A Scandalous Countess: A Novel of the Malloren World

by Jo Beverley

  “Never had an offer I liked, milady. No husband’s better than most, I reckon.”

  “Perhaps that’s why God invented love. To overcome our good sense. You’ve never been in love?”

  “Not that I’ve noticed, milady, and from what I’ve seen, there’s no mistaking it. Fit for Bedlam some are, when it hits them. Why, I remember one maid who could hardly walk straight she was in such a daze, and of course there’s many a one—man or woman—who’s tipped into a ruinous mismatch by it.”

  Georgia kept a slight smile, as if her conscience was as clear as a nun’s.

  “Can a mismatch never be happy? The lady who runs off with the footman? The gentleman who marries the dairy maid?”

  “I doubt it, milady. I know of a young lady of high birth who ran off and wed a coach maker—can you believe it? A fine figure of a man, to be sure, and a sound business, but back she came to her father’s house, a babe in arms, weeping at the hard life she had, with no fine clothes or parties, and too few servants.”

  “What happened?”

  “Her husband came to claim her and the child, and the father released her to him, for he had the right of it. She’d chosen her path. A lady must live at her man’s level, and I doubt many like to live lower than they’re used to, no matter how lusty he is. It’s little better for the foolish gentlemen, even though they don’t sink in society. Caught by a pretty dairy wench and end up with a wife who doesn’t know how to make a fine home and who’s a figure of fun to his friends.”

  Was Jane deliberately sending warnings? She’d seemed to favor Dracy at one point, but perhaps she’d come to her senses.

  Marry Dracy. That was the thought that bounced in her head like a ball in a jeu de paume court. Her sinking wouldn’t be as far, but she wouldn’t enjoy the lack of fine clothes and adequate servants.

  Dracy would be as ill served. She knew how to make a fine home, but only with money. His friends wouldn’t laugh at her, but would they be comfortable around her?

  She’d felt at ease with the naval officers, but Dracy’s Devon friends would be the gentry around Dracy Manor, which meant the sort of ladies who made a fuss about their one or two new gowns a year and were interested only in children and household nostrums, generally for revolting conditions like the bloody flux.

  “There, milady, I’ve worked the knots out, but it’ll take a while to dry, thick as it is.”

  Georgia stood, fingering her damp hair, thinking of Dracy’s thick hair beneath and around her fingers.…

  “Do you want your letters, milady?”

  “Letters?”

  “I mentioned them before the bath, milady, but you didn’t seem interested.”

  Lost in foolish thoughts. Georgia looked through the three. One was from Althea Maynard, one from Lizzie, and another from an H. True. She knew no one by that name.

  She was about to the snap the seal when Jane said, “Which gown, milady?”

  She’d promised Jane the day off, and she’d no need of anything fine for a day at home. But she’d be speaking with Dracy and would like to look her best.…

  Enough of folly. “The same as yesterday,” she said.

  “What if someone comes to call, milady? I sponged off the dirt as best I could, but there are stains near the hem.”

  “I won’t be at home unless it’s Perry. Or Lord Dracy, of course.” Georgia hesitated, for she truly wanted to look her best for him. Enough of folly. “Do find it, Jane, and then you can be off to see your friend.”

  Jane produced the gown and jumps, and then Georgia shooed her away and dressed by herself.

  It was oddly pleasant to fend for herself, to be alone. Except in the night, it so rarely happened.

  What a strange mood she was in.

  It didn’t take long to dress, and then she surveyed herself in dull blue, thinking she looked a little like a countrywoman—except that no decent countrywoman would go about with her hair hanging down her back.

  Decent woman.

  Hair powder.

  She went to the door, opened it a little, and looked out. All seemed quiet. She could cross the corridor to Dracy’s room and see if the powder was still there. If it was, perhaps she could get rid of it, but she had no brush other than her hairbrush.…

  She went back into her room and closed the door. This house was properly run, so the room would have been cleaned. The other reason for giving up the plan was that it seemed scandalously sinful. Yesterday she would have invaded his room without a qualm, secure in her innocence. Now it was as if it would brand her a whore.

  A whore.

  As bad as she’d been painted.

  There’d be no more such frolics, and the sooner she told Dracy that, the better.

  When he returned they must meet on safe, neutral ground. She took her correspondence to the small drawing room. The sun was shining in, and she raised a window and moved a chair so she could let it dry her hair as she read.

  So delightfully warm on her back. She fingered her hair to let the warmth reach the lower layers and slid back into sensuous memories. Of Dracy’s fingers in her hair, against her scalp. She circled her own fingers there, and it was almost as sweet. But only almost.

  She remembered the wild storm he’d created for her, and the gentle sweetness that had rocked her as powerfully in the end. There’d been smiles and laughter, and warmth, such warmth, for body and for soul.

  With such a man she need never be cold, or alone, or afraid.…

  Knowing she shouldn’t, she allowed herself to relive the pleasures of the night.

  Dracy had slept until gone ten, but once awake he’d quickly dressed and left Hernescroft House. He didn’t trust himself there when the need to return to Georgia burned so fiercely in him. Perhaps the greenery of the parks would sooth the heat and calm his need to possess her. By force if necessary.

  What if she persisted and chose another?

  He’d go mad for fear that she’d be miserable.

  Many men were selfish. They didn’t understand the pleasure of pleasuring a woman. Their whores would pretend pleasure at even their crudest attentions, requiring no thought or effort from them. He’d heard some men claim that decent women had no interest in passion, and one that he’d whipped his wife for suggesting a lack and never trusted her since.

  What if Georgia fell into marriage with a man like that? If he’d left her in ignorance she might have been content.

  But she’d never been content, and her natural passion would explode one day, wreaking havoc. She could end up as a truly scandalous countess, the sort of highborn lady notorious for lying with any lusty man who could slake her hungers. Like the fine ladies who’d visited Vance’s “lair.”

  Conscience warred with desire, and logic tormented him over both.

  When he’d seen the hair powder on the carpet, he’d been tempted to leave it there, for he knew the scandal of it would force her to wed him.

  He’d cleaned it away, however, and made sure no other evidence lingered. He wanted no wife against her will, and he saw all the ways his world would not suit Georgia Maybury. But he wanted her anyway, to the point of madness.

  He could remove one obstacle by abandoning Dracy and living the frivolous Town life she adored. Perhaps applying himself to politics and doing his best for the navy would salve his conscience. Politics didn’t pay the bills, however, and he’d not take bribes. They’d have to live on Georgia’s money.

  Could they?

  What would be the interest income on twelve thousand? No more than a thousand without taking foolish risks, and probably no more than six hundred. They’d need at least a third of that to rent a decent house.

  Madness. She’d need servants and a carriage, and then there was her love of fine clothes. He’d read that one grand gown for the queen’s birthday celebrations had cost three thousand pounds. They’d end up spending the principal, and that was a sure road to ruin.

  In any case, he didn’t want to live in London year-round. The parks
, pleasant though they were, couldn’t compare to true countryside, and no labor here could be as rewarding as bringing Dracy back to prosperity. In time that income could at least match the investments, but it would be a long time unless he used much of her dowry on the estate and stud.

  Georgia Maybury wasn’t for him, and if not for the business of Fancy Free and Cartagena, he’d never have dreamt of reaching so high.

  He’d reached. He’d touched. But she might as well be the moon.

  He turned wearily toward the nearest coffeehouse, but halfway there, he changed direction to return to Hernescroft House. Dolt that he was for letting his lust and miseries blind him to important matters.

  He still hadn’t shared his thoughts about Sellerby. They’d seemed outrageous, but after the man’s behavior last night, perhaps less so, and the incident last night could have pushed him to new menace. He’d been publically rejected by Georgia and then manhandled in front of his precious beau monde. He’d left the masquerade immediately after the incident, but he would be today’s breakfast snigger. It served him right, especially if he was the one behind that letter, but he was the sort of weasel to need to bite back.

  When he entered the house and inquired, he was told that Lady Maybury was in the drawing room. The world seemed brighter as he went quickly up the stairs. He went in and paused to smile at the vision she presented.

  She was sitting by an open window in yesterday’s plain gown, her hair, a mass of copper and bronze in the sunlight, forming a halo around her glowing loveliness.

  But then he realized she was staring into nowhere like a dead person.

  Chapter 28

  “Georgia?”

  She blinked and looked at him wildly, her hand moving to cover some paper in her lap.

  Some proof of her guilt?

  Sick, he went forward. “What is it?”

  “Nothing!” She’d have crumpled the paper, but he snatched it from her.

  “Don’t!” she cried, but then thrust a knuckle between her teeth.

  He smoothed it out.

  Not an incriminating letter, but a cartoon, the sort of satirical drawing seen everywhere. But this one…

  He shoved it in his pocket and pulled her into his arms. “Forget it.”

  “How?” she wailed, and burst into tears.

  He held her, rocking her. Then he carried her to the settee, where he could hold her in his lap as she wept her misery.

  The clearly etched picture had shown a filly, labeled “Lady M**b**y,” tail high in invitation, with Maybury and Vance, swords in hands, arguing over the finer points of her legs, breast, and rump. In a bubble from her horse’s mouth came, “Cease your squabbling, gentlemen. I need one of you to mount me for a rollicking ride.”

  In one corner another picture showed a man lying dead, a sword still in his chest, while nearby, a couple embraced.

  The paper wasn’t new, so it probably dated from the time of the duel. Hundreds must have been printed, perhaps thousands, and she would have realized that.

  Her family must have kept such things from her. It had been intended as a kindness, but ignorance makes a person vulnerable, and in this case it had led her to underestimate her scandalous reputation. He too had had no idea it went so far. A wonder she’d been accepted as much as she had. Testimony, he supposed, to her family’s power and influence, and to her own true nature. But perhaps this explained her parents’ puzzling drive toward her marrying him.

  They’d not believed she could fully recover from the disaster and sought a husband who would take her away from London and the cruel beau monde. They probably had investigated his character and found him adequate, but above all they’d wanted no more scandal in the family.

  They’d thought to trap her at Thretford House and settle matters there, but Georgia had plotted her escape. So, then, the spurious betrothal, intended to pave the way to a real one. Had the placement of their bedchambers so close been part of the plan?

  He damned the Hernescrofts even though their plotting might take him where he longed to be.

  Not like this, however. Not like this, with Georgia brokenhearted in his arms.

  Who had sent this poison? No attempt here to increase the scandal—only to hurt.

  Sellerby, taking revenge for last night?

  Miss Cardross, venting her spite?

  Some other viper, simply outraged that the scandalous Lady May had dared to appear so carefree, had been chosen to stand high above all in switching on that damned dove?

  When would it stop?

  Her sobs eased and she dragged out a handkerchief to blow her nose.

  “I’m sorry. So silly…”

  “Not silly at all. That disgusting drawing must have been a shock.”

  She could only nod.

  He pushed back hair that had fallen near her eyes. “I’m sorry you had to see it, but it’s always best to know your enemy.”

  “But I don’t want to have any enemies!”

  He cradled her face and put a soft, soothing kiss on her unsteady lips. “Be brave, Georgia.…”

  Someone cleared a throat.

  Georgia pushed off Dracy’s lap. Dracy swiveled to face danger. But saw only a slender man in a plain but elegant blue suit.

  Dionysus.

  “Perry!” Georgia said, running to him. “Do shut the door.” She did it herself. “That wasn’t…Well, it was. But I just received a horrible shock!”

  “What shock?” the Honorable Peregrine Perriam asked, but his manner raised Dracy’s hackles. He realized he might be facing an enemy to all he wanted.

  “Oh, I don’t want to talk about it,” Georgia said quickly. “Come and sit. Do you know Lord Dracy?”

  Perriam bowed with the expertise of a dancing master, and Dracy felt obliged to return it as best he could. He passed the crumpled cartoon to Perriam.

  Georgia turned and went to the window.

  “He’ll have seen it already,” Dracy said to her back.

  Perriam put it in his pocket. “Yes. I’m sorry, Georgie. How did it reach you?”

  She turned, superficially composed. “Enclosed in a letter. I mean, there was no letter, but it formed a packet for it.”

  Perriam went to pick up the paper from the floor and inspected it. “Blank seal, and from H. True. Clearly a false name.”

  Dracy ached to take Georgia back into his arms. She looked so vulnerable standing there alone, and Perriam had already seen them embracing, but he suspected that she didn’t want any more coals on that fire.

  “Eloisa Cardross?” he said to her. “Or even someone who envied your costume at the masquerade.”

  “Nerissa Trelyn was spiteful.”

  “There you are.”

  “But it could have been anyone!” she exclaimed. “And that’s the problem. It seems I have a host of enemies, and I can never know what she, he, or anyone will do next. I didn’t know it was as foul as that. Why did no one tell me?”

  He put his arm around her. “You’ve been protected too well, but perhaps it served. If you’d known, could you have returned to the beau monde so bravely, chin high?”

  She looked up at him, tears still on her lashes. “No, but now I know.…” She leaned her head against him. “I don’t know how I can go on.”

  “Courage, Georgie. You’re a Perriam,” her brother said.

  Dracy could have throttled him, but it did seem to brace her.

  “This is new to you,” Perriam went on, “but old news to Town. It changes nothing unless you permit it.”

  He was making no objection to the embrace, but Dracy still felt the chill. He was Georgia’s favorite brother and she put great store in his advice.

  “Now we’ve dealt with that,” Perriam said, as if all anguish was past, “order tea, Sis, and we’ll discuss your situation in depth.”

  Georgia moved out of Dracy’s arms to ring the bell. Had that been the intent? She had some of her courage back, however, so perhaps her brother knew how to handle her.

&
nbsp; “In depth?” she asked.

  “In depth,” Perriam said. “It seems a great deal has been happening in my absence.”

  “I didn’t ask you to go north at such a time!”

  “No, but a friend did, a duty that supercedes care for a sister. Or so it seemed at the time.”

  A footman came in and was sent to bring the tea.

  “I anticipated no great problems in my absence,” Perriam said. “My apologies.”