How to Capture a Countess (Duchess Diaries 1)

by Karen Hawkins

  Sin paused, his hand hovering. “You think I’m controlled?”

  “More than most people, my lord. Not that it’s a bad habit, for it gives you great advantage in games of chance. It has not, however, been so propitious for your relationships.”

  “I don’t have relationships.”

  Dunn raised his brows as if that proved his point.

  “I don’t have them because I don’t wish to have them,” Sin said impatiently.

  Dunn bowed. “Of course, my lord.”

  Scowling, Sin slipped the pin into place. He might balk at the strictures of society, and refuse to socialize with the bland virgins his grandmother and great-aunt had been pushing his way since the day he’d inherited his title, but he wasn’t ‘controlled.’ He merely knew how he liked his life, and made certain it happened accordingly. Who didn’t? He was just fortunate enough to have the means to make it so. As for his relationships, he’d had plenty—more than his fair share, to be honest.

  It was silly to even think about Dunn’s unfounded charge. Besides, he had better things to do than deal with impertinence, like finding ways to get Miss Balfour alone, and avoiding Aunt Margaret’s infernal quizzing.

  Miss Balfour had thrown down quite a challenge, almost daring him to seduce her.

  She had a lot to learn. He’d already shown his cards, so now it was time to show her how well he could shuffle the deck. “Dunn, there’s no need to wait up on me.”

  “Staying out late, my lord?”

  “Not tonight. I plan on being in bed quite early, in fact.” He’d pursued Miss Balfour enough for today; it would be wise to give her some time to wonder what he might do next. There was nothing more seductive than anticipation.

  He had three entire weeks to show Miss Balfour how wrong she could be. Three luscious weeks, and he planned to enjoy every one of them. First, though, he had to assess the competition offered by his aunt’s guests. Smiling, he bid Dunn a good night and left his bedchamber.

  • • •

  Five minutes later, Sin looked about the sitting room. “Good God.”

  Aunt Margaret sighed. “I know. The new linings for the curtains are atrocious, aren’t they? I wondered at the Wellington Blue, for it seems an odd color to me, but Charlotte swore it was all the rage and I buckled. Now I’m stuck with them.”

  “I hadn’t even noticed your blasted curtains. These are the other guests?”

  “Why, yes.” She sniffed. “Sin, you smell of whiskey.”

  He grimaced. “My valet used it to clean the scrape on my chin.”

  Her gaze sharpened. “Oh yes. How did you get—”

  “It doesn’t matter,” he said shortly. “You were speaking of your guests?”

  She shrugged. “I believe you know most of them already.” She nodded to the small group sitting upon settees at the far end of the room, all dressed in the height of fashion and dripping with jewels. “You know Mr. and Mrs. Stewart, cousins of the Earl of Buchan, and their daughters, Isobel and Muriella.”

  The Stewarts all resembled one another in their weak chins and gray hair, even their middle-aged daughters. Mr. and Mrs. Stewart were in their eighties, so thin and slight that they looked as if a strong wind might blow them away. Beside them their daughters looked brawny, though one was tall and gaunt and the other short and squat.

  Margaret then gestured to two women who sat in a pair of chairs by the fireplace. “And I’m certain you’ve met Miss Fraser and Lady McFarlane, both excellent whist players.”

  Neither of the ladies in question looked well enough to sit at a card table. One of them had nodded off to sleep and the other didn’t appear to be far behind.

  “And over there is Mr. Munro.” Margaret gestured toward an older, quite plump man with a balding pate.

  “Why is he hovering over the port decanter?”

  “He always does. He’s an acquaintance of Roxburghe’s and is quite well-off, with a large estate near Stirling. Sadly, he’s turned into a horrid flirt and I now wish I hadn’t invited him.”

  “And the other elderly man?”

  “Lord Cameron is not elderly; he’s middle-aged.”

  Sin lifted his brows.

  “He’s a neighbor and a frequent whist partner when the vicar can’t make it.” Margaret regarded Cameron with favor. “You’ll enjoy him. He’s quite a wag when in his cups.” She beamed around the room. “As I said, none of them should be a stranger to you.”

  “Aunt Margaret, while I’m sure they’re all quite nice, these guests aren’t in your usual style. They’re all so—” He’d been about to say “old,” but then realized that most of the guests were near Aunt Margaret’s age or younger.

  “They’re all what?” The martial light in her eyes told him that she’d guessed what he’d been about to say.

  “They’re not . . . what I expected.”

  “What, or rather, who, did you expect?”

  “Mr. Bailey, Lord MacDonald, Earl Spencer, Miss Sontieth, Lady MacTavish—the ones you usually invite to your amusements.”

  “Ah, yes. Apparently there’s a horrible ague going about.”

  Something about the way she said that made him turn to regard her more closely. “Your younger friends have all fallen ill with the ague while the older ones have avoided it?”

  “Odd, isn’t it?” She didn’t meet his gaze, but instead fidgeted with an emerald bracelet clasped about her wrist. “But there’s no explaining an ague.”

  He wondered what bee had gotten into Aunt Margaret’s bonnet. “Miss Balfour and I will be oddities by virtue of our ages.”

  Margaret looked about the room as if surprised. “Oh dear,” she said. “I suppose you’re right. I never thought of it.”

  “Aunt Margaret, I don’t know what game you’re playing, but you’re playing deep. You have only ten guests total, and you usually invite twenty couples or more.” Now he’d have to work twice as hard to steal Rose away unnoticed. By virtue of not having gray or white hair, he and Rose would be instantly missed.

  He eyed his great-aunt with a narrow gaze. “What are you up to?”

  “Me?” Twin spots of color showed through the powder on her thin cheeks. “I’m not up to a thing. I’m merely trying to help.”

  “Help with what?”

  “You seemed interested in this Balfour gel, and I didn’t think you needed the competition of any other youngsters.”

  Sin almost choked. “Competition? You thought I couldn’t handle— Good God, madam! No one insults me the way you do.”

  She didn’t look the least put out. “That’s a pity. You’d be more bearable if people didn’t always fawn over you. And don’t tell me you’re not spoiled from it.”

  He scowled. “If you feel I’m too spoiled for good company, then I’m surprised you invite me here year after year.”

  “I do it because you’re my great-nephew, of course. In fact, you’re my favorite great-nephew.”

  “I’d never have known that by the things you say to me.”

  “Caring for someone doesn’t mean you’re always polite. Sometimes it means you tell them the truth, whether they wish to hear it or not. In fact, I’ve been wanting to discuss this with you for some time; over the years you’ve grown a little arrogant.”

  “Nonsense.”

  “It’s not your fault, of course. When your father and mother died, my sister thought thrusting all of the responsibility of the title directly on your shoulders would make you a man. It did, of course, but not necessarily the right sort of man.”

  “You’ve said enough, madam,” he said frostily. “Plenty of people have inherited larger estates and at younger ages.”

  “And with equally disastrous results,” she replied with asperity.

  “The Sinclair estate and house have never been in better repair.”

  “Oh, you’ve a knack for the management part of it, but it hasn’t been good for you. There’s been nothing—and no one—to challenge you and make you think about someone’s wish
es other than your own. And now that your brothers have all grown and married, you’re even more insufferable than ever.”

  Bloody hell, first Dunn and now Aunt Margaret. “If you feel that way, then perhaps I should leave.”

  “And miss spending time with Miss Balfour? And after I changed my guest list to give you an advantage?”

  “Damn it, I’m not trying to fix my interest with Miss Balfour!”

  Aunt Margaret arched a disbelieving brow. “If you’re not trying to fix your interest with her, then why did you demand that I invite her?”

  “My interest in Miss Balfour isn’t romantic in nature.”

  “My dear, what other interest can there be between a man and a woman?”

  “She has been a thorn in my side for a long time and I thought the time had come to remove that thorn. That is all.”

  “You’re not planning her some harm, are you?” The pugnacious angle of Aunt Margaret’s chin reminded him of his grandmother. “Let me remind you that this gel is a guest of mine, and my goddaughter. If she mentions one unacceptable incident, you will deeply regret it.”

  “Miss Balfour will have no reason to mention any ‘unacceptable incidents’ to you or anyone else.” I intend her to find every incident to be very acceptable. So acceptable that she’ll long for more.

  “I should hope not. The gel is under my protection while she’s under my roof and I won’t have her reputation impugned.”

  If Rose were an innocent, Sin would also be concerned about reputations and protections. But she’d clearly stated that she was a woman of experience. “If anyone is in need of protection, it’s not her. But that’s neither here nor there. Aunt Margaret, it’s time you stopped this infernal tendency to matchmake.”

  “Me? I didn’t even think of inviting Miss Balfour until you mentioned her.”

  “But you’ve already started meddling. Just look at the guest list.”

  “You must admit you could use some help. Miss Balfour is an attractive woman, and other eligible men—most of whom have better address than you—might outshine you.”

  “No one has better address than I do, when I wish it. As for Miss Balfour, she’s brown, freckled, and unfashionable. I doubt any other eligible males would pay her the least heed.”

  “She’s also lively, charming, and has a breathtaking smile.” Before Sin could reply, Margaret held up a hand. “Let us agree that Miss Balfour is not your usual sort. She’s very independent, and not at all a social climber, nor does she seem to care for fortune.”

  Sin frowned. “That is not my usual sort of woman. That is merely the type of woman my title and fortune attract.”

  Aunt Margaret’s brows lowered. “Sin, there will always be those who are attracted to us for our name and wealth, but there are also those who will wish to be with us simply because of who we are.”

  He laughed derisively.

  She bit her lip. “Oh dear. You poor boy.”

  “Nonsense.” He grinned. “I’ve been blessed with wealth and a title and I wouldn’t have it any other way, so don’t look at me as if I were once again a boy and came to you with a skinned knee.”

  “But no one should live as if—”

  “I’m perfectly happy the way I am, Aunt Margaret.”

  “Happy? Really? Even though you think that every woman you’ve met thus far has been interested in you only for your title and wealth?”

  “I don’t think it; I know it. Several even told me so.”

  “Oh! Why, those—” Aunt Margaret clamped her lips closed. “I have a name for women like that, but I won’t say it here. Sin, you’re wrong if you think those horrid few represent the whole. Why, look at Miss Balfour. She doesn’t seem interested in your title or fortune. In fact, she seems very uninterested in you overall.”

  Not for long. He patted his aunt’s hand on his arm. “You leave Miss Balfour to me, and have a little faith that I can charm a woman when I wish to.”

  She gave an inelegant snort. “I have plenty of faith in you, but we all have our limits, dear.” She patted his hand as if he were a three-year-old and she’d just handed him a tea cracker. “No need to thank me for assisting you, though I’m still not perfectly clear on your motives—”

  “Your grace, how are you this evening?” Miss Isobel Stewart stood before them. Tall and gangly, she was known for her bold speaking. Or, as Sin thought of it, “ill-bred blurting out every thought in her empty head.” He considered this tendency, and not her iron-gray hair, which had been teased into a rather frightening mound upon her narrow head, to be the reason she was unwed, even thought she was related to half of England’s best families and was reported to be quite an heiress.

  At her side stood her sister, who was as short and round as her sister was tall and thin. Miss Muriella Stewart stood on her tiptoes as she squinted up at Sin. “Who’s this?” she asked.

  Her sister turned to her. “Lord Fin—” She tittered behind her glove. “I mean, Lord Sinclair.”

  As he always did when faced with such impertinence, Sin raised an eyebrow.

  Miss Isobel’s grin faded and she turned a deep, unattractive red and quickly became engrossed in adjusting the tassel on her reticule.

  Aunt Margaret interjected smoothly, “My dear Misses Stewart, it was so kind of you both to accept my invitation. We are just waiting for one more guest and then we will adjourn to the dining room.”

  Lord Cameron, who like Mr. Munro was now gawking through his quizzing glass at the painting of a nude woman reposing on a cushion, turned at this. “I certainly hope so, for I’m famished.”

  Mr. Munro let his quizzing glass fall, and it landed upon his stomach like a bird perched upon a gravy-stained rock. “It’s well after eight. It does no harm to eat a bit late once or twice, but it’s bad for the digestion if one does it too often.”

  “Miss Balfour will be here soon and— Ah! There she is now. Excuse me, please.” The duchess hurried across the room.

  “Lud!” Mr. Munro said, lifting his quizzing glass to gaze at Rose. “Who’s the beauty?”

  Sin frowned. Rose, a beauty? He turned and watched her walk toward Aunt Margaret, who must have said something waggish, for Rose broke into a smile that transformed her face. The sound of her soft laughter tickled his ears and made him feel restless. Damn it. She does have a lovely smile. Perhaps if she didn’t always make me so mad, I might have noticed that before.

  Mr. Munro chuckled with pleasure. “A vision!” He immediately began adjusting his neckcloth and, noticing the stain on his waistcoat, scrubbed at it with a thick finger.

  Lord Cameron stared at Rose. “I’ve not met her; I’m sure I’d remember if I had.”

  Miss Isobel sniffed. “Whoever she is, she’s horridly out of fashion.”

  Her sister squinted across the room. “Lud, she’s wearing mauve. Mauve has been out of fashion for the last three years.”

  Sin found himself wishing them all to the devil. If Aunt Margaret had invited her usual sparkling set, Rose wouldn’t have stood out at all. Now she was easily the most attractive woman in their small party, and was garnering all of the benefits and pains that entailed—cattiness from the women and unwanted attention from the men.

  “I hope I sit near her at dinner.” Munro smoothed his too-tight waistcoat. “If not, I’ll speak to her afterward. I just wonder who she is.”

  Miss Muriella said, “Her name is Rose Balfour. I met her this afternoon coming out of the library, and her grace introduced us. Her father created the Balfour rose.” When Munro didn’t appear to appreciate this information, she added, “Surely you’ve heard of it?”

  Munro wrinkled his nose. “I don’t know one flower from the next. Why would I?”

  “It’s quite well-known. Sir Balfour is a horticulturalist of some note.”

  Lord Cameron looked down his large nose at Rose. “So her father is a mere gardener? Odd that her grace would invite a nobody to one of her house parties. She used to be more particular, although . . . ” Hi
s gaze narrowed on Rose. “For some reason, the name seems familiar.”

  “Personally, I think the duchess has shown excellent taste,” Munro said with ponderous gallantry.

  Rose and the duchess reached them, and Aunt Margaret did the introductions. The Misses Stewart fawned while also being barely polite. Lord Cameron was openly curious, and Mr. Munro held Rose’s hand far too long.

  Finally Aunt Margaret turned his way and said rather blithely, “Miss Balfour, I believe you already know my great-nephew, the Earl of Sinclair.”

  She briefly inclined her head. She might have said something, but Munro interjected himself and lost no time in bearing her off to the other side of the room, where he could be heard paying her such extravagant compliments that Sin winced. Fortunately, MacDougal then arrived to announce dinner and they all left for the dining room.

  Dinner proved to be no more satisfying since Aunt Margaret hadn’t seated him near Rose. They were on opposite ends of the table, she surrounded by Mr. Munro and Lord Cameron, while he had Miss Muriella on one side and a dozing Miss Fraser on the other. Miss Muriella was quite content to monopolize the conversation, garbling on and on about the Regent, the state of the Bristol Road, and the lobster soup—she never paused for a second.

  Meanwhile, Rose held reign at the other end of the table, their conversation much more lively than at his end. The meal seemed to go on forever, and Sin was relieved when the men finally excused themselves to the library for port. At least there, Sin was certain Munro was behaving himself.

  Conversation was desultory as the men waited for the women to join them, and when they finally did, Aunt Margaret came in leaning upon Rose’s arm.

  Rose felt the gaze of everyone in the room, which made her acutely uncomfortable. When she usually socialized she was escorting her sisters, and as they were prettier and livelier, she rarely received such intense interest. Sin alone seemed indifferent, looking as bored as if he were at an opera performance.

  His chin showed a bruise now, and she’d noticed him wince and rub his shoulder when he’d held out Mrs. Stewart’s chair at dinner. Well, it serves him right. How dare he announce that he’s going to seduce me, so certain of his success that he had no fear in telling me his intentions?