Captain Durant's Countess

by Robinson, Maggie

  “You are a fortunate man, Lord Kelby,” Durant said, not falling into Henry’s trap. No matter what he said, he couldn’t win that disastrous game.

  “Maris, why don’t you show the captain the attics after tea? You may as well get started today while there is still light.”

  “T-today?” Maris had not expected to begin today. Tomorrow perhaps. Or next week.

  Or never.

  “Just show the captain around a little. You need do no more than that today, Maris,” Henry said, his tone gentle.

  “I . . . I . . . Oh blast it, Henry! This is . . . this is all so awful!”

  Henry’s dark eyes held steady and clear. “I know, love. But it’s the only way. We agreed.”

  Indeed, she had, desperate to ease his agitation over David. But now that she was minutes away from being shoved at Captain Durant, she found she could not screw up her courage. Her heart was inextricably bound to her husband, whom she’d loved ever since she was a little girl.

  She didn’t want flattery and flummery. She’d had that from David in the short weeks she’d lost her head and embarked on the affair with him. How could she ever manage to become intimate with this stranger, no matter how charming and handsome he was?

  “I hear some ladies are instructed to think of England,” Captain Durant said in a quiet voice. “In your case, think of the Kelby Collection. Kelby Hall. Generations of mad old earls—present company excepted, of course—bringing home the loot for future generations to marvel over. Let’s go up and see what’s in those boxes, Lady Kelby. You may be pleasantly surprised.” He fished a handkerchief out of his pocket. “Don’t cry, please. I cannot guard myself against a woman’s tears.”

  Maris sniffed and wiped her cheeks. “I-I’m sorry I’m such a coward,” she said to her husband. To them both, really.

  “Nonsense, my dear. You are the bravest woman and best wife in England. I quite like the captain’s advice. We will not speak of this arrangement any further. I’m satisfied I picked the right man for the job, Maris, and you needn’t tell me the details of what transpires between you. In fact, I forbid you to. I find I’m much more possessive than I expected to be, ridiculous as that may be when I’m the architect of this plan. I do wish to be informed, however, if you come across some artifact you think might be important.”

  “O-of course.” As if she could ever tell Henry . . .

  “I will see you at dinner, Maris. Captain, I’ve instructed the staff to take your meals to your suite. I hope you’re not offended, but things are bound to become only more peculiar the longer you stay here. I thought for all our sakes we would keep unnecessary fraternization to a minimum.”

  “I understand, my lord. I’m only an employee, after all.” There was no trace of emotion in Durant’s voice, but Maris thought he struggled to keep his expressive face neutral.

  “Good man.” Henry pushed himself up from his chair. “I’m back to work. I suggest you both do the same.” And just like that, he hobbled to his desk and Maris and the captain were dismissed.

  Maris returned her cup and saucer to the tea cart. “Shall we begin, Captain?”

  “I’m ready when you are.”

  Maris was not ready. Might never be ready. But she picked up her wine-colored skirts and moved swiftly down the central corridor running the length of Kelby Hall, taking the narrow staircase at the end that led to Captain Durant’s rooms. The captain followed at a respectful distance.

  She wondered what he was thinking? What would he do when they climbed that final set of stairs?

  She had ordered the whole of the attics swept and all the windows washed when she’d come back from London. In one of the chambers near the entry, cast-off furniture had been arranged into an office area, a long table serving as a makeshift desk with two sturdy chairs brought up from below. There were inkpots and reams of paper. A row of well-thumbed history books. Sets of tools and rags and cleaning solvents. A spirit stove for making tea. The chaise behind a torn screen would be a logical place to lie down when one’s head was swimming with measurement figures and descriptions.

  It was a proper workspace for the highly improper business they were about to conduct. Anyone inspecting the room would be convinced it was Captain Durant’s new office, but Maris had instructed the servants that they did not want to be disturbed. The sooner they finished the inventory, the sooner the earl could be satisfied as to what the entire Kelby Collection contained. The staff knew of Henry’s frail health, and if knowledge of what all the boxes held could add to his life, they were all for it.

  A bit breathless, Maris climbed the last stair and opened the heavy door. A rush of cold air greeted them.

  “I was half asleep in school, but I could swear the masters told us hot air rises,” the captain quipped behind her.

  “There is a working fireplace in the room . . . the room you will use,” Maris replied. “You should be quite comfortable.”

  “It’s not me I’m worried about.”

  “It is not I.”

  “What?”

  “The verb to be—think of it as an equal sign. The subject and the pronoun must agree.”

  “Ah. You’ve fobbed me off as an historian. I cannot be responsible for grammar and mathematics as well.”

  So, he was not entirely stupid, and had a bit of wit as well.

  But she refused to smile back at him. “Do you want to tour the attics first, or . . . or . . .”

  “I am not going to leap upon you, Lady Kelby. Not today. Perhaps not even tomorrow. When were your last courses?”

  Maris stopped in her tracks. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Your menses. I believe that’s a correct term. There’s been a debate over the centuries when a woman’s optimal time to conceive is. Augustine of Hippo even waded into it. St. Augustine, you know. I’m afraid my schoolmates and I ignored his philosophy, but were very interested in his views on conception. We all wanted to have carnal relations, but none of us wanted to be fathers, as you might expect. We were children ourselves. I believe the prevailing theory is that a woman is the most fertile directly after her courses have ceased for the month, but one cannot be sure of anything when it comes to the mysteries of women.”

  Maris pulled a face. “Well, it’s pointless then. It’s been well over a week. I cannot believe we are discussing such a subject. It’s . . . unseemly.”

  “I’m afraid we’re apt to get unseemlier as the days go by. Do you suppose that’s a word? If it isn’t, it should be.”

  “Stop making jokes, Captain! This is serious business.”

  “Aye, it is—which is why jokes are so necessary. You are thinking far too hard, Lady Kelby. You shouldn’t be afraid. Coitus is ridiculous in itself. ‘To shoot betwixt wind and water,’ ‘to dance the goat’s jig, ’ ‘to take a turn in Cupid’s alley’ are all euphemisms for what is sweaty and messy and necessary for the continuation of the human race. But not dignified. It’s never dignified. You can forget all those paintings of angels and amorous couples in their flowered bowers. Cupid is having a chuckle at all our expense, stripping us naked with all our warts and bumps and lumps on display.”

  If that was Durant’s attempt at getting her to relax, he was failing badly.

  “You forget I’ve seen you naked already,” Maris pointed out.

  “And did you like what you saw?”

  Odious man. “I am sure you are adequate for the occasion.”

  The captain rumbled in laughter. “I see you will be a difficult mountain to climb, Lady Kelby. You are obdurate—granite itself— with lots of icy patches to keep me unbalanced. I believe it will be a worthwhile trip to your summit, though. I’ve been entrusted with your safekeeping . . . and your pleasure.”

  “M-my pleasure!” Maris did not intend to derive one moment’s pleasure out of the next few weeks. “Do you think likening me to rock will smooth your path?”

  “I’m just being honest. I think we owe that to each other.”

  “We owe each other
nothing.” Except the extra money he will get once this was all done. Maris didn’t approve of Henry’s generous impulse to sweeten the already sugary deal, but one couldn’t argue with Henry and win very often.

  “Suppose we stop disagreeing. Why don’t you conduct me through all this? Are the boxes we are to open all in the same place?”

  Maris shook her head. “Not really, but they’re all clearly marked. Most of the storage rooms contain the usual sort of thing—old toys, ball gowns, and bad pictures. The other end of the attics are the servants’ quarters.”

  “They won’t be taking turns with their ears pressed against a wall?”

  Maris flushed. “We shall have complete privacy. You know how long Kelby Hall is. There’s plenty of space between the inhabited portion of the attic and the workroom. It’s just through that doorway.”

  The captain let out a low whistle when he saw the arrangements she’d made. “Very nice. You’ve thought of everything.”

  Rectangles of bright sunlight slanted through the room’s newly scrubbed west-facing windows. “I tried. I will be doing all the real work up here, after all.” She thought of the pillows and blankets stacked neatly on the chaise behind the screen, praying he wouldn’t go looking into that corner quite yet.

  “Oh, I don’t know. I’m sure my brawn will be good for hauling crates and jimmying them open. I’ll leave writing down all the historical details to you. I wouldn’t know a Roman frieze from a Greek one. Shall I start a fire?”

  There was a plain brick fireplace along the south wall. One of the servants had already laid it. A basket of wood, as well as several hods of coal were nearby.

  “I haven’t a tinder box with me.”

  “I do. In my room. Make yourself comfortable while I go get it.”

  Maris shivered despite standing in a patch of sunlight by the window. She felt she’d never be warm again.

  Perhaps she wouldn’t have to disrobe entirely, just hike up her skirt as she had with David. Their few encounters had been hurried and somewhat brutal. The whole thing had been sordid, which only seemed to make him enjoy it more. She had been scared to death of discovery and had never achieved with him what Henry had been able to do with his hand in the early years of their marriage.

  She and Jane had been used for David’s own sense of consequence. He had toyed with them—the sheltered wife and daughter of the man who held so tight to his purse strings. Henry was not as generous with David as he was with his tenants and servants, and rightfully so. David had run through his own inheritance in the blink of an eye.

  While he could be charm itself, Maris had come to know his ruthlessness. But Jane’s suicide seemed to have sobered him a little, and he’d ceased bedeviling Maris with constant threats to reveal their affair. Over the years, she had given him most of her pin money for his silence. Unlike David, she had more than she could spend.

  Were men born evil or did they learn it? Could one do evil and still be good? Maris felt the beginning of a headache but turned from the window at Captain Durant’s footfall. She watched as he shucked his jacket and knelt before the hearth, rearranging the carefully laid fire.

  So, he liked to put his mark on things. Most men did. It was why Henry could collect artifacts thousands of years after their makers were long in their graves.

  The captain poked and prodded until a merry little flame sprang to life. “There. That should take the chill off once it gets going.” He bounced back up and rolled up his sleeves. “Let’s get at some of these boxes. Lay on, Macduff.” He grabbed the crowbar from the table.

  “Most people say ‘lead on,’ ” Maris said with surprise. “It’s one of the most misquoted phrases from Shakespeare.”

  “Good to know something sank in after all the canings.”

  Maris knew corporal punishment was common. “I take it you didn’t like school much.”

  “School didn’t like me either. I was thrown out six times, if I can count correctly.”

  “You were expelled from your school six times?” That must be some sort of record. Maris pictured Captain Durant as a mischievous boy, not all that different from the present.

  “Only once at each institution, but there were six of them. The army kept me, however.”

  Goodness. He must have been a handful. “I see. I don’t think we need open anything up today, so you can leave the crowbar. I’ll just point out the boxes. As I said, they’re labeled, but you may want to add some sort of notation of your own.” She handed him a stick of charcoal from a box on the table.

  “Hold still.” He pulled a handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket and Maris gaped as he wiped the black dust from her fingers . . . taking a little longer than was absolutely necessary.

  It was just her hand that he touched, nothing more. His own hands were steady. Callused. He had fine dark hair along his knuckles and forearm, so different from her pale body with its golden fuzz. His nails were clean and standing so close, she could smell whiskey and leather and the special soap she had milled for Kelby Hall.

  “Good as new.” He didn’t drop her hand, but held it between his own, rubbing his thumb idly over her palm.

  “Generally, they’re ink-stained. But th-thank you.” Maris made no effort to step back and disengage. Their arrangement was beginning, and there really was no point in fighting it. She was curious where he would take his perceived duty to bring her pleasure. Surely Henry had not told him to provide it, had he? The thought of them discussing her like that was very vexing.

  “I understand you are a great help to your husband. He told me about how you are assisting him with his book. That’s a bit unusual for a countess.”

  She met his eyes, trying not to show her nervousness. They were very nearly black, much like Henry’s. In an odd way, that was comforting. “I wasn’t bred to be a countess. My father was Henry’s secretary, and I ‘helped’ them as soon as I could read. Both of them indulged me, and when I was old enough, took me on their digs. It was an unusual upbringing.”

  Durant bent down and whispered, “I understand they let you wear breeches. I’d like to see that sometime.”

  “I’ve given them up.”

  “That’s a great pity.”

  “What does it matter what I wear? You’re here for one thing, and one thing only,” she said, spoiling his flirtation.

  “Am I? Then let’s get to work.” He drew her hand to his lips and kissed a fingertip. His mouth was warm, almost hot.

  He had kissed her before. She remembered that kiss. It had practically crippled her until she came to her senses when she realized he was trying to disrobe her. His hand had slid under her chemise, gently stroking her as if she were a pet. Who knew the skin on one’s upper back could flare up in desire? One’s back could not be a source of pleasure, could it? She was familiar enough with the usual locations, although she’d not tried to bring herself to climax for five years.

  Guilt. She was full of it and about to overspill. She had betrayed her husband, who’d been nothing but kind to her all her life, who had raised her with the same care he showed his daughter Jane. And who had saved her from a penurious spinsterhood by marrying her and making her a full partner in his academic endeavors.

  Maris owed him everything. If that included a liaison with Captain Durant, she’d better get used to it.

  The boxes could wait a few minutes more. Maris raised her face. “K-kiss me.”

  Chapter 7

  If the Countess of Kelby had asked him to conjugate Latin verbs, he could not have been more surprised. Reyn felt as if he was being tested, and he’d never done well when he had to think about something very long. If she’d just kept quiet, he would have kissed her anyway. It was where the delicate dance had been going.

  But she stood stiffly with her big brown eyes closed and her lips pursed like she was some kind of fish.

  He cleared his throat. “Where?”

  Her eyes snapped open. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Where would you like me t
o kiss you, Countess? On your hand? On your lips, or perhaps somewhere more intimate?”

  “What do you mean? Just the usual kind of kiss, Captain. Nothing f-fancy.”

  “But we’ve agreed you’re unusual. And when we’re alone together, I think you should call me Reyn.”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  “There’s no one to hear you. Say it. It’s just one syllable.”

  The Countess of Kelby looked like she wanted to turn tail and flee the cozy workroom. But she took a deep breath. “Reyn.”

  “Thank you. May I be permitted to call you Maris when we’re up here?”

  She flushed, but nodded.

  He’d never seen a grown woman color up so often. The earl was right. His wife really was shy. “Even your name is unusual.”

  “My father was nearly as Etruscan-mad as Henry. That’s how he came to be hired. My parents married late, and there wasn’t hope of a boy, so they named me Maris, the Etruscan version of Mars.”

  “You don’t seem at all warlike.” Except when she was storming the Reining Monarchs Society. He felt he should explain in more detail about all that at some point, but not right now.

  “Mars was also the god of agriculture. In Etruria, that meant fertility as well. Ironic, is it not?”

  He touched her cheek with the barest of pressure from his thumb. “Maybe not.”

  “We had better hope I’m fertile so this dreadful business can come to a conclusion.”

  “Dreadful business? And yet just moments ago you asked—no, told—me to kiss you.”

  “That was a mistake. It won’t happen again.”

  He could feel her withdrawing into herself. What had she been like as a young woman, before she married a man older than her father? The earl said she’d been a rule follower. A good girl. There didn’t seem to be an ounce of frivolity or wickedness in her. She was so damned serious about doing her duty.

  “What do you do for fun, Maris, when you’re not up here being long-suffering?”

  “For fun?” She pronounced the word as if it was foreign. “And I am not being long-suffering. You must admit we are in an impossible situation.”