Countess So Shameless (Scandal in London)

by Liana Lefey

  She could not help but giggle, despite how her blood was heating as he dropped little kisses down her throat. “I instructed the driver to take the long way back.”

  “Did you? But why would you wish to prolong our journey?”

  She leaned back and smiled down into his twinkling eyes. “Because your shameless wife has a rather shameless proposal for you to help pass the time.”

  It was an invitation no former roué could refuse.

  ITALY, 1757

  ALESSANDRO ROLLED OVER to gaze at his wife. Her beauty and grace had only deepened in the nearly seven years that had passed since their wedding day, and still she consumed and fascinated him.

  As though she’d felt his stare, Mélisande smiled. He watched the slow, sensuous curling of her lips. It was the same siren’s smile that had intoxicated him the day he first saw her. Leaning over her, he kissed it, the beginnings of desire stirring in him once more, though they had made love only a few hours ago.

  Releasing a throaty laugh, she withdrew to stare at him, her eyes sparkling.

  He gazed back at her with growing suspicion. “And what mischief do you hide behind those jewels this morning, amora?” he asked. “Come, you know you cannot keep a secret from me. I know how to get it out of you,” he teased, reaching for her again.

  “Well, I should hope it isn’t too much mischief—we certainly have enough of that already,” she quipped, batting at his hands. “But I can’t imagine having much choice in the matter, especially given the impish nature of our other two...”

  His heart began to beat a little faster. “You are with child?”

  “Sometime in the spring,” she whispered back, her smile broadening.

  The door to their bedchamber opened, and a pair of large, forest-shade eyes peeked around its edge. A moment later, another pair the color of warm earth appeared just below them.

  “Come in, darlings,” Mélisande beckoned.

  A dark-haired little girl dressed in rumpled nightclothes revealed herself. At her side, chubby fist held firmly in his sister’s hand, was a merry-eyed little boy of nearly four. Shuffling up to the edge of the bed, they looked up hopefully.

  Alessandro patted the coverlet. “Come! I have a secret to share with you,” he whispered with excitement as they clambered up onto the bed, the girl helping to haul her little brother up beside her.

  “A secret! Tell, Papa! Tell!” the girl begged, bouncing.

  “Yes, Papa. Tell us,” echoed the little boy, his demeanor far more serious than his sister’s, despite her being nearly two years his elder.

  Alessandro grinned, his heart swelling with pride. “Well, your mother is actually the one with the secret,” he informed them. “Perhaps I should let her tell you?”

  Expectant eyes swung over to Mélisande. She smiled over their heads at him. “Oh, I don’t know. I think it would be all right for your Papa to reveal this particular secret,” she teased.

  Pleading eyes again swiveled back to Alessandro.

  “Do tell us, Papa,” beseeched the girl, squirming with anticipation.

  Laughing, he beckoned them closer until their heads nearly touched. “All right,” he whispered, “I shall tell you, but you must promise not to yell and wake the house.” His manner was stern, but his smile belied his ominous tone.

  “We promise, Papa,” swore his daughter. She turned to her brother, wearing a perfect copy of her father’s severe expression. “Don’t we, Aldo?” she prompted.

  “I promise, Bella,” he replied, his face somber.

  Beroaldo might appear serious in comparison to his big sister, but Alessandro knew he was at the root of the recent spate of pranks played on the household staff.

  “Very well. But know that I shall hold you to your vow,” he said, eyeing them fiercely until they giggled. “The secret is that you are going to have a new brother or sister sometime next spring.”

  The anticipated explosion was not long in coming.

  Simultaneously, Isabella and Beroaldo sucked in a deep breath, looking first at each other and then at their father, who’d begun to quake with silent laughter. Squeals of delight erupted as they began jumping up and down on the bed, holding each other’s hands while crowing at the tops of their lungs.

  Mélisande reached across the coverlet and took his hand.

  Fate had brought them into each other’s lives twice. Now, they would never be apart again.

  Fin

  (F) = French (I) = Italian (E) = English

  Ah, pardon, mademoiselle! Je m’excuse! (F) – Ah, my apologies, miss! Excuse me!

  Benissimo (I) – Very good

  Bête noire (F) – A person, object, or abstract idea that is particularly disliked or avoided

  Bistre (F) – A rich, deep brown pigment. Many of the Old Masters used bistre as the ink for their drawings.

  Bragg (E) – An early version of poker

  Brocade (E) – A class of richly decorative shuttle-woven fabrics, often made in colored silks and with or without gold and silver threads. Often called “embossed cloth,” ornamental features in brocade are emphasized and wrought as additions to the main fabric, sometimes stiffening it, though more frequently producing on its face the effect of low relief.

  C’est un vrai coureur de jupons, ma fille! Ne pas aller près de lui! (F) – This is a seducer of women, my daughter! Do not go near him!

  Calèche (F) – A wired hood worn by women to protect high hairstyles

  Cendrillon (F) – Cinderella

  Cochon (F) – Pig

  Corna (I) – A hand sign thought to ward against the evil eye

  Décolletage/Décolleté (F) – The female chest area or cleavage

  Deshabillé (F) – A state of undress

  Fête champêtre (F) – Outdoor party/country feast

  Fichu (F) – A lace neckerchief worn to cover the low décolleté, more for modesty than for warmth, usually tucked into the bodice or held with a clasp in front

  Fin (F) – The end

  In flagrante delicto (I) – In the act

  Jamais! (F) – Never!

  Je ne suis pas aveugle, Maman! (F) – I am not blind, Mama.

  Jover (E) – A London manufacturer of fine dueling pistols

  Jupe (F) – Skirt

  Kensington House (Kensington Palace) (E) – A royal residence set in Kensington Gardens in the Royal Borough of Kensington and Chelsea in London, England. It has been a residence of the British Royal Family since the seventeenth century. The last reigning monarch to use Kensington Palace was King George II.

  La marque de la coeur (F) – The heart brand, or mark of the heart

  Le Renard (F) – The fox

  Les engageantes (F) – Long lace flounces at the lower end of the sleeve

  Mais, Louis a insisté (F) – But Louis insisted

  Malocchio (I) – The evil eye

  Manteau/Mantua (F) – Generic term for the coat-like, open-fronted female garment worn from the late seventeenth century until the French Revolution. The front of the bodice was worn wide open to reveal a richly embroidered stomacher. From the short sleeves protruded those of the chemise, decorated with lace.

  Merde (F) – Excrement

  Mes amies, préparez à jouer la valse maintenant (F) – My friends, prepare to play a waltz immediately

  Minuet (F) – A social dance of French origin for two persons, usually in 3/4 time

  Molto bene (I) – Very good

  Panniers (F) – The hoop skirt typical of the eighteenth century involving two baskets, one over each hip, to dramatically exaggerate the flare of the hips, allowing for wide lengths of cloth to be displayed

  Paste (E) – Simulated gemstone made from rock crystal or glass. Often used to decorate clothes or as a substitute in jewelry.

  Primero (E) – A popular sixteenth-century gambling card game

  Quadrille (F) – A French square dance in a lively duple time, popular in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, danced by four or more couples

&nb
sp; Rotten Row (E) – A broad track running along the south side of Hyde Park in London, leading from Hyde Park Corner to the west, it was established by William III at the end of the seventeenth century. Having moved court to Kensington Palace, William wanted a safer way to travel to the previous St. James’s Palace. He created the broad avenue through Hyde Park, lit with three hundred oil lamps in 1690—the first artificially lit highway in Britain. In its heyday in the eighteenth century, Rotten Row was a fashionable place for upper-class Londoners to be seen.

  Roué (F) – Lecher or rake; seducer of women; a man who is habituated to immoral conduct

  Sans (F) – Without

  Sciocchezze! (I) – Nonsense!

  Stomacher (E) – A piece of stiff fabric, roughly the shape of a long, narrow triangle and sometimes boned, that covered the gap of the manteau over the stomach and chest. It was covered with fine fabric and often heavily embroidered and/or decorated with lace. The fronts of the robe were pinned onto it to hold them in place.

  Tesoro (I) – Darling

  T’es mon coeur (F) – You are my heart

  Read on for a sneak peek of Liana LeFey’s next seductive romance!

  To Wed in Scandal

  Available May 2013.

  For Lady Sabrina Grayson, it’s a case of too many suitors...

  NOTHING WOULD BRING Sabrina relief save Henry’s removal from this house. She knew he slept somewhere in the opposite wing, but that mattered not. He might as well have been in the next room, as far as she was concerned.

  It was going to be a long night.

  A faint rustle at the door drew her attention, and Sabrina watched as something slid beneath it. The moment the messenger’s footsteps retreated, she tiptoed over and snatched up the note. She frowned. It was probably another hideous poem from Chadwick.

  “I should never have come to this damned house party,” she muttered sourly as she tore off the wax and opened it. The writing jumped at her from the page:

  Forgive me. H.

  Her traitorous heart pounded as she refolded it. Padding to the desk, she picked up a quill, hesitating, uncertain whether to respond or to simply ignore the communication.

  Nib touched paper.

  Forgiven. Now, I beg you to forget me! S.

  Half an hour later, she still lay awake, unable to sleep after having sent her reply. A soft knock startled her from her reverie. Flinging off the coverlet, she rushed across the room, hoping to catch the messenger and tell him to bear the letter back to its author unopened. She jerked open the door and gasped in surprise.

  “I cannot,” said Henry, his voice hoarse, his face haggard.

  Sabrina’s whole body quaked at what she saw in his eyes.

  “May I come in?”

  “No,” she answered.

  “Sabri—”

  “No!” She tried to close the door, but his foot was wedged in the opening.

  “Sabrina, I must speak with you.”

  “Do you think I’ve forgotten what happened the last time you managed to get me alone?” she hissed, pushing against the door in vain, terrified of the heat already unfurling in her belly.

  “I swear I shall not lay a hand upon you. Not even a finger. Upon my honor.”

  She snorted, unable to contain her censure. “What honor?”

  “I wish only to speak with you, and then I shall trouble you no more this night. You have my word.”

  After a moment, she reluctantly stepped aside.

  Henry slipped past, carefully avoiding her person.

  Sabrina followed, leaving the door unlocked. As long as he didn’t get between her and that door, she was safe. Shivering, she moved to the fire’s warmth. “Have your say, then, and begone,” she commanded, ignoring the strangled sound that issued from her uninvited guest.

  Striding over to her bed with a curse, Henry yanked off the heavy down quilt and held it out to her. When she made no move to take it, he shook it, turning his face away. “Take it, damn it! Or I won’t be responsible for what happens.”

  The shriek she’d been preparing to release died in her throat, suffocated by mortification. Snatching the blanket, she quickly pulled it around herself, grateful for the warmth as well as the concealment it provided.

  With a sigh, Henry sank into one of the chairs before the hearth, gesturing for her to do the same.

  Sabrina perched on the very edge of the seat opposite him and waited.

  “I wish to marry you,” he said at last. He looked at her then, and his eyes revealed the depth of his turmoil. “I can find neither peace nor joy in the things that once brought me pleasure. You are all I think about, night and day. Please.”

  “That is not possible,” she managed, shaken by his bluntness.

  “Why?”

  “Because...” Her parched tongue would not form the words. Every fevered dream she’d had during the past week was sitting right here in front of her, living and breathing. In her room. He wore his shirtsleeves with the neck open, and she could see his throat as it worked when he spoke. Her fingers longed to trace the line of it, to feel his voice vibrating beneath them.

  Sweet heaven help me...

  “Why?” he demanded. “Why won’t you consider me?”

  “Because you’re not the right man!” There, she’d said it.

  One brow rose. “And might I inquire as to whom you think that is?”

  She answered him with stubborn silence.

  “Who, Sabrina?”

  “I don’t know—but it isn’t you!” she burst out, releasing some of her frustration. She saw him flinch, and shame gnawed at her. “I’m sorry!” she wailed, fighting the urge to go to him and soothe away the hurt she’d just inflicted. “I just...” She took a deep, steadying breath. “It was like this between my parents, and my mother was miserable because of it. I cannot endure what she suffered. Please understand.”

  “We are not our parents.”

  “No, but I’m not so foolish as to think history cannot repeat itself. I want a marriage that does not include this, this...emotional upheaval!”

  “Sabrina, I can assure y—”

  “No!” she yelped, jumping up to put her chair between them as he rose. “And you swore you wouldn’t touch me and that you’d leave me alone once you said your piece! Well, now you’ve spoken. Please go. Now. Before something terrible happens.”

  His brows crashed together. “And by terrible, I suppose you mean my making love to you?”

  Sabrina looked down to where her toes curled into the rug. Heat suffused her at his bold words. It was both humiliating and utterly debilitating, her reaction to him. He had to leave. Immediately.

  Her head snapped up, eyes widening in alarm as Henry slowly advanced toward her. She took a hasty step back.

  “I swore not to lay a hand on you, and I shan’t,” he said in response. “I never break my word, Sabrina.”

  Even so, the look in his eyes made her take another step back. Panic fluttered in her breast as her backside bumped into something behind her, the wardrobe.

  “I promised I’d leave you alone for the remainder of the night when I was done,” he continued.

  “Yes, you did—now leave!” she choked. Fumbling behind her, she searched for the edge of the obstacle, not daring to take her eyes off him.

  “Ah, but I’m not finished, Sabrina. In fact, I’m far from through with you.”

  Moving with astonishing swiftness for so large a man, Henry trapped her in the corner between the wardrobe and the wall, bracing his hands on either side of her, blocking her escape.

  Squeezing her eyes shut, Sabrina prepared to scream. But instead of kissing her as she’d anticipated, Henry merely stared down at her. The heat of his nearness twisted her insides. What was he waiting for?

  Slowly, deliberately, Henry removed his hands from the wall beside her and clasped them behind his back.

  The scream died in her throat, lost along with the breath that rushed from her lungs as he leaned in to trace the delicate li
ne of her jaw with a feather brushing of his lips. “Kiss me, Sabrina,” he whispered, the ache in his voice tearing at her defenses.

  Longing exploded across every inch of her flesh. In an involuntary reflex, she turned her face upward, shuddering with hunger as he took the offering.

  Henry held true to his word, keeping his hands behind his back. He did not break his promise, even when she released the quilt to twine her arms about his neck and draw him close.

  Photo by Glamour Shots, 2012

  An exciting new voice in historical romance, Liana LeFey loves to tell stories that capture the imagination and bring to life the splendor of the Georgian era. Liana lives in Texas with her husband/hero, two spoiled-rotten “feline masters,” and several tanks of fish. She has been devouring historical romances since she was fourteen and is now delighted to be writing them for fellow enthusiasts. To learn more or drop Liana a line, visit www.facebook.com/writerliana.