More or Less a Countess

by Anna Bradley

  And his skin. Smooth, stretched taut over all those hard angles, and dark hair, just enough to be intriguing but not enough to overwhelm, and…

  Nipples. Strangely tempting.

  Violet jerked her gaze away, her face bursting into flame.

  “Lady Dare? I asked you a question. What are you doing in my bedchamber?”

  His voice had deepened to a low rasp and her skin prickled with awareness. “I thought we might…that is, I thought you might…”

  “Yes? You thought I might what, my lady?”

  Was she imagining the suggestive note in his voice? “Take me on a tour of the estate. Your aunt showed me the gardens and the house yesterday, while you were…otherwise engaged, but I’d like to see the park, as well.”

  It was the wrong thing to ask, because Nick’s face went hard. “Have my aunt take you today, then. She’s far more enthusiastic about the place than I could ever be.”

  No, his tone was not at all suggestive, or even friendly. It was dismissive. Violet’s chin rose a notch. “I’d prefer to go with you, my lord.”

  His gray eyes narrowed. “You’d best get accustomed to disappointment, Lady Dare. I’m fatigued, and don’t choose to ride out today.”

  Today, or any day.

  He didn’t say it, but Violet could see Nick’s future unfolding before her eyes as clearly as if she were looking into a gypsy’s glass ball. He’d spend his days sleeping and his nights drinking until, inevitably, he put a child in her belly, and once he did, he’d leave England and never return.

  She didn’t doubt he was fatigued. Despair led to a numbing, exhausting inertia, and if she let him succumb to it today, it would be that much more difficult to rouse him tomorrow. But how to convince him? He clearly considered the matter settled, because he’d already disappeared back under the coverlet.

  This courtship wasn’t going at all well.

  Violet turned back toward the door with a frown, ready to retreat and marshal her forces for the next day, but she paused with her hand on the door.

  That day he’d taken her to Execution Dock, he’d insisted on standing between her and the Thames while she took her sketch. His brow had furrowed with increasing anxiety with every step she’d descended, until at last he’d sacrificed his boots to a watery ruin to position himself so he’d catch her if she slipped.

  His lordship might feign indifference, but underneath it he hid a fiercely protective streak. Perhaps it wasn’t quite fair to use such a noble trait against him, but it was for his own good.

  “Very well, my lord.” Violet took care to keep her tone bland. “I beg your pardon for disturbing you. I can tour the estate alone. If I’m back by teatime, perhaps we can—”

  She didn’t get any further.

  “What the blazes do you mean?” He shot upright in bed and fixed her with a ferocious glare. “You will not tour the estate alone, Lady Dare.”

  “Why ever not?” Violet lifted her shoulder in a shrug, and did her best not to stare at his glorious chest, which was once again on display. “Now I think on it, it’s been ages since I’ve had a ride alone in the country. It sounds just the thing.”

  “You’ll take my aunt and a groom with you, my lady, or you won’t go at all.”

  “Oh, no. I’m afraid that won’t do. Your aunt is fatigued from the journey yesterday, and intends to spend the day resting.” Violet bit her lip guiltily, but then she didn’t know for certain it was a lie. Perhaps Lady Westcott was fatigued. “And I prefer a solitary ramble. But you needn’t concern yourself, my lord. I’m an accomplished rider.”

  He snorted. “You could be the bloody cavalry, and I still wouldn’t permit you to ride out alone.”

  Violet jabbed her hands onto her hips. “The cursing is unnecessary, my lord, and as to my riding alone, you’re being silly. I’ll be perfectly fine—”

  “Silly!” He sputtered with indignation. “There’s nothing silly about—”

  “Oh, go back to sleep, my lord.” Violet turned her back on him and reached for the door again, but before she could open it, his low growl stopped her.

  “Not one step further, Lady Dare.”

  Violet heard a rustling as the bedcovers were tossed to the floor, and pressed her face against the door to hide a smile.

  * * * *

  Nick thought they’d take an easy trot over the grounds closest to the house, and then make a quick visit to the stables. Violet would ask a few simple questions, he’d answer them, and that would be the end of it.

  Bloody foolish of him.

  This was Violet, after all. He should have known better.

  She kept him out for hours, riding across field after field, inspecting the farmlands and assessing the fencing and equipment. She quizzed him about tenants, livestock, turnip and clover crop rotations, nitrogen in the soil, acreage in arable lands, fertilizers, and wheat, barley, and oat yields at length and in such precise detail Nick decided she must have read The Complete Farmer from cover to cover.

  Surprisingly enough, he’d retained more than he imagined from his brief time on the estate before he’d left for Italy, and he managed to answer a good many of her questions, though for the life of him he couldn’t have said how many lambs they’d had the previous year.

  When they at last returned to the house, both of them soaked to the skin from a sudden downpour, Nick, who’d been fantasizing about a fire and a bottle of whiskey for the past four hours, instantly set off in the direction of his study.

  He hadn’t made it more than half a dozen steps before she stopped him. “Where are you going, my lord?”

  Nick reacted how one might expect a man with freezing cold water trickling down his neck would react. With irritation. “Why? Are you waiting for me to deliver a report on shearing schedules? The ploughboys’ first and last names?”

  She cocked her head to the side, considering it. “No, that won’t be necessary. That is, I’m sure the land steward can answer those questions.”

  “Land steward? What bloody land steward?”

  “Your land steward, my lord. Mr. Quarles. I sent word to him this morning asking for a review of estate business. He’s waiting for us in your study. It shouldn’t take more than a few hours.”

  Nick’s mouth fell open. “A few hours?”

  Violet shot a cheerful smile over her shoulder as she made her way down the hall to the study. “No more than three, certainly.”

  Mr. Quarles was a man of impressive efficiency, but even so, it did take more than a few hours—four, to be precise—and by the time he ushered the man out the door, Nick was ready to collapse with exhaustion.

  Violet, however, still looked as lovely as she had when she’d stormed his bedchamber this morning. She’d taken a seat in front of the fire to scribble something in a small book she’d carried with her all day, but she looked up when he offered her a glass of port.

  “Industry agrees with you, my lady,” he murmured, taking in the color in her cheeks as he joined her on the settee.

  She held his gaze as she parted her lips and sipped at her port. “Repose does not?”

  Nick tensed, but he let his glass dangle carelessly from his fingers as if he didn’t follow her meaning.

  He did, of course, but what did she want to hear him say? That no matter what she did, whether she were sleeping or waking, he thought her beautiful? That he wanted her, and last night when he’d left her room without taking her he’d cursed himself for his cowardice? All of those things were true, but saying them aloud wouldn’t make any difference. It wouldn’t change anything between them.

  Nothing could.

  Nick held up his glass to the fire and turned it, watching the dark amber liquid swirl in the bowl. He thought of Violet as she’d been last night, her shadowed blue eyes on his face as he stroked his hands over skin so fine and pale and smooth he could almost bel
ieve he was dreaming when he touched her.

  “You’re like a dream when you sleep.” He stared at his glass for another moment, then brought it to his lips and tossed the whole of it back, his face expressionless as it burned his throat. “Troublesome thing about dreams, though. One always wakes up.”

  She leaned toward him, her blue gaze steady on his face. “You’re awake right now, my lord, and I’m no dream. I’m your wife.”

  “You’re the Countess of Dare.” He dropped his empty glass on the table and rose from his seat. “But you’re not really mine at all, are you, Violet?”

  He went to the door, then glanced back at her, but what was there for him to say? For either of them to say?

  In the end, he said the only thing he could:

  “Good night, Lady Dare.”

  Chapter Twenty

  One week later…

  He was touching her. Every inch of his eager body was pressed against hers, her legs wrapped tightly around his waist as he moved inside her. His mouth was on her throat, her neck—dear God, she had the softest skin he’d ever kissed—and her long, silky hair spilled over his hands. She was murmuring to him, her lips brushing against his ear, breathless words of desire and love broken with quiet gasps as he loved her with slow, steady strokes, careful with her, so careful not to hurt her when he made her his…

  Nick woke with a start, a sheen of sweat covering his body, thrusting his throbbing cock against the sheets. It took a moment for him to realize Violet wasn’t in his bed, but once he determined he was alone, a defeated moan broke from his lips and he buried his head in his pillow. Another dream, one that dissolved, as they always did, into a lonely, disappointing reality.

  Nick rolled onto his back and threw his arm over his damp brow.

  He still hadn’t taken her. She was his wife, damn it, and he wanted her desperately. He’d crept into her room again last night, as determined to take her as he was every night, but the moment he laid his hands on that pale, smooth skin, doubts assailed him. Was she thinking of Lord Derrick, and wishing it was his hands caressing her instead of Nick’s? Was she imagining it was him in her bed?

  He’d be trapped in England for eternity if he didn’t get an heir on his wife, but in a twist of fate so ironic he might have laughed if he weren’t so bloody miserable, London’s most selfish rake was incapable of making love to his own wife as long as he believed she cared for another man. But he also couldn’t keep his hands off her, so every night he’d creep into her bedchamber to touch her. He’d bring her to a gasping, panting release with his hands, his fingers, his mouth, and then he’d pull her nightdress back over her thighs, draw the covers over her, and retire to his own bedchamber with an aching cock, a curse on his lips, and a head and heart full of doubts and recriminations.

  He couldn’t keep on like this. He was going mad—

  “My lord?” A soft, tentative voice intruded on his thoughts, followed by a light knock on his bedchamber door. His first confused thought was it was Gibbs, and he was one breath away from giving voice to a fearsome bellow, but he managed to bite back his furious demand to be let alone before it left his lips.

  Gibbs’s voice didn’t have that soft, teasing note, and the knock was coming from the door that connected his bedchamber to Violet’s, not the hallway door. Despite his relentless bad temper, it seemed his lovely bride was anxious to spend time with him, because she’d made quite a habit of venturing into his private bedchamber while he was still abed.

  There seemed to be no end to her enthusiasm for improving Ashdown Park, and she pursued those improvements with an unflagging optimism he would have put down to drunkenness if he’d witnessed it in anyone other than Violet.

  Yesterday she’d demanded a lesson on the paintings in the portrait gallery, then she’d dragged him up to the attics to see what other paintings were stored there that they might have the servants bring down for hanging. The day before that it had been a stroll through the formal gardens—was he fond of roses, or did he prefer wildflowers?—a wander through the stables—wouldn’t he tell her each of the horses’ names?—a visit to the library—not surprisingly, Violet had a great many ideas about how to improve the library—and then a carriage ride past the neighboring estate and a visit to town to view the rectory.

  Lady Dare was nothing if not determined. Cheerful, too, resolutely so, and unendingly pleasant and patient. She met every one of his sour comments with a good-humored shrug, every bout of ill temper with an angelic smile, despite the fact he’d complained and pouted his way through each of these outings like a petulant child. It was difficult to oppose someone who was so unfailingly obliging, and at some point he’d given up resisting her. And then, despite his every effort to keep it from happening, his greatest fear had been realized.

  He’d begun to enjoy the outings.

  To enjoy her, much as he had when they’d spent those weeks touring burial grounds and gibbets in London. Just as he had then, he began to see Ashdown Park through Violet’s eyes. The delight he took in her—it was both beautiful and exquisitely painful at once, because as much as he needed her, as much as her presence was becoming as necessary as air to him, he wasn’t at all certain he was necessary to her.

  It made him surly, distant, but then the night would come, and he’d creep into her room and touch her, drown in the sensation of her hot, slick folds against his fingers, his mouth, and then he’d creep away again like a thief, a coward too afraid to make love to his wife.

  “My lord?” There was another soft knock.

  Nick emerged from the coverlet and propped himself against his pillows, fighting the temptation to toss his blankets aside so she could see how hard he was—so she understood what she did to him. After all, such an impatient lady should be made aware of the perils of invading her husband’s bedchamber so early, when a man’s body was primed for his wife’s affection.

  Of course, his body was always primed for her, always hungry…

  If he threw the covers off and felt her gaze on him when he was so stiff and hard for her, perhaps his desires would override his foolish misgivings, and—

  “My lord?” The door creaked open a crack. “Are you awake?”

  Awake, aroused, erect—whatever she wished to call it, he was all of them. “Yes. Come in.”

  “Good morning, my lord.” Violet entered the room with brisk efficiency, and went at once to the window to pull aside the drapes.

  “Damn it.” Nick jerked his hand up to shade his eyes from the offensive sunlight pouring through his window. In that respect he was very much like every other fashionable rake in London. He despised daybreak, and the earlier it arrived, the more detestable it was. The last thing a rake wanted to see first thing in the morning was the bloody sunrise.

  “What do you think you’re doing, Lady Dare? For God’s sake, close those bloody drapes.”

  She didn’t move or reply, and her silence continued to drag on until Nick’s eyes at last adjusted to the light, and he moved his arm away from his face. “Did you hear me, my lady? I didn’t allow you into my bedchamber so you could assault me—”

  His words dissolved on a quick, hard breath.

  She was staring at him, her hungry gaze moving over every inch of his bare chest. “I, ah…” Her cheeks flushed as she met his gaze. “I wanted…”

  Nick nearly groaned aloud when her pink tongue darted out to wet her lower lip. She tried to look away, her frantic gaze darting from the washstand to the fireplace to the window, but her eyes were drawn back to him again and again, as if the sight of his bare flesh mesmerized her.

  Nick knew Violet wanted him. He’d known it since the first moment he touched her. Her body craved his, just as any young, healthy body craved the touch of another. He’d felt her desire in the way she writhed beneath him, in every needy moan that left her lips, but he’d never before seen it—he’d never watched her lips part
, her eyes darken, or the fevered flush bloom on her cheeks when she looked at him.

  Nick’s cock swelled to painful dimensions, and his hips shifted restlessly against the coverlet. He swallowed, but when he spoke, his voice was hoarse. “Now that you’ve woken me, what do you intend to do with me, Lady Dare?”

  If she crossed his bedchamber right now, slid into his bed, and pressed her warm lips to his, his desire for her might well override his doubts about her affections. A part of him wanted that—wanted her to make the decision for both of them.

  Yet even as his body tensed with anticipation, bitter regret made his chest tighten. It didn’t matter how often he told himself making love to her was only a means to an end, or that she didn’t need to love him for him to put a child in her belly—it did matter.

  Perhaps she saw it, that spasm of indecision on his face, because she straightened her spine and raised her chin. “I, ah—yes. I wanted to…to…oh, yes. I recall now. I wanted to know what do you intend to do about the conservatory.”

  He’d half-wished for such a mundane reply, but it was unwelcome nonetheless, and Nick’s lips turned down in a scowl. “Do? Why should I do anything about it?”

  “Because a half dozen panes of glass are broken, another dozen are about to break, and those that are left are so filthy the few plants inside are shriveling from want of light. It seems rather a shame, when you could have such lovely exotic plants and shrubs. Don’t you care for shrubs, my lord?”

  “Shrubs?” Nick blinked. She was talking to him of shrubs? He hadn’t ever given shrubs a second thought. “I don’t care for them or not care for them, Lady Dare. I have no opinion at all regarding shrubs.”

  She frowned. “No? How odd. Fruit, then? There’s an orangery, as well, though it’s not in much better repair than the conservatory, I’m afraid. Do you care for oranges? Or lemons, or pineapples?”