The Countess Conspiracy

by Courtney Milan

  He didn’t finish his sentence. She looked over at him. “Sebastian,” she said. “You’ve been a rake your entire adult life.”

  He took a deep breath. “Do you remember on the eve of your wedding, when you were nervous? Do you remember how I joked that you should jilt your husband and elope with me?”

  “I was eighteen.” She glanced at him. “You were sixteen. You were still in school.”

  “Yes, well.” He swallowed. “Also, I wasn’t joking.”

  She didn’t know what to say. “Sebastian, you can’t mean that. That was sixteen years ago. You were a boy.”

  “My point precisely,” he said quietly. “I was a boy, and back then—at first—I figured I would grow out of it. And I did, actually. For a while. It was just…I grew back into it, too.” He shrugged.

  She shook her head.

  “Over the years, it has changed. Shifted. It has been sixteen years, and during that entire time, I have not been having sex with you.” His hand closed around her wrist, his forefinger lightly pressing her wrist. “I know that even the thought of that sends you into a tearing panic.”

  She exhaled slowly. She could feel her pulse hammering against his finger.

  “I know you, Sebastian,” she said. “You like sex, and for me, it’s a complete disaster.”

  He simply raised an eyebrow. “Let me tell you more about rakus perfectus,” he said. “The whole point of raking is to make sure that everyone is satisfied and safe. There was one night when the woman I was with changed her mind after she came up to the hotel room I had taken for the evening. We spent the night playing vingt-et-un for pennies.”

  “Is that a euphemism?”

  He considered this. “Yes. By ‘pennies,’ I meant ‘half-pennies.’ It just flows better when you say ‘vingt-et-un for pennies.’”

  “Weren’t you furious with her?”

  “Should I have been?” He shrugged. “I won three shillings.” He was playing with her hair, twirling it about one of his fingers. “We’re still friends, she and I.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “Usually, I’m not,” he said. “But about this? Rakus perfectus spends a great deal of time learning how to find satisfaction without risking disease or pregnancy. It makes for a much, much happier life.”

  “But playing cards? Really?”

  “I like it when people like me.” Sebastian shrugged. “When a woman bursts into tears in the bedroom because she’s realized she doesn’t want to go through with it, you’ll make her very happy when you pull out a pack of cards.”

  Violet could actually imagine him doing that.

  “As it happens, she’ll also tell all her friends that you are an extraordinarily considerate lover, and they’ll tell everyone else, and the next thing you know…” His smile glinted at her. “From a purely selfish perspective, I have found that making sure my partner leaves with a smile on her face—however I manage that—is always a good choice.”

  “But…”

  He smiled at her. “As it happens, I also really, really enjoy intercourse.”

  She exhaled, feeling a bloom of heat.

  “But I also like kissing,” he said, leaning down and pressing his lips to her breastbone. “And touching. Between the extremes of playing vingt-et-un and doing my damnedest to get you with child, there are innumerable possibilities. And I’m very, very, very…” he paused, his lips pressing against her. “Very,” he repeated, “very interested in discovering which ones you like.”

  She couldn’t think, not while he was doing that. Not while his breath tickled her chest, his hands held her close.

  “Wait,” she said. “I haven’t had a chance to tell you what I think of your so-called classifications.”

  “Oh?” He kissed her again.

  “They’re complete bollocks,” she said.

  “True.” He winked at her. “But you’re smiling now. It’s all part of my evil plot.”

  “You have an evil plot?”

  “Of course I have an evil plot. Before the evening is up, I intend to engage you in a game of vingt-et-un. One-on-one.”

  She did her best to hide her smile and failed miserably.

  “We’ll work up to that,” he said archly. “A good rake doesn’t whip out his cards at the first sign of acquiescence. Right now, I’m going to give you a back rub.”

  She pulled away from him. “Is that a euphemism?”

  He frowned and looked upward. “Yes,” he said, “it is. When I say ‘back,’ I include your shoulders and neck.”

  She swallowed, just thinking of what that would mean. His hands, caressing her, kneading her flesh. Coaxing her into relaxation.

  “And what will happen when you’re done?”

  He leaned down to her. “Then I will stop touching you. Rake’s honor.”

  She let out a shaky breath. But she knew she could trust Sebastian for this—if he said he was going to stop, he’d do it.

  He stood and motioned for her to lie on her front. She took a deep breath and rolled over.

  She was tense for that first touch, so tense that when she felt the palm of his hand fall on her lower back, she almost jumped. But he didn’t move any lower. He didn’t spread her legs, as she’d feared. He just pressed his hand against her lower back, unmoving, until her heart stopped thumping and her exhales grew farther apart. Until, despite the warning bells sounding in her mind, her muscles began to relax.

  And then he ran his hand up her spine to her shoulders.

  “Here,” he said. “Your muscles are so tense, right here.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t apologize. You’ll feel better if you can relax a little. Like this.”

  It was a coaxing, gentle massage, his fingers pressing ever so lightly into her flesh. It wasn’t the kind of angry, expectant rub that a husband might give his wife’s shoulders—a tit for tat that positively screamed, Look what I’m doing for you; now you’d better let me between your legs, or next time, it’s nothing.

  “You spend all your time bent over those garden beds in your greenhouse,” he told her. “You’ve got a knot right here.” He pressed a spot in her back, and her breath hissed out. “And right here.” Another sore point. “And…well, you get the drift of what I’m saying. You carry around all the day’s labors in your flesh. Let’s see if we can’t get you to set them down for a few moments.”

  She might have thought that he had no more interest in her than in loosening those sore spots. He could have made it more sensual. When he leaned over her, he might have brushed his body against hers. When he pushed his thumbs into those knots, working them, he could have kissed the back of her neck…and sensitive as it was, so aware of his flesh so close to hers, she would have shivered. He might have worked his hands not just along her back but down the sides, finding her breasts, the erect nubs of her nipples. She was aware, so aware of all the ways he wasn’t touching her. Of all the things he could do. Of how vulnerable she was under him—how little effort it would take for him to push her against the cushions and hold her there, no matter how she protested.

  She wasn’t even sure she would protest.

  But he’d promised her that he wouldn’t importune her, and so he didn’t. His touch warmed and then it loosened—and then, gradually, she found herself drifting into a state of contentment.

  After a while, he pulled away from her. “There,” he said. “I knew it. You’re smiling.”

  She turned over onto her side and he sat next to her.

  “But you want more.” She could see the outline of his erection even against his loose trousers. “And…” She was afraid even to admit this much, but she didn’t want to hide it from him. “And you’re making me want more. And that means…”

  “It means whatever we say it means,” he said with a shrug. “Want is not destiny. We’re adults. It should be fun to want.”

  “But what is the goal? What are we working toward?”

  “Your complete and utter sur
render,” he intoned.

  She sucked in a breath.

  “I won’t be truly alive,” he continued, with a mischievous look, “until I’ve feasted on your virtuous flesh and sucked the marrow from your bones.”

  Violet jabbed him in the ribs. “Very funny.”

  “You see? You don’t believe I want anything dire. Not really.”

  He might say that, but he wouldn’t be satisfied if this was all he ever had from her. A few touches at night? He could say it was fun to want, but after two weeks of wanting, he’d start to lose his warm good humor. That’s when the remarks would start—a few snide remarks about how frigid she was, how selfish to withhold her favors. He’d mention how long it had been since his last release. Men weren’t made for celibacy, and Sebastian least of all of them.

  She opened her mouth to respond, and then shut it again. It should be fun to want, he’d said, but it had been a long time since she’d faced the idea of want with anything except dread. Want was a tool that was used against her. The less she wanted…

  “Sebastian,” she said. “We can’t keep on like this.”

  “Why not?” he answered back. “If matters get dire over here, I’ve got a working left hand.” He glanced over at her. “You have the same.”

  She shook her head.

  “You don’t?” he asked innocently. “Well, then. I can help you out with mine.”

  She let out a scalded breath at that thought—at the notion of his clever hands sliding between her legs, finding the pinpoint of her desire—but he just leaned down and kissed her.

  Chapter Nineteen

  IT WAS THE NEXT MORNING, and despite the summons in his pocket—and Sebastian could not call that terse note anything except a summons—Sebastian felt unnaturally cheerful.

  He was smiling as he was shown into his brother’s study; even Benedict’s careful indifference, his refusal to look up as Sebastian entered, couldn’t dampen his good mood.

  He’d made up his mind the last time he’d seen his brother. It did no good to argue with Benedict. He’d tried his damnedest; there was no point upsetting his brother.

  His brother paid him no attention for another five minutes, and eventually, Sebastian seated himself on the other side of the desk and began to whistle.

  It was a cheap younger-brother trick, but an effective one. After the third off-key iteration of God Save the Queen, Benedict’s annoyance outgrew his ability to ignore Sebastian.

  “Can you stop that?” Benedict demanded, finally looking up.

  “Stop what?” Sebastian asked innocently. “Was I doing something?”

  “That awful warbling.”

  “Oh, sorry,” Sebastian said with just enough excess apology dripping from his voice. “I didn’t realize you disliked Queen Victoria. I should have picked a different tune.”

  “I like the queen—” Benedict stopped. Despite himself, his lip twitched up in a smile. “No, Sebastian. You’re not going to get me that way.”

  Sebastian dropped his pretend innocence and leaned forward. “For the record,” he said, “you asked me to come out here on urgent business and then ignored me when I arrived. If you don’t want me to play the annoying younger brother, leave off playing the too-important older one.”

  Benedict met his brother’s gaze and sighed. “Occasionally,” he muttered, “you have a point. I thought about what you said to me last time. About how—perhaps—I might judge you harshly. I wondered if there was any justice to your remarks.”

  Sebastian held his breath and sat forward. “Oh. Then I really am sorry about the whistling.”

  Benedict didn’t blink. “I thought about it for weeks until I saw a notice in the paper—a little half-inch description—about a talk you delivered in Cambridge. A scientific talk.”

  Sebastian swallowed. “Yes. Well.”

  “You told me you were done with scientific work.”

  “Yes. I…am. Sort of. That was…more in the way of wrapping matters up, see, presenting some final work.”

  “That’s what I told myself,” Benedict said. “But now I see I was making excuses for you. What the devil is this?”

  He held up his newspaper and pointed to a notice.

  Malheur to Deliver Seminal Remarks on Inheritance in Two Days.

  The subheading read: Promises to be Explosive and Controversial.

  “Ah,” Sebastian said. “Aha, ha. Right. That. I see how that looks.”

  “Right?” Benedict repeated in disbelief. “That?”

  “It’s…” He leaned in. “Can you keep a secret?” he asked hopefully.

  “A potentially explosive and controversial secret?” Benedict said dryly. “Maybe. That depends. What kind of secret is it?”

  Violet had told her sister. Everyone would know by evening two days from now. And his brother deserved to hear it directly from him. Sebastian let out a breath.

  “My work on inheritance.” He swallowed. “You were right. I’m a fraud.”

  Benedict’s eyebrows lowered. “What? What on earth are you saying?”

  “Do you remember Violet Rotherham? Now Violet Waterfield, the Countess of Cambury?”

  “I could hardly forget her,” Benedict said. “Considering she lived half a mile from us when we were younger. But I don’t see how she is relevant.”

  “The work isn’t mine,” Sebastian said. “It’s hers. And in a few days, we’re announcing it. So, you see, this isn’t going to be a presentation by me. It’s going to be one by her.”

  Benedict sat back in his chair and blew out a breath. “No. I don’t understand.”

  “Everything I’ve presented? It’s all been Violet’s ideas,” Sebastian said. “I helped a little. We worked together on some of it. But she’s the brilliant scientist. Not me.”

  His brother rubbed his forehead, and his mouth flattened. “Everything really does land in your lap.”

  “No, no. It’s actually been a lot of work to keep up,” Sebastian said. “I had to learn everything the way she knew it, and…ah…”

  “It lands in your lap,” Benedict repeated. “My God. You don’t even try. You really don’t. It’s like angels come down and anoint you with scientific knowledge, except it’s not angels, it’s Violet.”

  “Yes. She’s really clever, you know.”

  “No, I didn’t know. Nobody knew but you.” Benedict stood. “How do you do that? Honestly, Sebastian—how do you do it? I knew you were a complete fraud, but this is beyond even my ability to comprehend. It’s like the entire universe is conspiring to let you cheat at life.”

  “No,” Sebastian said, “I’ve just always really liked Violet, you know. I’ve always known she was marvelous, even if no one else seemed to notice.”

  Benedict ignored this. “It’s as if God himself were stuffing aces up your sleeve. How do you get something like that to just fall from the sky for you?”

  “I don’t know!” Sebastian said. “Maybe it’s just because people like me.”

  His brother folded his arms over his chest and glared at him. “Oh, you’re going to throw that in my face, are you? I’ll have you know people like me, too. Plenty of people. I have friends—many friends.”

  “I’m sure you do,” Sebastian said in puzzlement.

  “I have friends, and yet somehow, I have never received credit for one of the greatest scientific advances of our time.”

  Sebastian stared at his brother. He’d vowed not to argue, but that was too much. “When you thought it was mine, it was nothing to speak of. But now that I didn’t do it, it’s one of the greatest scientific advances of our time?”

  Benedict stared at him—stared ruthlessly and silently, stared until Sebastian wanted to look away. Then he slammed his fist on the table. “Fuck.” He sat back in his chair, a pained look on his face. “Oh, fuck.”

  “And now it’s worthy of profanity,” Sebastian said. “Nothing I have ever said until this point has provoked you to use foul language, but that, apparently, will push you over the edge
.”

  “No,” Benedict grated out. “Listen to me, Sebastian. I need you to do me a favor.” His breath was growing ragged.

  “What?” Sebastian snapped.

  “You know how I said that if I couldn’t yell at my brother, there was no point in living?” A light sheen of sweat popped out on Benedict’s face; his skin grew waxy and pale, his breaths becoming short and shallow.

  A cold chill settled over Sebastian.

  “Well,” Benedict said grimly, “I was wrong. I would rather live.” He looked over at Sebastian. “Get that doctor. Please.”

  SEBASTIAN WAITED IN THE HALL FOR HOURS, pacing until he knew every squeaking floorboard by heart. His hands were cold, his heart heavy. When the doctor finally left the room, Sebastian accosted him.

  “How is he?”

  The man gave Sebastian a brief look. “He’s alive,” he said. “He’s conscious.”

  “Thank God.” Sebastian let out a breath of relief.

  “He wants to see his son.”

  “Of course. Of course.” Sebastian nodded. “I’ll make sure Harry’s brought up immediately.”

  The doctor glanced at him. “You’re his brother? Sebastian Malheur?”

  “What is it?”

  “Don’t take this personally,” the doctor said. “But I advised him that he needs to rest for a little while. To avoid anything that will upset him.”

  “Oh, good,” Sebastian said. “Is he finally going to take your advice?”

  The doctor glanced over at him. “Yes,” he said. His mouth pinched, as if he had unpleasant news to deliver. “He asked me to tell you to stay away for a handful of days, until he’s sure you won’t bother him.”

  Chapter Twenty

  “IN SUMMATION,” SEBASTIAN SAID, “today, I think we have managed to offend or kill all our nearest relations.”

  He was standing on the other side of the gardener’s shed. Violet smiled, because that was what he wanted her to do. Because she could tell by the way he looked about, so distracted, his smile not quite settled on his face, that he was worried about his brother. Because jokes—even terrible jokes—helped make the awful feel bearable.