Counting on a Countess

by Eva Leigh

  Chapter 13

  The enormous dining room felt far more intimate to Tamsyn when taking a meal with Kit. He insisted that, rather than sitting at opposite ends of the long table, they actually sit beside each other.

  “This way I don’t have to shout at you like a sergeant barking orders,” he said with a cheerful air as waited for her to take her seat.

  “I don’t obey orders very well,” she answered pertly.

  He raised a brow as he sat. “Disobedient, eh? You know what we do with willful countesses.”

  “Actually,” she replied, propping her chin on her hand, “I don’t know.”

  Shaking out his napkin, he said, “Neither do I. But,” he added, smiling wickedly, “I’m certain I can devise a suitable punishment.”

  Her stomach fluttered as she held his gaze. “Have to catch me first.”

  “Daring words, my lady.” His eyes heated. “I look forward to the chase.”

  Oh, dear.

  She sipped her wine as she struggled for a level head. A flirtatious Kit ought to be considered a weapon.

  In his evening clothes, he was all things masculine and dangerous. The dark indigo of his coat brought out the blue in his eyes, and the immaculate tailoring fit snugly to his lean, muscular body. She could stare for hours at the clean lines of his jaw highlighted against the white of his neckcloth.

  He watched her with a hooded look as she helped herself to the artichokes in cream sauce and then the roast lemon capons.

  “Difficult to concentrate on this excellent food with you observing me like a patrolman,” she murmured.

  “Forgive me.” He didn’t take his eyes off her, however. “I am congratulating myself.”

  She took a bite and had to focus very hard on enjoying her meal, but he was so blasted distracting. “For what?”

  “For finding myself in the enviable position of being your husband.” He served himself and began to eat.

  A drink of wine didn’t cool her heated cheeks. “You’re awfully adept at flattery.”

  “I was in the army, ma’am,” he answered. “Flattery is hardly worth a ha’penny when you’re struggling to keep your men fed and your brains firmly ensconced inside your skull.”

  Talk of his service piqued her interest. In the time they’d been together, he seldom mentioned that period. “Then you don’t miss it,” she wondered.

  “What’s to miss? Maggots in the bread or some Frenchman wanting to shove a bayonet in my chest?” At her appalled silence, he muttered, “Apologies. I shouldn’t have spoken so bluntly.”

  “There are men in my village who went off to war,” she answered gently. “Only some of them came back. I imagine it takes a great deal of strength to live with those memories.”

  His jaw tightened as he determinedly cut his capon into bite-sized pieces. “We all have our ways of enduring.”

  Perhaps that was why he’d devoted himself so wholeheartedly to being a libertine. It was a means to keep thoughts of the War at bay. She’d seen veterans at taverns drinking with single-minded determination, washing away the faces of the fallen and the sounds of battle.

  “Come, let’s not spoil this evening with dull topics,” he said with determined lightness. “Tell me about your life in Cornwall.”

  Panic chilled the back of her neck, but she tried to soothe herself with the rationalization that he knew nothing about her illicit activities. “You’d find it very dull compared to London life,” she demurred.

  “Whenever you speak of Cornwall you go bright as a star.”

  Heat pervaded her cheeks. Compliments were rare—the men and lads in Newcombe respected her too much to say anything potentially untoward, and she had been such a poor matrimonial prospect in London that few gentlemen had taken the time to dole out honeyed words.

  “What do you want to know?” she finally answered.

  He waved his fork. “Anything. Everything.”

  A laugh burst from her. “Sizable topics.”

  “I’ll be more specific. Who do you dine with? Besides your aunt and uncle.”

  “There aren’t many genteel families within easy distance of my house,” she explained after taking a bite. “Though when my parents were alive, we had guests nearly every night. The vicar, of course.”

  “Of course.” Kit nodded gravely. “Can’t leave out the man of God.”

  “Yeoman farmers,” she continued, “some merchants from Newquay or Truro—they’d stay the night.” A smile touched her lips at the memory. “No shortage of company. My mother played the pianoforte and we’d dance.”

  She recalled the feel of the smooth leather of Father’s shoes beneath her feet as she stood on them in her stockings, and they would sway back and forth as Mother plinked out “Sweet Nightingale.”

  She started at the touch of Kit’s fingertip on her cheek.

  He turned his finger to show her the sheen of moisture that gleamed on his skin. Her hands flew to her cheeks, and to her horror she found them wet with tears. Quickly, she brushed them away.

  “Lord,” she said in a muffled voice, turning her head away, “I haven’t done that in ages.”

  “There’s no harm in it.” His voice was unexpectedly gentle. “You loved them.”

  Gratitude surged within her at his kindness. Surreptitiously, she dabbed at her nose with her napkin. “I lost them so long ago.”

  “And life with your uncle and aunt?” She must have made a face, because he said with wry sympathy, “As bad as that?”

  “They’re . . .” She searched for the right way to phrase it. “Related by blood, but it’s not much of a bond.” After nudging around the food on her plate, she went on. “Where I’m concerned, it’s benign neglect. They leave me to my own devices.”

  “But . . . ?” he prompted, his expression one of intense listening.

  Anger welled up and she balled her free hand into a fist. “The house is nearly a ruin because Jory refuses to maintain it. ‘Why keep up a moldering heap of bricks?’” She gritted her teeth in frustration. “He’d rather spend money on trips to Penzance and Falmouth, or even Cheltenham. Gwen doesn’t care what the house looks like so long as she’s kept in Chinese silk and Indian shawls. And the way they care for the village—” She stopped herself a moment before blurting anything incriminating. Yet it was too easy to talk with Kit.

  “What of the village?” he urged.

  “It’s a fishing village like any other,” she said, her words deliberately airy. “Hardly worth a gentleman’s interest.”

  “Your aunt and uncle sound like a right pair of bastards,” Kit said bluntly.

  This startled another laugh out of her. “I’ve thought the same,” she confessed lowly. “But never said it aloud.”

  “I’ll give voice to whatever you want to say but can’t,” he declared. “Just write it down on a piece of paper and I’ll bellow it from the rooftops.”

  “Our neighbors might take issue with that,” she cautioned. “I think an awful lot of things that shouldn’t be spoken. Don’t forget, I grew up around fishermen.”

  His grin was sudden and wrapped her in warmth. “I knew there was a reason why we were well suited for each other.”

  His praise felt far too good, yet she wanted to bask in it. And the way he looked at her—as though she was the most enthralling creature alive—made her hot and shaky and excited all at the same time.

  For the remainder of the meal, she tried her best to keep from falling under his spell, but she struggled. His irreverent humor made her laugh, while his direct, unwavering gaze sent her pulse fluttering. He told her the story about the near disaster that had been his presentation at court—“Watch how many drinks for courage you have beforehand”—and described the exhibit of Lord Elgin’s Grecian marbles in such a thorough manner she felt as though she had seen them with her own eyes.

  Yet he never talked again of the War or his time in the army.

  In fact, all he spoke of was strictly related to amusing and diverting issu
es. No unpleasant topics. Nothing grave or serious. As though he avoided such things. As though he pretended they didn’t exist.

  But she saw how his head turned slightly when a footman entered the room carrying a tray of cake and fruit. Kit seemed aware of his surroundings at all times, marking where the servants stood, or the distance between his seat and the window, in case a threat suddenly appeared.

  As the meal came to its close, she rose. He looked up at her with a quizzical expression. “Where are you going?”

  “To the drawing room,” she explained. “So you can enjoy the company of your port and tobacco. Isn’t that the way of fashionable folk?”

  He waved this aside. “It’s a bloody foolish concept. Never happier than when I’m in women’s company.”

  “A glutton for adoration.” She raised a brow. What woman wouldn’t fall all over herself to earn one of his smiles or be on the receiving end of his attentive gaze?

  “Nothing of the sort.” He scowled with aversion to the idea. “Everyone knows that women are more logical than men. They can also have conversations that don’t center on their . . .” He glanced down at his lap.

  Her cheeks bloomed with heat as she realized his meaning. Oh, she’d heard more candid talk in taverns, but context changed everything. A handsome, elegant man in a handsome, elegant room didn’t speak so openly around ladies.

  She liked that he could feel so comfortable around her, however. That he didn’t think her in need of coddling or pretty obfuscations. Unlike most of the aristocratic men she’d met in London, Kit talked to her like an equal. And that was something she appreciated.

  But she realized suddenly that she stared at Kit’s groin. He followed her look, and then gazed back at her, interest hot in his eyes.

  A wave of need pulsed through her. Yet she wasn’t certain what to do with it. She didn’t know how to feel about him. He was her husband, but she had to protect herself and her secrets.

  “Are you very tired?” he asked her suddenly.

  “I’m not seeing double yet,” she answered.

  “Then join me in the parlor.” He stood and offered her his arm. When she took it, he nodded with approval. She tried to keep herself from squeezing his forearm just to feel its solidity, but he looked so blasted attractive and trim in his evening clothes it was all she could do to touch him lightly.

  They left the dining room and they strolled to the parlor, with her profoundly aware of his large male presence beside her.

  Once in the parlor, he moved away from her to the sideboard. “A drink to celebrate our first evening at home.” His hands moved from bottle to bottle. “There must be cordial water around here. That’s what ladies drink, correct? Cordial waters and ratafia?”

  “Brandy,” she said at once.

  He lifted his brows, but poured them two glasses. As he did, she drifted to stand by the fireplace.

  Holding the drinks aloft, he went to her. “To domestic suppers.” He raised his glass.

  She took her drink from him. “To unexpected pleasures,” she answered.

  The corners of his eyes crinkled. Together, they drank.

  Tamsyn made a sound of appreciation. This was fine brandy, even better than the kind she smuggled.

  But Kit’s brandy wasn’t contraband. A vine of ice wove down her spine as she considered this.

  “I’m glad you like it,” he said admiringly.

  “In the absence of ratafia,” she answered, “I’ll do my best to choke it down.”

  He smiled before taking another sip. “We’ll make our debut as a married couple soon.” She tried to keep her expression neutral, but must have shown her dislike because he said in a teasing voice, “Surely I’m not as disgraceful as that.”

  “You are perfectly delightful,” she answered with a shake of her head. “Only . . .” How to phrase this politely? “What I’ve seen of London Society hasn’t been precisely enchanting.”

  He lifted a brow. “Balls, regattas, teas? None of them charmed you?”

  “You sound shocked.”

  “I thought respectable ladies of quality adored the Season’s whirlwind,” he admitted.

  She held up one finger. “Firstly, I would take issue with describing myself as a ‘respectable lady of quality.’”

  He looked intrigued. “What are you, then?”

  Tamsyn pondered this. “I’m . . . more wild than tame. If I had to choose between a ballroom and the prow of a fishing boat, I’d take the fishing boat every time.” She waited to see a disgusted or appalled look cross his face, but instead he appeared thoughtful.

  “Those are in short supply in London,” he finally said.

  “I know.” She sighed wistfully.

  For a moment, he studied her, and she felt his scrutiny in the way one wolf assessed the other. It was fed by curiosity rather than wariness.

  “And secondly?” he asked.

  She held up another finger. “From what I have heard, you aren’t much enamored of virtuous Society, either.”

  He tipped his head in acknowledgment. “Touché. Though I’m a man.”

  “I am well aware of that,” she murmured, taking in the width of his shoulders and the length of his legs. Her heart sped in response to his masculinity. Though they kept a few feet apart, he seemed profoundly close, almost oversize in comparison to her.

  There was no mistaking the carnal shift in his gaze. His eyes were fiery blue as he contemplated her face, her mouth, and the skin just above the low neckline of her gown.

  Her breasts grew sensitive, and warmth coursed low in her belly. She felt dazed by his proximity.

  “As a man,” he continued, his voice husky, “there are certain privileges I enjoy. Certain desires I am free to pursue.”

  Images of him entwined with lithe, worldly women jabbed her. His reputation as a voluptuary was based on fact. She tried to shove the mental pictures away but they lurked in the back of her mind.

  At some point, he would return to that world of pleasure, leaving her to spend her days and nights like any sophisticated woman, taking lovers—or not—as she wanted.

  It seemed a very lonely way to live. She’d gone over a decade without the love of her parents. Could she endure without the love of her husband, too?

  Yet she couldn’t hold him off forever. She had agreed to this marriage and its conditions—including giving him an heir.

  No one ever got with child through long, lingering glances. All she had to do was keep her heart protected, and she wouldn’t be hurt.

  Just go slowly. Step by step.

  She drained her glass and set it carefully on the mantel before facing him.

  “Are there desires I might pursue, as well?” she asked, her voice going husky.

  His brows went up in surprise for half a moment before that look of need burned brighter in his eyes. He moved closer to her.

  She held up a hand, holding him at bay. “Tonight, I want only kissing,” she asserted. “It cannot lead to anything else.”

  He swallowed. “As you wish.” His voice was low and gravelly.

  “Good.” She tried to will her heart to stop pounding frantically, but it wouldn’t listen. Instead, blood roared in her ears as she stepped nearer, turning the distance between them to mere inches.

  She slid her hands up the front of his waistcoat, feeling his strapping body beneath the brocade, and his own energetically beating heart. He seemed to hold his breath as her hands went up farther to rest on his shoulders. The flesh beneath her palms was tight and solid, and it shifted under her touch. He watched all this with heavy-lidded eyes.

  “I’m going to touch you now,” he rumbled.

  She couldn’t find her voice to agree, but nodded.

  Unhurriedly, his hands moved around her waist, fitting to her curves. His heat soaked into her flesh. He gently pulled her even closer, until their bodies met. She bit back an exclamation of shock and pleasure at the feel of him, so very potent, so different from her. She wanted to run and she wante
d to lean into him and absorb this moment, this intimacy. The cold from years of isolation thawed slowly, leaving her exposed and open.

  He lowered his head as she tipped hers upward, and their mouths met. Desire flamed brightly at his touch. They moved quickly past tentative caresses to fuller, deeper kisses, stroking against each other. His tongue moved in a hypnotic rhythm in her mouth. She yielded and she took, growing bolder, feeling her own power. When she sucked lightly on his tongue, he growled and pressed her tightly against him. Her fingers wove into his hair.

  Everything in her body went warm and liquid. She felt intoxicated yet also powerfully aware. A new ache started to throb, demanding more.

  He will devastate you, her mind whispered.

  I don’t care, her body answered.

  Abruptly, she pulled back.

  His eyes slowly opened as his hold on her waist loosened slightly. He looked as though someone had taken away the very air he needed to breathe. And yet he didn’t try to grab her or force his kisses on her.

  “I think . . . that’s enough for tonight.” She couldn’t quite catch her breath.

  He said nothing, his jaw tight. But he nodded.

  “It’s been a long day,” she continued, her voice sounding overloud, “and I really do need to go to sleep. Have a good night.”

  “Good night,” he answered hoarsely.

  She spun on her heel and hurried out of the parlor, putting much-needed distance between them.

  Kit watched her go, his heart pounding and his cock hard. Goddamn it—his need for her grew like wildfire whenever he touched her, nearly burning him to ash.

  He stalked to the sideboard and poured himself another drink, which he quickly threw back, bracing himself and fighting to return to sanity.

  Everything he had learned of her tonight revealed her courage, her strength—and her solitude. She was a rare elemental creature, one that demanded respect, even as her innate sensuality inflamed him. He could lose himself in her.

  He’d made plans for tomorrow evening, hoping that what he had arranged would please her.

  I want to please her.

  The thought struck him like a sniper’s bullet. But when he conjured images of her smiling and laughing, warmth seeped through him and he felt both calm and purposeful.