More or Less a Countess

by Anna Bradley

  “But Hyacinth—”

  “She’s all right. She’s gone ahead into the drawing room with Iris, and Lord Huntington and Lord Derrick will join us soon.”

  Violet hesitated. She shouldn’t abandon her younger sister, but just the thought of a few moments of solitary quiet to nurse her bruised heart made her ache with longing. “If you’re certain.”

  “Of course I am.” Honora smiled, gave her a gentle push in the direction of the library, and then turned to follow the last of the ladies into the drawing room.

  Violet crept down the quiet hallway and slipped into the cool silence of the library, the faint scent of must and leather wrapping around her like an old friend. Ever since she was a child libraries had felt like home to her, and she didn’t hesitate to let herself sink into the comforting embrace of this one.

  She didn’t bother to light a lamp, but lay down on one of the sofas in front of the fireplace. Darkness swallowed the room as the flames burned lower in the grate, until at last they disintegrated into a few glowing embers in a pile of ash.

  Violet didn’t mind the dark. She’d spent many evenings alone in her grandmother’s library, cradling dusty books in her hands and pondering the pattern of invisible fingerprints on those old, crackling pages. And after all, it wasn’t so terrible to be alone, was it? All of London might scorn the spinster bluestocking, but there was a freedom to it. Perhaps it was lonely at times, but books demanded nothing of her.

  Not like people.

  No, she was quite happy to be alone—

  Click.

  Violet tensed as the catch on the library door released, followed by a faint squeak as the door was eased open, and then closed again with a quiet thud.

  Thinking Honora had come to fetch her, Violet opened her mouth to make her presence known, but before she could utter a word she was interrupted by a low, masculine growl, then a high-pitched gasp.

  “Stop that, my lord! You’ll tear it.”

  Violet heard a noise that sounded like a playful slap, and then an unmistakable feminine giggle, and she instinctively sank lower into the sofa so she wasn’t visible from the door.

  “No, we haven’t time for the bodice, my lord. Just raise my skirts and be quick, before we’re missed.”

  Raise my skirts? That was not Honora.

  “Sorry, love, but I can’t forego the bodice. Not when the contents of it are so magnificent. And I’m never quick.”

  The lady with the magnificent bosom let out a throaty laugh. “Yes, I remember that about you, but we haven’t time for…oh. Oh, my.”

  There was a low, wicked chuckle, a faint rustle of clothing, and then what sounded like a coat hitting the floor. “Perhaps we have more time than you thought, my dear?”

  Violet squeezed her eyes closed and raised her hands to her burning cheeks. Couldn’t a lady enjoy a few private moments of peace without being forced to witness a disgraceful debauchery? For pity’s sake, this was a library, not a brothel.

  But surely they’d stop at a few harmless kisses? That was shameless enough—not to mention in shockingly poor taste—but even people with as little self-control as this wouldn’t dare bring the, ah…business to a conclusion right in the middle of Lord and Lady Derrick’s library—

  “Oh, yes. Put your hand…yes, there. Faster…”

  The lady’s words were lost in a long, soft moan that made Violet’s entire body burst into flames of embarrassment.

  “Hold your skirts up for me, love…yes, like that. Ah, sweetheart, you’re so…now let me just…”

  Violet didn’t get to hear what he meant to do, but whatever it was, the lady must have permitted it, because in the next moment there was a grunt, then a sharp gasp and a quiet thud, as if someone had been shoved back against the door.

  And then shoved again, and again, and again in a steady, measured rhythm.

  Violet pressed her lips together, then pressed a hand over her mouth to hold back…a shout of indignation, perhaps? Tears? Was she crying? It would make sense, given the circumstances, and she could feel moisture gathering in the corners of her eyes, spilling over her cheeks…

  Except those weren’t tears bubbling up in her chest. Those weren’t sobs rising into her throat and threatening to burst through her lips.

  It was laughter. Loud, indecorous, manic laughter.

  Oh, dear. Perhaps she’d gone hysterical, but all that moaning and gasping, and the breathless discussion of bodices—well, it was absurd, wasn’t it? And that rhythmic banging…what in the world was that? It sounded as if someone’s head were being knocked repeatedly against the door—

  The lady’s. It was the lady’s head. At least, that was the most likely scenario, given what Violet knew of the mechanics of the thing. Granted, she had no personal intimate experience, but there was no end to the information one could find in books.

  “Oh. Oh. Oh.”

  Thud. Thud. Thud.

  Another violent burst of laughter threatened, and Violet pressed her hand harder against her mouth and bit her lip until it split. Dear God, it would be a miracle if the poor woman escaped without a head injury. Violet could only hope the gentleman was making it worth her while.

  From the way the lady was carrying on, it sounded as if he was doing something she enjoyed, but there was only one way to know for certain.

  No. I can’t possibly. It’s a disgraceful invasion of privacy.

  But then again, they were the ones who’d chosen to express their affections in Lord Derrick’s library. Did they really deserve privacy, given the circumstances? And after all, she’d been here first. They’d interrupted her, and it wasn’t as if she’d ever get another chance to see it.

  She couldn’t resist just the tiniest peek, for purely educational reasons.

  Violet squirmed onto her knees, careful to keep her head low, held her breath, and peeked over the back of the sofa. She watched for a moment, squinting in the darkness, then let her breath out in a silent sigh.

  Well. It wasn’t quite what she’d expected.

  In fact, if the truth were told, it didn’t look nearly as interesting as it was rumored to be. But then, that was invariably the way, wasn’t it? That was why Violet preferred books—they never disappointed one the way real life did.

  And this was…well, a bit anticlimactic.

  She’d thought the lady would be clutching at the gentleman in mindless, desperate passion, but this lady was too occupied with holding her skirts out of the way to offer much in the way of clutching. Most of the gentleman’s lower body was obscured by the lady’s voluminous skirts, but she had one leg hitched awkwardly over his hip, and Violet could see his pelvis moving, jerking against the lady in rhythmic thrusts. They weren’t up against the door, but against one of the tall bookshelves next to it, and he was fully clothed aside from his blue coat, which lay on the floor at his feet. It was too dark to see his face, but there was just enough light coming from the crack under the door to catch the glint of silver thread on his scarlet waistcoat.

  Lord Dare.

  Of course. Violet didn’t feel even a flicker of surprise to find he was every bit the rake Honora said he was.

  “Oh, harder. Please, my lord…harder…”

  Lord Dare didn’t hesitate to accommodate this request, but shoved harder against her—so hard he shook the bookshelf, and a book came crashing from its place and tumbled to the floor.

  Violet smothered an indignant gasp, and it took all of her restraint not to hurl a pillow at his broad back. For goodness’ sake, the least they could do was mind the books.

  The lady was sighing and pleading with him not to stop, and then all at once she let out a keening cry that made Lord Dare shove his hand over her mouth. Her body shuddered against his, and then a few moments after she quieted Lord Dare’s hips went still, and he buried his face in the lady’s breasts to smother a gut
tural groan.

  Violet waited for something more to happen, but they only paused to catch their breath, then began to right their clothing.

  She blinked. Was that it, then? The whole thing had left her curiously unmoved. It all seemed so impersonal, somehow—crass even, and it looked as absurd as it sounded, except for that one part, at the end, when Lord Dare found his pleasure. Something about that ragged groan reverberated deep in her belly, leaving a strange aching sensation.

  If any of it truly shocked her, it was the nonchalance with which Lord Dare tugged the lady’s skirts back into place once they’d finished. “A delight, as always, Lady Uplands. I knew there was at least one reason to return to England.”

  He patted her cheek in what looked to Violet like a dismissal, but the lady—Lady Uplands, evidently—grabbed his arm. “Come to me in Harley Street later, my lord.”

  He gave a careless shrug. “Perhaps. Go on then, love, back to the drawing room. I’ll follow in a few moments.”

  The door latch clicked, and Violet ducked back out of sight as Lady Uplands left the library. Once the door was closed and the room dark again, she peeked over the back of the sofa, curious to see what Lord Dare would do now.

  As it happened, he didn’t do much of anything at all. He made some mysterious adjustments to his falls, then retrieved his coat from the floor and put it on. He fumbled in the pocket, drew out a pocket-watch and checked the time, then closed the case with a snap and strolled over to the sideboard to help himself to a glass of Lord Derrick’s whiskey. Once he was finished, he checked his watch again, pulled his coat into place with a sharp tug, and left the library.

  Well. It had been a tidy night’s work for Lord Dare, hadn’t it?

  Violet sat on the sofa for as long as she dared after he left. She had no wish to make an appearance in the drawing room now, but her sisters would be wondering where she was, and Hyacinth must be ready to leave.

  On her way out the door, Violet stopped to pick up the book Lord Dare’s enthusiastic thrusting had knocked from the shelf. He must have stepped right over it on his way, without bothering to put it back. For some reason, this bothered Violet more than anything else she’d witnessed tonight.

  She turned the book in her hand. It was a collection of engraved plates bound together in a leather binding. Her lips turned down in a frown when she saw the spine was cracked, but then she noticed the hand-lettered title, and a soft laugh escaped her as she placed the book gently back on the shelf.

  The Rake’s Progress.

  How fitting.

  Chapter Two

  Some chit was banging on the pianoforte, and each discordant note was crashing inside Nick’s head as if she were a blacksmith and his skull her nail.

  Volume was not, alas, a substitute for skill.

  Nick sighed. He’d come tonight hoping for a distraction, but there was nothing here to amuse him. Not here, and not in all of London. He’d seen it all dozens of times before. He’d been away from this cursed city for two long years, and it wasn’t nearly long enough.

  England was as cold and wet as it had ever been, dinner parties were still deadly dull, and he would have sworn the young lady who was now displaying her dubious musical skills was the same young lady who’d performed at the last English dinner party he’d attended two years ago.

  Impossible, of course, but it was remarkable how much one pale-faced English chit resembled another.

  Or one English lord another, come to that.

  Nick watched as Lord Derrick strolled toward him from across the room. He took the seat next to Nick on the settee and offered him a cordial smile. One thing about Derrick: he was always the consummate gentleman, no matter how awkward the circumstances.

  “Welcome back to England, Balfour. Two years is a long time, but you’ve changed surprisingly little since the last time I saw you.”

  It was a simple observation, and there was no edge to Lord Derrick’s voice, but Nick’s jaw tensed nonetheless. The last time he’d seen Derrick he’d been so sotted he could hardly stand upright. He’d been in a filthy West End gaming hell at the time, doing his best to squander his inheritance, and Derrick had been obliged to send him sprawling with a fist to the face to drag him out.

  A lot of bother for nothing, as it turned out, because his father had squandered it anyway.

  That had been six months or so after Graham’s death, when Nick had at last given up playing at lord of the manor and fled the West Sussex estate for London, his father’s curses still ringing in his ears.

  “One thing’s changed,” Nick bit out. “I’m not Balfour anymore, Derrick. I’m Lord Dare now.”

  But he shouldn’t be, and Derrick couldn’t help but flinch at the reminder. “Of course. I beg your pardon.”

  Guilt stabbed at Nick’s chest, and he drew in a long breath to gather his composure. There was no sense in lashing out at Derrick. They’d been close friends at one time, and the man had been decent enough to invite him here tonight. And after all, it wasn’t as if Derrick were wrong. Nick might be Lord Dare now, but he was still the same useless rogue he’d been when Graham was alive.

  It was depressing, how little things changed. Two years gone, and yet here he sat in a tight cravat and an even tighter coat, a tragedy of musical incompetence ringing in his ears, and it was as if no time had passed at all.

  “How does Lady Westcott get on?” Lord Derrick asked, clearly eager to change the subject. “She doesn’t come out in company much anymore. I haven’t see her for months. I hope she’s well.”

  “Oh, you needn’t concern yourself about Lady Westcott. She’s very well, and as impatient and demanding as she’s always been. She’s every inch the tyrant you remember.”

  Not just any tyrant, either, but the tyrant who held Nick’s purse strings.

  His aunt was the only family he had left, and Nick adored her, but that didn’t stop him from occasionally wishing he could wring her neck. She’d insisted he accept Derrick’s invitation tonight, no doubt because she hoped his old friend would magically persuade him that underneath his loathing for London was a burning desire to remain here forever.

  If Nick had entertained a shred of hope himself, it had vanished as soon as he’d set foot in the dining room. The moment he laid eyes on Lord Derrick, he’d been overwhelmed with the same familiar despair that had made him flee London the first time. It should have comforted him to see his childhood friend, but it didn’t—it only made him feel Graham’s absence more keenly.

  There was no going home, it seemed. Not for him.

  Not surprising, really. He should have expected as much, and so should Lady Westcott. They were both a bit too old to believe in magic.

  Lord Derrick chuckled. “Ah. Her ladyship is demanding you stay in London, is she?”

  “For all the good it will do her, yes.” Nick had agreed to a six-week stay only, and he’d be damned if he’d stay a moment longer. “It’s November, for God’s sake. No one leaves Italy for England in November.”

  He let out a regretful sigh as he thought of Catalina, the lush, dark-haired Italian mistress he’d just installed in his seaside villa. He’d hardly had a chance to lift her skirts before he’d been obliged to return to the damp, chilly grime of London.

  “Unless their father happens to pass away in November, as yours did.”

  This time there was a distinct note of censure in Lord Derrick’s voice, but Nick dismissed it with a shrug. His father had been trying to find a way to die for nearly three years now. That he’d finally accomplished it hardly seemed an occasion for mourning.

  “Death is rather a good way to escape an English winter, isn’t it? Perhaps I should consider expiring of a consumption while I’m here, or a bilious cough, or some mysterious inflammation of the lungs. Whatever it is one dies of in England. Boredom, perhaps.”

  “Oh, I’m certain you’ll find so
mething here to amuse you, Dare. You’ve always been rather good at keeping yourself entertained, and London offers plenty of opportunities to indulge your vices.”

  London, and Lord Derrick’s library, as it happened.

  Ah, well. Everyone needed to excel at something, and Nick excelled at indulging himself.

  He raised an eyebrow at Lady Uplands, who was seated on the other side of the drawing room, tracing a gloved finger over her swollen lips and eyeing him hungrily, much as she had the beef course at dinner.

  Spectacular bosom still—not an inch of sag since he’d fondled it two years ago. But he’d explored it many times before, and a man needed variety. He couldn’t tup the same lady time and time again any more than he could read a single book over and over, or eat the same meal every time he sat down at table.

  Besides, the encounter with Lady Uplands had depressed his spirits. The dark library, her skirts clenched in his fists, her heaving bosom—it was all too familiar. Just like everything else this evening, it made him feel as if he’d never left England at all.

  Lady Uplands caught his gaze and darted the tip of her tongue across her top lip.

  Nick covered his mouth with his hand to hide a yawn.

  How subtle.

  She might lick her lips all she liked, and his cock might twitch as hopefully as it liked, but it would be best if he resisted paying her a visit in Harley Street tonight. Even if he was tempted to while away a few hours with her, a dalliance with Lady Uplands wouldn’t improve his standing with his aunt. He’d already managed to drive Lady Westcott to the edge of her patience in the few short weeks since he’d returned to England, and Lady Uplands was just the kind of vice that would send his aunt hurtling over the edge.

  Lady Westcott did not, alas, choose for him to spend the whole of every night engaged in debauchery, or the whole of every day asleep in his bedchamber, recovering from said debauchery. It was not, in her opinion, a proper use of the Earl of Dare’s time.

  The chit at the pianoforte tortured the final notes out of Moore’s “The Minstrel Boy,” accepted the polite applause with a curtsy, and resumed her seat on the settee.