Lynne Connolly - Counterfeit Countess

He held his arms wide, waited for her to fall into them and when she did, closed them around her to keep her safe. And to ensure she didn’t get away. Because if he’d chosen her for himself he couldn’t ask for a better partner.

When John told Faith that before he left to dress for dinner, she gave him a harassed smile and he knew. Saw it in her eyes. He’d warned her he only wanted her until he’d established himself as the earl. After only a short time together, he was beginning to believe the impossible; that they’d deal excellently together in the long term.

Once he’d required love in his marriage, dreams engendered by seeing his parents together, perfect harmony and a deep, abiding passion for each other that lasted until death. Not a realistic proposition, but certainly he could aspire to companionship with an intelligent woman he could discuss matters with, and a satisfactory bed partner.

He’d seen it in his parents, but never since. After they’d died, he’d sold most of the property and joined the army. Wounds long healed over still left scars. The army had kept him busy. Now this, and unexpectedly, he’d found the kind of friendship he hadn’t expected.

Too experienced in the ways of life to expect romantic entanglements, he’d instead uncovered someone he liked.

Although, he reflected, gazing at his image in the mirror as he tied his neckcloth, she had her faults. Thank the lord, because God knew he had his. His mouth tightened when he recalled what she must have seen, her knowledge of things she should by rights know nothing of driving her to seek a quiet life. Her last secret remained for him to discover, and until he did, he wouldn’t make any commitment. She was hiding something that had happened around the time of Waterloo. Before or immediately after, because when she spoke of that time she kept it vague, and she showed signs of discomfort, fidgeting. And her eyes went hard.

He pulled the folds of his black neckcloth too tight and had to start again. Mourning wear. He hated it, but at least he didn’t have to bear it for long. He wondered if Faith had mourned him properly, and decided yes, because her mourning clothes were well worn. Not the new ones. They’d be new and crisp, ironically more fashionable than anything else she owned. At least he could give her that.

He picked up a discreet silver pin from the dressing table and used it to secure the neat folds at his throat. She’d imagined she’d stay in that pleasant little house she’d bought, perhaps for the rest of her life. One, if truth be told, that he’d have chosen for himself.

Instead, she’d found herself a countess in Grosvenor Square.

Overwhelming for him, so God knew what it was like for her.

He hadn’t mentioned the second reason he’d offer his name in a true marriage. If their fraud was exposed, if anyone discovered that they were not correctly wed, he’d have no choice. If society realised that he knew about it, his name would be dragged in the mud. So he’d claim the prior marriage was irregular, and marry her again, perhaps say he hadn’t realised before. Not that he’d tell her. Yet.

Faith was fashioned from stern stuff, and he needed her by his side right now. Yes, need was the correct word. At least she wouldn’t bolt tonight, and she’d given him an idea of her plans.

He’d wager they involved that damned carpet bag in her powder room. She still appeared skittish. She needed settling. He smiled when he thought of the best way of doing that. He didn’t want her disappearing overnight.

“My lord?”

So lost in his thoughts that he hadn’t heard his valet come in, he nearly dropped the brush he’d just picked up. Kelly swanned forward, elegant as if he’d never seen more than a speck of blood in his life, and took the item from his fingers. He’d watched the man efficiently skin a bear in less than ten minutes, but nobody would believe that if he told them now. “I beg your pardon, I didn’t intend to disturb you. I wondered if you required any help dressing.”

“Kelly, don’t ‘my lord’ me in private, if you would.” They’d love Kelly’s gentle Canadian accent below stairs. It would probably gain him a host of female admirers. Although just the wrong side of forty, Kelly was an upright man with a severe classical appearance that begged a woman to thaw him out. John had reason to know that his valet had great success with women. He’d had to smooth over the problems when two maids had come to blows in the kitchen over him in his house back in Halifax. That would not happen again, not if Kelly wished to remain with him, and considering his new position in society, he’d bet Kelly would prefer to do that.

“Kelly, where would one find a lady’s maid?”

“I know of several excellent register offices in the City, my—sir, but if sometimes the staff come from personal referrals.”

“I have the feeling her ladyship will need one. Someone who can handle the grande toilette . She’s lived quietly up to this point and Robinson won’t be up to the standard her ladyship needs now.”

“I see, sir. Would she know of your decision?”

He glanced away guiltily. “Not yet. I’ll tell her later. I thought I’d better initiate enquiries.”

“A wise move, sir. I’ll certainly put them in train for you.”

Kelly added a polish that John couldn’t achieve on his own. In a few minutes he made the gentleman an earl in truth, and although he watched, John still didn’t know how he achieved it. He smiled his thanks and left the room in search of his wife. On the way down to dinner, he made her aware that he’d enquired for a maid for her.

When she protested that she had Robinson, he reminded her gently that she’d be required to dress for balls and court. “An excellent lady’s maid can create the kind of show we’ll need,” he said. “Our campaign.”

She leaned closer as they reached the landing on the first floor and turned to enter the drawing room. “It is a campaign, isn’t it?”

“It is indeed.” He loved the way her eyes danced when she answered him, their conspiracy safe. “We’ll discuss tactics later.” He left her in no doubt of his intent.

Irritation filled him when he saw the liveried footman waiting to throw open the drawing room door, as if incapable of doing it on his own. He decided to take stock before he changed everything.

Considering the dowager had lost her sons, he would remember that, and allow her some leeway. Only when she crossed the line would he mention the fact. Because compassion was one thing, but he knew that if he gave her too much, she’d take it and a little extra, making it harder to regain ground. The damned footman could stay, even for family dinners, if she wanted that.

He exchanged a glance with Faith and realised his aggravation hadn’t transmitted to her. Her eyes were brimful of mirth. Her expression forced his mood away, so it disappeared in the face of her amusement. If the footman amused her, she would have him for every meal.

However, when they entered the drawing room, it became obvious they were not to dine en famille . A man stood to greet them, his head slightly bowed. Of moderate height, with smooth, dark hair brushed back tidily, no pretension to high fashion, and a modest mourning suit, John assessed him as a relative. After all, would her ladyship dine with a tradesman or a servant? She’d subjected him to her trenchant views on “Trade” before, so he doubted it.

“Ah, Graywood. Please allow me to introduce you to the estate’s man of business, Mr. Roker.” Right on cue, Mr. Roker bowed low.

“I hope you don’t object. Mr. Roker came to visit me to discuss my position now the earldom has changed and I took it upon myself to invite him to dinner.”