Meet the Earl at Midnight

by Gina Conkle

  She was letting herself drown in a man. Again.

  But this was Edward.

  Her hands, searching, moving, gripped his untucked linen shirt and found access to the smooth skin of his waist.

  Someone groaned, perhaps both of them, when her fingers connected with his torso, spanning to consume every inch of flesh: smooth flesh, hard and taut, narrow, slippery burn scars, thicker ridges, and gooseflesh as her touch feathered this way and that. His skin, hot from his exertions, was a wonder to feel.

  Hot need shot through her, flaring between her legs. The shock made her stiffen. Her fingers slid along Edward’s ribs, and she held on for dear life. Lydia wrapped her hands around his back when her lower lip slipped between his roving lips. The gentle way he sucked on her plump lip, and his tongue exploring that wet space, her knees buckled.

  Lydia swayed into him, her back arching, but his hands caught her. His warm hand splayed wide against her upper back. The other ventured lower, massaging circles, lower, lower. Edwards’s hands, like his kisses, belonged to an explorer, not a ruthless conqueror. Testing and checking, his firm but gentle caresses enticed her into his web of curiosity and question. His kisses, his touch were not the rehearsed moves of a long-practiced rake, but genuine affection and sensuality braided into an explosive mix that promised to incinerate them on the spot if they didn’t stop.

  Her head tilted back, exposing her neck, and Edward groaned anew as his lips rubbed the smooth column. The tip of his tongue touched the pulsing beat at the base of her neck, sending another shudder through her. Lydia’s head rolled to his shoulder. Her eyes opened a tiny bit, enough to see a red-faced, round-eyed footman frozen in the doorway. She gave Edward a gentle push.

  “Edward,” she whispered, drugged by him and not willing to let go. “Edward, there’s a footman…in the doorway.”

  “Tell him to go away,” he whispered against her collarbone, his warm lips concentrating on her flesh there.

  The footman raised a balled fist to his mouth and coughed loudly, taking tentative steps into the ballroom. He waited a moment. His eyes inspected the ceiling’s plaster work, and he coughed again with more volume. Something couldn’t wait. She pushed harder, and cool space separated them, setting the back of her hand to her swollen lips.

  “This must be important,” she said, looking into Edward’s near-black eyes.

  He bore the presence of a man roused from a warm bed who’d hastily dressed, not bothering to tuck in his shirt. Heavy breathing from their shared passion controlled them; their chests pumped in unison seeking air, but Edward followed the cant of her gaze and slowly went about tucking in his shirt in the back of his breeches. He gave her that brigand’s half smile and turned around to face the door.

  “What is it, man?” he called across the ballroom.

  “The countess, milord, she’s returned and wishes to see Miss Montgomery.” The older, red-faced footman, shifted from one foot to the other. “I’m sorry to bother you, milord, but she was most insistent.”

  Lydia’s shoulders dropped. All of her was a mess…her heart, her hair, the paint on her fingers. But the time of reckoning had come, and earlier than expected. She glanced outside: there was too much daylight left. Something had brought Lady Elizabeth back early.

  “Very well,” she said, tugging the smock over her head. “In the blue drawing room, is she?”

  The footman stood ramrod straight. “No, miss, she waits for you in your room.”

  Eighteen

  Small opportunities are often the beginning of great enterprises.

  —Demosthenes

  “Is your corset on too tight? Because no sane woman in your circumstances would dare tell me ‘no.’” Lady Elizabeth’s eyes glittered with elegant mayhem and threat. “Thus, I’m led to believe you’re light-headed due to an inability to breathe.”

  “You heard me, Countess. I’m staying.”

  Audacious words that failed to match Lydia’s insides.

  The pink coliseum was their battleground, with the countess claiming ample space. This time, the noblewoman came with an ally. Her lady’s maid, Simpson, stood near the pink-and-white canopied bed with stacks of long, plain boxes, dresses to be sure, but strange armaments in this clash of wills.

  Was Lady E. worried enough to bring reinforcement?

  Lydia linked paint-spattered fingers in her lap and waited. The countess, bathed in afternoon light, had looked in her element, ready to square off when Lydia walked through the door. Now, her stomach aquiver from their skirmish of words, she sat at the edge of her chair, back straight. Her ladyship’s plump white hands fanned her yellow silk skirts across the settee where she sat enthroned. Her fingers plucked the stylish pearled trim on her puffy panniers, which took all her focus. When she looked up, her face was tight and drawn.

  “Very well, two hundred guineas.”

  “You must not have heard me. I’m. Not. Leaving.”

  Rouged lips thinned to a sharp line but opened wide enough to say, “Two hundred fifty guineas, and that’s my final offer.”

  Lydia’s head tipped back as she chuckled, a shaky, humorless sound that covered her unease. “My lady, you could offer a thousand guineas and it wouldn’t matter. I’m not going anywhere. Edward and I will marry, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

  One imperious blond brow rose at those audacious words, but Lydia’s frayed nerves improved under that bold proclamation. Her exposed skin was cold despite the nearness of the fire. This was untested ground, when she didn’t want them to be adversaries. How to tread carefully and turn this around? The bald fact remained: she needed the countess badly, but she wouldn’t let the noblewoman see anything less than full bravado.

  Lady Elizabeth’s chin tipped high. “Why stay? People toss over others for money all the time.”

  Meaning you’ve done that before? Lydia silenced that coy question that badly wanted out, and cleared her throat. It was time to drop the lure.

  “Have you considered that perhaps we can both get what we want?”

  Lady Elizabeth’s pale lids dropped, half covering her eyes, as if she were measuring this unexpected turn and didn’t find this new premise wholly lacking. The notion of mutual victory probably hadn’t crossed the woman’s mind. She likely worked only in wins and losses, placing herself squarely in the winning category, of course. But that singular question changed the atmosphere. Late afternoon air shifted and stirred between them. The first sprout of transformation from being adversarial, to a partnership of sorts grew.

  “Go on,” the countess said. “I’m listening.”

  “I should have known all along to ask: What do you want more? To have Edward stay in England? Or that he not marry me?”

  That defining trio of questions must’ve stunned Lady Elizabeth. Her chin tipped to normal level as she glanced away, though she was still very stiff of spine. Her pink-white hands curled into fists, pressing down on her silk lap. The air of brittleness about the lady cracked. When she looked at Lydia again, her mask of high decorum slipped from her fine-boned features.

  “I’d marry him to a swine herder’s daughter if I thought that’d keep him here.”

  Lydia’s hands clamped together. Despite her air of composure, dampness covered her palms. “What if I promised that he’ll stay? Would you help me? I mean truly help me to become the kind of wife he needs in Society?”

  “How can you make such a promise?” she sputtered as more fractures in her composure spread. She gave Lydia a good once-over. “What could you possibly do to keep him in England?”

  Lydia opened her mouth to answer, but the frustrated countess charged ahead.

  “So you and he share some attraction. Edward’s never been one to be led about by a skirt.” Her earbobs swayed emphatically from the lady’s twitching head. “You’ll have to do better than that.”

  Lydia smiled at what was the closest thing to crudeness from the countess. “Yes, I know, but you’ll have to trust me.”

&nbs
p; “What? You harbor some kind of secret?” her ladyship said, her head tilting forward.

  “In a manner of speaking, yes.”

  “And you wish me to give you the full force of my support to transform you”—the countess scooted to the edge of the seat, her voice rising an octave—“without so much as a hint as to your plan?”

  “Yes, and with a minimum of barbs and insults.” She took a deep breath. There. She’d stood her ground, seated, of course, on a pink-and-yellow chair.

  Lady Elizabeth’s lips tightened. “You mean the courtesy as deserving one in my station. Is that it?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you’ll somehow magically”—the countess circled a hand in the air as her voice rose another octave in disbelief—“keep my son in England.”

  “That’s what we both want, isn’t it?”

  Lady Elizabeth shifted, and her body tipped backward onto the cushions and pillows as if the simple force of that question felled her. She exhaled loudly and stretched her arm along the backrest. Perhaps the weight of having to hold up appearances had overcome her right then? No matter, a thrill of victory shot through Lydia, and she fought the urge to jump up and yell, “Yes!”

  This peace agreement wasn’t sealed yet, but Lydia was sure it was coming. Then Lady Elizabeth did a curious thing.

  She glanced at Lydia and turned away, her manicured fingers tapping the settee’s back cushion. The countess stared at the white writing desk, covered with papers, an ink pot, a quill, and lead writing sticks. Ink splotched the side lip of the delicate, white expanse, but the lady viewed that furniture as if she could read it. The countess nodded, appearing lost in thought, and finally turned to face Lydia.

  “Very well. Though it pains me not to know this secret of yours, I am in desperate straits,” she said, her voice sounding tired and worn. Still in repose, Lady Elizabeth raised her hand from the settee and snapped it twice in rapid clicks. “Simpson.”

  The servant left her position as stalwart guardian of the boxes. She moved toward the settee, where the countess pushed off the furniture, keeping her eye on Lydia.

  “Yes, your ladyship.”

  Simpson, an attractive woman of middle years, was dressed and coiffed with above-average style for a lady’s maid. There was nothing mousy or timid about her. The servant exuded confidence in her simple but pretty lavender dress, complete with modest panniers.

  “We have a great task ahead of us. We must transform Miss Lydia Montgomery into the future Lady Lydia Sanford, Countess of Greenwich. You will instruct her maid on all the tricks of the trade, appropriate styles of clothes, hair befitting a lady of quality, and so forth.” The countess’s pale blue eyes narrowed as her stare went head to hem over Lydia. “And, Simpson, summon her maid, now.”

  “Yes, your ladyship.” Simpson moved in graceful steps across the room to yank the pink bellpull.

  “We’ll begin with the most crucial elements: dress and comportment. I’ll compose a list of what we need to do in the short term, and what can wait for later.” Nodding, she studied Lydia’s face as one might review a vase for purchase. “Thank goodness your skin is of excellent quality. But those eyebrows, hideous.” She shivered over that pronouncement, and her blue gaze met Lydia’s. “You will surrender to Simpson for plucking.”

  On reflex, Lydia’s fingers touched her eyebrows. “I’m not a chicken to be trussed for dinner,” she sputtered. “They work fine, in my opinion. Plucking sounds awful…” But her words lost momentum under the identical moues of disdain facing her.

  “Your opinion doesn’t matter,” Lady E. said with authority. “Your brows are like a pair of caterpillars marching over your eyes. That won’t do. Shaping them will enhance your appearance and add to your elegance. And you need great doses of the latter, my dear.”

  Her brows were thick but not all that bad. Lady Elizabeth’s insults weren’t really insults anymore, more like marching orders on this road to transformation. There was no sharp-edged meanness, and that’s when the inkling struck her: becoming a countess, the Countess of Greenwich, at least, was about much more than putting on a new fancy dress.

  Lydia’s hand dropped to her lap. “Whatever you say, my lady.”

  “That’s better. If I’m to trust you, then you need to return the favor.” The countess didn’t wait for an answer. She gestured to the stacked boxes. “I purchased some dresses while in London.”

  Right then, Tilly poked her head through the doorway, holding the doorknob and leaning forward. “You called for me, miss?”

  “I did,” Lady Elizabeth announced. “And don’t dawdle half-in, half-out. Bespeaks poor training.”

  Like a foot soldier trying to please a general, Tilly pulled herself upright and stepped into the room, head held high as she shut the door. She folded her hands demurely in front of her and waited.

  “That’s better.” The countess nodded, her own spine ramrod straight with her hands clasped at her waist. Her elbows jutted from her side in perfect angles, dripping with pearled lace. “Tilly, we have a great deal of work ahead of us. To begin, I need you to bring two spoons and a basketful of eggs to the blue drawing room. Lots and lots of eggs.”

  Tilly’s hazel eyes opened wider, but she curtsied. “Yes, my lady.”

  The young maid hesitated as her blinking eyes went from the countess to Lydia, but the countess clapped her hands twice and snapped her order, “Now.”

  Tilly sped from the room. The countess and Simpson bent their heads in quiet conversation. Lydia’s composure started slipping. What did she need to know about more? The boxes? Or the eggs? Was the countess planning to toss them at her when she flubbed at tea service? Spoons and eggs, however odd, weren’t right in front of her. Those dresses were.

  “Countess.” Lydia cocked her head at the secretive pair and pointed at the boxes. “How did you know?”

  “How did I know your measurements?” A smile of pure feline satisfaction curved Lady E.’s lips. “My dear, divining that information was the easiest task on my list of how to get rid of you. However, finding finished gowns of quality with which to tempt you was another matter.” The countess raised a hand toward the stacked boxes. “They were meant for a woman who fell out of favor with her protector and can no longer afford them.”

  Lydia’s jaw dropped. “Protector? Just what kind of gowns are they?” She shook her head. “Nor can I believe that you would have given me the guineas and some dresses to get me to leave.”

  “Any woman in her right mind knows the importance of looking her best. I was prepared to tempt you with pretty gowns. But here we are.” The countess linked her hands at her waist. “The quality is quite up to standards, excellent creations all of them. They’re from one of London’s better mantua-makers. Day dresses and two evening gowns with panniers, hooped petticoats, and shoes, though nothing fit for a ball, mind you. You’d be surprised how many courtesans move about in Society.” Her nostrils flared as she took a deep breath, and as she rose, she gave Lydia a quick once-over. “But we digress. There’s much to do. Meet me in the blue drawing room in half an hour. We begin work today.”

  The countess quit the room, and Simpson herded her to the dressing table to begin the rapid disassembling of one Lydia Montgomery. Her old dress and patched underskirts fell slack on the floor into a faded fabric puddle. Simpson picked up the old garments, and pinching them between two fingers, dropped them out of sight on the other side of the bed.

  A long box opened, and from tufts of fragile tissue, a gorgeous swathe of burgundy with gold embroidery emerged. Lydia’s heart beat faster, and she laid a calming hand over that place. Her reflection in the mirror was a comfortable one, but today was the last she’d see of her. Lydia accepted that she’d never see that woman again. Ever.

  So bemused was she, that questions about eggs awaiting her downstairs were a mere footnote in this, her metamorphosis.

  Nineteen

  When you’re finished changing, you’re finished.

  �
��Benjamin Franklin

  “My dear, it’s not what’s in your head that matters, but how you look, your comportment. Those two priorities are vital to your success.”

  Silk-clad and iron-willed, Lady Elizabeth sipped from a fragile rose-petal dish, issuing pearls of wisdom as Lydia concentrated on a most difficult and trying task: walk the length of the spacious blue drawing room, holding two spoons aloft that cradled fresh eggs—without dropping said eggs, of course.

  She wanted to be a perfect countess, but the skill of walking and talking at the same time was apparently new to her.

  The silliness of that revelation should have been enough to make her laugh, if she hadn’t wanted to groan her agony at the evidence of her lack in that simple pursuit. Splats of eggs, casualties of her shortcomings, dotted the pale blue carpet over which she trod. She lost count at how many. Rogers and Tilly were down on all fours, rapidly whisking cleaning cloths over lots of sticky explosions. Miss Lumley stood nearby in her new housekeeper gray, directing the two as she held a bowl to collect broken shells and yolk in one hand, and a bowl of cleaning solution in the other. She gave Lydia a wink on this latest pass.

  “Doin’ grand, miss. You’re doin’ grand,” she said under her breath.

  The worst of it so far wasn’t the embarrassing lack of skill; rather, the loss of her newest beautiful gown, streaked with viscous yellow, hurt more than any damaged pride. Yet the countess seemed to take that loss as a matter of course. A surplus of lovely dresses made for a novel notion to Lydia. She tried a surreptitious peek at her hem, but was caught by the ever-watchful eye of her vigilant teacher.

  “Ah, ah, ah. Head up at all times. It is the most gracious of comportments.”