Secrets of a Proper Countess

by Lecia Cornwall

  “You’ll want to cover those up,” Sarah said, and tied a lace fichu over Isobel’s décolletage. She stood back and looked at her mistress critically. “You still look too pretty by half, my lady. Pink becomes you well.”

  Then she removed the wig from the box and made a face. “Mind you, this horror will fix that quick enough.”

  Isobel touched one of the pretty silk rosebuds that adorned the hairpiece. “It just needs a little dusting, perhaps.” She blew on it, and a cloud of white powder flew about the room. Sarah coughed and waved her hand, holding the wig at arm’s length.

  “Are you certain, my lady? This old thing is probably filled with rats’ nests, or hordes of biting fleas.”

  “Nonsense,” Isobel said, sweeping her skirts aside so she could sit at the dressing table. “It’s been carefully stored. With that on my head, I’ll be completely disguised. Not even Lady Honoria would know it was me.” But it wasn’t Honoria she was worried about.

  Blackwood.

  She kept her spine straight and stared fiercely into the reflection of her own eyes in the mirror as Sarah set the wig in place.

  I will stay away from Blackwood tonight, she pledged. Far away.

  Surely that wouldn’t be difficult, she reasoned, now that she knew how arrogant he was, how superior. He was a cad, a womanizer, a rake, and—

  And it was no use. Listing his faults made no difference. Just the thought of his slow, lusty grin made her heart flip. What would she do if he smiled at her that way tonight?

  The wig transformed her. The hair swept back from her forehead in thick waves, swirling into a cloud of curls so delicately blond they were almost white, before it rose high at the back of her head in an artful twist of ribbons and roses to reveal the naked length of her neck. Isobel smiled.

  No one else was going to say it, so she silently complimented herself. She looked beautiful. Just like Charlotte. She opened the patch box and applied a tiny black half-moon to her cheek. Charlotte stared back at her from the mirror, elegant, seductive, and flirtatious. Everything Isobel knew she was not.

  Sarah set to work pinning the wig firmly into Isobel’s hair so it wouldn’t come loose. “You’d better stand very still tonight,” she warned her mistress. “If this wig doesn’t fall off, then that low bodice is sure to fail you.”

  “I will be very careful indeed,” Isobel promised. Extremely careful. She would not allow herself to be tempted.

  She would not dance.

  She would not flirt.

  She would not so much as glance in Blackwood’s direction.

  Still, her mouth watered, remembering every caress they’d shared at the last masquerade ball. In the mirror, she watched the blush rise from her bodice to her hairline to belie her good intentions. She shifted restlessly, every inch of her skin alive, all too aware of what Blackwood was capable of doing to her composure.

  “Almost done,” Sarah said, mistaking the cause of her agitation.

  Isobel pulled the lace fichu more tightly over her breasts and fidgeted with the knot that secured her modesty. Even if she did find herself forced to speak with him tonight, for politeness’ sake, she would do no more than that.

  She would not allow herself to be tempted, she promised, glaring a stern warning at Charlotte’s image in the mirror. She would not abandon her child for a moment of pleasure in a man’s arms.

  She would not walk with him or let him kiss her.

  Not that he’d be tempted if he discovered it was plain Isobel under the eye-popping costume. If all else failed, she could remove her mask and reveal herself. That should drive him off in a fit of lust-shriveling horror. She felt a little of that shrivel herself just imagining being forced to such an extremely humiliating measure, but there was Robin to think of.

  Isobel opened her jewelry box. It contained few pieces of any value. Her father had not allowed her to keep any of her mother’s magnificent jewels. There was a string of pearls that were her grandmother’s, a small garnet brooch her uncle had given her for her sixteenth birthday, her wedding band, and a miniature portrait of Robin. She’d painted it herself, several years ago, when he was barely two and his face was still round as a ball and baby-sweet.

  She kissed the little painted cheek and handed the necklace to Sarah, who fastened the delicate gold chain around Isobel’s neck. She tucked the portrait into her bodice, near her heart. It would remind her what was most important in her life.

  Sarah wrapped a long dark cloak over Isobel’s shoulders and helped her tie the satin mask, securing the ribbons behind her head. She handed Isobel the lace gloves and the fan that completed the disguise.

  Isobel opened the fan and held it before her chin. “How do I look?” she asked her maid.

  Sarah grinned. “Like no one I know.”

  Charles was waiting downstairs in the salon, a tumbler of brandy in his hand. He wore a plain black domino over evening clothes. A black half mask lay on the table next to the half-empty decanter. He tossed back the rest of his drink and turned to glower at her as she entered in a rustle of petticoats, her costume hidden under the black cloak.

  “It’s about time you made your appearance,” he muttered, hardly looking at her. “I’ve been waiting for nearly an hour. At this rate we’ll be the last to arrive.”

  He stomped out of the house without bothering to offer his arm. He didn’t assist her into the coach either. The footman took her hand while Isobel struggled with the unfamiliar bulk of her old-fashioned skirts. She settled across from Charles as the coach jerked forward.

  “Well disguised, aren’t you?” he said, peering at her in the dim glow of the streetlamps. “I wouldn’t recognize you if I didn’t know you.” He took a flask out of his pocket and drank deeply. Lamplight flashed on silver, and the acrid smell of brandy filled the coach. Charles was surely drunk, or well on his way to being so.

  “Isn’t that the point?” she dared to ask, her lip curling in disgust as he took another swallow of brandy. “To be well disguised?” He hadn’t even bothered to put on his mask.

  “Mother left word that I’m supposed to watch you tonight, but I have better things to do than nursemaid you, so just stay out of my way and behave yourself, d’you understand?”

  “Of course,” Isobel glared daggers at him from the dual protection of her mask and the darkness.

  “Did Lady Marianne tell you what Miranda will be wearing?”

  She had indeed. Miranda would be dressed as a medieval princess, forsaking the shepherdess costume for something more unique. “She’ll be dressed as a Greek goddess,” she told Charles. “I assume I can find you in the card room as usual if I do need you?”

  “Did I not just tell you to stay away? Are you simpleminded?” Charles demanded, his breath a dragon’s plume of brandy fumes. She turned her head away and didn’t bother to reply. She knew which of them was simpleminded, and it most certainly wasn’t her. Anger and disgust made her bold.

  “How was Waterfield?” she asked.

  “Waterfield? Who told you I was there?” he demanded, his tone low and suspicious. “It was that damned Jane Kirk, wasn’t it?”

  “No, Honoria mentioned it at luncheon,” she lied. “I haven’t been there in years. Is the estate earning well?”

  “What?” he demanded, sounding confused.

  “It is my estate. I haven’t seen a statement of accounts since before Robert died. He used to show me the quarterly reports from all my properties,” she bluffed, daring to ask since Charles was drunk and likely wouldn’t remember the conversation in the morning.

  He moved fast, like a snake striking unexpectedly. He grabbed her knee and squeezed, his grip merciless. Red-hot needles of pain shot up her leg and she gasped, but the pressure and the agony only increased. He was enjoying hurting her.

  “Please—” she began, but he let go suddenly as the coach turned a corner and knocked him off balance. She clutched her stinging limb in horrified surprise as he struggled to right himself.

 
“Damn you, hold your tongue!” he said, his words slurred and sloppy. “It’s none of your affair what happens at Waterfield, do you understand? I’ll tell Mother if you interfere, and then you’ll see what impertinent questions earn you. You’re nothing but a burden on this family, my dead brother’s useless widow. You aren’t even worth the air you breathe.”

  Her heart rose in her throat, making a reply impossible. His eyes glittered dangerously in the low light, and Isobel shrank back against the squabs, letting the shadows swallow her.

  Putting a hand under her cloak, she touched the little portrait of her son, letting the throbbing pain in her leg fuel her resolve.

  For Robbie, she could bear anything. They could take everything else from her, so long as they left her her son.

  Chapter 15

  Highwaymen and pirates stormed St. George’s Square, eager to see the Earl of Westlake’s newly renovated London home. They paused on the threshold just long enough to present their invitations to the liveried footmen.

  Charles pinched Isobel’s arm as they entered the marble foyer, squeezing until it hurt. “Remember, I don’t want to be bothered by you tonight,” he growled in her ear. Then he was gone, leaving the bruise as a reminder of her duty.

  She watched him shoulder through the throngs, heading for a lady dressed as a Grecian goddess. She scanned the room for Miranda and saw a costumed princess in the opposite corner from where Charles was going. Isobel flicked her fan open to hide a malicious little smile. Miranda was safe.

  The ballroom basked in the gleam of a thousand candles set in high crystal chandeliers and gilded wall sconces. From the ceiling, painted cherubs grinned down at the guests. The sharp odor of new paint competed with the sweet fragrance of the flowers that adorned every corner. Goddesses, kings, and shepherdesses trod a gleaming floor inlaid with mahogany and ebony to form a huge compass rose that reached all four corners of the room, a tribute to the earl’s ships.

  Due north, Marianne and Adam held court, costumed but unmasked, and surrounded by their guests. Isobel hesitated, unwilling to push through the crush of bodies to reach her friend. Out of habit, she looked around the room for a quiet corner to make her own for the evening, out of the way of both harm and temptation.

  Then she saw him.

  Tonight he was Sir Walter Raleigh, in a short brocade doublet, trunk hose, and long leather boots that climbed his thighs. The familiar jeweled sword was once again draped around his lean hips. He looked handsome, virile, and dangerous.

  He was leaning against a marble pillar near the door, his bored posture at odds with the anxious set of his mouth as he scanned the room.

  Anger hit her like a flash of lightning. Looking for another conquest, was he? She glared at him, knowing the scathing look was lost under her mask.

  She took a step forward, planning to sweep right past him without so much as a glance as she crossed the room to the secluded spot she’d chosen, but he shifted, just the slightest movement, his long legs changing stance, one hand coming to rest on the hilt of his sword. Sharp desire pierced her to the quick, and she drew a breath as his head turned, froze where she was and waited for his eyes to touch her, bracing for it.

  His bored gaze flicked over her and away, and she let out the breath she’d been holding. There. It was done. He had not recognized her, and she did not interest him tonight. A deluge of disappointment drowned fury, resolve, and lust all at once.

  But his eyes swiveled back, stopped on her and locked. She saw the change in him, felt it. His body tensed and his jaw dropped as he looked her over from head to toe. He hadn’t moved, but if he had slid a hand over her skin it could not have been more electrifying.

  Run, her mind said. Run, before it is too late to stop this.

  But it already was.

  The room was too hot, and he was the source of the fire. With trembling fingers she untied the knot at her breast and whisked away the fichu, needing to breathe. Candlelight and sultry air fell on her breasts, but she felt no cooler for it.

  His eyes flowed over her again and stopped at her breasts. She saw his chest heave as he drew a deep breath. She almost swooned, a mixture of desire and doubt making her heart hammer, her knees too weak to hold her upright, but the crowd did not allow the space to fall. They closed in around her, pushing past like a torrent, cutting off her view of him, and she struggled to stand against them, to regain good sense and turn away, but she was rooted to the spot.

  She shut her eyes and sent up a plea to the Fates to take the matter into their capable hands and decide what would happen next.

  She felt his hand close on her arm and almost sobbed with relief. She breathed him in, the now familiar scent of his soap, his skin, his desire.

  “Yasmina?” the word was a guttural hiss.

  That was all it took. In a single instant she was Yasmina again, not plain Isobel. Yasmina was playful and daring. She took what she wanted, made this man drool with lust. She was everything Isobel Maitland was not but wanted to be. And plain Isobel wanted it very much at this moment.

  She felt Yasmina smile, wide and slow. “I thought I recognized your sword.”

  His palms slid down the tight satin of her sleeves to the bare flesh of her forearms, warming every inch. He clasped her hands as if he were afraid she might flee and stood staring down at her through the slits in his mask, his eyes a knowing glitter that made her nipples swell like rosebuds, her mouth water, her breath catch in her throat.

  He took a step closer, shielding her from the crowds as they pushed past. She could feel the heat of his male body, the strength and power of him.

  He put an arm around her waist and bore her toward the wall and a little respite from the crush. She leaned against the polished paneling and looked up at him, and he put a hand on the wall behind her, making an intimate space for two in the midst of the crowd. He didn’t say a word, just stood with his eyes on hers.

  “You’re staring, my lord,” she managed, suddenly afraid he’d recognized her. She couldn’t bear it if he laughed now, or was angry that the exotic Yasmina turned out to be only dull, frumpy Isobel. She realized she was trembling, waiting for his answer.

  “Yasmina,” he muttered again, a hint of very flattering awe evident in his voice. He leaned close enough to breathe her in, and she instinctively arched toward him and placed a hand on his chest. She could feel the throb of his heart under her palm, and her fingers curled against the damask of his tunic.

  “Not tonight. Tonight I am Charlotte.” The name tripped off her tongue unbidden. Why hadn’t she said Marie Antoinette or Lady Anne or any other name but Charlotte?

  He grinned at her, his rogue’s grin, the one that made a woman’s heart flip and her toes curl. A woman might do anything under a smile like that, even forget her own name and all good sense. Isobel shut her eyes and took her hands off his chest, clenching them at her sides, knowing if she touched him again, she would be lost.

  “You look delicious, Lady Charlotte—or is it Queen Charlotte?” he asked, playing the game she’d foolishly started. She smiled as the compliment thrummed through her veins like liquid fire. His eyes dropped to her breasts, and the intensity of his gaze made her feel naked. She ran a fingertip over the velvet ribbon that edged the low bodice, checking that nothing had escaped and now lay exposed.

  “That’s a very fetching gown, Your Majesty,” he drawled, following her finger with his own. She clasped his hand before she melted under the tickling caress and set it safely on her waist instead. She did not wish to give up his hands on her entirely.

  “This? This is a very old gown, my lord,” she said truthfully. She let her eyes roam over his costume again, daring to flirt, needing to look anywhere but into his eyes. “May I say I am pleased to see that you have put more effort into your own costume tonight? You quite do your sword justice now.”

  He chuckled. “My sister chose my disguise. Mari—”

  “Are you Sir Walter Raleigh or Sir Francis Drake?” she interrupted, no
t wanting the real world to intrude, not now. She reached out and touched the hilt of the sword, running a fingertip over the large ruby. The jewel’s cold smoothness contrasted with the heat and softness of her satin bodice, a sensual, dangerous comparison.

  She watched his throat bob as he swallowed hard, but he didn’t answer.

  “Cat got your tongue, my lord? You’re staring again.”

  “I am trying,” he said slowly, as if speaking was a new and difficult skill. “I am trying to resist the desire to pop your breasts out of that gown right here in the middle of my sister’s ballroom.”

  Her eyes drifted shut and a small gasp of pure desire escaped unbidden from her parted lips, and she knew she would do anything, follow him anywhere. She cursed her weakness even as she leaned into him, surrendering her strength to his. He would push back the coldness of her real life, the fear, and replace it with pure, scintillating pleasure.

  Phineas breathed her in. After weeks of searching every ballroom, salon, and brothel in London, he’d found her.

  Yasmina.

  He should tear her mask off, demand to know who she was. Charlotte, was it? The Queen of England was named Charlotte, so were a thousand other noble ladies. He stared down at her. Under her mask, her eyes were closed, her cheeks flushed, her luscious lips slightly parted and begging for a kiss. His own mouth watered. He needed information from her, but he wanted something else entirely.

  He was standing in Marianne’s elegant ballroom with an erection that could knock holes in the freshly plastered walls. She ran her tongue nervously over her lower lip, moistening it, the soft flesh gleaming in the candlelight.

  “Hell,” he muttered, and grabbed her hand, dragging her through the crowds as fast as he could clear a path.

  “Phin!” The sound of his name made him wince. He felt Yasmina try to pull out of his grip as Marianne called to him, but he held her tight and glared at his sister without stopping.