To Tame A Countess (Properly Spanked Book 2) (28 page)

“I say,” Lord Townsend interrupted in a sharp voice. “Perhaps you will upset the ladies with this sort of talk. Especially over dinner.”

“You shot an elephant?” cooed Lady Astbury, not sounding upset at all.

“Yes, my chaps and I. It wasn’t an easy thing. But best of all were the tigers we shot in India. You couldn’t believe how big they were, and how sleek and fast.” He threw back his head and gave a poor imitation of a tiger’s snarl. Josephine balled her fists in her lap to keep herself from throwing her glass in his face. “I’ve a tiger skin on the floor of my study now,” he went on, “and a great, vicious creature it looks. We shot one of the biggest males in the pride, or whatever their groups are called. Packs?”

“I believe a group of tigers is called a streak,” said Lord Merryworth. “Perhaps Lady Warren will know.”

Josephine couldn’t do anything but stare at her plate and seethe in silent hatred.

“Did you know a group of martens is called a richness?” she heard Lord Townsend ask. “I learned that at Oxford, along with a great many other useless things. Say, Merryworth, you’re an Oxford man too, aren’t you?”

Josephine was grateful for his efforts at changing the topic, but the other ladies and the pompous man—Lord Westmoreland?—couldn’t seem to let it rest.

“I believe you must have ventured into a jungle to find those tigers,” said Lady Astbury, leaning across her soup to bat her lashes at the man.

“Oh, yes, we did. Humid, ghastly places, jungles. Nothing like the wide, rolling fields of England.”

“It sounds so dangerous,” said Lady Burke, simpering as if she were not a woman of sixty years or greater.

“It was, I warrant, but I was a young man full of myself, and I had no fear.”

“Because you had rifles, you and all your cohorts.” Josephine snapped her mouth shut as soon as she realized the sharp words had come from her.

“Well, I wasn’t going to bring the beast down with my bare hands,” the man joked in the silence following her remark. “I’m not that brave.”

“I don’t think you’re brave at all,” she said in a heated voice. “And I don’t think you ought to be bragging about killing a majestic, wild creature that only wished to be left alone.”

Now everyone was staring. Lord Westmoreland thrust his chin out a little as he leaned back in his chair. “Now, Lady Warren, I gather you have a soft spot in your heart for animals, but tigers are vicious beasts that hunt and kill without remorse. The world can do with a few less, in my opinion.”

“They hunt and kill for survival, not for sport, which is more than I can say for you,” she replied, scowling at the odious man. “And what of the poor elephant you shot a dozen times? They’re gentle and peaceful. I can’t believe you killed one for the mere fun of it, and that you’ll crow so proudly about it here, among civilized company. Hunting trophies, indeed. I suppose it makes you feel very important to tread over your tiger carpet, but I find the idea of it revolting in the extreme.”

She realized the room had gone quiet, and that, at some point, she had taken to her feet. Lord Townsend stared at her, wide-eyed, as if she’d lost her mind. None of the other gazes she met were friendly, and Lord Warren was too far away to save her from this debacle, even if he could.

There was no way she could sit back down and continue to eat as if nothing had happened, and there was no way to disappear into the floorboards, so she did the only other thing she could. She lifted her skirts, turned toward the door, and fled.

Josephine found her way outside, brushing past a footman onto the now-deserted grand colonnade. What a monumental mistake she had made. What a disaster, to cause a scene before everyone, before Townsend and Aurelia and Arlington, and Lord Stafford, and all her husband’s most powerful friends.

She buried her face in her hands, trying to catch her breath. She had to get away. She had to go hide, and cry, and tear at her hair in frustration. All her hard work to fit into society, destroyed in one undisciplined outburst. Why couldn’t she be like Aurelia, sitting so calmly and politely? Or the other ladies, so confident in their manners?

She knew why. She didn’t belong with these people and she never would. She was a shabby baroness of a shabby manor in the country, raised in ghastly jungles amidst vicious beasts. She was the dreaded
baga lika
, and she’d never be anything more, no matter her husband’s riches or political career. She stumbled forward, looking up and down the line of carriages for one she recognized, but there were too many to count. She reached to pull her wrap closer around her and realized she had left it behind.

“You can’t do anything right,” she said to herself. “Stupid, stupid girl.”

“Josephine!”

She turned at her husband’s voice. He’d emerged from the house with her wrap bunched up in his hands, and covered the ground between them in great, angry strides. “Josephine Bernard, you utter madwoman. What on earth were you about, attacking the Earl of Westmoreland in front of two hundred of his peers? Have you completely lost your mind?”

She angled herself away from him. “I want to go home.”

“Oh, you’re going home. You’re certainly not going to rejoin the dinner after you made such a spectacle of yourself. Here.”

He thrust the wrap toward her, and helped her bundle it over her shoulders while lecturing her in a scathing voice. “I can’t imagine what you meant by that display. Standing up and shaking your finger at Westmoreland as if he were some errant schoolboy. My dear, he is the head of Parliament’s foremost political committee, not to mention a senior member in the ministry of finance and reform.”

“How was I to know that?” She bristled. “He shoots tigers and lions and elephants for sport. Only to kill them! To make carpets for his study!”

“Plenty of gentlemen kill for sport. It’s not your place to judge. It’s your place to sit quietly and look pretty and—”

“And simper in a sweet little voice what a marvelous hero he is? I can’t do it. I can’t bear this anymore. I hate all of these people.”

“Hush.” He put a finger over her mouth as her voice rose in volume. “That’s all we need to complete the performance, is you standing out here raving at the top of your lungs.” He looked back over his shoulder. In the darkness, Josephine imagined the guests spying on her, pulling back curtains to gape and twitter and tsk at the daft countess. She shivered in revulsion. She couldn’t bear to feel this way ever again.

“Come along to the carriage.” At some point he must have signaled it, for the correct one came rolling to the front of the house. “I don’t know why you couldn’t bite your damned tongue for propriety’s sake. All English ladies do it. It’s not that hard. You might have told me later, amongst ourselves, that Westmoreland annoyed you. I would have agreed with you. You might have privately expressed your anger, even your outrage, and I wouldn’t have faulted you for it, but no, you must rail at him before everyone. You must make a great dramatic scene.”

“I didn’t mean to,” she cried. “It’s only that they wouldn’t stop talking about my exotic travels, and giving me those looks, like I’m some half-dressed native sitting at the table.”

“You’re the only one who sees that,” he said, throwing up his hands. “You believe it about yourself and so you think everyone believes it. They were talking about hunting, for God’s sake, not you and your blasted tiger, or the way you grew up. I thought you had left all that behind by now. You looked beautiful tonight, every inch a civilized and dignified lady, and then you opened your goddamned mouth.”

She stared at him, at his pursed lips and his hard blue eyes. She hadn’t believed him capable of such cruel words, such heartless disregard for her struggles. She had only been trying to please him. “I won’t talk anymore, then,” she said, fighting tears. “I won’t say a word ever again, not to you or anyone.”

“I wonder how long that will last,” he scoffed.

“Forever. I’ll go away. Then you won’t have to listen to my ‘goddamned mouth’ ever again.”

He took her arm hard, almost painfully. The groom stood by the carriage steps, pretending not to notice. “Listen to me, dearest,” he said through gritted teeth. “You are going absolutely nowhere, except home to await me in your room.”

“You said I could go away if I wanted,” she reminded him a bit hysterically. “You said I could hide in the country.”

“And you said you would try to do better, so you wouldn’t have to,” he snapped. “Is that what you did this evening? Tried to do better? It didn’t seem so to me, when you were throwing a tantrum in front of my entire set, even Lord Stafford, for God’s sake. Was that your intention, to humiliate me to the worst possible degree in front of everyone I know?”

She shook off his grip and pushed him away. “I want to leave you,” she shouted. “I hate you for making me go to these things when it’s obvious I’m not happy. I hate you for making me smile and lie, and pretend to be content. All you care about is what other people think, and your precious political career. Why should you care about my feelings? I’m only your wife.”

“Josephine,” he said in a warning tone. “That’s enough.”

“I want to leave you,” she said again, her voice rising over his. “I want to go away and live on my own, away from these people you call your friends.”

He clasped her arm harder, pulling her right against him. “You’re not leaving me, you understand? I never should have said that, because I won’t allow it.”

“You can’t stop me. I’m a baroness with my own land and fortune.”

His derisive snort hurt even worse than his grip on her arm. “Your land and fortune? Good luck with that, darling.”

She stuck her chin out. “I have enough to get by. Enough to live quietly and comfortably, which is all I ever wanted to do. And you’ll be happy to be rid of me.”

He scowled down at her, not answering. What did she want him to say? That she was wrong? That he needed her and loved her? Tonight’s events proved beyond a doubt that he’d be better off without her. He probably wished at the moment that he’d left her to Stafford. Stafford ought to have been her fate.

“Why can’t you just let me be who I am? An inappropriate and awful person whom no one likes?” Her voice rose to a shriek. “I won’t change, not ever. This is who I am and who I’ll always be. I’m going to Maitland Glen and I’m going to stay there, and you can’t stop me.”

The groom witnessed all of this, blank-faced, the door in his hands. Warren’s expression broke her heart. He felt no pity, no sympathy.

“You are ridiculous when you get this way.” He hustled her up the steps and into the carriage’s dark interior. “I can’t even speak to you in this state. But rest assured we’ll continue this discussion later.”

She had very little trouble understanding the tone of threat in his voice. This continuation would doubtless include some sort of severe punishment. Anxiety rose and constricted her throat.

“I don’t want to discuss anything,” she said. “I’m going to Maitland Glen.”

“Like hell you are. You’re going home to wait for me, as I instructed you. In the meantime, I have to go back in there to try to fix the damage you caused. I’ll have to tell everyone some made-up story about why your nerves were frayed to the breaking point, so they can talk about that rather than your melodramatic tirade.”

“People shouldn’t kill tigers,” she yelled as he backed down the steps. “Even pompous Lord Wester-whoever-he-is.”

“Westmoreland. Damn you, Josephine,” he yelled back, slamming the carriage door.

She was shut in darkness, cradled in the cushioned luxury of her husband’s largesse. Silence resounded after their heated exchange and her arm throbbed where he’d gripped it. She felt as if she were falling to pieces, one trembling limb at a time.

Why had he said such things to her? And why had she shouted back at him that she wanted to leave him? It wasn’t true. She only wanted him to accept her, to see her as more than some form of career currency. She needed him for his laughter and his smiles, and the way he encouraged her, but she’d failed him, and the truth was, she always would. She was a wild, pathetic creature like the poor elephants and lions that man had killed. Like the tiger on his study floor…

She knew she would dream of tigers tonight, toss and turn in terror-filled nightmares. Escaping that ballroom had been like running out into the jungle, fearful for her life. The feelings of danger and hysteria had been right there, vivid as the day her parents died. She put her head in her hands, chasing away the memories. Perhaps she ought to go back to India or Africa, where at least she wasn’t expected to fit in. But such travel was out of the question, at least for now.

There was only one place she could run to in England, one place that was completely her own, where she could hide from her pain and feelings and love for Lord Warren. Once she was there he would understand it was best, and perhaps he’d let her remain there.

It was her home, her only home, no matter how shabby and run-down it was.

*** *** ***

Warren knew he shouldn’t be at the club. He ought to be home working things out with his wife, but he was too disturbed by the wretched things they’d said to each other. Hated him, did she? He rather hated himself.

He’d sat down to a game of cards with Stafford, for no other reason than to punish himself for his actions. He was losing badly, but he deserved it and so he kept throwing down money and playing more hands. Finally Townsend showed up and extracted him from his spiral, inviting him to a quieter parlor for a drink.

Why not? He was already spectacularly drunk and hoped to be even drunker before he stumbled home to pass out. Towns caught him when he tripped and almost pitched to the floor. Not very dignified, falling down drunk. Certainly no more dignified than Josephine bawling out Westmoreland, but Warren was a man, and therefore permitted to publicly act like an arse every once in a while.

“Steady on,” murmured Townsend, leading him to a deep, upholstered bench. “You’re losing your touch, Warren. You used to be able to drink all of us under the table, and still get the prettiest ladies.”