Counting on a Countess

by Eva Leigh

  “Lord Blakemere woke me minutes ago,” Tamsyn explained. She scrubbed a washcloth over her face. “Didn’t tell me anything but I was to get dressed as soon as possible.” A thousand probabilities ran through her mind, none of them good.

  “Do you think he knows?” Nessa asked, going pale.

  “He didn’t say, and I can’t read his bloody mind,” Tamsyn snapped. Anxiety made her patience thin—but she regretted her tone the moment she spoke.

  “All right, all right.” Nessa delved into the wardrobe and removed a teal walking gown as well as the necessary underpinnings.

  Tamsyn tried to calm her racing pulse as Nessa helped her into her clothes, including a russet-colored pelisse. Finally, when she was dressed, she grabbed a bonnet, jammed it on her head, and rushed out. Whatever was happening, it was best not to keep Kit waiting for long.

  He stood at the foot of the stairs, already wearing his hat and coat. Drawing a deep breath, she tried to descend the steps with some grace, but her equanimity was difficult to hold on to when she could make out nothing in the lake-blue of Kit’s eyes.

  “The carriage is outside,” he said when she stood before him.

  “We’re going somewhere?”

  In response, he offered her his arm.

  She planted her feet. “I’m not going anywhere unless you tell me what the deuce is happening.”

  “We’re taking a short trip,” he finally answered, “and that’s all I can tell you.”

  She might control the purse strings, but he was her husband. Realizing that she had little choice, Tamsyn took his arm. A footman held the front door open, and they emerged onto a street that was just barely coming awake for the day. One laborer pulled a cart loaded with rags and buckets, and a milkmaid carried her pails hanging from a yoke. Certainly no one from fashionable London was about.

  Kit waved her toward the carriage. There wasn’t much to do besides climb in and take a seat, her limbs stiff. Once he had gotten in and knocked on the roof, the vehicle jolted into motion.

  “Mrs. Hoskins had the cook pack a hamper,” Kit said. He nodded at a covered basket on the floor. “Rolls and such, to break your fast.”

  “Thank you,” Tamsyn answered, but her appetite had deserted her.

  Neither spoke as the carriage rolled westward, passing through unfamiliar neighborhoods. Eventually, the buildings came with less and less frequency, with more stretches of green. Kit offered no commentary or guidance. He was unusually silent, save for drumming his fingertips on the edge of the window. Occasionally, he’d glance in her direction, yet she couldn’t tell if his gaze was accusatory. Other than the time before they had gone to finalize the transfer of the fortune, she’d never seen him this preoccupied or distant.

  Perhaps she hadn’t lost him in the jewelry district, as she’d hoped. Perhaps he knew everything.

  Was he taking her somewhere to confront her about her smuggling? Running her out of town? Or maybe he’d use his knowledge to wrest control of the fortune back to him.

  The urge to confess hovered on her tongue. She hated having to keep lying to him, and if she told him everything, maybe he’d be lenient. Perhaps he could forgive her. At the least, maybe he wouldn’t turn her in to the magistrate. He’d shown that he did care for her to some degree. Possibly that would be enough to keep her from prosecution.

  Yet the confession remained merely an impulse, and she said nothing.

  Finally, the carriage came to a stop. A medium-size town perched on either side of the river. Glancing out the window, she observed another river intersecting the Thames, with barges and other small craft moving up and down the water.

  “Where are we?” she asked.

  “Brentford,” Kit answered. “The other body of water is the River Brent.”

  The footman opened the carriage door and waited, his hand extended. She had no alternative other than get out.

  As she set foot on the ground, she scanned the area, looking for law enforcement. Perhaps Kit planned on having her arrested, but he didn’t want to do it in the city where everyone could see her brought to justice.

  When Kit stepped down from the carriage, she whirled on him.

  “I need to know what’s happening,” she demanded. “Now.”

  “Turn around,” he replied.

  Slowly, she did so, expecting to see someone waiting to clap her in irons.

  Instead, she looked at several small boats moored thirty feet away on a dock. They bobbed and swayed on diminutive waves, and their sails were furled. On one of the dinghies, an East Indian man was in the process of preparing the mainsail, making it ready to venture out on the water. As he did this, a fair-haired woman stood on the dock, watching as she held a basket. The man on the boat, dressed in a cap and the traditionally loose clothes of a sailor, caught sight of Kit and Tamsyn and waved.

  Her husband nodded in an answering signal.

  “Kit,” Tamsyn said, trying to keep her voice level.

  “That gentleman over there is Mr. Sanjay Singh,” Kit said. “One of the finest lascars to sail for the East India Company. The lady on the dock is his wife, Alice. I’ve hired Mr. Singh’s services for the day, as well as the use of his ship.”

  “Boat,” Tamsyn corrected automatically. “A ship has three or more square-rigged masts.”

  He blinked at her. “Ah. Yes. Well, I’ve engaged Mr. Singh’s boat to sail us on the Thames today.”

  “But . . . why?”

  “You’re a Cornishwoman,” Kit explained. “From a seaside village. But you haven’t been home for some time. I imagine you must be eager to escape crowded, noisy London and get out on the water. So,” he finished, “here we are.”

  He fell abruptly silent, his expectant gaze fixed intently on her face.

  It suddenly made sense. Kit’s reserve and silence on the ride here. His refusal to tell her anything about their destination. Even his tenseness now.

  He was anxious. He feared her response.

  Because he wasn’t planning to have her arrested or run her out of town. He’d arranged a special outing for her, to make her happy.

  Her heart expanded, filling her chest. Inundated with emotion, she felt like laughing and weeping at the same time. Not since she’d lost her parents had anyone done something so thoughtful for her. No one had believed she was worth the effort. Yet Kit did.

  The hard armor she’d carefully used to shield her from tender, vulnerable feelings fell away. He understood her. He cared.

  It was the most precious gift she could have ever received.

  “I can’t think of a better way to spend the day,” she said, and smiled. She squeezed his hand. “Thank you so much.”

  His tight, high shoulders visibly relaxed, and he grinned. “It pleases you?”

  “Very much.” Everything about him pleased her, most of all his innate kindness. He had been a soldier and seen untold horrors, and yet he hadn’t lost his humanity or ability to give of himself.

  He exhaled. “Thank God.” Weaving their fingers together, he led her toward the waiting boat. “It’s going to be a splendid excursion. Nothing has been left to chance.”

  Her throat tightened and her eyes became hot. The stiffness in her limbs ebbed away as her fear receded. He’d gone to so much trouble on her behalf. Each day, he’d worked so hard to make her happy. Today was no exception. He’d been generous and thoughtful and truly seemed to care about her. Her heart had responded, warming and opening to him.

  At that moment, holding his hand, she felt herself falling, falling headlong into feelings that would not be held back.

  Kit fought to master his pleasure at seeing the happiness on his wife’s face, but it was a losing battle. The last time he’d experienced this euphoria had been . . . Damn. He couldn’t remember. It was as though his life had been divided into two distinct parts: before Tamsyn and after. The time before had been shrouded in fog and shadow, and the time after was luminosity and contentment.

  He wanted to gift her the
world—mansions and gowns and the stars themselves, if only to see the happiness in her eyes.

  You haven’t given her everything yet.

  That would come later. All he had to concern himself with now was sailing and Tamsyn’s enjoyment of it.

  They approached the dock, and Mr. Singh climbed nimbly out of the boat.

  “Everything is nearly ready, my lord,” the lascar said after bowing. His wife bobbed a curtsy and glanced at the basket in her arms. “Mrs. Singh has prepared a fine luncheon to enjoy while you are on the water.”

  Tamsyn accepted the basket with a smile. “Can I help make ready the boat?”

  “There is nothing for you to do, Lady Blakemere, except enjoy yourself,” Mr. Singh answered. “This way, if you please.” He waved them toward the waiting vessel.

  Stepping into a rocking boat was not an easy task, but Mr. Singh helped both Kit and Tamsyn in. Cushions lay on the benches that skimmed along the interior edges. Tamsyn sat on one side, setting the basket down on the floor, and Kit carefully lowered himself down beside her.

  “Don’t get too comfortable,” she murmured to him as Mr. Singh performed a number of mysterious tasks to get the boat ready. “A dinghy this size . . . we’ll be switching sides to keep from heeling.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Tipping over.” She glanced at a flag flying from the top of a boathouse roof. “There’s some wind today but it oughtn’t require too much tacking. That means turning the boat through the wind so it changes from one side of the vessel to the other,” she explained. “The boom will move from side to side, so we should be prepared to duck.”

  “Here I’d brought you for a pleasure cruise, but I’d no idea you were so conversant with the technical aspects of seafaring.” He felt a throb of pride at the depth of her knowledge.

  “My father kept a boat.”

  Kit felt the blood drain from his face. “Oh God, I didn’t think . . .”

  She shook her head. “It’s all right. Being on the water doesn’t upset me anymore.”

  “We can do something else,” he offered, feeling like an ass. “Hire horses for a ride.”

  “No,” she answered with a smile. “It’s good to be under sail again. And I miss being on the water. I’d go with sundry folk from Newcombe. Fishermen, sailors, and such.”

  Had any of those fishermen or sailors or such been her sweetheart? If he’d been one of their weathered number, he surely would have tried to steal a kiss from her as they’d glided over the waves. He could picture it now—the wind loosening locks of her fiery hair, her skin turning golden from the sun, and all around the gray blue of the water. She’d be irresistible.

  Tamsyn had never mentioned a beau. Perhaps she’d had to bid him a tearful farewell in order to secure the hand of a wealthy gentleman in London.

  His chest constricted and he realized with shock that what he felt was jealousy. It was an unknown emotion to him where people were concerned, and he wasn’t certain he liked it. In fact, he knew he didn’t.

  “That’s rare,” he finally said with effort, “to have that kind of closeness with your neighbors.”

  “We look out for each other,” she agreed.

  “I grew up in London,” he explained, “and spent childhood summers at the family estate, but relations between the lord of the manor’s family and the villagers were never very congenial.”

  “Hopefully you weren’t too lonely during those summers.” Her eyes shone with concern, and his chest ached in response to her sentiment.

  “I found ways to get into mischief.”

  She smiled. “That I don’t doubt.”

  “I imagine there isn’t a lot of mischief afoot in a small Cornish village,” he mused.

  Her smile faded and she seemed suddenly fascinated by the various ropes attached to the sails. “I suppose not,” she murmured quietly.

  It distressed him to see her mood shift, but before he could speculate on what caused it, Mr. Singh was untying the vessel from the dock. He used an oar to row them out, and then they were underway. Once the captain raised the sails, the boat skimmed away and Mrs. Singh grew smaller and smaller as she waved her goodbyes.

  Wind filled the fluttering sails and it was as though they flew over the surface of the water. It wasn’t long before they’d put Brentford behind them. Houses of different sizes perched close to the riverbank, peaceably coexisting beside the water. A child and her dog ran to keep up with the boat but soon were outpaced. Washing on lines snapped like medieval pennants. A fresh scent rose up from the river, far different here than the thick mire it was in the city.

  Mr. Singh hailed the other vessels they passed as he deftly steered. He was in constant motion, either adjusting the lines or else working the tiller. True to Tamsyn’s word, periodically they had to move from one side of the boat to the other.

  Kit’s gaze seldom left Tamsyn’s face. Her smile returned while she chatted with their skipper about his seafaring experience. It seemed that Mr. Singh had seen much of the world in service to the East India Company, and he had many thrilling and harrowing tales of life as a sailor.

  Kit tried to keep up with the conversation, but it was a morass of mystifying nautical terms and he contented himself with her endless enthusiasm, her interest in other people’s lives. She had been hurt by life, but it hadn’t beaten her down. Her resilience awed him.

  “Hard not to miss this,” she said to him, her eyes roving the passing scenery. “Being on the water, it gives one such freedom.”

  “There’s possibility in it,” he agreed. “You could go anywhere.”

  She nodded. “You master nature, but you give yourself over to it, as well.”

  “Would you care to take the tiller, my lady?” Mr. Singh asked.

  Her expression was one of pure elation. “Might I?”

  “I welcome it.”

  Balancing carefully, she made her way over and, at Mr. Singh’s signal, she took over steering the boat. Her expression became focused and serious while she piloted their vessel, her hand holding firm to the tiller. With Tamsyn and Mr. Singh at the back of the boat, it wasn’t necessary for Kit to change sides when they occasionally zigzagged. Despite the traffic on the water, she kept them moving in a steady course.

  She’d called herself a wild creature unsuited to life in a ballroom. He saw now that she was so much more than that. She fearlessly tackled life’s challenges, yet she wasn’t jaded or cold. The warmth of her smile could thaw the deepest freeze, and he realized at that moment how his thoughts of the War seemed to retreat when he was near her. He hadn’t scanned the horizon for enemy threats once today.

  What a lucky sod he was, to have become her husband.

  “Very good, my lady!” Mr. Singh exclaimed.

  “Indeed,” Kit added with enthusiasm. “Excellent seamanship. Or is it seawomanship? We should invent a new word for women on the water.”

  “Oh, we’ve always been sailors,” she said brightly. She added with a wink, “Don’t tell the British Navy.”

  They sailed on for several minutes before Tamsyn announced, “It’s bad form to take command of another man’s vessel. I return the tiller to you, Mr. Singh.” She ceded the wooden bar.

  “All this nautical hubbub has given me a considerable appetite,” Kit declared.

  “I’m also famished,” she admitted. “Didn’t have much breakfast.”

  A pang of remorse hit him. He didn’t want to cause her any distress. “I didn’t mean to alarm you with my skulduggery.” Yet he wondered, what precisely had she been afraid of?

  Tamsyn opened the lid on the basket. “Let’s see what Mrs. Singh has packed for us.” She pulled out a loaf of bread, slices of cold meat and cheese, apples, and a flagon. “Will you join us, Mr. Singh?”

  The captain politely waved off her offer. “It is custom for my wife and I to sup together. I shall wait.”

  Kit pressed a hand to his rumbling stomach. “Well, I, for one, cannot.”

  They ate thei
r luncheon with gusto. The brush of their fingers as they passed the flagon of ale back and forth sent heat and awareness pulsing through him. As he drank, he realized he had his mouth where hers had been moments earlier.

  He hadn’t kissed her last night, even though he’d desired it. But their companionship had been so easy during and after dinner he had wanted to preserve their harmony. Now, seeing her come alive on the water, full of vivid energy, the need to touch her and feel her close rose up like a tide—powerful and immutable.

  He tried to concentrate on their unassuming meal, to enjoy simply being out with her on the river, but all the while, a box in his coat pocket kept demanding attention. He’d been so confident when he’d acquired it, but now that the moment approached, uncertainty took hold.

  Once the food had been consumed and the remainders packed away, he decided that the time had finally arrived. His hand slipped into his pocket.

  “I, ah, have something for you.” The nervousness in his voice was strange and unwelcome, but he couldn’t stop it. Not when he wanted so much to please her. “Put out your hand.”

  With a faintly puzzled frown, she did so. He placed the hinged box on her palm.

  “It’s not a pony,” he said with forced brightness.

  “Or a steam engine,” she added.

  He held his breath. Carefully, she lifted the lid to reveal its contents. She made a soft sound, pressing the fingers of her free hand to her lips.

  “Oh, Kit.” From the box, she pulled out a length of gold chain. A pearl and diamond pendant swayed as she held up the necklace. Her gaze didn’t move from the bauble, yet she didn’t speak.

  Disappointment came hard and cutting.

  “It’s too plain,” he said, his words flat. “There were other necklaces. I should have gotten one of those. A cameo or a whole strand of pearls, or—”

  “I love it.”

  He went quiet. Then, “Truly?”

  Her wide hazel eyes met his. “Truly. Thank you.”

  Kit felt as though he could melt with relief. Praise God. He couldn’t tell her that he’d followed her to Clerkenwell yesterday, or that he’d noticed she had not returned with any purchases. Not even a simple strand of coral beads.