More or Less a Countess

by Anna Bradley

  She was animated, her words tumbling over each other and her eyes bright with excitement, but now she slapped a hand over her mouth, and her eyes widened with horror.

  Nick went still as her words sank in, then relief rushed over him, so profound every one of his taut muscles went instantly loose, as if he’d downed a bottle of whiskey in one long swallow. He sagged back against the settee, a foolish smile curling his lips.

  A book. Of course.

  He was amazed he hadn’t thought of it at once. His chest swelled with hope as all of Miss Somerset’s oddly shaped pieces fell into place.

  She wasn’t mad at all. No, she suffered from an entirely different malady.

  Acute intelligence.

  Nick didn’t admire bluestockings, but compared to madness, a powerful intellect was a minor affliction. “I must be dim indeed not to have deduced you’re writing a book after rifling through your sketchbook. Tell me about it, won’t you?”

  She shook her head, her eyes still wide blue pools above her hand.

  “In terms of the progression of the book, it’s what? Please do go on, Miss Somerset.” If he was truly going to court her, he may as well have the whole of it. There should be no secrets between them.

  That is, no secrets but his.

  Her eyebrows pinched together as she struggled to keep her secret for a moment longer, but then she gave it up as lost and lowered her hand from her mouth. “Very well. I am writing a book.” Her tone was defiant, as if she expected him to either scold her or laugh at her. “Go ahead, my lord, and say whatever you wish to say about it, so we can have it over with.”

  “Very well, then. I think the bit about Execution Dock should precede Cockpit Steps, not follow it.”

  Whatever Miss Somerset had expected him to say, it wasn’t that. Her mouth fell open in shock, and when she did manage to speak, her voice was faint. “Why should it precede it?”

  “Why do you need the sketch of Execution Dock? Is it for a particular chapter? One about hanged pirates, perhaps?”

  “Not just pirates, but criminals in general. It’s for a chapter entitled ‘The Grim Faces of Justice.’”

  “I see. But Cockpit Steps must be for another chapter, since the steps are more noteworthy for the ghost than for the crime committed there. Is it for a chapter about hauntings, or some such thing?”

  Miss Somerset was staring at him as if she’d never seen him before. “Haunted London, yes.”

  “Ah. And which chapter comes first?”

  “Justice comes first, and then the ghosts. It makes more sense that way, you see, since for the most part one doesn’t have the ghosts until after the executions.”

  Nick choked back a laugh. “Yes, I see your point. Well, then, I think you want Execution Dock first, since it’s got both the element of justice and Captain Kidd’s ghost. It’s the perfect bridge between those two chapters, and of course as you said they’re both stairways, which adds an extra touch of poetry to the thing.”

  She didn’t say a word, but sat staring at him. When he remained silent, she raised an eyebrow. “Well? Is that it? Don’t you have anything else to say?”

  “No. What do you expect me to say?”

  “Oh, some kind of warning about how I read too much, or about how no good can come of ladies who fill their heads with too much knowledge, or perhaps something about ghosts and burial grounds and executions not being ladylike. At the very least I expected some sort of sarcastic remark about bluestockings.”

  “Well, that would hardly be fair. I don’t know any bluestockings, aside from you.”

  In truth, aside from the sort of vague distaste required of any fashionable gentleman, Nick hadn’t ever given much thought to bluestockings. That is, until he’d met Miss Somerset, and discovered a knowledgeable lady was far more fascinating than he’d ever imagined.

  “I don’t like to generalize about any lady, Miss Somerset,” he went on when she remained silent. “Just as I’m sure you’d never dream of making an unfair assumption about any gentleman, even when the gossips insist he’s a heartless rake.”

  A guilty flush rose in her cheeks, and Nick felt a grin curve his lips.

  “Yes, well, as to that…”

  She bit at her bottom lip, but it was no use. The reluctant smile she was trying to suppress was determined to have its way with her mouth. Nick gazed at her lips, his breath catching when at last it burst forth.

  “It wasn’t the gossip, Lord Dare. It was the scarlet waistcoat.”

  Nick hadn’t the vaguest idea what she meant, but for some reason his grin widened. “What scarlet waistcoat?”

  “The one you wore to Lord and Lady Derrick’s dinner party.” Her eyes were twinkling with mischief.

  “What’s wrong with my scarlet waistcoat?” The damn thing was more Gibbs’s than it was his, just like most of his elegant clothing, but if Miss Somerset liked it, perhaps he’d wear it at their wedding.

  “Oh, nothing at all. It’s a handsome waistcoat, and I daresay it flatters your, ah…your…”

  She trailed off, looking very much as if she wished she hadn’t mentioned the waistcoat at all, which only made Nick more determined to hear what she’d been about to say. “My what?”

  She waved a hand at him. “Your, ah… your person.”

  “I see. So I’m a rake because I wore a flattering scarlet waistcoat?”

  “Yes,” she said, as if it were perfectly obvious. “Only a rake would wear a waistcoat so clearly intended to gain the ladies’ attention.”

  Nick stared at her in shock for a moment, then he threw back his head and laughed until his stomach ached. “Do you know what I think, Miss Somerset? I think my scarlet waistcoat caught your attention, and you bear it a grudge for that reason.”

  “That’s utter nonsense, Lord Dare.” She sniffed with disdain, but a smile lurked at the corners of her lips. “But never mind the waistcoat. Hadn’t we better be on our way to Wapping?”

  Nick didn’t stir from his place on the settee. “No. Not yet.”

  “Would you like some tea first? I beg your pardon, my lord.” She rose and crossed the room to ring the bell. “I should have offered earlier—”

  “No, no tea, thank you. What I want, Miss Somerset, is to see your book.”

  She froze halfway across the room. “No.”

  Nick raised an eyebrow at her icy tone. “Why not?”

  “Because I don’t want to show it to you! I can’t think why you’d want to see it anyway. You’ll find it dreadfully dull, I’m sure.”

  Nick ran a hand over his jaw, studying her. “I don’t agree, Miss Somerset. I find everything about you very interesting, indeed.”

  He blinked, surprised to hear the low rasp of his voice. He was interested in her as a means to an end, but the way he’d said it, in that husky, suggestive tone, it had sounded as if he was flirting with her—

  Wait. He was flirting with her, wasn’t he? Flirting and teasing and charming her into accepting his calls so he could get on with this bloody courtship and marriage and return to Italy and Catalina’s waiting arms.

  Nick frowned. Christ, it was odd, but for the first time since he’d set foot on English soil he’d forgotten the only thing he wished for was to be gone again. “In any case, it’s for me to decide whether or not I find it interesting. Come now, Miss Somerset. Go and fetch it, and let me have a look.”

  She crossed her arms over her chest. “No.”

  “Pity.” Nick balanced one ankle on the other knee and threw his arm over the back of the settee. “Because I’m not leaving until you do, so you’ll need to decide how badly you want that sketch of Execution Dock. Take all the time you need.”

  For several long minutes, her muttering and the soft shuffle of her slippers as she paced back and forth across the carpet was the only sound in the room, but at last she turned and f
aced him. “It’s not…I don’t let anyone…because it’s private. It’s just for me, Lord Dare.”

  Something in her voice made Nick’s flesh prickle with warning. She sounded almost…no, ashamed wasn’t the right word, but it was something akin to that, as if she’d done something she knew she shouldn’t have, and had to keep it hidden at all costs.

  “I’ve already seen a great many of the sketches, Miss Somerset.” He made an effort to keep his voice gentle. “Would it really be so terrible for me to see the rest?”

  “Yes! It’s…the sketches aren’t as…every lady sketches, my lord.”

  The warning prickle creeping over his neck blossomed into anger at this, but he wasn’t angry at her.

  He was angry for her.

  “So the sketches are forgivable for a lady, but the writing isn’t? Is that what you mean to say? It almost sounds as if you’re ashamed of it.”

  Her face paled, and for a moment Nick was certain he’d gone too far, but then she let out a long, deep sigh. “I’m not ashamed of it, Lord Dare. Just the opposite. I’m extraordinarily proud of it, and yet at the same time I recognize it’s also…people won’t understand it. Only my sisters have seen it, and then only bits and pieces of it, and even they think it’s…well, let’s just say people would think it’s odd, and leave it at that, shall we?”

  “You mean they’d think you’re odd.”

  It was the truth, but as soon as the words left Nick’s lips, he regretted saying them. He didn’t have any wish to hurt her feelings.

  But she only shrugged, then gave him a small, resigned smile. “I am odd. As a child I always preferred the schoolroom and library to every other room in the house. Even when I lived in Surrey I was considered odd, and you may believe me when I tell you, my lord, Surrey is rife with odd characters of every sort. But here in London, well…if you judge by the ton’s standards, I’m a great deal worse than odd.”

  Nick’s throat closed. “How much worse?”

  Her shoulder hitched in a casual shrug, but her face was tight. “Laughable. Mad, even.”

  Nick flinched away from her words, but he couldn’t fail to hear the defeat in her voice, and he rose to his feet and crossed the room to her. She wouldn’t look at him, so he tipped her face up to his with gentle fingers under her chin. “I don’t think you’re mad, Miss Somerset, and I won’t laugh at you.”

  She gazed up at him with dark blue eyes and searched his face for…what? Mockery? Sincerity? He wasn’t sure which, but some of the tension eased from her shoulders, and Nick was quick to press his advantage. It had become imperative, somehow, that he see this book, if only to prove to her she hadn’t any reason to hide it from him.

  “If you don’t want to show me the whole thing, then how about just the two chapters we talked about? Justice, and haunted London? Before you refuse, remember I did save your sketchbook from a footpad last night.”

  It was a shameless manipulation, of course, but for reasons Nick didn’t quite understand, it was exactly the right thing to say at that moment, because it made her smile. “I suppose it won’t hurt to show you just those two chapters. I’ll go fetch them, but you must promise to take me to Wapping directly afterwards, Lord Dare, with no more teasing for another favor.”

  Nick’s lips twitched. “To Wapping, and straight to Execution Dock, with no more teasing. I promise.”

  Once she left the room, Nick returned to the settee to wait. He was rather surprised at his persistence, and even more surprised at the fervency with which he wanted to see her book. He was never fervent or persistent about a damn thing these days—unless it was finding a way to get out of England as quickly as possible—but somehow Miss Somerset and her ghosts and gibbets had managed to catch his attention where everything else had failed.

  No one was more surprised about it than he was, but against all odds, he liked her.

  He shifted uneasily against the settee as that sank in. It would be much easier for all concerned if he didn’t like her, or rather, if they each liked the other well enough to marry, but not so well they chose to spend any time together after they were wed.

  It was an easy enough thing to accomplish with a typical English belle interested only in his wealth and title, but nothing about Miss Somerset was typical. She was, in truth, not at all the kind of lady he’d intended to court. It might be better, after all, if he waited to find a bride at the start of the season, despite the delay—

  “Here they are, Lord Dare.”

  Miss Somerset was standing before him with a large leather portfolio tucked under her arm, gnawing at her lower lip. She was attempting to disguise her dread under a façade of careless unconcern, but she wasn’t adept at hiding her feelings. They seemed to be so close to the surface a word or a touch could call them forth.

  When she handed over the portfolio, her hand was shaking.

  All at once Nick realized she was taking a tremendous chance, showing her work to him. For her, it was like revealing something deep inside her, a piece of herself she’d never shared with anyone other than her sisters, and even then, not to this degree. Until he saw her face, her shaking hands, he hadn’t realized the bravery it took for her to trust him with this part of herself.

  “Thank you for showing this to me.” He took the portfolio from her, but he hesitated before opening it, the weight of the moment lying heavy upon him. If he should do something wrong, or say the wrong thing…

  She’d either slap him hard enough to make his ears ring, or she’d burst into a flood of tears. One of those reactions would be far more painful than the other, but as he grasped her cold hand in his and pulled her gently down onto the settee next to him…

  It occurred to Nick he wasn’t sure which one.

  Chapter Ten

  It was his gray eyes. She’d looked into them one too many times, or for too long, and they’d bewitched her. They had to have, because there was no other explanation for why she’d just entrusted two full chapters of her beloved book—chapters she hadn’t even allowed her sisters to see—to a rogue like Lord Dare.

  Handsome, fashionable gentlemen like Lord Dare had laughed at her before. They’d smirked during her torturous pianoforte performances, cringed over her quadrille—a few had even openly mocked her awkward efforts at flirtatious conversation. Her feelings had been hurt more times than she cared to count, but as painful as it had been to be laughed at, the sting had faded, because in the end Violet didn’t care about flirting, or her quadrille, or the pianoforte.

  But this…this was different. This was her precious book, and she cared very much about it, indeed. So much, in fact, she was willing to endure Lord Dare’s derision to get the sketch she wanted. At any other time she might have appreciated the irony of the thing, but at the moment she was too busy bracing herself for his reaction.

  She perched on the edge of the settee next to him, her spine rigid, and waited with a confusing combination of defiance and dread for him to open the portfolio and get on with the inevitable burst of hilarity so they could be on their way.

  He took his time, but when at last he untied the thin leather string and drew out the thick sheaf of papers, it took everything Violet had not to snatch the beloved pages away before he could see them. But she clenched her hands together in her lap and forced herself to keep still as he stacked the pages neatly on the table in front of the settee and began to turn them over one by one.

  He didn’t laugh, and he didn’t say a word.

  Violet dragged a breath into airless lungs as she watched him handle each sketch—a good many of which she’d risked her reputation to get—and she tried to see them as he might see them. Some of the drawings were colored and some were simple black and white, in the manner of woodcuts. Most of them were rough still, but she’d copied a few of them over and over again from hasty sketches and mounted them on fine, heavy paper, almost like a real book.

&nbs
p; Her sketches were quite good. Drawing was the one ladylike skill she’d managed to master, but it was the writing she enjoyed the most, and there were pages and pages of it in her neat copperplate script, each labored over with painstaking care so there were no blots or smudges of ink. No imperfections.

  And still, Lord Dare said nothing.

  He was going to laugh at her. Or worse, he was going to turn over the last page, then turn to her with a patronizing smile and tell her it was a sweet little book, but nothing a proper lady should be interested in. Quite a waste of her time, really—surely there was something more useful she could be doing? And now that he thought of it, did her grandmother know what she was about, or—

  “Humph.”

  Humph? What did that mean? Violet hadn’t the faintest idea, but at Lord Dare’s soft grunt her anxious gaze darted from his hands to his face. He’d taken up a page to get a closer look at it. It was one of her better sketches, of a night watchman in a heavy dark blue cloak, his iron bell attached to his belt and a dog on his heels. The lit lantern in his fist created a pool of light amidst the pressing shadows of a dark London street.

  “How did you get this sketch?”

  Violet bit her lip. As it happened, she’d had to sneak from her bedchamber at night to get that sketch. Even now she could perfectly recall the fear and excitement in her throat as she’d crept out the door and made her way to Bayley Street. But it was a smaller side street, and there hadn’t been a night watchman there, so she’d been obliged to go as far as Tottenham Court Road to get the sketch.

  It wasn’t the sort of adventure she wished to confess to, particularly not to Lord Dare, who’d no doubt be scandalized.

  He turned to her with a raised eyebrow when she didn’t answer right away. “Miss Somerset? The sketch?”

  “I, ah…well, it was a trifle more challenging than some of the others,” Violet hedged, determined to give him as little information as possible. “But I think it’s quite a good one.”