The Countess' Lucky Charm

by A. M. Westerling

  Her offer amused him, for he let loose a dry chuckle. “If only it were that easy, Simone. Nay, I fear my reputation is well earned. I haven’t behaved in the most exemplary manner. At the time, it did not signify.” He stopped.

  And now, because of you, it does.

  It signified now because he didn’t want her tarred with the same brush for something that wasn’t of her doing.

  “What? And now it does?” She was truly astonished. “In my opinion, that does not signify. Mrs Featherstone told me once during our sewing lessons that what is in the past is past. Anyone deserves a second chance.”

  “They thought me a scoundrel. I thought I would oblige them.” He lifted his hands, palms up. “I’m not who you think I am.”

  “Then who are you?” Her question was simple.

  Apparently, the answer was not as simple, for Temple looked away from her deliberately. His eyes narrowed, and his hands, placed so carelessly on the arms of the chair, clenched into fists.

  “I don’t know,” he replied at length, staring out the window at the hazy, late afternoon sky as if he could find the answer written there. “A rogue. A scoundrel.” He turned his regard back to her, gauging her reaction. “I have done things I am ashamed of. You asked me why I would leave a life of privilege. Because I didn’t deserve it. Because I wanted to turn myself into a man, a true man, a man of honour. A man who stands on his own two feet. A man who defends his loved ones.”

  A man who defends you, Simone, and our children.

  She answered quickly, before he had a chance to consider that notion.

  “You saved me, that means you’re not a rogue. Or a scoundrel.” She was staunch in her defence of him. “So do not be silly, I beg of you. What’s done is done.”

  “Don’t you want to know what it is that I’ve done?”

  She looked at him long and hard before answering. “No. You’re caring and compassionate, that’s all that matters to me.”

  “Compassionate? Where did you learn that?” He raised his eyebrows, a familiar gesture she had grown to love. Her choice of words had obviously taken him aback.

  “I’ve been studying the dictionary,” she boasted. “It seemed to describe you perfectly.”

  “Ah, Simone, darling.” He shook his head, closing his eyes until they crinkled at the corners. “You give me too much credit.”

  “You have warned me it will not be easy tonight. I appreciate that. However,” she leaned over and brushed his hand with her own. “Do not worry for me. I don’t care what they think of you.”

  I only care that I love you, she added silently. She desperately wanted to tell him but she held herself back. Why would he, a peer of the realm, want the love of an orphaned street urchin?

  “Very well.” A relieved smile creased his lips. “But don’t say I gave you no warning.”

  “I promise,” she vowed. “You shall not hear me grumble.” She glanced over at the clock on the fireplace mantle. “Golly, look at the time. Joanna told me I should need several hours to ready myself. I should start.”

  “Yes, you should.” He grinned, seemingly as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. “Come to the sitting room when you’re ready, I’ll wait for you there.”

  * * *

  An impatient Temple paced the floor, swirling the brandy in his glass first one way, then the other. Simone had taken his attempt at disclosure with aplomb but he sincerely dreaded the evening. Dreaded it, yet knew it could not be avoided.

  Too, it did not bode well that Lady Frederica would be in attendance but had declined his offer to travel in the Leavenby carriage with them. Instead she was to be picked up by Lady Montford, her oldest and dearest friend who would support Lady Frederica until her dying breath. The gossip would fly before they even set foot in the Belmont’s home.

  “I’m sorry I’m late.” Simone’s breathless words were a welcome interruption. “What do you think?”

  He turned to her and his eyes were literally pulled from their sockets as she did a slow pirouette for him.

  She was breath-taking, her delight imbuing her with a radiance that reached into his very heart. He stood stock still, drinking in the sight of her as a parched man slakes his thirst with water.

  He put down his glass and strode to her, bowing low and putting his lips to one ivory-gloved hand before raising his gaze to inspect her thoroughly.

  Every inch of street urchin had been erased. Instead, an elegant woman stood before him, blonde curls piled high above a pearl encrusted headband and woven through with feathers. A few tendrils framed her face and he was hard pressed to tell if the flush in her cheeks came from anticipation or from a jar. The ivory silk dress, trimmed with pearls and feathers about the neckline and hem, gloved her body, hugging her bosom before flaring away from its high waist to drape about her hips and fall to the floor, from where ivory satin slippers peeped.

  However, her eyes drew him the most, mysterious sapphires glowing with passion, with life, eyes that twinkled up at him. All he wanted to do was crush her to him and kiss the rosy lips curved in an impish smile. He resisted the urge, knowing she would squawk about him wrinkling her dress.

  “Stunning,” he murmured, instead pressing another kiss to her hand. “I shall be the envy of every man there this evening.”

  “Thank you, kind sir,” she curtsied, a graceful motion that, unbeknownst to him, she had practiced for hours before her mirror with Joanna’s critical advice.

  She held out her shawl to him, a length of silk trimmed with the pearls and the same feathers as in her hair. He took it from her, draping it carefully over her shoulders before turning her around to suck in one last look.

  Stunning. He had not lied—he would be the envy of every man there tonight—at least as far as her appearance.

  The question was, would she pass muster? She looked so happy, so full of anticipation, the last thing he wanted was for her to be hurt by malicious gossip because of an unintentional misstep on her part.

  He could not, nay, would not, let that happen.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Simone and Temple’s carriage followed the long line of carriages jerking its way up the street, until at length they were able to stop and disembark. Gleaming lanterns lit their way up to the austere double doors. Once inside the front hall they waited again until it was their turn to be announced. Temple tossed his card into the bowl before they stepped forward into the archway leading into the parquet ballroom.

  “The Earl and Countess of Leavenby,” shouted out the footman.

  One face after another turned to look at them, a flesh-coloured wave that flashed through the room until all looked their way. With each face that turned, the din subsided until silence reigned.

  Simone’s stomach plummeted. Oy, this was worse than she had imagined. They had already been tried and censured before even venturing into the ballroom itself.

  Lady Belmont, properly sensing a disaster, pushed her way through the bodies until she reached their side.

  “Lord Leavenby, how lovely to see you,” she gushed. “And this is your new bride?” She turned to Simone. “I am Lady Belmont. Somewhere,” she fluttered a hand sporting several jewelled rings, “is Lord Belmont. Most likely in the card room, he does abhor dancing.” She smiled, a motion that turned her rather ordinary features into something if perhaps not beautiful, then at least interesting. Her hazel eyes were inquiring as she scanned Simone from tip to toes.

  “Enchanted.” Simone curtsied. Oy, it was plain to see Lady Belmont was curious about the new Countess of Leavenby. Stomach knotted, Simone realized she must earn her position as such on her own merit and not on the coattails of Temple.

  “On behalf of Lady Leavenby and myself, I must thank you for the invitation,” Temple said.

  “Delighted to have you here.” With Lady Belmont’s apparent stamp of approval, the buzz of voices began again, punctuated here and there with a raucous explosion of laughter. “The dancing commences shortly, the m
usicians are just warming up. As newlyweds, perhaps you would care to lead the first dance?”

  “Of course, Lady Belmont, it would be our pleasure.” A gracious Temple bowed.

  “Off you go, then. There are refreshments in the dining room. Oh, there’s Lord and Lady Bixby, do excuse me.” She surged off through the guests, stopping to squeeze a hand here, or pat a shoulder there before reaching her intended quarry.

  “She seems likeable enough,” Simone commented, watching their hostess cordially acknowledge her other guests.

  “Yes, well, it’s not Lady Belmont I’m concerned about. As Duchess of Crossfield, she has good breeding and manners enough to overlook irregularities, shall we say. It’s the rest of the ton that may be a problem. The society matrons can be vicious.” He slanted a glance at Simone.

  The concern in his eyes warmed her—he worried about her introduction this evening. She opened her mouth to reassure him, to tell him she would try her hardest, would keep her mouth shut and only smile and nod if need be but he continued before she had a chance to speak.

  “Come, we need to speak to the musicians regarding our choice of music if we are to open with the first dance.”

  He pulled her along behind him, pushing their way through the crowd. Although several people tried to catch his attention, Temple ignored them all until they reached the sanctuary of the music salon at the far end of the ballroom.

  “Wait here,” he instructed, leaving her partly hidden by a potted palm placed by the doorway to the salon. “It’s the contredanse we want, is it not?”

  She nodded.

  “This shall take but a moment.” He left her there while he went to speak to the cellist.

  The whispers started while she waited for Temple.

  “Oh my.” A woman nearby snickered. “Is that the little baggage Lord Leavenby married?”

  “It is atrocious, is it not? So like him to flaunt her in polite company.”

  Heat suffused her face. Mercifully they couldn’t see her standing behind the potted palm. She parted the fronds to peek at the two women tittering behind their silk fans.

  Should she show herself? Nay, best to hear what was said about her, about them. Forewarned is forearmed, as Mrs Dougherty used to say. She let the fronds fall back into place.

  “Yes, apparently he found her in Canada.”

  “What must Lady Frederica think? She must be appalled, poor dear. After the scandal of leaving Lady Susannah at the altar, not to mention his embarrassing military career.”

  “Well, what could one expect from Lord Scoundrel,” interjected a third voice.

  “Continued untoward behaviour shall be his downfall,” sniggered the first woman. “I do hope the baggage is prepared for the worst.”

  The three burst into a fit of giggles, their laughter fading as they moved away.

  A wave of dizziness hit her and she swayed a little, putting her hand on the wall for support. Baggage from Canada? Lord Scoundrel? She could only imagine what else was being said about them.

  “Are you well?” Temple’s solicitous voice filled her ears.

  “What? Oh yes, yes of course,” Simone stammered. She mustn’t tell Temple what she had just heard—his reaction would only cause more fodder for tittle-tattle, of which there was already ample.

  “The musicians are ready, at my signal they shall begin.”

  They moved back into the ballroom, taking their place across from each other, waiting for others to form a line beside them on the dance floor. Rippling notes filled the air while the pianist played a simple scale to limber his fingers and the cellist and two violinists tuned their instruments.

  Simone clasped her hands together to still them from trembling as the seconds ticked by. Silence fell over the ball room; the expanse of floor remained bare. Even the musicians stopped, a final, raucous squeak from a violin providing a punctuating note to the embarrassment.

  Alone. They stood alone.

  Not one couple had moved to join them. Censure hung heavy in the air, a palpable force pummelling them from all sides. Cheeks burning, forehead sweating, she glanced at Temple. A dull flush swept over his cheeks; a muscle twitched in the solid jaw.

  Finally, he reached for her hands, prying them apart to pull her close to him, placing one damp hand on his black clad shoulder while slipping an arm behind her back. He grasped her other hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze.

  “Let’s really give them something to chatter about, shall we?” he muttered through taut lips. At his nod, music began again, the one two three beat of the waltz they had practiced only this afternoon.

  Her gaze lifted to his and she found him watching her with encouraging eyes. Shuddering with nerves, she stumbled before he tugged at her hand, righting her. Together they began to whirl around the empty dance floor.

  Her head spun, and it wasn’t because of the waltz. Nay, it spun with incredulity over the cruelty of the assembled guests. She kept her eyes on Temple’s face, at the mocking smile and rutted forehead. She took heart at the devil may care glint in his eyes. Let them look, he seemed to say, we shall enjoy ourselves with or without their approval.

  He glanced down at her. “You are dancing splendidly,” he whispered through stiffly smiling lips.

  At his encouraging words, she relaxed to enjoy the rest of the dance. She even tossed her head once or twice when she caught the harsh stares as they spun past the other guests lining the walls. They twirled to a stop.

  The pride in his eyes when he looked down on her flustered her a little and she had to glance away. He bowed low over her hand before placing it on his elbow to lead her off.

  Straight away couples rushed to fill the dance floor now that they had vacated it. It hurt to see the mad dash.

  “Are you thirsty? Perhaps we should take a beverage before we dance again,” Temple said, mopping his brow. “I vow, I don’t recall other balls being as warm as this one.” His meaningless words were meant to distract her.

  “It’s because you are used to the New Caledonian cold,” she laughed, giddy with relief the ordeal was over. “I would take lemonade. Shall I wait here?”

  At his nod, she settled herself onto a bench. Curious, she looked about. The next set had begun and she watched the dancing couples step forward and back in time to the music, a twirling mix of rainbow colours. The chandeliers overhead glittered with candles, raining drops of light and drops of wax on the crowded room.

  “Excuse me,” said a feminine voice after bumping into Simone’s legs.

  “It’s nothing,” she replied automatically, watching the dancers and mesmerized by the lavish scene.

  Someone else bumped into her, this time a little harder, the apology obviously forced. Simone glanced up but the woman had already moved on. Surely a coincidence in the crowded room, nothing else. She turned back to watch the dance.

  Another woman strolled by, knocking into Simone and spilling a bit of iced tea on her lap.

  Aghast, she looked at the brown splotch on the ivory silk. Ruined, her princess dress was ruined. She heard snickers and realization flashed through her. It was deliberate and had been done to embarrass her.

  Face flaming, she stood up to find Temple. She had to leave. Now. They were hateful and she wanted no part of them.

  She lifted her chin and began to make her way to the refreshments room, fighting back tears, scrupulously avoiding eye contact with anyone she passed. After taking one wrong turn and ending up in the cloakroom, where she garnered more than a few curious looks, she backtracked and found the dining room. A number of people milled about the food laden tables, obscuring her vision.

  Where was he?

  At length she spotted him at the far end of the second table chatting with a stylish young woman. As she watched, the woman, petite and dark, laid a familiar hand on Temple’s arm and stood on tiptoe to whisper in his ear. The sight stopped her in her tracks.

  He belonged here. She could see it in his aristocratic carriage, his manners, his casual
yet confident manner as he conversed with his companion. Unlike her, he was born to this life. As was the woman he conversed with, a woman eminently more suitable to being his countess than Simone.

  What had she been thinking, that she could move into his echelon? She swallowed hard against the knot in her chest threatening to steal away her very breath.

  Aye, he belonged here but she did not. All the lessons, all the hours spent under Temple’s tutelage had been for naught, had merely been time frittered away on an impossible task. The only thing she couldn’t figure out was why he had gone ahead with marriage to her. Surely he had realized the unlikelihood of her ever fitting in.

  She stayed as if rooted to the ground, unaware of the bodies jostling her, unaware of the muttered “excuse mes” and “beg pardons”, unaware of the perfumes mingling with the scents of food into a cloying mixture.

  For a seeming eternity she stood there until he noticed her. She saw him start, saw the small frown that made his face stern, saw him excuse himself and move toward her. What now? Would he acknowledge her? Or repudiate her?

  “Simone,” he whispered as he reached her, taking in with one look her distraught face and the stain on her dress before pulling her outside onto the balcony running the length of the ball room. “What happened?” He dabbed at the tea with his pristine linen handkerchief but the damage had been done – the stain had already dried.

  She swiped at her damp eyes with a knuckled fist.

  “They’re horrid,” she gasped. “The whispers, the pointing, now this.” She gestured to the brown spot on her gown before the tears began in earnest, great gulping sobs that robbed her breath.

  “Shhh, darling,” he soothed, pulling her against his chest with one arm. “Where’s the girl who braved the wilds of New Caledonia? Surely you aren’t going to let a lot of long-nosed London society matrons get the better of you. Of us.” He gallantly presented her with his handkerchief. “Take this, it’s a bit more than the bits of lace you ladies employ.”