Counterfeit Countess: Brazen Brides, Book 1

by Cheryl Bolen

He dropped onto the chair. She had placed it too deuced close to the fire. That must be why he felt so heated. As she moved to him he noticed the blue shawl draped around her shoulders and the memory of first placing it on her that day in Greenwich swamped him. He shut his eyes against it, against so painful a memory.

  “Hold the candle near the left arm, will you?” she asked once she had removed the old bandage.

  “Does the arm look any better tonight?”

  “I can’t say that it does,” she answered in a grim voice, “nor--I’m pleased to say--does it look worse.” She poured her decoction onto fresh linen and began to dab at the infernal wound.

  He kept his eyes shut, wincing against the pain.

  “Is your brother really dead?” she asked as casually as she would inquire about the weather.

  It was as if he had been walloped with a flagpole. He could not have been more taken aback had his brother--safe in India these past five years with his wife and growing brood--come strolling through the door.

  The room was utterly silent, save for the soft crackle at the hearth, the north winds whistling outside the window. As she watched him for a reaction, he drew in his breath, tried to formulate his thoughts. He should never have lied to Maggie. She was too damned intelligent. “How did you know?” he asked.

  The corners of her lovely mouth turned down. “I knowest thou too well.”

  She damned well did!

  “Pray, what is your real name?” she asked as she started to bind the wound with strips of linen.

  “Edward.”

  “I know that!”

  His mouth firm, his eyes narrowed, he said, “My father was Sir Perry Stanfield. My brother is now the baronet, since my father died some three years ago. We were not related to the Lord Warwick at all. His title should be extinct.”

  “Does Lady Fiona know you’re not really an earl?”

  He nodded. “I could not have offered for her without her knowing precisely who she was marrying. Fiona's the only person with whom I’ve ever shared the truth, and must ask you not to tell anyone, even your sister.”

  Maggie cleared her things from the other chair and sank onto it. “What do I call you?”

  “Continue using Lord Warwick.”

  “When it’s just the two of us, I cannot.”

  “When it’s just the two of us,” he said in a husky voice, “you may call me Edward.”

  She was silent for a moment. “Then when Lady Fiona agreed to marry you, she knew she was not marrying an earl, knew she was agreeing to marry a man who had no hopes of succeeding to a title?”

  “That’s true. She could have married a duke, you know. Not having met her, I can see where you might have formed an unflattering opinion of her, may have thought her some arrogant peeress who snarls at her servants and won’t associate with anyone who’s not a blue blood. But I assure you nothing could be further from the truth. Malice of any kind is as alien to Lady Fiona as . . . as lying is to you.”

  Maggie gave a bitter laugh. “Though I’m exceedingly honest by nature--and given to blurting out my thoughts--you are well aware of deceits I’ve tried to propagate.”

  A smile curved his lip. “Any deceits you may have intended were born out of desperation.”

  “And your deceit? Why?” As she stared at him, he saw the disillusionment on her saddened face. And he knew he had lost something he would never be able to recover.

  He shook his head. “That I cannot tell you. I was sworn to secrecy.”

  “And to the honorable Lord Warwick--or should I say Edward Stanfield?--his pledge is irrevocable.” There was bitterness in her voice.

  “What else have I to recommend me save my word as a gentleman?”

  “Such a gentleman that even though it’s Fiona you love, you offered to marry me because that was the gentlemanly thing to do--given the circumstances?”

  “I’m not proud of what I’ve done to you.” He got up, strode to the table where he had placed the brandy, and poured himself another glass of the abominable liquid. Two long gulps and the glass was empty. “The pity of it is,” he said, his voice rough and full of emotion, “I’d do it all over again. Even today’s kiss.”

  He watched her gravely as she tightened the shawl about her shoulders. “Then I’d best return to my room.”

  “Yes,” he nodded as she got up. “You’d best go.”

  * * *

  All the nights of the journey Maggie had lain in her bed listening to the forlorn wind outside her window and pictured the dead body of Andrew Bibble. She had been afraid to sleep, afraid to let down her guard for fear she would meet the same fate as the man in Greenwich. But she had let down her guard today with Edward, and tonight the memory of his kiss kept her awake. The comfits could prevent her from babbling her devotion, but what could she use to keep herself from responding to his scorching kisses?

  Maggie was most vexed with herself. She hadn’t put up any resistance when his mouth had swooped down on hers. Her arms had only too eagerly slipped around him, her mouth too eagerly opened beneath his. Edward was bound to think her a harlot!

  She did not know what she wanted him to think of her. She did not know what she thought of him. Never in her life had she been more confused. Oddly, she trusted him with her life--even though he had admitted he was a fraud. Why would an honorable man perpetrate such a deception? Could he be in the employ of the French?

  Could Lord Carrington’s suspicions of Edward be accurate? Were Edward to betray England, Maggie would have no other course but to betray Edward, even if he had risked his life to save hers. She had no love for Napoleon’s aggression, for his practice of pressing young boys into military service for his own megalomania.

  Yet she could not believe Edward would do anything dishonorable.

  She would close her eyes and remember the feel of his lips crushing against hers. With an ache in heart she would recall his words tonight. He would do it all over again.

  That’s why she had to flee his room. Were he to touch her, she would have been powerless to deny him anything.

  Even though he was bound to Maggie by strong carnal forces neither of them had the power to break, he loved Fiona. Fiona was the only person he entrusted with the truth.

  Maggie would roll over and punch up her pillow and sigh. Nothing would stop Edward from marrying Fiona, but as the days of their journey mounted, it was clear that Edward’s feeling for Maggie had strengthened. What she and Edward shared was much stronger than the undeniable hunger for physical intimacy. They had grown close in the way couples who shared their lives grow close. He had as good as admitted she knew him as no one else did, and she was aware that he knew her like no man ever had.

  Given the depth of their unacknowledged feelings, Edward was bound to have misgivings about his plan to wed Fiona--misgivings he would never act upon. Maggie would never forgive herself if he entered his marriage with Fiona with only half a heart. She owed it to Edward to release him from any attachments he might developed for her.

  She could do that only by making it clear she intended to marry another.

  It suddenly occurred to her that Rebecca had gone to sleep. Raising herself on one elbow, Maggie peered over her sister’s shoulder and smiled. Becky’s face--spectacles and all--lay gently on her open book. Maggie slipped from the bed, tiptoed around to remove the spectacles, then eased the book from beneath Rebecca’s flattened cheek--all without waking her sister. After extinguishing the candle, Maggie padded through the inky darkness and climbed back onto the bed.

  The fire had long ago died, its smoldering embers struggling to keep out the frosty night. She pulled the counterpane up to her chin and listened to the lonely howl of the wind outside. Was Edward, too, lying awake down the hall? Would the throbbing pain of his wound make getting comfortable impossible for him? Oh, how she envied Fiona, who would lie beside him for the rest of their days.

  * * *

  Edward informed them over breakfast the next morning that this would l
ikely be the last day of their journey. “If there are no impediments,” he had said, “we should arrive at Windmere Abbey around dusk.”

  Breakfast had been a somber affair. Even after they had bundled themselves in the carriage, the winds swooping against the rattling carriage doors, his dark mood did not improve.

  Maggie allowed herself to wonder if he shared her regrets that their journey was coming to an end, that never again would the two of them be this close.

  It was best, she told herself, that she implement her plan now.

  “You must tell me all about Harry Lyle, your lordship, for I should like to bestow my affections upon him. Please say he’s incapable of being culpable in my abduction.”

  He glowered. “I can tell you no such thing.”

  “I really have a difficult time believing such a nice man could be guilty of anything so underhanded,” she said.

  “Even if he’s innocent, I doubt Lyle’s in a position to offer for any woman.”

  “A pity,” she said with a sigh, pulling the rug around her more tightly. Then her face brightened and she asked, “Does Lady Fiona have a brother, perchance?”

  His eyes were as cold as agate when he replied. “She does.”

  “And is her brother married?”

  “Neither of her brothers are married,” he hissed. “Do you wish to snare the one who is nine and twenty or the one who’s only twenty and still at Cambridge?”

  Maggie meant to convince him she was a calculating female. “The elder, I should think. Is he not in line for a title?”

  Cursing under his breath, Edward yanked the well-worn map from his pocket and began to study it.

  Every time the coach would hit a rough spot on the road, Edward would wince against the pain she knew was throbbing in his arm. Her thoughts drifted to Mr. Heart. If she had only amputated his leg, he might still be alive today. Not that she actually knew the first thing about amputation. Nor was it an area of medicine in which she wished to acquire expertise.

  Then she grew somber and wondered if Edward’s arm would have to be amputated. She would have to watch it closely. But how could she? Traipsing into his bedchamber at Windmere Abbey would hardly be tolerated. With a firm set to her mouth, she decided she would have to apprise Fiona of the serious injury to her betrothed. If Fiona were the paragon Edward purported her to be, surely she would see that he was properly cared for.

  * * *

  So the counterfeit countess had finally shown him her true colors, Edward reflected bitterly. As soon as she found out he was no earl, Maggie had lost all interest in him. Hadn't her desire for a title pressed her into marrying The Scoundrel? Edward tried to tell himself he was far better off without her.

  Now he could shirk his guilt and rekindle his love for Fiona. If his calculations were right, he would see her within the hour. He may even be able to coax a kiss from her. Just two weeks ago the thought of kissing Fiona (a thought that repeated several times a day) would have sent his heart beating erratically. But no more.

  The anticipation of seeing her was sadly flat. He almost dreaded it. Always before he had hungered to see her sweet face, to hear her soft laughter as they slipped behind the yew hedge where he would draw her into his arms for a thorough kiss.

  But now the only person he wanted to kiss thoroughly was Maggie, a cold, calculating, provocative vixen.

  The country around Windmere Abbey was as well known to him as that of his family’s Pickford Manor. He had first come to Windmere with Randolph, Fiona’s elder brother, when he was no more than twelve. The familiar streets of Cranford Bog came into view, and his heart began to thump. They were but minutes away now from Windmere Abbey. He fleetingly wished he had taken Maggie straight away to Falmouth. His chest tightened at the hopelessness of never again seeing Maggie. Then he cursed himself for a fool.

  His body tensed as the coach turned onto the long lane that would take them to Windmere. And to Fiona.

  Chapter 21

  Windmere Abbey, Maggie thought as she peered through the frosty window of their carriage, did not look like an abbey at all. She had expected a crumbling pre-reformation ecclesiastic structure, but the mansion that stood proudly at the end of a long stretch of lawn was decidedly Palladian with its columns and pediments and neoclassical symmetry set off by a sandstone facade glowing golden in the late afternoon sun. The families who had lived there over the generations would have made their mark in the pages of English history--had probably had an acting part in shaping the powerful island kingdom. Blood that ran in Lady Fiona’s veins, Maggie thought morosely, could no doubt be traced back to some noble defender of the crown.

  Maggie let the curtain drop. During the next few minutes she fought her mounting nervousness. Would Fiona resent her dreadfully? Would Edward make a cake of himself over the woman he loved? Would Maggie be able to stand the pain of seeing him with the woman he loved?

  “We’re here,” Edward said as the carriage came to a stop.

  She could see from the grim set of his mouth he was no more delighted over the visit than she. All of that would change once he beheld his bride-to-be.

  Edward assisted Maggie and Rebecca from the carriage, then gave orders to a footman dressed in pale blue satin livery. Maggie drew in her breath as they approached the huge entry portico of Windmere Abbey.

  The door suddenly swept open and an excited young lady rushed out to greet them. At first Maggie doubted the woman was Fiona. The lovely creature looked no more than eighteen, and Maggie knew Fiona was older than she. Perhaps it was the lady’s slimness, the delicacy of her person, that made her seem more youthful, Maggie decided. She watched as Edward drew the lady’s graceful hand into his and bent to kiss it. Pure adoration shone in the lady’s eyes as they met Edward’s.

  It was Fiona. Maggie’s chest felt heavy as her gaze swept from Fiona's pale blond curls to her exceedingly fair skin and sparkling blue eyes, then whisked over her slender elegance in the mourning gown of midnight black.

  Fiona Hollingsworth was the most elegant, most beautiful woman Maggie had ever seen.

  Maggie was aware that Edward was talking, but her heart pounded so heavily in her chest she felt she was at the opposite end of a long tunnel that separated them.

  “Allow me to present the Countess Warwick and her sister, Miss Peabody,” he was saying to his betrothed.

  Fiona’s blue eyes locked with Maggie’s, and for a fraction of a second Fiona stiffened, her icy glare sweeping over Maggie. Then she recovered, and a warm smile dimpled her lovely face. “I have been so happy you ladies conceded to come to Windmere Abbey for I’m completely bereft of female companionship,” Fiona said.

  Maggie curtsied. “It is good of you to have us.”

  Before they entered the abbey, they were joined by Fiona’s father, a slender man in his early sixties who dressed in the mode popular a generation earlier, right down to his powdered hair. He needed only a tricorn hat to complete the picture.

  “Warwick,” he said to Edward with a great deal of amiability, “I cannot tell you how keenly we’ve been looking forward to this visit.”

  Then his glance skipped from Maggie to Rebecca.

  “Lord Agar, allow me to present Lady Warwick and her sister Miss Peabody,” Edward said.

  Lord Agar was all that was courteous as he took each lady’s hand and brushed his lips over their gloves. “Come, we must get you ladies out of the cold.”

  “You poor things,” Fiona said as they swept into the great receiving hall with its glistening marble floors and glittering chandeliers. “Even through your gloves I could tell your hands were frigid. What’s needed is a nice warm chamber. I’ve had fires burning in your bedchambers all day.”

  No doubt Fiona could not wait to dump them and have Edward all to herself. “How very kind of you,” Maggie said. Her heart sank as Fiona laced her arm through Edward’s, and they began to mount the broad, well-lit stairway.

  Lord Agar stood at the base of the stairway and looked up at them.
“I shall see you at dinner.”

  Maggie and Rebecca trailed behind Lady Fiona and Edward, close enough to hear their conversation.

  “You’ll stay in your old room,” Fiona said to Edward. “I’ve put the ladies in the same wing.”

  Edward nodded, then asked, “Is Randolph here?”

  “He’s shooting in Scotland but should be back next week.”

  Maggie assumed Randolph was the brother nearest to Edward in age.

  When they reached the second floor, Fiona turned to face Maggie, a radiant smile on her face. “This first room will be yours, my lady.” She swept open the door.

  Maggie stepped into the airy room.

  “You’ll want to rest before dinner,” Fiona said, her cheeks dimpling with her smile. “Dinner's at six. Have you brought a maid?”

  “No.”

  “Should you like me to send up a maid to help you unpack?” Fiona asked.

  “I’ll manage by myself,” Maggie answered, closing the door.

  All the cornices and moldings were painted a creamy white, and the silken draperies had been swept back from tall casements that flooded the room with somber light. Pale blue damask covered the walls, and a silk bedspread in the same blue draped over the full tester bed, and more blue silk hung as curtains gathered at the bed's four corner posts.

  Before she could even remove her gloves, a footman brought her valise. As Maggie unpacked, she was filled with melancholy. She had not sufficiently prepared herself for Lady Fiona’s complete devotion to Edward, for the possessive way she had tucked her arm into his, or for the warmth of the secret glances they exchanged.

  No wonder Edward loved Fiona. What man wouldn’t be captured by her fragile beauty, her sweet nature, and her family pedigree? She wasn’t at all like what Maggie had expected. Maggie had pegged her to be blond, but a robust, healthy looking blond oozing with self-assurance. Instead Lady Fiona was so pale, so thin, so utterly delicate that she would elicit any man’s innate sense of protectiveness. Edward would like that, Maggie realized with a little fissure to her heart.

  * * *