The Notorious Countess

by Liz Tyner

  ‘I blame her for my accident,’ the valet continued. ‘You would not have taken it into your mind to work so long if you had not been thinking of her.’

  Andrew shook his head and picked up the razor. The valet was in too much of a tizzy to be shaving near a throat or an ear. Fawsett was not controlling his own impulsive nature. ‘Stubble it or you will be working quite late again tonight.’

  No sounds answered except for the pouring of water. Fawsett’s lips pressed into non-existence.

  Andrew reflected on Fawsett’s comments. Beatrice had disrupted the order of his life—if only in the fact that he was having to listen to Fawsett talk of this. This was a minor disruption but still, a bobble in the calmness of the household.

  Already he had told Palmer and Lord Simpson she had mentioned them favourably.

  Fawsett took the pot with scented mixture to hand Andrew as he finished shaving.

  Andrew stood in front of the mirror and daubed a smear of the apothecary mixture on to his neck and cheeks. ‘You really should not concern yourself about my life.’

  ‘Your life is of extreme importance to me.’ His words caught. ‘I would hate for you to suffer injury—as I did last night.’ Fawsett’s chin dipped.

  ‘I had ascertained you would recover. A man who is truly dying does not scream so prettily.’ Andrew smiled. ‘Can you also do the little hop again?’

  Fawsett kept his gaze on the cloth he retrieved for Andrew. ‘As you have refused to accept my resignation, might I say that you could not saw a straight line if your life depended on it—and it is not that difficult.’

  ‘That is why I have you.’

  ‘Oh, and one more thing—I did notice you received a well-sealed message from your brother, the duke.’ Fawsett’s tone turned innocent. ‘I’m sure he wishes you the best in your romance.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Fawsett’s little throat rumble indicated he recognised the falsehood.

  Andrew interrupted the smugness. ‘But you did not tell me about the note from Lady Riverton.’

  ‘No need. I saw it crumpled on the grates.’ The valet stopped, turned back. ‘I assure you, if a woman sent me that invitation, I’d not be thinking of boards.’

  Andrew shot a glare at Fawsett. ‘Do not read my correspondence.’

  ‘I was burning it and it fell open right in front of me.’ He shook his head. ‘You felt replacing windows more important than viewing her personal artwork.’ He snorted. Then he raised his chin. ‘Of course, I did not read the note from the duke.’

  ‘Because I burned it myself.’

  The duke had numbered thirty-seven more appropriate women for Andrew to associate with, including Mary Bonney, and he assured Andrew that her transportation to Australia could be halted if Andrew would but make the request.

  Chapter Seven

  The carriage rumbled them along to the theatre. The energy Beatrice exuded bounced from the vehicle walls and permeated Andrew’s resolve not to have an awareness of her.

  Wilson sat, arms crossed, head down, little snores occasionally snorting into the air.

  Andrew kept his face to the window, but followed every move Beatrice made.

  She had adjusted the tops of her sleeves three times, frowned out the window, tapped her foot, and once pulled at the edge of her bodice when he didn’t think she’d even been aware of it.

  ‘The print was most unkind,’ she said. ‘The engraver did not know one end of his burin from the other. He would not know a beast if it bit him.’

  ‘Lady Riverton, it takes time to change an opinion.’

  ‘Opinions do not matter to me as much as that engraving did. The person who did that has no idea of how to shape a line. Why? Why must I have the hairy ears?’

  ‘Just a drawing. It means nothing. It will take more than a fortnight to change something like this. Besides, I thought the tufts at the top of the ears rather—pleasant.’

  ‘You did not wish to march down to the print shop,’ she asked, ‘and pound on their door?’

  He shook his head. ‘I told you. It will just cause more upset for you. You are supposed to be dousing the flames, not fanning them. Think demure.’

  ‘I am,’ she said. ‘I did not go to the print shop.’

  ‘You will agree the reports of our exchange at the soirée were the best we could have hoped for,’ he said. ‘The print hinted at a romance, nothing more. It also commented on your waltz with Palmer and Lord Simpson.’ In fact, it had mentioned Palmer and Lord Simpson as being in rivalry with Andrew for her affections.

  Andrew’s perturbed, half-muttered jealous comments to others had somehow found their way around the soirée. He smiled. It had been so easy.

  She nodded. ‘I did rather like the notice better than I have before.’ She smiled. ‘Just as you planned.’

  ‘You will always gather a certain amount of attention in public. Always. It is just a matter of making it the kind you wish for. We are looking for something which is truthful and accurate. Before long you’ll do a few good works, people will take note. The world loves turning heroes into villains and villains to heroes—in their minds. We will give them opportunity and they will play into your hands. You must merely remember you are the star of the performance.’

  ‘Thank you, Andrew, for such a generous gesture on your part.’ She shivered in such a way as to make the little puffs of her sleeves quake as if a wind blew though the carriage. She leaned forward, bringing a scent of—not baked goods. Something from a woman’s bedchamber. A scent of cleanness and a spring morning in the country. Lavender and wildflowers. He didn’t know such a scent could rampage through a man’s body.

  But it wasn’t just the perfume she wore.

  Her corset and bodice moulded her to perfection. His eyes tricked him, making the cloth no hurdle to his imagination. He locked his gaze on her face, because if he moved it one drop lower, he would move even lower, and then he would be staring at her breasts and that would not be good.

  ‘You must let me paint your portrait.’ She leaned back, taking her delicacies with her. ‘I insist. I am quite good.’

  Andrew shook his head. ‘No. I fear the time taken to pose would necessitate my working all night to make up for it.’ To burn off the feelings that kept rising when he was near her.

  ‘Nonsense,’ she said. ‘I’m quite quick with a brush.’

  He would like to visit her home. The tales of its beauty were as widespread as the on dits of Beatrice’s nature.

  ‘I will consider posing for you.’ Andrew spoke with the same respectful, polite smoothness he used when telling his brother the duke to go jump off a cliff.

  Both understood he had considered and dismissed it. Her expression changed. Sunlight in her eyes dissipated, but only for a moment, and then the sparkle that took her whole face appeared again. And he understood she had totally discarded his refusal.

  He caught her eye and gave the tiniest shake of his head.

  She raised her brows.

  He tilted his head minutely and raised just one brow as he frowned.

  Her shoulders sagged.

  He smiled.

  ‘I have a painting on display at Somerset House,’ she said. ‘If you view it, I think you will agree that I do have talent.’

  ‘I have no doubt of that. But I cannot spare the time to pose.’

  She sighed the most drawn-out exhalation of dismay he’d ever heard. He studied her face, seeing if she made the noise for his benefit. He didn’t think so. Her eyes had wandered to thoughts he couldn’t decipher and she was lost to them—unaware of him.

  Her glove had slipped to rest at her elbow. One curl tickled her chin. She brushed it aside and then opened her fan. Not to fan herself, but to examine it. He didn’t think she truly saw it, but was following reminiscences only she could see.

  He puffed out a breath, just enough to flutter the curl at her jawline. Shock plunged into his body. He’d never done such a thing in his life. And she was a countess.
<
br />   He turned away and saw Wilson watching him, jaw locked. Wilson had seen the behaviour. Beatrice wasn’t even aware, but Wilson stared.

  Andrew did not flinch. On the outside.

  * * *

  The street in front of the theatre bustled with vehicles. Their carriage rolled to a stop and Beatrice alighted, Andrew at her side.

  As soon as he stepped from the carriage, her brother spotted an acquaintance. The man called out. In seconds the two were involved in an intense discussion concerning the man’s plans for a country estate and Wilson had excused himself to sit with the man in his box. Wilson could not countenance the poor man ruining a perfectly good parcel of land by putting a crate on it.

  Beatrice realised Andrew had stopped moving. She glanced at him. His eyes studied her and his arm was held out. He waited for her to grasp it. She placed her gloved fingers against the sleeve of his coat and let him escort her to the ducal box. Out of the corner of her eye, she didn’t note any heads turning her way, except perhaps one.

  Demure was not her strong point. How much easier it was to sashay into the theatre, head forward and unaware of others’ hurtful words.

  ‘I really did not like the engraving of me,’ she repeated, searching her mind for words to distract her from the march to her seat.

  Agatha Crump stood near the doorway, eyeing Beatrice, smirking.

  ‘I didn’t like the caricature either, but none the less it’s done,’ he said. ‘Over. The object is to make the next one more to your liking.’

  She walked slowly, each step precise. ‘The last time I was at the theatre was one year to the day after Riverton died. It seemed everyone watched me. The words I read later: The Beast is Unleashed Again. How mistaken I’d been at the end of the evening in thinking it had been a success. I’d thought my dress appropriate. My hair correct. My voice a proper level. My mother and brother the best chaperons. The only thing I’d been concerned about was that Mother had snapped at someone who’d looked askance at me. Everything written was a splash of truth with a kettle of exaggeration.’

  ‘That’s the past. Forget that time. Today we want them to watch you. We want them to see your gentle, caring side.’ He looked down at her. ‘You are the actress tonight, Beatrice. Show them how endearing you can be. Think prim. Think governess. Think vicar’s wife.’

  She nodded in agreement. Her eyes lingered on him. ‘Andrew, could you ever say anything I do not find enchanting?’ Her words were of the right tone to zip through the air like an arrow. Then, she spoke low, turning her words into a roughened purr. ‘I am good at the pretence of being in love. After all, I have been married.’

  That was true. But she had not only pretended. How like a dream to have Riverton dote on her. He was older and wiser, she’d thought. The eldest son of an earl. Wealthy.

  Inside the box, she watched as he sat beside her. Again the stoic look to the audience, with just the right amounts of arrogance and humility. If she kicked his ankle, she doubted he would do more than give her the merest glance.

  ‘So what is it that keeps you so busy?’ she asked, hoping for a semblance of conversation to keep her mind occupied.

  He turned his head away from the stage and lowered his voice. ‘Work, sleep. I get up early so I may take care of the paperwork awaiting me before the men arrive to work on the house and confound me with all the hammering.’

  ‘Hammering.’ Nodding, her eyebrows bumping up for a moment, then she settled back into her chair, using the fan to block visibility of her words.

  She slid back and opened the fan to circulate the air at her face, causing wisps of hair to flutter. She was being rejected, again. He did not care to talk with her in the least. Oh, well, she was attending the theatre and surely something would amuse her.

  She stared at his face. His shoulders were turned slightly her way. His smile appeared genuine, but something at his eyes told her he looked at her no differently than he might a bit of produce. She was not a turnip.

  ‘Demure,’ he said softly, a reminder. Something changed behind his eyes, but she could not fathom it.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ she said, fluttering her fan in front of her face. ‘The D word. That ugly word that doesn’t suit me either. But the D word is better than the B word, I suppose.’

  ‘It will take some time. Don’t concern yourself.’

  ‘Time. That means it will be slow.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘I am not a tortoise.’ But the night was progressing at the same speed as one. Everything seemed normal enough, except Agatha settled directly in Beatrice’s line of vision. Agatha, with a sneer on her lips. She did not see how she was going to sit through a whole evening with Agatha watching every twitch of the fan.

  ‘Patience is vital to success,’ he said.

  ‘I suppose...’

  Beatrice pushed back a curl and shifted backwards in the seat, brushing a hand over her stomach. Something she ate had not agreed with her, or perhaps it was the way she was being examined.

  Andrew’s legs were relaxed in front of him, the toe of one boot tapping softly. ‘Not a large crowd tonight,’ he said. ‘But I hear the play is quite entertaining.’

  He had put her on display and she had agreed, but she had not realised this was all a pretence to him. Or that Agatha would be present. Agatha had been present the last time Beatrice had been at the theatre. Beatrice took in a breath, leaning in his direction so closely she brushed against his shoulder. ‘Could we perhaps leave early and discuss your portrait, at my country house?’

  He gave the barest shake of his head.

  She opened her fan, noting the scent of her own perfume on it. Fluttering the object, she made sure the air brushed both their faces. ‘Such a warm night,’ she mused.

  ‘I was thinking. If you created some endearing portraits of children, the papers would take note of it.’ His voice rolled across her.

  ‘But I would rather paint you. As we are friends.’ He had changed the subject. How polite. Although she was not quite sure she spoke the truth in saying they were friends.

  ‘You sincerely do paint?’ he asked.

  She nodded her head. ‘Painting is my one true and only love and I never will love another. Though I might like someone very intensely. Someone with intense eyes, an amazing jawline...eyebrows. You must pose for me.’

  Stones. His eyes were like brown stones. If a rock could examine the turnip, that would be the expression it used.

  ‘We have covered this subject before,’ he said.

  They were hardly even acquaintances and he was making an appearance with her simply to improve her reputation in the press. He probably had not liked the mention of himself and now he was pretending an affection so he would not be portrayed so badly.

  Well, she could not fault him. She pulled the fan so it only fluttered at her face. The room felt as if the sun glared on her and everyone else was in shadows.

  ‘You are deeply wounding me as I wish to return the good turn you are doing me and give you a portrait. I am a good artist,’ she said, grasping at the only thing she could think of to speak about. ‘As I said, one of my pieces is on view at Somerset House. I think it is my best work to date.’

  ‘I am certain you are talented.’

  ‘You say that out of courtesy. But I am skilled with brushes and I must show you. Art is much like architecture.’ Her fan kept moving, concealing her face from the others in the theatre as best she could. She fanned more quickly, trying to get the heat from her. ‘Creations. A craftsman making something to display.’

  His eyes changed flashing a bit of concern. ‘Beatrice,’ he whispered. ‘Are you feeling well?’

  ‘Just the temperature is a bit intense.’ She continued fanning and speaking. ‘Wilson told me you are greatly fond of architecture. It is just another form of art, if done well. Think how you and Wilson immerse yourselves in the plans. How you want the homes to be just so. The little details. The shapes. How you stand back and inspect the finished product. How it makes you feel.’
<
br />   ‘I do see architecture as an art form.’

  He was more structure than man, she assumed, no wonder he liked buildings. She slowed her fan. But he was still male. She was quite certain of that.

  With her free hand, she nudged her reticule his direction. It fell to the floor at his feet. He leaned to retrieve it at the same moment she leaned into him. ‘Pardon me,’ she said in her most demure voice, the fingers of her left hand brushing his thigh as she reached for her reticule.

  ‘Beatrice,’ he cautioned softly.

  ‘You may call me Countess,’ she said, putting the reticule at her side away from him. She could not bear being on display another moment. Sitting beside him. Wondering what he truly thought of her.

  ‘Beatrice. What is wrong?’

  ‘Nothing. All is going just as you wished,’ she said. ‘Just as I want. And I must keep an appearance of the utmost propriety now. I see that. I agree completely. No one will think less of you.’

  ‘Beatrice.’

  ‘We both have a care for art. Something in common. We have a lot—well, one other thing in common as well. I am practically a virgin as well.’

  He didn’t respond, but the stone chipped a bit.

  ‘It’s true,’ she continued quickly. ‘Riverton was sotted almost constantly after we married, or had his head in a haze of smoke. He could barely even stand erect. Much less remain alert when he was lying down. It doesn’t make one feel desirable. Or quiet.’

  ‘You’re very desirable.’ Measured, clipped words.

  She snapped her fan closed. Her gaze locked with his. She moved the fan like a wand, letting the tip of it briefly brush against the top of her breast before she reached to shove the accessory into her reticule. ‘I’m sure I’m desirable for all the right reasons.’