Secrets of a Proper Countess

by Lecia Cornwall

  He said it lightly, without malice or insult, a jest to ease the awkwardness, and Phineas took it as such.

  Gilbert gestured at the far paddock. “I think I’ll go over and have a look at that stallion. I like him. His coloring will look well with a scarlet captain’s tunic, don’t you think? There’s no use waiting until the last minute to choose a good cavalry horse.”

  Phineas watched him stride away with his head high. There was pride in every step he took over the muddy ground. Gilbert was well aware of his lowly status as a second son and unlikely marriage prospect for any lass with a fortune, and he had callously reminded him of it.

  He hadn’t meant to offend Fielding. He was a decent fellow, Phineas thought, and in truth he liked him. Gilbert gambled, but never to excess. He drank, but was never unruly or mean when in his cups. He treated every woman—even whores and servant girls—with courtesy. He was a thoroughly likable chap, despite being born out of the money.

  Phineas squinted at him. He supposed Fielding was good looking, though only a woman would be able to judge for certain. He’d make a respectable woman a decent husband, but he would make a dreadful army officer, in his opinion. Gilbert was too quiet and too polite.

  Of course, he could put the matter in Marianne’s capable hands. She’d find Gilbert a suitable lady, or die in the attempt. He racked his brain to think of a woman with money who just happened to need a husband.

  Isobel Maitland sprang to mind. She was wealthy, and still young, and she was—He frowned.

  Was what? Pretty?

  He pushed the image of her fine eyes and sharp tongue out of his mind and pulled the collar of his greatcoat higher. She wasn’t right for Gilbert.

  It was starting to drizzle. He had hoped to take the mare to Miranda this morning, ask her to go riding with him in Hyde Park. The old Miranda would’ve gone no matter what the weather, just to try the horse. This Miranda would probably be afraid of getting her new handmade riding boots wet.

  If only he could find a man like Gilbert Fielding for Miranda. It really was a pity he didn’t have even a minor title, or a manor house, or even so much as a small dower farm of his own.

  Phineas nodded to the winded groom as he ran up with the mare. The animal’s fine dark eyes twinkled at him coquettishly, and she tossed her golden mane for him, arching her strong, supple neck to best advantage. She was a born flirt, and perfect for Miranda.

  “I’ll take her,” he said.

  Chapter 12

  “What a pity Lady Miranda is out this afternoon,” Honoria said for the third time, as she squinted at the painting above the mantel in Lady Augusta’s drawing room, assessing its value. Isobel gritted her teeth at the naked greed in her mother-in-law’s eyes. Honoria had already appraised the china cups by holding the delicate porcelain up to the light and looking at the maker’s mark on the bottom.

  “It’s a Gainsborough,” Lady Augusta said sharply, her eyes following Honoria like a Bow Street Runner as her guest snooped around the treasure-filled room. “He was a friend of my late husband’s, and the scene was painted at my estate in Norfolk.”

  Isobel felt her own face heat at the pointed rebuke, since her mother-in-law hadn’t the grace to look embarrassed.

  “Indeed? Will Lady Miranda inherit the place from you?” Honoria asked, and Marianne choked on her tea in surprise. She looked at Isobel with mirth dancing in her eyes, but Isobel didn’t see any humor in her mother-in-law’s bluntness, and she didn’t dare return Marianne’s look in Honoria’s company. With no one to share her amusement, Marianne instantly sobered. Augusta glared down her nose at the impertinent visitor without answering the question.

  The clock on the mantel ticked, the only sound in the tense, uncomfortable silence. Isobel took a sip of tea, the small noise like thunder in the stillness. Her teacup rattled like a cymbal when she placed it gently back on the saucer. She jumped when Honoria spoke again, her voice shrill in the quiet room.

  “Lord Charles was hoping to come with us this afternoon, but found himself otherwise engaged.”

  Lady Augusta looked bored. Marianne looked like she wanted to laugh, and Honoria blinked at both of them with so much inflated consequence that Isobel waited for her to burst.

  In truth, Charles hadn’t shown any interest at all in coming to tea. He’d been out at his club all night and arrived home after dawn. Once in bed, he refused to get up again to accompany them, no matter how many notes his mother had Jane Kirk deliver to his room. It had been nearly five when Honoria finally ordered the coach to go without him.

  Honoria had not actually been included in the invitation, and Isobel wanted to fall on her knees and beg their pardon for inflicting her mother-in-law and Charles upon them. Charles might not have been present in the flesh, but Honoria filled the room with him, monopolizing the conversation with stories about him that only she would find interesting.

  “Charles is with his man of affairs, going over the accounts from his properties at Waterfield Abbey, Ashdown, and Craighurst,” Honoria lied. “He has made so very many improvements to the estates, you see.” She leaned forward and whispered at Augusta. “He has realized huge profits in the past year. How I wish he had been my firstborn. My eldest, Robert, was never robust, and his disappointments in life—” She swung her great cow eyes toward Isobel, then back to Augusta. “—are what did him in at such a young age.”

  “Indeed?” Augusta murmured, her expression haughty. Isobel ignored the familiar insult. Honoria had said something far more remarkable, in her opinion. Waterfield Abbey and Craighurst were two of her estates, inherited from an uncle. They would someday belong to Robin, but Robert’s will had given Charles the management of them. Just a week past, he had informed her that all her properties had lost money, and he intended to cut her quarterly allowance accordingly. Yet Honoria was bragging about the huge profits from those same lands. There was no question, of course, of her being allowed to see the accounts for herself. Isobel felt her spine stiffen with resentment and frustration she didn’t dare show.

  “Yes, indeed,” Honoria continued, helping herself to another cream-filled cake from the silver tray on the table. “Charles will make a brilliant marriage, and the lucky girl will be most fortunate. There’s not another man in England like him.” That was certainly true, Isobel thought as she stared at the fanciful birds woven into the Oriental carpet.

  “I’ve heard my husband say exactly that about Lord Charles, Lady Honoria,” Marianne said tartly, but when Isobel shot her a quick look, her eyes were wide and innocent. “That he is unique in so many ways, I mean.” Only Isobel heard the slight rebuke in her tone. Uniquely dull. Uniquely stupid. Uniquely greedy. She silently listed what she knew Marianne must be thinking.

  “I believe we’ve stayed our fifteen minutes, Honoria,” Isobel murmured. “We really should be going.”

  “Nonsense!” Honoria spluttered. “We are invited guests, Isobel, not ordinary callers. We can stay some while yet, I think. I have so much more to tell them about Charles.”

  Isobel bit her lip to keep from screaming out loud.

  “Yes, do stay a little longer, Isobel,” Marianne said. “Perhaps we could take a turn in the garden together. Would you mind, Great-Aunt?” she asked.

  “I suppose since it is my house, I am expected to play hostess to your guest,” Augusta said flatly. “I’d better send for another pot of tea, and more cakes. I daresay it will be highly beneficial to my health once De Courcey House is ready for you next week, and you may entertain your friends there. I shall have some rest at last.”

  Marianne smiled apologetically and patted her great-aunt’s hand.

  “De Courcey House?” Honoria asked avidly, her wide eyes swiveling from Augusta to Marianne.

  “Yes, Lady Honoria,” Marianne said. “It is my husband’s London residence. It has been under renovations, and we had not imagined it would be ready so soon, but in a week we shall be able to move ourselves in, and give my great-aunt her peace again.”
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  “I see,” Honoria said. Isobel could almost hear the unoiled machinery of her mind struggling to turn. “Will Lady Miranda continue on here, or come to you?”

  “She will stay here, as is proper,” Augusta said sharply, glaring at the woman. “Any questions of courtship or offers of marriage will, of course, be directed to my brother at Blackwood House.”

  “Blackwood?” Honoria’s smile faded and her voice quavered, as if he were a specter lurking behind her.

  Actually, he was, having just come in with Lord Westlake.

  “Good afternoon,” he said dryly, and Honoria jumped with a warble of surprise and turned to stare at him with one plump hand splayed across her bosom where her heart would be, if she had one.

  Isobel watched him return Honoria’s look of horror with nothing more than a slight narrowing of his eyes. He bowed, and then he looked at her. The bored and painfully polite expression on his handsome face suggested she was the last person he had expected, or wished to see, in his great-aunt’s drawing room. The flutter in her chest fell dead in the pit of her stomach.

  Marianne rose to kiss her husband, despite the fact they had company. “Adam! You’re back early. How wonderful.”

  Blackwood crossed to lean against the mantel, apart from the group.

  Or perhaps he chose the spot to show himself off to best advantage.

  Isobel tried to concentrate on staring at her fingertips, which were trembling slightly, but she could not resist peering at him through her lashes. His boots were speckled with dried mud, as if he’d been riding. They clung to his calves as though they were just a little bit in love with him too. His breeches were tan, smooth fitting, and went on forever. He wore a dark blue coat, a cream striped waistcoat, and a white cravat, the perfect picture of masculine elegance.

  By the time she got to his face, which was flushed from the brisk spring air, she realized he was watching her ogle every inch of his body like a strumpet. She felt a blush start at her own toes and race to her hairline. His lips quirked enigmatically, neither a smile nor a grimace, and his eyes were unreadable. Suddenly there wasn’t enough air to breathe in the vast salon.

  “You remember Isobel, of course, Phineas,” Marianne was saying.

  “Of course. Good afternoon, Countess.” He spoke without expression, but his eyes never left hers.

  She felt Honoria looking at her with squint-eyed speculation, and the heat in Isobel’s body was replaced by icy dread. She would be expected to account for knowing Blackwood later. The interrogation was bound to be long and grueling, the lecture afterward interminable.

  She straightened her spine and stared into the amber depths of her tea as a trickle of cold sweat slipped between her breasts like an accusing finger. Beneath the plain wool of her gown, under the silken caress of her undergarments, her skin was alive with awareness of him. She gulped her tea, and burned her tongue. It didn’t matter. It gave her something else to think of, or it would have if she could have thought of anything else. She prayed for him to take his leave, let the ladies enjoy their tea in peace.

  “Do join us for tea,” Augusta said, and Isobel’s heart dropped to the carpet. “Marianne was about to take a turn outdoors with the countess, and you two can help me entertain Lady Honoria.”

  “Do you realize it’s raining, Marianne?” Adam De Courcey said as he took a chair next to his wife.

  Marianne sent her husband a dazzling smile that filled their corner of the room with love. Isobel drowned a sigh of longing with more tea, and burned her tongue again. She set the cup down before she did herself any further harm.

  “Well then, we’ll stay in, since you’ve arrived. I was just telling Isobel that De Courcey House is almost completed. Adam, I want to have a party when we are settled. We can send the invitations now, perhaps, and open the place next week with a grand event.” She looked away from her husband’s sudden frown and fixed glowing eyes on Isobel. “Will you help me plan it, Isobel?”

  “We move in next week, Marianne,” Westlake said. “The paint will hardly be dry. What kind of party do you have in mind? A small, intimate dinner, I hope.”

  “Not at all. A grand party, or—”

  “A masquerade ball,” Blackwood said.

  Honoria’s gasp of horror drowned out Isobel’s own. She stared at him, but Blackwood’s gray eyes were fixed on Westlake, who looked back at him with surprise.

  “A masquerade?” Augusta said, scowling at each gentleman in turn. “Wretched things. You never know who you are speaking to.”

  “My feelings exactly,” Honoria said. She’d had another cake, and there was a dab of cream on her topmost chin. “I can’t abide masked balls.” She gave a dramatic shudder that shook the settee, and sent the gob of cream into her cleavage.

  “It would be challenging, if not impossible,” Adam said. “Since the ballroom is still draped in sheets.”

  Marianne kissed him soundly on the cheek. “Then it will be a double unmasking! How brilliant you are, my dear!” Isobel sent a sideways look at Honoria, who wasn’t at all shocked at the indiscreet display of affection. She was ogling a pair of silver candlesticks.

  “What do you think, Isobel?” Marianne asked, and all eyes swung around to pin her to the settee.

  “Me?” She racked her brain for a safe answer. “Why, I have heard that the Prince Regent himself likes masquerade balls,” she managed. Honoria could hardly find fault with something she knew herself to be true.

  “Then you’ll come?” Marianne asked.

  “I—” The frog in her throat, the knot in her stomach, the fact that Blackwood was staring at her, made it impossible to speak.

  “Of course you shall attend.” Honoria poked her in the ribs so hard Isobel nearly fell off the settee. “You went to Evelyn Renshaw’s masquerade, and no harm came to you.”

  Isobel felt her body turn to water, icy fear melting into a puddle of horror.

  “You were at Lady Evelyn’s masked ball?” Blackwood asked. Her jaw locked. Her tongue glued itself to her teeth. She couldn’t answer. She could only stare at him. Fortunately she was saved by Honoria, who turned the conversation back to her own concern, which was, of course, Charles.

  “Will Lady Miranda be at your masquerade, Countess? I’m sure Charles would be happy to escort Isobel that evening. He loves masquerade parties almost as much as I do,” she babbled, unaware that she had contradicted herself. Isobel slid her eyes to the floor.

  She didn’t hear Marianne’s reply. She was aware of nothing and no one else but Blackwood. She knew without looking that his gaze was still fixed on her. She could feel it like a touch, moving over her hot cheeks. Dear God, what if he’d guessed at last, now, here in his great-aunt’s drawing room?

  With Honoria present.

  She forced herself to look up, pretending to glance at the clock behind him, and silently willed him not to say anything, but there was no realization in his eyes. He was regarding her with flat speculation, like a curiosity in a museum.

  Isobel’s terror withered to a hard crumb of annoyance. She didn’t know whether to groan at the man’s utter stupidity or to laugh out loud.

  “When is the ball to be?” Honoria asked.

  Marianne considered. “I think a week from Thursday. Great-Aunt, may I borrow some of your staff?”

  Augusta sighed. “I suppose you must. It seems an ill-conceived idea to me, and I for one will not be in attendance. I am certain I am already engaged on that evening.”

  Marianne smiled fondly, ignoring the protest. “Miranda will need a chaperone. Will you be coming as Minerva as usual?” she asked.

  Augusta set her teacup down with a thump that rattled the delicate china. “Of course. Why waste a perfectly good costume?”

  Isobel stared at the toes of Blackwood’s boots, every nerve in her body on fire.

  He’d suggested a masquerade.

  He, who had hardly bothered with a costume at Evelyn’s affair, since he’d only been there for one reason. She’d fulfil
led his desire of the moment quite nicely.

  Fire heated her skin and she swallowed a panicked breath, wishing she could run from the room. Honoria would insist that she attend Marianne’s ball so Charles could woo Miranda. She would spend the evening in the corner, Isobel thought, watching Blackwood charm another conquest.

  Her body stirred at the memory of his touch, ingrained forever on her skin. She shivered, and decided at that instant she hated him.

  Chapter 13

  “Charles Maitland has come into money,” Phineas told Adam in the privacy of the study. Marianne’s guests had gone up to the nursery to collect the young Earl of Ashdown, and Augusta had excused the gentlemen as no longer necessary.

  Phineas quelled his annoyance. He’d come to give Adam some information, not to take tea with Charles Maitland’s dreadful female relatives. Isobel Maitland had a way of setting his teeth on edge just by being in the same room.

  Her gown had been particularly awful today, a dark blue atrocity trimmed with black ribbon and buttoned tight enough to choke her. She’d looked like a crow, perched on Augusta’s jaunty cherry and green striped settee.

  Until she blushed. The soft flood of color improved her. Slightly. He had quickly noted that he made her nervous, and he took malicious pleasure in that. She probably thought she was too good to be in the same room with a rake like him. It irritated him that he found her so distracting when he was in her company, when she obviously held him in such low regard.

  “Has he?” Adam murmured, only half listening. He was looking over a letter Phineas had brought him, written by Lord Philip Renshaw to his wife, and stolen by Phineas before the lady ever received it. When Adam was finished, he would take it back to her, and use both the information and the lady’s reaction to her husband’s message to further their search for him.