The Countess Takes a Lover

by Bonnie Dee

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  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Samhain Publishing, Ltd.

  577 Mulberry Street, Suite 1520

  Macon GA 31201

  The Countess Takes A Lover

  Copyright © 2008 by Bonnie Dee

  ISBN: 1-59998-937-9

  Edited by Linda Ingmanson

  Cover by Anne Cain

  All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  First Samhain Publishing, Ltd. electronic publication: May 2008

  www.samhainpublishing.com

  The Countess Takes a Lover

  Bonnie Dee

  Dedication

  Thanks to all my loyal readers for sharing my journey with me.

  Chapter One

  “Quite simply, Madame la Comtesse, my son is a booby.” Lord Richard Whitby sat on the velvet cushion of the fragile gilt seat. The chair was far too small for such a large man and his knees rose awkwardly before him.

  In the elegantly appointed salon, he looked as out of place as a bear that had wandered into a millinery shop. The image of the walrus-mustached man trying on hats decorated with ostrich plumes and flowers amused Meredith. She hid her smile by sipping from the bone china teacup in her hand.

  Placing the cup back on the saucer and setting it aside, she prompted him. “Pray of what concern is this to me, sir?” She laced her fingers together on her blue satin-draped lap and arched a quizzical eyebrow.

  “I’ve heard… That is, I’ve been given to understand that on occasion you’ve taken a young man…under your wing, as it were.” His face reddened and he shifted on his chair, boot heels digging into her floral carpet.

  “Under my wing?” Of course, she understood, but chose to watch him squirm and flounder for words—a small amusement to brighten a dreary day.

  “You’ll take a young gentleman in hand and educate him in…accomplishments that might further his understanding of the fairer sex.”

  “Take him as a lover, do you mean?” she asked just to see his face grow even more florid.

  The gentleman rose from the chair and walked toward the fireplace, a hand tapping nervously against his leg. Perhaps he found it easier to pose his proposition when not looking into her eyes.

  “Yes, madame.” Whitby fingered the carved ivory tusk resting on the mantle. It was an odd choice for a lady’s salon, but she kept it there to remind herself of her late husband, who’d brought it back from one of his trips to the Dark Continent.

  “Let me be frank. As I said, my son is a booby, a nincompoop, a weak-kneed nancy. I don’t believe I shall ever see any progeny at the rate he’s going. I wish him to become a red-blooded man. In short, I want him to grow up.”

  “Perhaps this is something you should discuss with your son.” She traced her finger around the rim of her cup, enjoying the sensation of the delicate china against her fingertip.

  The man heaved a sigh and turned away from the fireplace. “That is impossible. Talking to him is like finding one’s way through a fog bank. His head is…” He spread his hands. “Not in the world we inhabit I can assure you. Unfortunately, he has an academic’s mind and would be perfectly happy spending the rest of his life at university or playing with his posies rather than behaving like a proper man.”

  “I see.” She knew the type—a man so enamored of knowledge that he had no room in his head for earthly pleasures.

  Walking back to the little chair, Whitby perched on the edge once more. “When my son was younger, I overlooked his propensity toward bookishness, thinking he would abandon it once women caught his attention. That hasn’t happened.”

  “How old is the lad?” Her curiosity was piqued despite her full intention of shooting down Whitby’s ridiculous proposal.

  “Hardly a lad anymore.” He heaved a sigh. “Twenty-five. Finished at Cambridge yet still laboring at cataloging and studying his infernal plants!” He clicked his tongue and shook his head.

  “You want him to take an active interest in your business concerns.”

  “I don’t give a damn about that. I have men of affairs to run the estate. What I want is a son who’ll cut a swath in society, gamble, drink and ride to hounds like any normal gentleman, a son who’ll find an appropriate wife and get her with child.”

  The countess laughed. “You believe I can help you with all that, sir?”

  “I believe you are capable of turning a boy into a man. When sensual desires are awakened, the rest of those things will naturally follow.”

  “Why not take him to a bordello? That is a common rite of passage, is it not?”

  “When Christopher was nineteen, I attempted that. He wouldn’t, er, take the bait, as it were. Too high-minded to indulge in a bit of fluff. In all honesty, I don’t believe the boy’s ever…” He raised his eyebrows significantly. “But a woman like you could take him in hand without ever letting him know he was being handled. You could teach him the things he needs to know not just in the bedchamber but in the ballroom. You could make a real man of him.”

  “Please, sir, I assure you tales of my prowess have been exaggerated. Besides, why would I be interested in such an endeavor?”

  The red flush was back in full force. “I suppose ‘for the challenge’ would not be sufficient recommendation and so I’ve come up with a monetary proposal to tempt you.” He cleared his throat and produced a folded sheet of paper from his breast pocket, which he handed to her.

  The countess took it in one gloved hand and glanced at the number. “A generous figure.” She looked at the man fidgeting before her. “You do realize, sir, that I am not a whore?”

  His face became scarlet. “Of course not! I didn’t mean to offend, but I was given to understand—”

  “However,” she continued, folding the paper carefully along the crease and offering it back to him. “I’m not averse to accepting favors in return for favors, between friends. For instance, if I were to ask you in your capacity as a member of Parliament to rally support on behalf of a particular bill, I would expect your cooperation.”

  “Oh.” He blinked, and then a smile shone across his florid countenance at the realization he would lose nothing financially and could still accomplish his goal. “That would be entirely possible. Quite possible indeed, provided you complete your end of the bargain.”

  “Have no fear on that account.” Meredith smiled. “I look forward to meeting the young man. What was his name? Christopher? After an initial introduction, I’ll let you know if I’ll be able to assist you in this matter.” She took another sip of her tea, letting Whitby know by her manner that he was dismissed. She’d long ago learned if one acted like royalty, one was likely to be treated as such.

  “Good. Very well then, madame. I will arrange a meeting. Where would you like it to take place, a dinner party, a ball, or something more intimate? I must say, it’s rather difficult to get the boy to commit to any social event.”

  “Invite me to a light tea on Friday.” She imagined her target would be more relaxed in his natural environment, and she could better assess his personality, his interests and his strengths and weaknesses.

  Whitby rose and bowed. “Thank you. I may, of course, count on your discretion should you choose not to�
�exchange favors?”

  The countess laughed lightly. “Certainly. How would I profit from letting it be known you asked me to make a man of your son?”

  “Yes, well…” He cleared his throat. “Good day, madame. I shall tell my wife to send an invitation for Friday.”

  As she watched him walk from the room, she wondered how he would explain to his wife the sudden need for them to befriend the infamous Comtesse de Chevalier. Only her connection to nobility allowed her entrée into society despite the rumors of her scandalous, outrageous behavior.

  Most of the stories weren’t rumors; the bacchanalian parties at her country estate, the affairs with gentlemen and occasionally women, the encounters with whomever caught her fancy, from a head of state to a common laborer. The countess was egalitarian in her sexual proclivities. She indulged in far more decadence than prudish society even imagined. Charming and seducing a bookish man was not going to be a problem. By the time she finished with Christopher, he would be a work of art. Any woman lucky enough to land him would never know that she had the la Comtesse de Chevalier to thank for her pleasure.

  Chapter Two

  “How in the world could it possibly matter if I’m present for tea with this Countess whoever?” And since when does Father take an interest in whether I come or go? Chris drew a deep breath, unable to fill his lungs properly in the over-heated, stifling den. He’d never been comfortable in this dark-paneled room and empathized deeply with the stuffed elk head on the wall, killed and mounted for a gentleman’s sporting décor. Father hadn’t even shot the elk, but bought the head at an estate sale.

  “Will you, for once, do what I request? For that matter, this isn’t a request, but a command. You will come to tea and make your mother happy!” Father’s voice rose on the last words.

  There was something odd about the situation, but Chris couldn’t imagine what was going through his father’s mind. “I’ve already made plans. There’s a lecture at the Botanical Gardens on the Ayapana triplinervis. Professor Einrich Lufkin is presenting samples from his recent South American expedition.”

  “You can go to your flower exhibit another time. Today I insist you attend tea with our honored guest.”

  “This is a once in a lifetime opportunity. I won’t miss it.” Chris usually avoided arguments by simply staying out of his father’s way and following his own desires, but today the man was making it impossible to avoid confrontation.

  “What time? When is this ridiculous professor speaking?”

  “At six o’clock.”

  “Tea is at four. You should be able to attend your lecture afterward.”

  Chris couldn’t argue with that logic, and was beginning to be almost curious about why his father was so insistent on his meeting this countess.

  “Very well. I shall stay for tea.”

  Thus it was that a couple of hours later he found himself in a high, starched collar and throat-choking cravat, wearing a coat that was far too warm for such a fine afternoon. He’d escaped the house to spend time in his garden before he was called on to make polite conversation with a stranger over tea. If the countess was such an illustrious guest, shouldn’t his mother be fluttering in nervous anticipation instead of wearing a sour face? The invitation appeared to be a grudging one on her part, which made no sense given that his mother usually enjoyed entertaining. But then his parents’ motivations were often a mystery to him.

  Plants were much easier to relate to than people, who talked and talked but said nothing of any value. He bent to examine the Thornescroft hybrid he’d so carefully cultivated all season long. The first rose would soon open and he eagerly anticipated the event, doing everything in his power to keep the aphids and beetles at bay lest they devour the leaves and chew holes in the blossom.

  He touched the bud with his fingertip. The soft pink petals were pressed tightly closed and waiting to unfurl. Nature was endlessly fascinating in its complexity and infinite beauty.

  “Christopher.” His father’s voice broke into his reverie. “Our guest has arrived. Please welcome Madame la Comtesse de Chevalier.”

  Chris straightened and squinted against the blinding light, trying to focus on the features of the woman standing on the steps above the garden path. How very odd that Father should escort her to the garden. Mother’s friends always remained inside, out of the hot sun, and visiting ladies usually merited little attention from his father.

  Recalling his manners, Chris strode forward and held out his hand. “How do you do, Madame la Comtesse.” He was pleased he’d remembered to use her title as was appropriate. Since he generally shunned the social whirl, it was easy to forget such protocol.

  “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Whitby.” Her cool hand slid into his and he noticed it was ungloved, most unusual for a lady. The smooth skin sent a pleasant tingling charge into his palm. He’d moved so the sun wasn’t blinding him and now could see her face, which caused him to pause with her hand still clutched in his.

  Her eyes were the color of the sky on a cloudy day and fringed in deep black lashes that reminded him of the thick petals of some exotic flower. That image was enhanced by the scent of her spicy, foreign perfume, which wafted around him and made him think of India, a place he’d never been but would like to visit. Her shiny black hair, piled in elaborate loops and curls, also conjured fantasies of distant lands. She might have been a Maharani in a sari rather than the English widow of a French count repatriated to her native land.

  Her royal blue dress seemed too rich and vibrant for an afternoon tea. It was the color of a rare orchid he’d once seen and nothing like the insipid pastels that women usually wore in the daytime. Chris didn’t know much about fashion, but guessed this was more the hue of an evening dress. Her lack of convention, paired with a certain pride of bearing, informed him that Madame de Chevalier was what society termed “eccentric”. For that, he liked her already.

  She smiled, her rose petal lips parting to reveal even, white teeth. Her cool gray eyes sparkled with merriment, and he liked her even more.

  “You’re a botanist, Mr. Whitby? I’d love to take a stroll through your garden, if I may.”

  Really? Her proposal surprised him. None of his mother’s other friends had ever expressed an interest in the garden.

  “Certainly.” He remembered to offer his arm as she lifted her skirt in one hand and walked down the two shallow steps leading to the garden.

  Lord Whitby cleared his throat. “I’ve a few matters to attend to so I’ll leave you to your walk.” He disappeared back into the house and Chris was left to entertain the countess.

  Although her hand rested lightly on his arm, he could feel the weight of it even through his jacket. Curious, how it was so warm and made his pulse beat faster. The sun seemed hotter than ever and sweat prickled on his neck beneath his collar. Oh, how he longed to tear off the offensive cravat and breathe freely.

  “These roses are lovely. What variety are they?” she asked, releasing his arm and stooping to touch a pink bud.

  “Thornescroft. It’s a cultivated hybrid.” He went on to explain how roses were bred, but stopped after several minutes lest he bore her.

  The countess straightened from examining the rose and glanced at him. “Go on. I never realized the time and effort that went into creating different varieties. It’s fascinating.”

  Chris detected no sarcasm in her tone so he continued to explain about grafting processes as they strolled along the row of bushes. He concluded his explanation, and then added, “Roses are interesting, but they’re not my passion.”

  “What is?” She stopped walking and turned to him. With her erect carriage and high-piled hair she’d seemed quite tall and imposing when standing on the step above him. But as she looked up into his eyes from only a foot away, he realized she was petite and her bone structure very delicate. A rush of heat swept through him and he damned the sun for being so hot.

  For a moment he couldn’t speak. He’d forgotten what he was saying and had to
search for the thread of his thought. Flowers. Plants. Passion. Ah, yes. “I would give anything to travel to China and see Incarvillea mairei or Ferula olivacia first hand. Artists’ renderings aren’t like viewing the plants in their natural habitat. How I should love to stand on a mountain slope and see Gentiana spread in a blue carpet across the hillside.” He smiled, almost smelling the clear mountain air and seeing the breathtaking vista.

  “Why can’t you go?” Her voice was soft.

  He knew it was inappropriate to discuss his finances, but her sympathetic eyes encouraged him to tell the truth. “Unfortunately, I lack the necessary funds. My bequest from my grandfather coupled with my allowance is enough for me to continue my studies, but hardly to travel at great length. I intend to take a position at Cambridge in the Natural Science department and hopefully I can get a grant to pursue my research abroad. My father doesn’t know this yet.”

  “I should think he would be proud to have a professor in the family.”

  Chris smiled. “Not unless the professor was also a sportsman or a great cricket player. I’m afraid I don’t fit my father’s ideal of what a man should be.” The words spilled from his lips. He didn’t know why he was sharing all this with a complete stranger, but the woman’s eyes continued to draw him out and pull him in. A man could get lost in such mysterious, misty gray eyes.

  He shrugged and looked away to break the spell. “At any rate, those are my plans. And this”—he indicated the profusion of plants and shrubs surrounding them—“is my town garden. I prefer to spend more time at our country estate where I have a large greenhouse and nearly an acre of gardens to supervise, but I must reside near the university for now.”

  Chris continued walking the pathway with the countess beside him.

  “Speaking of country estates,” she said. “I have a conservatory of my own that has been sorely neglected. I’ve considered hiring someone to put it in order, but haven’t gotten around to it.” She rested a hand on his forearm, stopping him. “Do you think you could possibly find the time to spend a few weeks at my home? I would love professional advice on the best plants to cultivate and perhaps a design for the space.”