Counting on a Countess

by Eva Leigh

  “I have no sodding idea,” Kit said, fighting exasperation. “I barely know her.”

  And wasn’t that the problem? He’d discovered pieces of her here and there, but there was still so much left to learn.

  Langdon held up a finger. “Ah. Here’s the crux of the matter. You and your wife began your marriage already estranged. How can she approve anything about your spending if she doesn’t have a farthing’s worth of knowledge about you?”

  “I’d think to preserve marital harmony,” Kit mused, “she’d simply agree to whatever I demanded.”

  “There’s another of your problems.” Langdon leaned forward. “Your impulse is to demand, not ask.”

  “In my experience,” Kit noted, “there are certain demands to which women are perfectly happy to cede.”

  “The bedroom is a separate arena,” was Langdon’s rejoinder. “I’m speaking specifically of money, which has its own set of rules.”

  “How would you know?” Kit demanded. “You’re the bloody heir. You’ve always gotten whatever you want. A fleet of phaetons?” He snapped his fingers. “Done. A fortune to spend on grisettes and gambling?” Once more, he snapped his fingers. “Done.”

  “This ad hominem attack helps no one,” Langdon said with an equanimity that made Kit want to punch him. “We’re moving away from my argument. Certainly you’ve heard the old chestnut about flies and vinegar and honey and so forth.”

  Kit lapsed into a contemplative silence. Finally, he said, “Once or twice.”

  “Let that be your guide,” Langdon answered. “If you set out to win Lady Blakemere’s favor, she won’t deny you anything. Including,” he added, “this secret project that you refuse to disclose to me.” He drained his brandy. “You won’t get anywhere if you continue on this path of befuddled stasis.”

  A servant reappeared immediately to refill Langdon’s glass.

  As Kit watched his friend drink, he pondered what Langdon advocated. There was logic in his counsel. If he courted Tamsyn—properly—she’d soften toward him. Once favorably inclined, surely she would grant him the funds for whatever he desired. She might even do so with a smile.

  Kit let out a breath. “Here’s an upside-down strategy. Usually a man seduces a woman before marriage.”

  “Yes, well,” Langdon said with a self-deprecating twist of his mouth, “when it comes to the nuances of actual courtship, I might not be the best mentor.”

  Kit smirked. “What a marvelous gift of understatement you have.”

  “Silence, you ass.” But there was no rancor in Langdon’s words. They had known each other too long to take offense at anything the other said. “You’re the military man. Use those gifts of strategy that kept you alive to do something much more difficult—namely, endearing yourself to your wife.”

  Slowly, Kit nodded. It would take some work on his part, but then, nothing truly worth having came easily. In Portugal and Spain, he would lie awake at night listening to his men asleep, men he might have to send to their deaths. A reliable way he could get himself to sleep was to think of his plans for the pleasure garden. He’d go over every detail, every nuance, until he surrendered to unconsciousness. Now that he was home, whenever memories of death loomed close, he returned to that dream. It soothed him now as it did then.

  Langdon frowned at him. “What are you doing sitting here?” He made a shooing motion with his hand. “Get thee home, miscreant, and charm your wife.”

  “I will.” Kit rose quickly and smoothed a hand down his waistcoat. After giving Langdon a nod of thanks, he headed for the door. He had, in fact, survived a considerable amount of combat. Scars marked his body, though they were hidden by his clothing. He’d weathered so much, yet the prospect of making a woman care about him was far more intimidating.

  Kit cautiously crossed the threshold of the town house. He’d made himself quite scarce since yesterday, and if Tamsyn waited for him with a fire iron clutched in her hand, ready to brain him, he couldn’t quite blame her.

  Aside from a footman, who assisted him with his coat and hat, the foyer stood empty. No waiting, angry wife. Yet her absence spoke just as loudly as an aggressive assault.

  “Where is Lady Blakemere?” he asked the footman. He didn’t want to have to search all over the house, seeking his wife in some kind of treasure hunt.

  “In the study, my lord,” the servant answered.

  Kit took two steps before stopping. “And where is the study?”

  “Follow me, my lord.”

  He trailed after the footman as they moved down a corridor, deeper into the house. They passed several chambers of different sizes, including two separate drawing rooms, before the servant stopped outside a closed door.

  “That will do,” Kit said in dismissal. He didn’t relish the idea of the staff watching him when there was a distinct possibility he might have to grovel.

  The footman bowed and disappeared. When Kit was certain he was alone, he knocked. Tamsyn’s muffled voice called, “Come in.”

  It would be better to enter with confidence rather than timidly poking his head in and pleading for an audience. He opened the door and stepped inside.

  The study was typically a masculine sanctuary, and this one had indeed been decorated for a man. Dark wooden bookshelves were set into paneled alcoves, and important morocco-clad tomes stood upright in neat rows. Leather chairs were arranged around the room in small groups, as if encouraging sober tête-à-têtes where men decided the fate of nations, if not discussing the turn of an actress’s ankle. Hunting scenes hung on the walls. The centerpiece of the room was a massive mahogany desk situated in the middle of the chamber, as though whomever sat at it was the sun and everyone else merely satellites.

  As the lord of the house and holder of the title, by right Kit should find himself behind that desk—reviewing letters, petitions, or whatever pieces of paper that titled men read assiduously, wearing a pair of spectacles and being Important. Other than his years in the army, and the few months he’d been an earl, Kit had never been Important.

  But he was the Earl of Blakemere now—it was about time he took on that mantle.

  Except seated behind the desk was Tamsyn.

  She cradled her head in her hands, a stack of those significant papers in front of her.

  He hadn’t seen her in twenty-four hours. Hardly enough time for anyone to long for the sight of somebody. And yet his gaze moved over her with a restless demand, taking in the details of her.

  Something quieted and stilled within him, and he realized that she was responsible. Being near Tamsyn seemed to calm the restlessness within him.

  Her slim fingers threaded through the flames of her hair. He itched to touch that delicious curve where her neck met her shoulder and ease the knots that bunched there.

  Why had he stayed away so long?

  “Are our finances as bad as that?” he asked, breaking the silence.

  She looked up abruptly. The arch of her brows lifted. “I thought you were Mrs. Hoskins.”

  “As you see,” he said, raising his arms, “I wear no apron and have no keys dangling from my belt.”

  To his surprise, she gave him a thorough looking-over, from the toes of his boots to the crown of his head. His blood heated as her eyes lingered on his thighs and torso, then skimmed over the width of his shoulders.

  The bold examination heightened his awareness of her—and it seemed to affect her, as well. Her redhead’s complexion couldn’t hide the flush in her cheeks.

  She visibly collected herself before exhaling. “No need for concern. Lord Somerby left us an ample yearly income. Neither of us will want for luxury.” She frowned.

  “That troubles you?” Kit eased closer.

  “The gowns I’ve been wearing for my abbreviated Season were all generously gifted to me by Lady Daleford.” She touched the sleeve of her peach-hued dress, delicately stroking the fabric. The movement hypnotized him. “They were the first new articles of clothing I’ve had in five years.”
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  Coming back to himself, Kit recalled that after her parents’ deaths, her uncle had inherited the title, the house, and, apparently, the keeping of her. It appeared that the baron neglected his responsibilities—especially to Tamsyn.

  Anger swept through Kit, stunning him with its speed and force. “You should buy yourself a whole trousseau. Three trousseaus. Velvets and satins and hundreds of yards of silk.” The image of her beautifully adorned filled him with a strange sensation, one of purity and light.

  It was pleasure. Not the voluptuous sort that usually filled his nights, but a simpler, richer kind. “You deserve that much,” he said, his voice low.

  Her eyes went faraway and glassy, as though she imagined herself in gown after gown, but then she shook her head. “What I have is sufficient.” At his sound of exasperation, she said with a wry smile, “It’s going to take more than a day of wealth to undo years of living frugally.”

  Cold shards pierced his gratification. She would never agree to financing the pleasure garden, not with such an entrenched attitude about money.

  “We can work to unlearn that.” He tried to smile.

  She shuffled through the papers. “My mind is dancing like a paper boat in a tempest.” She shook her head. “It seems impossible that I’m responsible for so much money. But I am.”

  Sympathy tightened his chest. “This wasn’t precisely what you thought would happen when you married.”

  “Quite the opposite,” she agreed wearily.

  “Lord Somerby put a weighty burden on you.” He raked a hand through his hair. “And I haven’t exactly helped you, either.”

  She was silent for a moment. “No,” she finally allowed. “You haven’t.”

  Guilt stabbed at him. He would never abandon the troops under his command, but that’s what he had done with her.

  He came closer, as though approaching a tiger, unsure whether she would bite his head off or let herself be petted. Finally, he stood just on the other side of the desk. This close, he could see shadows beneath her eyes. She hadn’t slept well last night, and he was the cause. He really was a bastard.

  “When I was about seven,” he began, “I had a collection of tin soldiers. Far too many for one child to own. My mother’s sister visited us, and she brought her huge brood of children with her. It feels like there were a dozen of them, but that’s probably an inaccurate assessment. In any event,” he continued, “her youngest son accidentally left his favorite wooden toy at home. He was disconsolate. My mother suggested I lend him some of my soldiers, merely for the duration of their visit.”

  Kit shook his head. “I threw the whole lot of them into the pond just so I wouldn’t have to give up any.”

  Tamsyn watched him carefully through his little monologue, her expression opaque.

  “What I’m trying to say,” he went on, “is that I’m a selfish son of a bitch who needs to learn how to share. I needed time to work my way through this puzzle.”

  She let out a breath. “It’s a shocking thing, and a strange thing, this arrangement your friend constructed. If you’re confused and angry about it, I cannot blame you. But,” she said, leveling her gaze at him, “the only way we can truly move forward is to do this together.”

  “Agreed,” he said. “And so, I’m sorry for running away when you needed me.”

  A long moment passed and his stomach clenched in worry. Apologizing wasn’t something he had much practice in.

  “Apology accepted,” she said, and he exhaled.

  “We’ll find a way to make this work,” Kit vowed.

  “I made arrangements with the banker,” she added. “Your quarterly allowance has been set aside and is already in your account. And your debts have been settled.”

  Humbled, he bowed his thanks. It wasn’t all that different from financially relying on his father. On the morrow, he’d withdraw a sum of cash to help him further his plans.

  “Have you dined?” Kit asked. It was nearing six o’clock.

  She blinked at the abrupt change of subject but answered, “Not yet. Despite the lateness of the hour.” Her mouth curved winsomely, and he recalled the kiss they’d shared in the hotel room on their wedding night. Its sudden heat and the strength of their responses to each other. “At home, we dine by five and sleep by eight.”

  “A respectable city gentleman doesn’t think of going to bed before three in the morning,” he announced with faux grandeur. “Anything else is bourgeois.”

  “No one would ever mistake you for a sleepy burgher,” she affirmed.

  Kit planted his hands on the desk and leaned closer. “Would it be entirely conventional of me to ask if you’ll join me for dinner tonight?”

  Her lips parted. “Just us?”

  He picked up her hand and stroked his thumb over her knuckles, back and forth in a slow, spellbinding rhythm. But who was being ensorcelled—her, or him?

  “You and me,” he murmured. “Here.”

  “I . . .” Her pupils were dark and large as she gazed up at him. “Yes.”

  He could do it now. Lean down and take her mouth with his—God knew he wanted to. His gaze strayed to her mouth.

  She blinked and cleared her throat. “Let me finish up a few items here, and then I’ll be up to change for dinner.” Carefully, she removed her hand from his, but she curled it into a fist and rested it against her chest as though holding on to the feel of him.

  I can win her—if I don’t lose myself in the process.

  “Of course. Is there anything I can help you with?” He gestured to the paperwork.

  She smiled slightly. “Thank you for the offer, but I think I have the matter in hand. It’s fortunate that my childhood governess was very insistent that I learn mathematics.”

  “I’ll leave you to your work.” He bowed before retreating. His last glimpse of her was the brilliant crown of her head bent over a sheaf of documents.

  Turning away from the study, he went in search of an available servant. Finding a maid in the parlor, he said, “Please send Lady Blakemere’s abigail to me in my bedchamber.”

  “Yes, my lord,” the girl answered with a curtsy.

  Kit pensively climbed the stairs to his room. What he had planned verged on calculating, yet there wasn’t another option. The pleasure garden had to be made real, for the sake of his own peace. Seducing Tamsyn would not be a chore, either. The air between them already sparked with attraction. He had but to urge that spark into a flame.

  His heart thudded in anticipation of them burning together.

  Kit entered his chamber and a minute later the ruddy-cheeked Cornishwoman appeared in the doorway, her expression cautious.

  “You wanted to see me, my lord?”

  “Come in,” he said, “and close the door.”

  “Am I in trouble?” she asked, brow furrowed.

  “Not at all,” he assured her. “But close the door so that we may speak in confidence.”

  She did as he asked, but didn’t move farther into the room.

  Sitting down at his dressing table, he fiddled with the silver grooming set that his valet had neatly arranged. “You have known my wife for a long time, is that correct?”

  “Aye, my lord. Ever since she was no bigger than an idea.”

  He smiled at that. “I think, then, that you’re the right person to advise me.”

  “On what, my lord?”

  He spread his hands. “On my wife.” At the maid’s puzzled expression, he continued, “We knew each other so briefly before our wedding, and now I find her mostly a stranger to me. And what I need from you is information. Her likes. Her dislikes. Things that make her happy.”

  She was silent for a moment. Likely tallying up the different ways he could please Tamsyn.

  “Excuse me, my lord,” the maid finally said, “if I just tell you those things, that’s cheating.”

  “Cheating?” He stood. “This is marriage. There is no fair or unfair.”

  “Begging your pardon, my lord, but seeing as I�
�ve been married before and you haven’t, let me tell you that there’s most certainly fair and unfair in marriage. And the fact that you don’t know that means you really do have to learn the rules.”

  Tamping down frustration, Kit took a step toward her. “I can make it worth your while.”

  Her brows climbed up. “Firstly, my lord, I don’t accept bribes. Secondly, even if I did, you’d have to get the money from my mistress.”

  He ground his teeth together. He had no cash on him since he hadn’t made it to the bank to receive his allowance. Grabbing his silver comb, he growled, “Pawn this or keep it for yourself.”

  But the stubborn woman shook her head. “I’m not taking anything from you, my lord. If you want to know something about my mistress, you’re going to have to ask her yourself.”

  “But . . . but . . .” He rubbed at his jaw. “I don’t even know where to start.”

  She gave him an enigmatic smile. “You fought Bonaparte himself. I’m sure finding out your wife’s favorite color will be simple by comparison. Now, if you’ll excuse me, my lord, I need to prepare her for dinner. I only just heard from a footman that you’re dining at home tonight,” she said pointedly.

  Lowering himself into a chair by the fire, Kit managed a grunt to let her know they were done. He stared at the flames, watching them shift and dance with alchemical grace.

  Why should this vex him as much as it did? He couldn’t understand himself. He’d never had a shortage of female company and knew precisely what to say to a woman when he desired her. But this was different. Even knowing her on such short acquaintance, he could see that Tamsyn was singular.

  He sifted through what he knew of her and the labyrinth of their current circumstances. There was so much to take into consideration. He was her husband, yet theirs was no ordinary marriage. Nothing about them was ordinary.

  In the middle of this thicket, Kit was going to have to learn who she was. What she loved. What she despised. Her girlish fancies and the deepest dreams of her woman’s heart.

  He’d never had a bigger challenge.