Secrets of a Proper Countess

by Lecia Cornwall

  She stepped back to wait as the countess stroked the fabric wistfully, feminine longing clear in her eyes.

  “It is still blue, as you requested, but a very subtle shade,” the modiste coaxed. “In low light, it will look quite sober, but with a touch of elegance, and it will shimmer oh so gently.”

  Madame watched as the spark of delight in her client’s eyes turned to regret. Without hesitation, she took the lady by the shoulders and led her to the mirror to see the transformation for herself. The spark returned, along with a becoming blush.

  “We could trim the gown with violet ribbon instead of purple or black or gray. It would be subtle, elegant, and…how do you say it? Just the slightest bit enticing.” Madame purred the last word, making it as sibilant and sensuous as the slippery fabric. Pride swelled in her ample bosom when the countess smiled at her reflection and her lashes swept down to hide the glint in her eye. Madame chuckled, knowing she’d not only made her point, but a sale.

  Isobel’s stomach filled with butterflies at the sheer daring of such a decision. What had gotten into her of late? First Blackwood, and now silk? The cloth was soft against her skin, and it had warmed like a lover the instant she touched it. Whatever would Honoria say? She glanced around her.

  Lady Caroline Graves, a young matron close to her own age, was being fitted for a sprigged muslin walking dress with a pretty leaf-green jacket to match. As one assistant pinned and tucked, another was showing her silks and satins in a dozen brilliant and daring colors, not one of which was pastel. Isobel watched as they rolled out a luscious violet silk and Lady Caroline ordered it made up with a pink satin underskirt.

  No one noticed Isobel amid the bolts of black and gray fabric, or knew that last night she had stepped out of the shadows and discovered how wonderful it was to feel pretty. She looked again at the moiré silk over her shoulder. True, it was flat blue when one looked at it, but if she moved, breathed, there was a shimmer that made her mouth water.

  “Yes, I’ll take a gown in the moiré silk,” she heard herself say to the modiste. “With blue trim instead of violet, though,” she added, forcing herself to be somewhat sensible. She raised her chin and met the modiste’s eyes. “I need some nightgowns as well.”

  “Something lacy as usual?” The modiste brought forward a bolt of pink silk, so sheer it was a mere rumor.

  Isobel cast a sidelong look at the vivacious Lady Caroline and imagined her in bed, attired in the same silk, as her lord husband came striding toward her, more purposeful and virile than Robert had ever been.

  But in her imagination the face in the candlelight was Blackwood’s.

  “Yes,” she breathed, dragging her thoughts away from Blackwood and bed. “You will list it on the bill as heavy flannel?”

  The modiste gave Isobel a conspirator’s grin. “As usual, my lady.”

  Charles and Honoria had no idea of her little secret, the one pleasure she indulged in, Isobel thought as she walked across Hyde Park to meet her son.

  She was entitled to one secret, wasn’t she?

  What harm could it do, wearing silk undergarments instead of linen or wool? She found herself tempted to hum. She looked around, checking to see if Honoria or Charles or Jane Kirk might be watching her, but no one was looking. No one ever looked at plain Isobel Maitland. Still, she hid her smile under her prim bonnet. What on earth had gotten into her? But she knew the answer to that.

  Blackwood.

  Her other secret.

  At the pond, she found Robin playing with a toy sailboat with another boy about his age that she didn’t know. His dark head was bent next to Robin’s russet curls as they pushed the boat out onto the water with twigs. Nurse looked on from a shady bench with a placid smile as Isobel approached. The sack of bread crumbs sat untouched beside her.

  Instead of crowding the bank as they usually did, the ducks hovered warily off shore, unsure of whether the ship in their midst was friend or foe. It carried no colors to advise them, and they regarded it as if half expecting the vessel to suddenly run up the Jolly Roger and begin firing.

  “Hello, Robbie,” Isobel said, crouching next to her son and his friend.

  “Mama, this is James,” he said happily, and the other boy regarded her with solemn gray eyes.

  “How d’you do, ma’am?” He rose and bowed to Isobel, and Robin grinned and mimicked his friend.

  “I see you remember how to greet a lady, Jamie. I’m proud of you,” said a pleasant voice, and Isobel turned to see a well-dressed woman smiling at her. “His grandfather taught him how to make a polite bow, even if his jacket is torn and his knees are muddy.”

  Isobel looked at the lad again. He was indeed muddy, but no worse than Robin. A moment’s panic swelled in her chest. What would Honoria say? She’d have to take him in the back door, sneak him upstairs, and give him a bath straight away. She reached out a hand to take Robin’s, only to find her fingers clasped in a polite handshake.

  “I’m Marianne De Courcey, Countess Westlake, and that muddy scamp is my son James, Viscount Halliwell.”

  “Isobel Maitland, Countess Ashdown, and this is Robin, Earl of Ashdown, and first lieutenant of the duck pond fleet, by the look of things.”

  Marianne Westlake laughed. “I am delighted that we happened upon Robin today. Jamie’s father promised to join us, but it appears he’s been delayed. Robin has been a most enjoyable companion.”

  “Robin doesn’t often get to visit with other boys his own age,” Isobel said.

  Robin tugged her sleeve. “Mama, may we have the bread? We’re going to pretend the ducks are Napoleon’s fleet and James’s ship is Admiral Nelson’s flagship.”

  Isobel could not say no. “Only for a few minutes. We have to go soon. Do be careful near the water.”

  “James has playmates at home on our estate, but none here in London,” Marianne said. “After the first day in Town he was bored. I brought him out today because my great-aunt threatened to lock herself in her dressing room to escape the noise. She isn’t used to small boys, but you must find it the same with Robin.”

  Isobel stared at her. If Robin had made any noise at all, Honoria would have ordered a stern paddling, followed by a long lecture on deportment from Charles and hours of extra lessons. She watched now as James cheered the brave little ship’s progress through the enemy duck flotilla, yelling at the top of his lungs. Robin watched silently. Isobel’s heart broke all over again for her little boy. She did her best to make his childhood happy in little ways, but Robert had tied her hands. Honoria’s word was law where Robin was concerned.

  “Not exactly,” she said.

  “Well, they seem content now. Why don’t we let their nurses watch them, and stroll along the bank?” Marianne suggested. “It’s such a glorious day, and I’m glad to be out. My sister is in Town to make her debut, and I have spent every minute of every day for three months helping to plan it. My grandfather insisted that every detail be accounted for, right down to the last candlestick. After he got through with organizing Miranda’s come-out ball, my great-aunt began planning her wardrobe. I almost wish I’d stayed in the country.”

  “Miranda? Good heavens, do you mean Lady Miranda Archer?” Isobel blurted out, and felt her face heat at her rudeness.

  Marianne didn’t seem to notice. “Yes! Do you know her? You couldn’t possibly. This is her first trip to town since—well, in many years. She was only James’s age when she was last here, and that was because she begged my great-aunt to bring her to see the menagerie at the Tower.”

  Isobel’s stomach climbed up to lodge behind her collar button as she recognized the family resemblance between Marianne and Blackwood. James too looked like his uncle. Those solemn eyes, that dark hair.

  “Good heavens, Countess, you do look pale all of a sudden!” Marianne said. “Come, let us sit in the shade for a few minutes.”

  Charm seemed to run in the Archer family. Marianne’s smile held only concern as she led her to a bench. “I’m sorry,” Isobel
managed. “It just seems such a coincidence to meet you today. Only this morning my mother-in-law received an invitation to Lady Miranda’s debut ball.”

  Marianne smiled dazzlingly. “Oh, then you’ll be there. How wonderful! I shall have someone to gossip with!”

  Isobel tried to imagine standing in a corner giggling with a friend over the ridiculous behavior of the ton as they danced past with their beaks in the air. She’d often seen other ladies gossiping with friends but never had such companions. Honoria did not approve of her dancing. She wondered how her mother-in-law would feel about giggling and gossiping.

  “I think I will be unable—” Isobel began.

  “Marianne, I’m late. My apologies, my dear,” a male voice interrupted. “But look who I’ve brought with me.”

  Isobel looked up and gasped in horror. Beside the gentleman, Blackwood stood smiling down at her. Well, not at her. At Marianne. His attention fixed on her quickly enough at the strangled sound of surprise.

  “We appear to have startled you, my lady. We mean no harm, I assure you,” Blackwood said stiffly. She stared at him like a ninny, her tongue knotted around her tonsils. Blackwood frowned and slid a questioning glance to Marianne, and Isobel felt mortification slither over her frozen limbs.

  Marianne threw herself into Blackwood’s arms. “Phin! Oh, Phin, what a wonderful surprise. I’m so glad to see you. Let me look at you!” She drew back and stared up into his face. Blackwood’s gloved hands were tight on his sister’s sleeves, his eyes filled with warmth and love. Isobel’s envious heart flipped.

  “Forgive me, Isobel. It’s been many months since I’ve seen my brother,” Marianne said. “And you look dreadful, by the way, Phineas.”

  “Introduce us, if you please, Marianne,” the other gentleman reminded her.

  “Yes, of course. Where are my manners? Isobel Maitland, Countess of Ashdown, may I present my brother, Lord Phineas Archer, Marquess of Blackwood, and my husband, Lord Adam De Courcey, Earl of Westlake?”

  He took her hand briefly, and Isobel felt fire streak up her arm to heat her whole body. “Enchanted,” he murmured, but there was not the slightest hint of enchantment in his eyes. The same eyes that had been so warm and playful last night were a cold, fathomless gray. In a single frosty glance he assessed her, dismissed her, and looked away.

  Barely aware of Westlake’s greeting, Isobel pressed her hand against her skirt to still the tingle he’d left upon it, and felt bitter disappointment close her throat. Blackwood didn’t recognize her.

  “How is Jamie’s ship doing?” Westlake asked, looking back toward the two boys.

  “Adam designs ships as a hobby. Jamie is trying out his latest model today,” Marianne explained to Isobel.

  “It’s hardly a hobby, Marianne. My ships are the finest and fastest merchant vessels afloat.” Adam De Courcey looked more closely at Isobel, his dark eyes cool. “Maitland,” he said thoughtfully. “As in Lord Charles Maitland?”

  “He’s my brother-in-law.” Isobel tried to keep the apology out of her tone. The earl’s eyes slid over her in cool appraisal before he looked back at his wife.

  “Shall we be getting back to the boys?” he asked.

  Marianne took her husband’s arm, which left Isobel standing awkwardly next to Blackwood. She tried to move past him, but he bowed and offered her his arm.

  “Allow me to escort you back to the pond, Countess,” he said, his tone horribly polite. She laid her hand on his sleeve, instantly dizzy at the physical contact. She felt the play of his muscles under her hand, breathed in the scent of his soap. She glanced sideways at the line of his jaw and noted several tiny red marks at the edge of his cravat. Had she bitten him, scratched him? The little injury spoke of passion, reminded her of the taste of his skin, the feeling of his body moving within hers, as rhythmic a thing as walking.

  She stumbled.

  He righted her without the slightest change of expression, a firm and impersonal hand cupping her elbow momentarily.

  Her heart pounded and she concentrated on each step, on keeping her hand flat on his sleeve and resisting the urge to curl her fingers around his arm and shake him until he looked at her, really looked at her. She shot another quick glance at his profile. Damn him, he was completely and utterly unaffected, while she was nearly panting with desire.

  A frisson of annoyance shot through her. The daft man had no idea he’d made love to her only hours ago. Of course, a rogue like Blackwood was probably so used to such encounters that he forgot his lovers the moment they left his bed, or in this case, his borrowed bench.

  She swallowed a hysterical giggle. It was a very good thing he did not recognize her. “Silly,” she murmured under her breath.

  “Your pardon?” he asked, his eyes on her at last.

  She felt her face heat. “Oh, it’s nothing, Lord Blackwood.” She looked straight ahead, hiding under the brim of her bonnet. “Nothing at all.”

  “You were Robert Maitland’s wife?”

  “Yes,” she replied simply, focusing on the movement of his polished black boots next to her gray skirts as they took each step. “He’s dead,” she said, unsure of what else to add, feeling the butterflies beginning to circle her stomach again at the very idea of making polite conversation with Blackwood about her husband, of all topics.

  He didn’t offer condolences. In fact, he barely seemed to have heard. She fumed silently. Really, the man hardly deserved his reputation as a charming rogue. In the light of day he was a complete boor. His gaze roved over every other woman in the park.

  Blackwood made it clear he found her dull in the extreme, and she was, she supposed, compared to the fashionably dressed ladies in his sights. Pride poked at her, goading her to anger. He did not even find her worth the effort of polite conversation.

  She withdrew her gloved hand from his sleeve as if it burned and made a fist so tight the fine kid leather squeaked a protest. He paused to look at her, his expression patiently polite, the way one might look at an elderly and annoying dowager.

  “Look, there are the boys.” She hurried toward Robin, desperate to get away from him so she could gather her wits enough to bid Marianne a proper good-bye.

  Her mind worked to come up with a suitable excuse not to attend Miranda Archer’s debut ball, but her brain was filled with only one thing.

  Blackwood.

  She could not spend another evening in his disturbing company. He would not notice her, but she would be aware of every step he took, every society beauty he danced with.

  She did not want to stand in the shadows and watch him spirit his next conquest away to the privacy of another dark garden. She shuddered, more with desire than disgust, even now. No, it was obvious her nerves could not handle the strain.

  She would go home and compose a note refusing the invitation to the ball.

  “Oh, Robin, you’re very wet!” She bent to brush at the worst of the mud on his linen breeches. He grinned at her, flushed and happy.

  “James has other ships at home. He said he’d bring them tomorrow. We’re going to launch a whole fleet!”

  “But Robin, we can’t—”

  “Oh, do say yes, Isobel!” Marianne caught her hand. “James would not have offered to share his precious ships if he didn’t like Robin exceedingly well. Think of my poor great-aunt. She would be most grateful for an hour or two of silence, much as she adores Jamie.”

  Isobel looked down at James De Courcey’s earnest face. He regarded her with his uncle’s intense gray eyes. She read the plea there that was absent from Blackwood’s flat gaze.

  “Yes, all right.” She bit her lip, trying to think of a way to get her son out of his Latin lesson for the second afternoon in a row. Perhaps if Mr. Cullen accompanied them to the park and taught Robin the names of trees and flowers in Latin, it would suffice.

  “Excellent! And you must come to tea sometime very soon, Isobel. Or I should call on you at Maitland House? Which would be better?” Marianne prattled on as if they’d k
nown each other for years.

  “We have appointments to keep, my dear,” Lord Westlake said, taking his wife’s elbow. “You can send a note.”

  “Just one?” Blackwood asked, smiling indulgently at his sister. “It usually takes Marianne at least six notes to arrange even the simplest tea.”

  Isobel smiled. She couldn’t help herself. Blackwood was so handsome, so charming as he teased his sister. He caught her expression from the corner of his eye and turned fully to look at her. Isobel bit her lip, felt herself grow hot under his stare.

  “Have we met before, Countess?” he asked softly. “You seem…” His brow furrowed for a moment as his eyes moved over her again. “No, I am mistaken,” he said as his gaze reached the hem of her gray gown.

  Pride commandeered Isobel’s tongue and what was left of her wits. “No, my lord. I am most certain we have not. We hardly travel in the same circles.” She could have bitten her tongue in half. She sounded as prim as Evelyn Renshaw, as rude as Honoria.

  She watched his eyes narrow at the set-down, and she turned away in horror to rub at the mud on Robbie’s coat. She felt the cold dampness soak through her glove to her skin, and stared at her palm. The glove was ruined. She shut her eyes and her hand, and waited for serenity to return.

  It hadn’t really been an insult. Not with his reputation. Nor was it truly a lie when she said they had not met. He had spent an enchanted evening with an exotic lady called Yasmina. He had most definitely not met dull, dowdy, and dutiful Isobel, and he’d just proven that he would never even glance at her, never mind—Well, never mind indeed.

  She clutched her son’s small hand like a lifeline to sanity. “We must be going.” The words came out husky, breathless. She fixed her smile on Marianne, avoiding Blackwood’s eyes. She could not look at him. Not now. Probably not ever again.

  She managed a brief curtsy, turned away and let Robbie tug her toward Nurse, and safer ground. She dared to glance over her shoulder only once, but Blackwood’s eyes were on a gaggle of chirpy females tripping along the path by the pond. She swallowed a bitter sigh.