of course. He had work to do, and his sister was making her debut and had asked for his company.

Most of all, he wasn't going anywhere until he found Yasmina.

I
sobel slipped through the front door and headed for the stairs. She stifled a cry of surprise as Jane Kirk threw open the doors of the salon and pinned her to the wall with a look of triumph. She was caught. She peered over Jane's shoulder to see Honoria lounging on the settee, glaring at her.

“You are late again, Isobel. I hope there's a good explanation.”

Isobel untied the ribbons of her bonnet, using the few seconds it took to compose herself before answering. She silently cursed Blackwood. He'd rattled her senses and she could barely think. Fortunately, Nurse had taken Robin through the kitchen and up the back stairs so Honoria wouldn't see him.

“Mud!” Jane Kirk said in horror, and Isobel looked up, expecting to find her son dripping pond water on the hall floor, but her mother-in-law's companion was staring at Isobel's soiled gloves as if dirt might be contagious. Instinctively, Isobel clasped her hands behind her back, but the footman was waiting. Slipping the gloves off, she handed them to him, and sent Jane a single sweeping glare before lowering her eyes demurely. Then she followed the blue and white striped carpet to her usual seat in the salon, a straight-backed chair across from Honoria.

“What have you been doing all afternoon?” Honoria de
manded. With the point of a fat finger she indicated that Jane should refill her teacup.

“I had an appointment with my modiste,” Isobel said. “I believe I mentioned it at luncheon.”

Honoria sniffed. “It took rather a long time for a simple fitting. If the woman is so slow, we'd be better to switch your patronage to my modiste. She is more expensive, of course, but we could cut your allowance in another area—”

“No!” Isobel blurted. Honoria and Jane stared at her in open-mouthed surprise, resembling fresh-caught gudgeon in a fish market. She swallowed the lump in her throat and tried again. “No, thank you, Honoria. The shop was just busy today, with the start of the Season upon us.”

“But you are a countess and you should receive the service due to your title.”

Isobel raised her chin. No one ignored her title more thoroughly than Honoria herself, but there was no point in reminding her mother-in-law that she outranked her socially. “Of course, and Madame is always very prompt, but afterward I went for a stroll with Robin and his nurse in the park.” She tossed out the small admission like bait to a hungry dog.

“Was the earl in the mud?” Jane asked, casting a look at Honoria that spoke of disobedience and dishonor.

“Of course not!” Isobel said quickly, praying that they did not send for Robin to check.

“Then where did the mud on your gloves come from, Countess?” Jane Kirk asked, her tone dripping with deference, and at odds with the glitter of suspicion in her eyes.

“A careless coachman, I'm afraid. I was splashed as he passed—slightly—when I left the modiste's,” Isobel lied, her tongue thick and slow on the words. She managed a tepid smile as Jane handed her a cup of tea.

The clock ticked as Honoria assessed her in silence, chomping on a biscuit. It had been a horrible day. First, her
indiscretion with Blackwood had plagued her. She still felt a wicked tingle at the memory. Then, the stupid man had not even recognized her. How could he be so dense? Her hands shook and she set her teacup down so the rattle of the china wouldn't give away her turbulent emotions.

Once Honoria released her, she would have to go upstairs and write a note to Marianne, making her excuses for not attending the ball. A headache perhaps, or a case of plague.

The door opened and Isobel jumped. The butler entered with a silver tray. “A letter has arrived for you, Countess.”

“A letter?” Honoria screeched. “Who on earth is it from? Bring it to me at once, Finch.”

The butler knew better than to argue. He crossed the room and held the tray before Honoria.

Isobel's throat tightened. What if it was from Blackwood? What if he'd recognized her after all? What would such a letter say? The wicked things he'd murmured in her ear flew through her mind. She pressed a hand to her hot cheek.

Honoria glared at the initials that indented the red sealing wax. “I don't recognize this seal,” she said suspiciously as she unfolded the letter and read it.

Isobel waited, her heart climbing into her throat, her brain working frantically to think of a way to deny she had ever even seen Evelyn's garden, let alone—

Jane Kirk, who was reading over her mistress's shoulder, gasped. Honoria gave an odd squawk, and Isobel half rose from her seat, her heart thundering. She should have known he would not be discreet. She had flouted the terms of Robert's will, and now she would be banished, driven out, and would never see Robin again.

“I can explain,” she pleaded, her head buzzing as if it were filled with bees.

“Countess Westlake!” Honoria cried. Isobel watched in
bafflement as a grin oozed over every jowly inch of Honoria's countenance. “Countess Westlake, granddaughter of the Duke of Carrington, sister to Lady Miranda Archer!” she said, as if she were announcing Marianne's arrival. “How on earth did
you
form such a connection?” she demanded.

Isobel's breath stuck in her throat. Honoria didn't look angry. She didn't look suspicious or vengeful. She looked utterly delighted.

The sight struck terror into Isobel's heart.

“I—” she began, and stopped, wondering if she dared admit the truth. “I—I met her just this afternoon.”

Honoria clasped the letter to her bosom, her face wreathed in a ghastly yellow-toothed grin. “Her grandfather is a duke, her husband one of England's wealthiest earls! How fortuitous!” Even Jane Kirk was regarding Honoria with concern now.

“Do you know her?” Isobel asked, her voice a thread of sound.

“Know her? No, of course
I
don't know her!” Honoria turned to Jane. “Don't stand there gaping. Fetch Charles at once. He's in his study, I believe.”

“Actually, my lady, he's in the billiards room,” Jane murmured tartly.

Honoria wasn't listening. Her eyes were fixed on Isobel, glowing, as if lit by some unholy fire inside. Isobel schooled her features into the perfect dullness that had become second nature. She might appear as blank as a wall, but her cheeks burned as if she was too close to the fire, and her forbidden silk undergarment was clinging to her sweaty skin.

“What is it, Mother?” Charles asked impatiently, returning with Jane. He ignored Isobel entirely.

“Charles, you'll never guess who Isobel has become acquainted with!”

“The Prince Regent? King George himself?” Charles said without interest, taking a fresh-baked ginger biscuit from the tea tray and flopping into a wing chair.

“Countess Westlake!” Honoria crowed.

“So?” Charles asked, blowing biscuit crumbs over his waistcoat.

“I assume Isobel met her at the modiste's,” Honoria said. She fixed Isobel with a sharp stare. “What did she purchase? What color was it, what fabric?”

Isobel couldn't recall a thing about what Marianne had been wearing, but she could have described every crease in Blackwood's cravat. “Actually, I met her by chance in the park. She was there with her son, Viscount Halliwell. He's the same age as Robin, you see, and they—”

“You allowed Robin to play in the park?” Jane Kirk began, but Honoria waved her to silence.

“And now she has sent you a personal invitation to her sister's debut ball!”

“She has?” Isobel croaked. If the vague spark of interest in Charles's eyes and Honoria's grin were anything to go by, she'd never be able to bow out of attending now.

“Yes!” Honoria handed the letter to her at last. “You should have told her we had received an invitation, of course, and mentioned Charles's name, and mine.” Isobel tried to focus on the elegant script, but she recalled Westlake's flat expression when she had confirmed that Charles Maitland was her brother-in-law. Still, she saw an opportunity for Robin, and leapt at it.

“Robin gets on well with her son James,” she said, raising her eyes to meet Honoria's. “In fact, Countess Westlake has invited us to tea so the boys can—”

“To tea!” The hectic fuchsia shade of Honoria's face was quite alarming. “Jane, go and fetch paper and ink. She must accept at once. It is a most marvelous connection! I will ac
company you, of course,” she said. Even Jane Kirk looked impressed now, though she tried to hide it.

Isobel clenched her hands in her lap, heard the paper crumple in protest and smoothed the letter against her knee.

“It will be some days before we can think of calling, Honoria. They are quite busy with arrangements for Lady Miranda's debut, and Robin has his lessons.” She almost bit her tongue, saying such a thing.

Honoria ignored the objection. “Charles! Do you understand what this means? Isobel can arrange your introduction to Lady Miranda!”

Charles looked at Isobel as if seeing her for the first time. “Well, well. How fortuitous indeed.”

“You shall court her, Charles, and Isobel will be there to speak well of you, to encourage the young lady to look fondly on you. Why, by the end of the Season you could find yourself betrothed to the granddaughter of the Duke of Carrington. How famous!” Honoria was giggling with pleasure now, her whole body vibrating with delight at her scheme.

The tea gathered itself into a tidal wave in Isobel's stomach. She wished she'd never met Marianne Westlake, even if it meant a friend for Robin. Just a slip of the tongue and Blackwood's name might come up. She leapt to her feet, and three pairs of sharp eyes fixed on her like rapiers, ready to kill the slightest objection to their plans. She fixed her gaze on the floor, sure her sins were written in her eyes.

“Would you excuse me? I have a slight headache.”

For once she didn't wait to be dismissed.