Lynne Connolly - Counterfeit Countess

“Not yet.” He would honour her truthfulness with the same.

She’d lied by omission, and he would discover her secrets, all of them, before he decided if he wanted to keep her. Already his opinion of her had shifted. With the disclosure of her dilemma had come comprehension of the reason she’d adopted his name reasonable. A penniless woman alone in the world faced a tough and probably short future. Governess at best, whore at worst, but the choices were limited. And she’d believed him dead. For that, he’d reconsider a few of his decisions. Not the principal one, though. He could use her and look nothing worse than a fool when she was exposed as a fraud, not his wife at all. Or he could consider the immediate future as an interview, a way of assessing her suitability as his wife in truth. In one way she had exceeded his expectations. He opened his hand, allowed himself the indulgence of caressing her silken skin.

He gave a wry smile. “You know I can’t stop you disappearing?”

She shook her head. “You could lock me up.”

“I suppose so.” The thought repulsed him. “But I won’t. I can’t watch you every hour of the day. I have to sleep. You should know that if you take that course, I’ll say you’re in the country, at one of my houses and I will hunt you down. So you’ll still be Lady Graywood.”

“No, no I won’t.”

One thing would hold her. If he had to choose between Faith and the two daughters of Lady Graywood, he knew which he would prefer. However, it had not come to that yet. “I want you to be my wife for a while. Give me time for me to elude the fate of marrying Charlotte or Louisa, to avoid the attention of the matchmakers.

They require the title and the wealth, not the man, and I have a strange, probably unsuitable desire to be wanted for myself. So will you marry me?”

Faith stared up at his face, unable to read anything there past the half smile quirking his lips. John was better at concealing his feelings than her, and she thought she’d done well in that. Certainly she’d lived as his widow for two years without anyone suspected anything. Mostly, she had to admit, because they didn’t care overmuch. She hadn’t mattered to them until today—yesterday.

“You mean really marry you?”

His smile melted her. The way the amusement broke the habitual solemnity of his face, revealing his vulnerability reached deep inside her. “Maybe. In time we could slip away and make the illusion real if we suit.”

She reached up and touched his chest. Immediately he covered it with his hand. Pressed her palm against him so she felt his heart thumping rhythmically. As if she had the power to stop that vital throb.

“It’s so complicated,” she said. He’d still be better off with someone else. Someone fertile. She wouldn’t lie to him about that, if he meant what he said about marrying her.

“You could have a fine life as a countess.”

“Don’t.” She almost turned from him. “If I do this, it won’t be to live the high life.”

“Not even a little?” Again, that smile that turned her heart over.

She thought of the lace gown she’d seen in a shop window last week, the one that was exquisite but well out of her price range and bit her lip. No, not even for that gown, which wouldn’t have suited her anyway. He laughed, the low sound of amusement he’d used earlier. Everything they did here in this bed was so intimate. “I can see you’re thinking of something.”

“What would I have to do?”

“Appear with me at key functions. The season will be starting in another couple of weeks, right after Easter. Lent is nothing but a breathing space to most of society, a chance to order the gowns and the rest of the armour they’ll need. Behave as my wife.”

His analogy made her chuckle. “Like preparing for battle?”

“Exactly like that. So you’d have to order new clothes and go through the family jewels.”

“Lady Graywood will have most of those,” she pointed out.

“Then we’ll get new ones.”

She shook her head. “Why would I need jewels?”

He grimaced. “The earldom’s wealthy. We need to persuade people that the title and everything it represents is on sound footing, so we have to be confident. We’ll have to hold a gathering of our own. If we plan that, we can safely leave her ladyship to arrange it. If we agree to invite some potential suitors for her daughters, she’ll be content. And it will keep her busy.”

The prospect began to appeal to her. Rather than becoming a passive decoration, he was giving her something to do, offering her a chance to plan and manage the estate by his side. Asking for her help. A young girl, a fresh, fertile bride couldn’t do that. Neither could she stand up to the dowager, something she’d been doing for years.

His hand moved, swept up her flank to cup the underside of her breast. Such openness in bed was new to her. Heat washed through her body.

He smiled and bent to drop a kiss on her lips. “I like your blush.

It becomes you. Now will you do this?”

However illusionary, he’d given her the choice. They both knew he could compel her to do it, except she had the power of anonymity. Whatever he thought, she could hide from him. She knew how. Become another character, a different person, someone disregarded. That knowledge gave her strength, truly lent her the freedom to choose. “I’ll do it.” That was in the nature of paying off her debt to him. She’d ruin herself, wreck her character in the eyes of society when he finally repudiated her. He could continue with the notion that he didn’t remember their marriage.

Relief flooded his features. “Thank you. I’ll arrange matters first thing in the morning.” He lay down, drew her into his arms.

“Would you prefer to keep this house?”

“Yes.” Her instinctive response, to give herself a bolt-hole, somewhere she could retreat to if she needed it. She glanced at the shadowy silhouette of her old carpetbag still resting by the door.

His plan was better than hers, that was all. The fact that she could anticipate more nights like this didn’t hurt, either.

“I’d like a house like this,” he murmured, his voice soft with incipient slumber. “Big enough, not grandiose, not pretentious, not a naked marble statue anywhere. I’d prefer a wife like you, understanding, intelligent, someone with a realistic attitude to life.”

She hardly recognised herself.

“Go to sleep,” he said, his voice gravelly with exhaustion.

Lying still, trying not to disturb him seemed to work. She could lie here all night and worry. But she didn’t. Within the space of twenty minutes, she was asleep, too.

Morning came too soon, and with it, the sound of her maid gently tapping on her door. “Mrs. Smith, do you wish breakfast in bed?”

The latch rattled as she tried to open it, but sometime in the night John must have got up and slid the bolts across, so it was securely fastened.

“No, I’ll get up.”

Beside her, John murmured and drew her back down into the warmth of the bed. Although it was March, spring had taken its time this year, and the chill of the morning struck through her bones. Her naked upper arm pimpled.

“Madam, is there someone in there? Are you all right?”

Robinson sounded alarmed. Any minute she might start shouting for help.

“I’m fine. My husband is here. He called around late last night and didn’t want to disturb anyone.”

“Oh.” Then a much louder. “Oh! A boy arrived first thing enquiring after you. He told us the earl had returned. I should have thought of that. Sir, my lord, I didn’t mean to bother you. Only, time’s getting on, and cook wants to know what you want for dinner tonight before she goes to market.”