A Notorious Countess Confesses: Pennyroyal Green Series

by Julie Anne Long

  “Thank you for coming, Reverend Sylvaine.” Very elegantly, graciously said, she congratulated herself.

  And with that, it appeared they’d exhausted conversation.

  She cleared her throat. “Are vicars allowed to imbibe? May I offer you a sherry? Will that do for a demonstration of manners?” she said lightly.

  He smiled. The dimple made a brief appearance. She eyed it, as fascinated as if the moon had risen in the room. “I’ll allow it’s a start. But I’ll take port if you have it.”

  It was a contest to see who would speak most noncommittally, it seemed.

  He seemed to realize the absurdity of remaining rooted to the spot and moved into the room with a few long, graceful steps. She watched his eyes touch on things: the cognac-colored velvet-tufted settee, the spindly, satin-covered chairs, the portrait of God-only-knew-who above the hearth.

  What did he know about her? Did he imagine she ravished lovers on the settee? Was he smiling politely while the word “HARLOT” blazed in his mind like something fresh off a blacksmith’s forge?

  “Of course I have port. And, oh, look! You came bearing gifts. How … very kind of you.”

  She held out her arms, and he duly filled them with the flowers; and then, to her surprise, he fished a small jar from his coat pocket.

  “Since you’re new to Sussex—native wildflowers. And the honey is … made by the bees that drink from the flowers.”

  She eyed him cautiously. Flowers and what bees did to them—supped, flitted—were popular metaphors in the poems fevered young bloods had written to her. She wondered if this was an innuendo of some sort.

  Or perhaps everything would sound like an innuendo until she knew precisely what the vicar knew about her past.

  Once again, the footman appeared. Relieved, she deposited the gifts in his arms and told him to bring port and tea.

  She turned to her guest again.

  “Flowers and bees,” she mused brightly. “It sounds a bit like the beginning of a sermon. Perhaps something about the lilies of the field and how they don’t toil?”

  “Perhaps. I’ll be certain to tell you if I use the idea, so you can come to church to catch up on sleep.”

  She laughed.

  And when she did, his face swiftly suffused with light, as if he’d heard celestial music.

  And then it was there and gone, as if it had never been. And he was politely inscrutable then.

  “Please do sit down, Vicar. You’re by way of towering over me.”

  He perused the selection of spindly-legged chairs, likely deciding which chair he would be less likely to crush; he chose one with a tall, fanned back and four bandy, gilded legs.

  She settled in the settee next to him and turned. She freed her hands from each other and deliberately laid them loosely on her lap.

  They confronted each other like diplomats from two nations about to negotiate a treaty. She amused herself by imagining they ought to have hired an interpreter who could speak both vicar and countess.

  He didn’t look comfortable in the chair. His back was aggressively straight, as if he was trying to avoid the embrace of its fanlike shape. It occurred to her then that perhaps his posture wasn’t so much rigid as tense.

  “You have the distinction of being the first to fall asleep during one of my sermons, Lady Wareham.”

  An interesting opening salvo. What would she do with it?

  “Oh, I don’t doubt it, Reverend. I expect none of the women would want to miss a moment of gazing upon you.”

  His silence was so instant and palpable, she nearly blinked. It was like a door slamming in a tinker’s face.

  For heaven’s sake. It was baffling. She was, by all accounts, a beautiful woman. He ought to have been flattered, or at least intrigued. Surely, he possessed some measure of vanity? Despite its being a deadly sin? No man who filled a room the way he did, or possessed those cheekbones, could escape it.

  She waited.

  He seemed more comfortable saying nothing at all than anyone she’d met in her life.

  “I do apologize for sleeping,” she found herself saying, haltingly. Though she meant it. His silence pulled the words from her. “It was impolite, to say the least. It’s just that it was very warm where I sat, and I fear I was very fatigued, and your voice is so—” She stopped abruptly. Alarmed at what she was about to confess.

  “What of my voice?”

  Oh. The way he asked the question … so gently, so conversationally, so confidingly, in that voice of his … she wanted to give an answer to him, like an offering, to please him.

  An excellent skill for a vicar.

  Or a seducer.

  “I like your voice.” She said it faintly. It wasn’t frilled with flirtation. It was simply true.

  She felt a bit raw saying it. And a trifle resentful. As though a confession had been extracted from her under duress.

  He took that in without a word.

  And then one of those smiles of his appeared, so slowly it bordered on the sultry, which gave her time to experience it fully. And to lose her breath before she could brace herself.

  It hovered there on his face, the sun peeking out from storm clouds. And she felt that smile at the base of her spine, like a shock of heat.

  And for the space of a heartbeat, she suspected she was entirely at his mercy, and if he smiled longer than that, she would be in grave trouble.

  For a man of God, he certainly savored his triumphs like the very devil.

  Fortunately, the smile faded naturally, just like a sunrise.

  She set out to retrieve her composure. By seizing his.

  “And while I’m apologizing, perhaps I ought to apologize for saying “bloody” straight to your face. I fear I was startled.”

  “I liked the ‘bloody.’ ” He wasn’t the least nonplussed. “And the rest of it. And you see, I just said ‘bloody,’ too. When in Rome, as you said.”

  “But … are vicars allowed to say ‘bloody’?” She was momentarily diverted from her goal.

  “Oh, I’m certain the Almighty forgives a few slips now and again. If I go about saying it all the time with wild abandon, it might be another matter.”

  “Wild abandon” was quite the evocative turn of phrase for a vicar, she thought.

  “Perhaps there’s a secret quota, and if you exceed it, you’ll be smote.”

  His grin was gorgeous. She leaned toward it helplessly. Like a child, she wanted to urge, “Again!”

  He eased back just a little more into the chair.

  “I invite you to test it,” he said. “I suppose it’s a matter of how daring one is prepared to be.”

  And then there was silence. For alas, two double entendres in a row—the word “daring” on the heels of “wild abandon”—clogged their halting, fitful conversation. She could see they’d both had the same thought at once: Evie Duggan, who inspired duels, balcony topples, and wagers in which she was the prize, was the very personification of daring and wild abandon.

  And all at once her past filled the room as surely as if her former lovers lolled about the furniture.

  How to extricate them from the little conversational ditch they’d toppled into?

  Or better yet, how to exploit it?

  “There were two before I was married, Reverend Sylvaine.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Two. Men,” she said slowly. “Only two. If you didn’t know before, I’m certain by now you’ve been briefed about my past, and I thought it might be best to acknowledge it straightaway; otherwise, it will hover always on the periphery of our conversation.”

  She held her breath as he fixed her in the beam of those blue, blue eyes. Counting her eyelashes, no doubt. Or peering into her soul in order to catalog her sins.

  “Why did you stop at two? Why not six? Or seventeen? Or is Greed the one deadly sin you shy away from?”

  He said it so conversationally it took a moment for the shock to settle in.

  She went rigid. Her
mouth parted. She fought to keep her jaw from swinging.

  “I …” It emerged a cracked squeak.

  Seeing right through her is what he’d been doing.

  “Disconcerting me is much more difficult than you might think, my lady. In other words,” he said mildly.

  And then gifted her with another wicked smile.

  She was impressed, despite herself. “Only two,” she managed hoarsely, somewhat inanely.

  “I’m not in the business of judging, Lady Wareham, despite what you might think. I suppose I’m in the business of guidance, if you understand the distinction. And as it so happens, I’ve been, shall we say, briefed on your history—”

  “Ah, have you, then? Do give Colin my regards,” she said with sweet irony.

  He nodded. “—and while it’s undeniably vivid, you’re one of many, shall we say, colorful people in Pennyroyal Green.”

  “Oh, what a shame. If nothing else, I could always take comfort in my singularity.”

  “I’m reasonably certain you can still take comfort in that, my Lady,” he said dryly.

  “I’ve been waiting for you to begin flirting with me, Reverend. May I count that?”

  “Absolutely not. I haven’t the faintest notion how to flirt.”

  “But surely the opportunities for you are rife. Perhaps if you—”

  “You misunderstand me. I don’t want a lesson.” Blunt as a hammerblow. Bordering on rude, in fact.

  An indignant flush rushed her cheeks. It was a moment before she could speak.

  “I thought vicars would need to at least have some mastery of diplomacy,” she said tartly after a moment. Her voice a bit frayed.

  “I do. I assure you. It’s just I suspect you don’t require diplomacy, Lady Wareham, as I don’t think you’re delicate, and it takes so much more time. Life is short enough as it is.”

  Well. She wondered whether she was offended or flattered.

  She was definitely speechless.

  He gave the arm of his chair a brief drum with his fingers. “Do you know why I liked it when you said ‘bloody’?” He sounded at least vaguely conciliatory.

  Instead of answering, she sneaked a glance skyward, as if waiting for him to be smote.

  “Because it seemed sincere.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it. It was me at my worst.”

  He made an impatient noise. “It was you being truthful. I prefer you to be who you are. And you should know that I very much dislike being steered, Lady Wareham.”

  He never raised his voice. But the quiet vehemence of command was in every implacable syllable of that last sentence.

  And thus the bloody man neatly flipped the sword from her hand.

  She wasn’t about to try, “Why, whatever do you mean by steered, Reverend Sylvaine?” Because he wasn’t padded with vanity or pride or pomposity or any of the other things that conveniently obscured a man’s vision; he’d recognized her flirtation for precisely what it was: an attempt to maneuver him into doing what she wanted.

  It had always worked so beautifully before.

  But flirtation had also always been her version of fairy dust. She could fling it into a man’s eyes and dazzle him and yet never be fully known. And then never be fully hurt.

  Their gazes locked.

  Inwardly, she flailed, and hoped it didn’t show.

  She could at least take some comfort in the fact that she was as good as staring as he was.

  Be who you are. For so long she’d been who she’d needed to be in order to survive, whether it was on the stage or in a man’s bed. Absently, she sought reassurance; her hand went to touch her St. Christopher’s medal hidden between her breasts.

  His eyes idly followed her hand there. She saw the moment when he tried to look away, the infinitesimal jerk of his chin. But he couldn’t.

  His eyes lingered, darkened. He was trapped as surely as if he’d waded into honey.

  And it stopped her breath.

  In that moment, she experienced her own skin as he might: cool, silken, made expressly to be savored by fingertips. Feverish heat rushed over the backs of her arms. Her eyes nearly closed.

  It lasted only seconds, all told. Her hand fell gracefully to her lap again. His gaze freed itself and returned to her face. But his eyes were abstracted; the echo of some emotion darkened, tensed his features, flexed his hands on the arms of the chair. She saw him will his body to ease.

  It shook her. Instead of being an immovable edifice, he was far from impervious to her as a woman. The knowledge should have thrilled her. She supposed it did. But the thrill was the unnerving sort. For she now knew that part of whatever she felt when he was near was the sheer strength of his will. Which held something powerful in check when she was near.

  And she’d seen what happened to the things in the paths of breaking dams.

  This was not a man who would do anything lightly. Or by halves.

  Still, she’d been handed back her sword, in a sense. And though she knew it was a risky game, she couldn’t resist a feint.

  “What is your number, Reverend Sylvaine?” she asked softly. “Six? Seventeen? Two? Or is an unmarried vicar allowed to have a number?”

  He knew exactly what she meant.

  And for a moment she felt almost sorry she’d said it. His stillness was different. Almost as though he’d been hurt. The tension in his jaw might have been anger. Did he feel mocked? Surely, he wasn’t an innocent in the matter of women. She doubted this; he was too self-possessed. Was he appalled, did he judge her, despite what he’d said?

  All she knew was this his eyes burned into her. And she thought how easily a woman of lesser strength might be consumed in that flame.

  It was so silent the tick of the clock echoed like a third heartbeat.

  And then the Reverend gave slow, faint, smile that she felt everywhere in her body. And shook his head slightly to and fro.

  Good try, Lady Balmain.

  She smiled, too, despite herself.

  He glanced at the clock. “I fear I’ve other duties to see to, Lady Balmain. Why don’t you tell me why you invited me here today. Because I suspect there’s a reason.”

  “Very little eludes you, does it, Reverend Sylvaine?”

  “How quickly you learn, Lady Balmain.”

  She gave a small smile. Suddenly, she felt nervous and foolish. The man allowed for no circumspection; she couldn’t lead him into what she wanted.

  She would have to baldly tell him, and it opened yet another window into her. It seemed unfair to be the only one in the room sporting windows.

  She straightened her spine. She cleared her throat. She was not a ninny.

  “Very well. I should like to confess something.”

  He nodded. “I assure you that anything you tell me will be held in the strictest confidence.”

  “You needn’t brace yourself for anything disconcerting. Or hope for anything shocking,” she couldn’t resist adding, with a glance up through her eyelashes.

  A small ironic smile. “I wouldn’t need to regardless, but thank you for the preparation.”

  She inhaled. Her fingers twined nervously again. And then, to Adam’s astonishment, the faintest of pink slowly moved into her cheeks.

  “I should like to have friends.”

  Chapter 7

  SHE LOOKED UP at him hopefully, clearly, authentically abashed.

  “And you …” He hesitated to complete the sentence. “ … Haven’t any” seemed a cruelty.

  “Of the fair-weather variety, I’m certain I have many. Or I did once.” Her hands were still knotted. She noticed him noticing and loosed them immediately. Suddenly, she burst out, “And a pity it is that Mr. Miles Redmond’s ship didn’t sink before he could return to tell the whole of the ton about the poisonous black spider that eats her mate after making love! What kind of man spends his time crawling about after insects, I ask you? Black widow, indeed!”

  He tried not to smile. Perversely, he liked her temper.

  A
nd the tilt of her chin, and the short straight blade of her nose, and how her cheek curved just so, taking the light like porcelain.

  “Mr. Redmond probably didn’t anticipate that the ton, collectively, can be more poisonous than the spider in question.”

  She looked into his face, studying him. She reminded him of himself, in fact, the way she read features. He saw her shoulders relax when she decided he was sincere.

  “I’m sorry Monty died, you know. More than anyone knows. It was a terrible moment. Breakfast, servants milling in and out, but just the two of us at table. One moment he was smiling at me and saying, ‘Evie, love, will you pass the marma—’ and the next moment there was a terrible thud and he was facedown in his eggs and kippers. The housekeeper shrieked and shrieked. She’d eggs in her hair and all over the front of her, you see. They’d quite sprayed her. I’ll never forget the sound.” She shuddered.

  Adam silently congratulated himself on bringing honey, not marmalade.

  “How awful,” he said softly. “Were you frightened?”

  She looked faintly surprised by the question. “I suppose. But what good does shrieking ever do, unless a brigand has leaped upon you, and you need help, and even then I’d simply elbow him hard or take a knee to his baubles. I went to feel for his heartbeat in his throat, you know. He hadn’t one. And then I …”

  She cast her eyes down suddenly. And he realized at once she was overcome by a sudden cascade of emotion and memories. It was a moment so swift and subtle, anyone might have missed it.

  She exhaled and looked up again. “ … and then I lifted his face up out of his eggs and cleaned his face with his napkin. He hated to be untidy, you see.”

  He admired it fiercely. For a moment his voice was lost.

  For he recognized strength when he saw it.

  Quite formidable, Colin had called her. Adam didn’t doubt this.

  But she wasn’t indestructible.

  And again a wayward little flame of fury licked at him at the ton for what it had done to her, despite how she may have conducted her life. And even at Colin, for blithely dismissing her as hard.

  He loathed injustice.

  “I’m so sorry for your loss, Lady Balmain.”

  She studied him again, as if deciding whether he truly meant it.