My Elusive Countess
Carolynn Carey
Garath Melbourne, sixth Marquess of Blackbourne, returns from Waterloo to properties in disrepair and to assume guardianship of his dead friend’s son. Blackbourne is prepared for anything—especially for the chance to finally face the conniving widow who drove his friend to the battlefield to escape her machinations. What he is not prepared for is a woman of surpassing beauty who is the exact opposite of what he expected. Blackbourne swears to make her pay for her past sins…in his bed.
For fear of losing her son, Amanda, Countess of Willowvale, has no choice but to succumb to the wishes of her late husband’s friend, Lord Blackbourne. But Amanda is fighting more than the legality of her circumstances. Vowing never to involve herself with another carousing, gambling and irresponsible man of the ton, she’s dismayed to discover the marquess irresistible. Love is not an option…but perhaps taking on a lover is.
Ellora’s Cave Publishing
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My Elusive Countess
ISBN 9781419937170
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
My Elusive Countess Copyright © 2012 Carolynn Carey
Edited by Kahli Reid
Cover design by Dar Albert
Photography by VookOF-zS-BP/Shutterstock.com
Electronic book publication March 2012
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My Elusive Countess
Carolynn Carey
Chapter One
London, Spring 1817
“Amanda.”
Garath Melbourne, the sixth Marquess of Blackbourne, breathed the word into the silence of his book room, then leaned back in his desk chair. A slight frown touched his brow as he stared at the single sheet of white paper that centered the desk’s polished surface.
“Amanda.”
He allowed the word to roll off his tongue. He could almost see it hanging in the still air, an ugly little word—ungraceful, unpleasant, unrefined.
Not to mention unholy.
He had come to hate the word almost as much as he hated the woman who bore the name. He’d never met her, of course, but the mere thought of her existence called to mind the stench of mud and the crack of gunfire, the screams of wounded horses and the deaths of men he had loved.
One of those men, Amanda’s husband, had died in the mire amid the madness of Waterloo. Now, nearly two years later, Blackbourne’s hatred for Amanda burned as strong as ever, even though he knew she wasn’t aware of his feelings. Hell, she probably didn’t know he existed.
Yet.
But she would know.
She’d know in spades as soon as he located the greedy, lying little—
A soft knock interrupted Blackbourne’s internal fuming. He transferred his gaze from the document on his desk to the library door. “Enter,” he called.
Dulaney, who’d served the Blackbournes as butler for the last thirty years, opened the door and stepped inside. “A person is asking to see you, my lord,” he announced with rigid formality.
“Does this person have a name?” Blackbourne knew the answer before he asked the question. Dulaney’s supercilious tone had been reserved of late for the Bow Street runner.
“Sawyer, my lord.”
“Show him in, Dulaney.”
“Yes, my lord.” Dulaney disappeared into the hallway.
The minute Sawyer strutted into the room, Blackbourne knew he’d located Amanda. The news was written clearly in the runner’s broad grin and cocky stride. “I’ve found the countess, yer lordship,” he said, his eyes glittering.
Blackbourne allowed a smile to touch his lips. “Wonderful. Where is she?”
Sawyer clasped his hands over his belly and rocked back on his heels. “At Willow Place.”
Blackbourne jumped to his feet, the force of his motion sending his chair slamming into the wall behind him. “Don’t play me for the fool, Sawyer. I’ve been to the Willowvale estate myself. I planted one of my own men there as a groom. If the countess had moved back to the estate, he would have notified me immediately.”
Sawyer took a quick step back and his tongue flicked out to moisten his lips.
“Well?” Blackbourne narrowed his eyes.
The runner swallowed convulsively, but he didn’t back down. “She’s there all right. She’s in the old dower house.”
Blackbourne placed his palms in the center of the desk and leaned forward. “I checked the dower house, Sawyer. It has been empty for years. Are you telling me that she slipped onto the estate and into the dower house without my man seeing her?”
The runner affected an expression of righteous indignation. “I didn’t say the dower house, yer lordship. I said the old dower house.”
Blackbourne stared at the runner for several seconds before taking a deep breath and dropping back into his chair. “I’m sorry, Sawyer. We seem to be talking at cross-purposes. Pour yourself a drink and sit down.”
The runner lumbered over to the oak sideboard sitting against the wall to his right, poured himself a generous portion from one of the crystal decanters and then looked toward his host with his eyebrows raised in question.
Blackbourne declined with a quick shake of his head.
Sawyer shrugged, replaced the stopper and hurried to seat himself near the desk.
“What’s this about an old dower house?” Blackbourne asked.
The runner took a sip of his brandy before speaking. “There’s two dower houses on the estate, yer lordship. The one you checked was apparently built for the fourth earl’s mother, but there’s a second one—a real old place—hid in the woods on the far west side of the Willowvale estate.”
“Hidden?” Blackbourne leaned back in the chair and clasped his hands behind his head. A muscle twitched near the corner of his mouth. He hoped to hell Sawyer hadn’t stumbled upon some destitute Willowvale relative being housed by the estate and mistaken her for the countess.
“Aye, the house seems to be hid. I wouldn’t have knowed it was there if I hadn’t made some friends in that village nearby, Little Lindanham.”
Blackbourne raised his brows. “I’m surprised the villagers would tell a Bow Street runner about the place.”
“They wouldn’t have if they’d knowed I was a runner. They thought I was a gent looking to buy some land in the area. Even then, th
ey wouldn’t have mentioned the old dower house if we hadn’t had a pint too much at the tavern one night and got to talking about ghosts. The villagers think the place is haunted.”
“Oh? And were the villagers resurrecting ghost stories about the old dower house because they’d heard someone is living there now?”
“They didn’t seem to know it. At least if they did, they didn’t mention it to me. But I got curious-like, you know, and slipped out the next day to spy on the place. Sure enough, the lady was there.”
Blackbourne leaned forward. “How do you know it was the countess? I wasn’t able to give you a description.”
“It was her. She came out for a walk in the little garden beside the house. She had the boy with her. He looked to be about five years old, and he’s the spittin’ image of his pa.”
“You knew the late Earl of Willowvale?”
Sawyer downed the last of his brandy, then shrugged. “I’d seen him around a few times before he went off to fight Boney. Brown hair. Green eyes. Nothing out of the ordinary except fer the ear. This little boy has his ear, like I hear all earls of Willowvale have had for the last hundred years. The top kind of folds down.” Sawyer reached up to his right ear to demonstrate.
Blackbourne allowed a smile of satisfaction to lighten his face for a few seconds before a new worry intruded. “It sounds as though she’s in hiding. Could she have heard that I’m searching for her?”
“I don’t see how, yer lordship. I never used her name nor her description, considering I didn’t know what she looked like.”
“Then I wonder why she’s living in this house that you say appears to be hidden.”
“I don’t know. I couldn’t find out without asking questions, and you told me not to ask questions. Do you want me to go back and try to find out why she ain’t living in that big mansion like she’s entitled to, her being a countess and all?”
“No, I’ll see to that myself. I assume you can tell me how to find this old dower house.”
“That I can.”
Five minutes later, Blackbourne thanked the runner, then pulled out one of the desk drawers and retrieved a small leather bag, after which he stood and walked around the desk. The bag he held out to the runner jingled. “Your work for me is finished, Sawyer, and you’ve earned your fee. In fact, you’ve done a fine job.”
Sawyer took the leather bag, hefted it once in his hand and smiled. “Feels like there’s a bit of a bonus in here, yer lordship. I thank you.”
“Good day, Sawyer.”
The runner bowed and lumbered out of the room.
A smile of relief, which was mingled with anticipation, lifted the corners of Blackbourne’s lips. “So, my elusive countess,” he murmured. “You will soon realize that whether you like it or not, you now have someone to answer to, someone who will be less patient with your foibles than the husband you drove to his death.”
* * * * *
Eager to finish this business he’d put off for too long, Blackbourne decided to travel to the Willowvale estate the following day. The next morning he was up and dressed by ten o’clock. “Have you completed my packing, Stephens?” he asked his valet, glancing around the bedchamber to ensure that his less-than-dependable servant had not left half of his clothes lying on the rumpled counterpane.
“Aye, yer lordship.” Stephens motioned to a valise sitting beside the bedchamber door. “Are ye sure ye don’t want me to go with ye?” Stephens was the only one of his servants Blackbourne had hired himself. He’d inherited all the others along with the town house when he came into the title.
“Thank you, Stephens, but I believe I can survive a couple of days without your dubious skills.”
The valet shrugged. ÝSuit yerself, milord. But ye know ye can count on me to watch yer back, even if I don’t know as much as some do about valeting.”
Blackbourne smiled and shook his head. He’d earned Stephens’ undying loyalty when he pulled him out of a muddy ditch in Belgium, saw to it that he got medical treatment for the saber wound that had disfigured his face and then gave him a job back in England while many former soldiers were left to starve in the streets. “Thank you just the same, Stephens, but I won’t be gone long. Did you tell Dulaney to have my curricle brought around?”
“Aye, that I did. The old vinegar barrel didn’t answer me. He just stuck his nose up in the air, but he’ll do it.”
“Very well. Oh, and Stephens, try not to irritate Dulaney too much while I’m away.”
Stephens raised his left eyebrow, which was neatly bisected by a scar that began in his hairline and ended at his chin. “Aye, yer lordship,” he replied with an irreverent grin. “Whatever ye say.”
Blackbourne sighed, blowing his breath out through his lips. He knew the London servants thought Stephens reflected poorly on the dignity of the Blackbourne household. Blackbourne himself didn’t doubt that Stephens had lived the life of a felon before joining the army, but he had no intention of letting his incompetent servant go. The man occasionally came in handy for chores that had nothing to do with his position as valet. Blackbourne shot him a warning look, then gave a mental shrug. “Hand me my gloves, Stephens, and carry my valise downstairs.”
“Right, guv. I mean yer lordship. I’ll be right behind ye.”
Blackbourne strode out of the room. It would be good, he decided as he hurried down the stairs lined with portraits of long-dead ancestors, to get away for a couple of days from the town house he had never expected to own and from the problems that came with inheriting a rank he’d not been trained to hold.
It would be even better when, in just a few short hours, he could confront the Countess of Willowvale with the sheet of paper that was carefully folded away in his pocket. He smiled to himself, trying to envision what her reaction might be. Surprise, certainly. And after that? Fury, perhaps. Or would she try to seduce him in hopes of manipulating him?
His smile broadened into a grin. Whatever she might try, he would be more than ready to deal with her machinations. Her late husband had seen to that.
* * * * *
The day was pleasant for traveling. The sky was cloudless, the sun was bright but benign, and the road was not overly crowded. By noon, Blackbourne had begun to relax. Such days were among the many compensations for having survived Waterloo to return to England—the soft air on his face, the smell of newly turned earth, the satisfaction of sitting behind a well-matched pair and feeling them respond to his slightest touch on the reins.
But the horses were tiring and Blackbourne was growing hungry. “Don’t worry, fellows,” he murmured to the grays pulling his curricle. “We’re only about a mile from the Three Ducks. I’ll get a bite to eat and you beauties can have a well-deserved rest.”
Ten minutes later, the innkeeper at the Three Ducks hurried out to greet Blackbourne with a wide grin on his weathered face. Hollins always expressed delight when welcoming the nobility. “Good to see you again, yer lordship. Will ye be needing a fresh pair?”
Blackbourne returned the innkeeper’s grin. “I definitely need fresh horses, Hollins, and I also require something to eat. Do you have a private parlor available?”
“I’m sorry, yer lordship. Ordinarily, at this time of day, I would have plenty of space but there was a prizefight near here yesterday and some of the gentlemen from London who spent the night are just now having breakfast. The taproom is vacant. If yer lordship would condescend to eat there, I’ll put you in a nice, private corner and bring you some of Mrs. Hollins’ mutton chops.”
“The taproom will be fine, Hollins. In fact, I would eat standing up for some of your wife’s mutton chops and a mug of your excellent homebrew.”
Hollins’ ruddy face turned a shade darker as he flushed with pleasure. “Thank ye, yer lordship,” he said, turning to lead the way.
Nearly an hour later, Blackbourne pushed back from the table in the corner of the deserted taproom. As usual, Hollins’ wife had provided him with an excellent repast, and he rejoiced in having
left London behind. It was good to get back to the country where the air was refreshing and the atmosphere was less oppressive.
But just then, a burst of raucous laughter emanated from the men who occupied the private parlor, and their enjoyment brought to mind days when he’d shared that sort of camaraderie with friends. It also served to remind him that he’d spent most of the past two years alone. When he’d returned to England and his new responsibilities, he’d lacked the time needed to nurture friendships. Still, he failed to understand the restraint he occasionally encountered from former acquaintances.
He wondered if those people blamed him for not returning to England to attend the services held for his deceased father and his two half brothers. If so, he could hardly go around explaining that he’d been on the verge of dying himself, lying in a barn in Belgium fighting the fever that had decimated the ranks of his regiment, when his sire and older brothers had managed to drown themselves while accompanying a smuggler on his run to France to pick up a load of brandy.
The last thing Blackbourne had expected was to come back to his senses only to learn he’d come into the title, nor had he ever wished for such a thing. But he was well aware that his father and brothers were spinning in their watery graves, knowing he’d stepped into the shoes they had assumed would never pass to him.
The sound of a horse whinnying from the inn’s yard pulled Blackbourne’s thoughts back to the present. He picked up his tankard, downed the last of his ale, then stood and hurried toward the entrance hall, eager to settle his account and get on the road.
Ten minutes later, as he bounded into the curricle and grasped the reins, he thought he heard a man call his name. The voice, which sounded vaguely familiar, tugged at long-forgotten chords in his memory, but the yard was busy and he realized he was blocking other carriages waiting to leave. Still, he glanced around and when he saw no one he recognized, he assumed he’d been mistaken.
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