Counterfeit Countess: Brazen Brides, Book 1

by Cheryl Bolen

  “Rebecca!” Maggie hissed. “Not another word about Miss Broom! And you most certainly owe Lord Warwick an apology.”

  “I never said Lord Warwick was actually prurient!”

  Maggie’s eyes narrowed. “Apologize!”

  Miss Peabody fingered the pages of her book and without looking up at him said, “Forgive me, my lord.”

  He was too livid to be gracious. His head inclined slightly. “I’m possessed of a strong desire to strangle Miss Broom, if ever I should meet her,” he said, offering his arm to Maggie and strolling away.

  It was still very cold and the wind was stronger than he would have liked, but it was a lovely day with the sun high in the bluest sky, its glints shimmering in the cobalt lake below. Damn but he’d been away from the country and its calming effect on him for too long. He stole a glance at Maggie as she nibbled a tiny bite of bread, her lovely face framed by the cloak’s ermine hood. “Shall we circle the lake?” he asked.

  She let out a little laugh.

  “What’s so amusing?”

  “I, too, thought we’d circle the lake. Have you noticed that the longer we’re with one another the more closely our thoughts seem to be on the same page?”

  He had. But he wasn’t about to acknowledge it. All morning in the carriage he had thought about how well Maggie had come to know him. She had learned things about him that no one else knew, some things he was still learning himself. Like the hunger business. He had never analyzed it before--the way his stomach ached and his head throbbed if he had gone without eating for more than a few hours. But Maggie knew. She knew when he needed to eat before he did.

  And just as she knew things about him that no one else knew, he knew her in ways others did not. Like the crying--and lack of tears when she was truly distressed. He knew how emotionally wrought she became during thunderstorms. He knew that despite the setbacks in her life, Maggie remained upbeat and optimistic. He knew the taste of her lips . . . No, he could not allow himself to remember that. He must redirect his thoughts. “I know that you’ve been foolishly blaming yourself and your failed marriage for Miss Peabody’s aversion to matrimony when the blame must be laid squarely at the feet of that bloody governess, Miss Bloom or Broom or some such.”

  “Miss Broom--whom I must say resembles that with which one sweeps! She’s tall and thin and possessed of the sourest disposition I’ve ever encountered.”

  “No doubt she was spurned by some man.”

  Maggie laughed. “By all men, I daresay.”

  He found much to admire in Maggie’s sunny disposition. But, of course, there was much more to admire in Lady Fiona. Wasn't there?

  After they had finished eating, Maggie laced her arm through his as innocently as one would drop a kiss on an infant’s downy head. Did she not know how profoundly such nearness could affect a man? Even a man who was in love with another woman? If she had been a maiden he could have understood her not knowing about the blood rushing to a certain part of a man’s anatomy. But she was no virgin. She had to know what she was doing to him.

  The tent effect in his crotch was most humiliating. He must sit down, where an elevated knee could hide his protrusion. “Shall we sit beneath that tree over there?” he asked, striding in the direction of the ancient oak.

  “But I thought you were as tired as I of sitting down?”

  “The sun’s very bright. A few minutes of shade will be welcome.” Surely in a few minutes, his swelling would go down.

  They came to sit on the cool ground, butting their backs against the tree. One booted foot on the ground assured that his knee obstructed her view of his throbbing arousal.

  She really wasn’t a seductress, he told himself. He would vow that she was not aware of her inherent sexuality--though she had to be aware of her stunning beauty.

  “I wonder if Mr. Lyle came to call on me Thursday?” she said.

  Edward recalled that she had been about to bestow her affections on his best friend. His mouth plunged into a frown. What if Harry was the one who had sent the henchmen for Maggie?

  Obviously, she was thinking the same thing. “I was certain that--should he honor me with a proposal--I was going to accept, but now I’m not so certain.”

  “Good. It’s best to wait until we know.”

  Know what? Know who sent the cut-throats, who ordered the search of her room, who killed Andrew Bibble. But the culprit might never be found out. Was there not something he could do to expedite an investigation? If he could trust Lord Carrington or Harry, they could employ all the resources of the Foreign Office, but he could not trust them until he learned the identity of the mole. And how was he to learn that when his chief concern now was keeping Maggie safe?

  “I think you need to return to America,” he finally said.

  “But I haven’t the money, nor do I have a home when I get there.”

  “I’ll pay your fare--give you a settlement to live on until such time as you remarry.”

  Her face went somber. “I cannot say that I’m not terrified for I most certainly am. For days now I’ve been obsessed with the idea someone’s following us, afraid to allow myself to go to sleep for fear I’ll end up like Mr. Bibble. But I cannot accept your charity. If you’re so hell-bent on getting me out of your life so you can marry your precious Fiona, I vow to marry soon, to be out of your hair.”

  “Damn it, Maggie! That’s not what I meant!” A strange rage blended with passion and fear and the deepest emotions he had ever experienced flooded him as he yanked her into his arms and crushed his lips against hers. Her hand flattened against his chest in fleeting protest, then her arms came around him, her lips opened beneath his. He was intoxicated by the feel of her, the taste of her, the sweet floral scent of her. His pulses pounded and the blood raced through his veins to settle low in his torso. When he heard her soft whimper he thought he would surely go mad with his own numbing desire, a desire she, too, was powerless to deny. Even if she did not want him.

  Holding her as close as his own skin, he murmured, “I’m so damned worried about you.” In that instant he knew that if anything ever happened to Maggie he would not want to go on living. But she was not his. Nor did she want to be his. She would soon offer herself to another man, another man who would relieve Edward of the burden of protecting her. Edward could not bear to think of her in another man’s arms.

  Nor could he bear to think of Fiona. It suddenly became glaringly clear to him that he was prepared to spend the rest of his life with a woman he did not love. Fiona.

  He cupped Maggie’s beloved face in his hands and stared at her with moist eyes. He had to give her up. As a man of his word, he was unable to break with Fiona. “Forgive me,” he said, his voice husky with emotion. “I had no right to kiss you.”

  Her bottom lip quivered. “Perhaps I should return to America.”

  Why, then, was he bringing her to Yorkshire? Why hadn’t he been possessed of the good sense to put her on a schooner bound for America? Could it be the thought of never seeing her again was far too painful?

  He nodded, then got to his feet and offered her a hand. As they began to stroll, Maggie did not link her arm through his, nor did she speak at all for the half hour it took to circle the lake.

  * * *

  They rode until six o’clock that night when they reached Dorkington, where they would put up for the night. Lord Warwick had effected a great interest in studying his map during the journey. For her part, Maggie could not rid her thoughts of the scorching kiss. Nor could she forget his words that afternoon in Greenwich when he had offered for her. He had said many married people would never experience the sublime lovemaking they had shared. The shattering passion that surged between them was undeniable. He had only to touch Maggie and her body opened like a flower, creating a deep, molten ache that only Lord Warwick--Edward, she thought with a secret, warming intimacy--could fill.

  Would that another man--any other man--could ignite so searing a passion within her. She told herself she w
as NOT in love with Edward. She didn’t even know who he really was. His own superior thought he might be capable of betraying his country. He was in love with another woman, and he was far too honorable to ever cry off an engagement.

  Why, then, did the prospect of never seeing him again plunge her into such despair?

  Returning to America would really be for the best. Better for him. Better for her. (How was she to bear seeing him marry Fiona?) But returning to America did not appeal. There was no Almack’s there, no place to find so many eligible husbands.

  She did need to find a husband, a man who was not promised to a pretty peeress. A man who one day might be able to arouse in her the passions that Edward had stirred.

  Chapter 20

  “Lord Warwick thinks we should return to America,” Maggie told her sister at dinner that night. Edward was grateful no one could listen to their conversation. Not a single night during the journey had they been forced to share a private parlor, good fortune he attributed to the fact that persons of intelligence would wait until spring to make the arduous journey north. Traveling in January and February was always risky because of the dismal weather. In this instance, the risk had paid off. He could not remember a milder February, mild in the sense the weather was merely bitterly cold but not actually violent.

  Miss Peabody stiffened, her mouth gaped open, and her eyes peering through those thick spectacles looked bigger than ever. “But I don’t wish to return to America!”

  “What’s the attraction here, since you’re not interested in finding a husband?” Maggie asked.

  Edward did not trust himself to meet Maggie’s gaze. His actions that afternoon were unpardonable. A gentleman did not take such liberties with a woman he did not intend to marry. And he most certainly did not intend to marry Maggie.

  “I have come to realize how utterly provincial America is,” Miss Peabody said.

  “In what way?” her sister asked.

  “Intellectually.”

  “I beg to differ with you,” Maggie said. “There were many intellectuals among our acquaintance in Virginia, though I admit our intercourse with them was not on a daily basis.”

  “London’s the center of the world.” Miss Peabody directed a worshipful gaze at Edward. “And Lord Warwick’s library is far and away the finest room I’ve ever encountered.”

  “I thank you,” he said, eyeing the thick volume which reposed on the bench next to her. “I see you’re reading Miss Burney’s The Wanderer.”

  She nodded, sending her spectacles slipping down the bridge of her nose, then she nudged them back. “I’m ever so grateful for the use of your library, for the price of all four volumes of Miss Burney’s newest novel is something we never could have afforded.”

  “I’m very happy that others can enjoy my books. How are you liking The Wanderer?”

  “I’ve read but the first volume and am actually rather disappointed. It’s not nearly as fine as her Evelina, which I read when I was quite young and excessively enjoyed.”

  He wanted to laugh. Seventeen seemed to him quite young. “I believe your opinion of the work matches the consensus of those who’ve read it.”

  “Becky knows her writing,” Maggie said with pride. “She read Paradise Lost at age five--to give you some idea of her vast expertise.”

  How could Maggie stay so upbeat after what had occurred this afternoon? Did she feel none of the agonizing remorse that left him aching inside?

  Miss Peabody shrugged. “I do have vast experience--of reading--to draw from.” She faced him. “Did you like Miss Burney’s latest work, my lord?”

  “No,” he said with a shake of his head. “In fact, I was so disappointed in the first volume, I didn’t read the others.” He would gladly discuss literature all night if it would keep him from looking at Maggie, from remembering today’s searing kiss.

  “If you would like a light, enjoyable read I recommend Waverly by Walter Scott,” Miss Peabody said. “I did not see it in your library.”

  “I daresay you know my library better than I do myself,” he muttered. “Though I have read Waverly. The reason you didn’t find it is because it’s still in my bedchamber.”

  “And did you like it?” Miss Peabody quizzed.

  “Very much.”

  “I thought,” Maggie said with impatience, “that we were discussing our return to America.”

  Miss Peabody stomped her foot. “I refuse to go back.”

  “But your sister’s in grave danger as long as she’s in England,” Edward said.

  He watched the girl’s lids lower in contemplation. The swooping dark lashes were so much like Maggie’s. “Has it not occurred to you, my lord, that every port which conveys passengers to America will be watched?”

  “Dear God! Becky’s right!” Maggie said in a forlorn voice.

  “Bloody hell,” he hissed. “Why didn’t I take you to Falmouth straight away?”

  “Well I’m very glad you didn’t!” Miss Peabody said. “I don’t believe I can ever set foot on a boat again!”

  “She was dreadfully sick the entire crossing,” Maggie said, patting her sister’s hand.

  “I’ll own it’s a most vexing set of circumstances we find ourselves in,” Miss Peabody acknowledged, sending a somber look at her sister. “I truly am worried about you and should die if anything happened to you, but I’m persuaded we’ll be safe at Windmere Abbey.”

  Maggie frowned. “We cannot stay there forever.”

  “I have every confidence Lord Warwick will think of something. He is a most intelligent man.”

  Edward scowled. “Because I possess a fine library?”

  “Not only that,” Miss Peabody said. “I know you’re intelligent. One does not spend twelve hours a day in someone’s company and not come to understand that person.”

  “A point I’ve lamented more than once,” Edward said. “Your sister has come to know me far too well.” He allowed his gaze to shift to Maggie for the first time that evening. The candlelight bathed her solemn face and glinted off her dark tresses. He wondered if the pink in her cheeks came from the chamber’s toasty warmth. When her lashes lifted, he looked away.

  “I, too, believe you’ll think of something,” Maggie said to him.

  “Madam, I do not merit your trust! I was a bloody fool not to rush you to the first ship bound for America. I pledged to keep you safe . . .” His voice faltered. “And it seems I’ve failed you.”

  “You’ve done no such thing! I’m here, aren’t I? And it’s all thanks to you--you who singlehandedly fought off four armed men who most certainly wished me harm.”

  “Of course his fighting off four armed men wasn’t the most intelligent thing to do,” Miss Peabody interjected. “No offense, my lord. We’re frightfully happy that you behaved with such foolish disregard for your own life.”

  “I’ve been a blasted idiot!”

  “You have not!” Maggie argued. “Tell me this, my lord. Is there someone else who can protect me better than you?”

  She had him there. As inadequate as he felt, Edward knew there was no other living soul he would trust with Maggie’s life. He shook his head ruefully. “It seems, madam, that I’m to be your protector by default.” Her laughing eyes met his.

  When they finished eating, Miss Peabody--book in hand--begged to take her leave.

  Maggie agreed, then faced him. “I’ll just run up and re-dress your wound before turning in. I know it’s early, but I’m utterly fatigued. I daresay the exhaustion’s cumulative after so many days on the road.”

  “And so many nights you’ve been afraid to go to sleep,” he murmured.

  She bit at her lower lip then lifted her solemn face to his.

  “Put your woes on my shoulders,” he said softly. “They’re bigger--and more experienced--than yours.”

  “I would love to transfer my woes to someone!” she said lightly, then started for the stairs. He caught up with her. “I’ll dress the wound myself tonight.”

  Sh
e spun around to face him. “With one arm? I think not!”

  He could see there was no stopping her. With a grumble he went to procure another bottle of brandy and met Maggie in his bedchamber a few minutes later.

  She had already moved a pair of wooden chairs across the floor’s wooden planks to face the stone hearth and had set her medicinals on one of the chairs.

  “I shan’t be drinking that nasty stuff tonight,” she said, eying the pair of glasses in his hand.

  “Well, I sure as hell am!” He poured out a glass and promptly downed it.

  Her step was so light, he had not heard her move to him. Then she was beside him speaking in her silky voice. “I’ll help you remove that coat and shirt.” She was so close he could smell the rose scent he always associated with her.

  Bloody hell. His willpower was being sorely tested. He removed his coat from the right side easily enough, but her assistance was needed for the left. He found himself closing his eyes so he wouldn’t have to watch her as she eased him out of his clothing. God give me strength.

  “Hold up your arms, and I’ll help with the shirt,” she said. Did she have any idea how seductive her voice was when she spoke so low?

  He drew in a deep breath and went to raise his arms, but was unable to lift the left arm over his head. Of course, she doesn’t know how seductive she is, he told himself. She’s merely lowering her voice out of courtesy to those who might be in the next room. From the looks of it, the walls in this inn weren’t any too thick.

  After she pulled the shirt from his right arm, she gently eased it from the left. “There, I hope that didn’t hurt,” she said.

  Of course it hurt, but he wasn’t going to act like some milksop over a trivial injury. “It’s just a little stiff.”

  “If you’ll sit down, I’ll begin.”