Sarah Mallory - His Countess For A Week

Ran did not hesitate. He scooped her up, the red silk skirts sliding with a whisper over his arm.

One of the matrons laughed. ‘There now, no one can doubt her astonishment! Poor little thing. Take her somewhere quiet, my lord, until she has recovered herself. We will happily wait for the pleasure of an introduction!’

‘Yes, yes, this way,’ cried Lady Meon, leading him away from the group. ‘There is a little room across the passage. Here we are.’ She opened a door and Ran stepped into a comfortable sitting room, where candles were already burning and there was a small fire in the hearth. ‘Lay her on the sofa, my lord. I shall send for her maid.’

‘No. No need for that.’ Ran put his burden down gently and sat on the edge of the sofa, beside her. ‘I shall take care of her now.’

‘Ah, of course you will. Who better to do so than her own husband?’

His hostess looked on with approval as he began to chafe the little hands and Ran shot her a smile.

‘No need for any fuss, Lady Meon. Her pulse has already grown steadier. Pray go back to your guests and assure them my lady has merely fainted. We shall join you again very soon.’

‘Very well, my lord. I shall leave you to look after your wife. I can see she is stirring. Good, good. But you must ring if there is anything you need, anything at all.’

Lady Meon departed, leaving Randolph alone with his lady.

Arabella surfaced from the dead faint, but kept very still, afraid the pain behind her eyes would be worse if she opened them. Someone was rubbing her hands, and a deep voice, rich with amusement, was speaking to her.

‘Gently now, my lady. You are safe.’

Safe! Her heart began to pound as memory returned. She was at Meon House and had been regaling her new acquaintances with some tale. Then Lady Meon had said her husband was there. For one brief, blissful moment she had forgotten that George was no longer alive. She had turned eagerly, only to find herself looking into the face of a stranger. That had been a cruel blow. Shock, heartbreaking disappointment and alarm had combined to render her senseless, but now she was awake and all too aware that she was in trouble.

The pain in her head had faded and she risked opening her eyes. The stranger was still there, holding her hands in a firm, sustaining clasp. He was nothing like George. He was older and his hair was fair, not brown. It was lighter than her own and, unlike George in those last months, this man positively glowed with health and vigour.

He smiled and something twisted, deep inside. She wanted to smile back at this handsome stranger, to lie still and enjoy his ministrations for a little longer. She quickly closed her eyes again. Heavens, what an alarming thought!

‘We are quite alone,’ he said. ‘There is no need for pretence.’

‘My fainting was no pretence,’ she told him crossly as she struggled to sit up. ‘Who are you?’

‘I am Westray,’ he told her. ‘More to the point, madam, who are you ?’

She bit her lip. He was dressed fashionably and a diamond twinkled from the folds of his neckcloth, but he wore no other jewellery save for a gold signet ring. Could he really be the missing Earl? A felon. True, the reports said he had received a full pardon and she knew that people were transported for crimes as trivial as stealing a length of cloth, but he was a convict nevertheless.

She looked at him now, the candlelight gleaming on his mane of fair hair, his skin glowing with the golden tan of a man who spent his time out of doors. Or on a long sea voyage.

‘Well?’ he said, when she did not speak. ‘Personation, that is, pretending to be someone you are not, is a crime, you know. I think I am entitled to an explanation. Let us begin with your name.’

She looked at him defiantly and wanted to retort that he was the criminal, she had read about him in the newspapers. He was waiting patiently for her to respond and her defiance faltered. He did not look like a villain. Yet whatever he had done to earn his pardon, it did not mean she could trust him.

He appeared relaxed, even amused, but there was a steely strength about him. She knew he would not be fobbed off with anything less than the truth. She had no choice but to answer.

‘I am Arabella Roffey.’

‘Go on.’

His blue-green eyes were glinting with laughter but they were not unkind. She said impulsively, ‘I needed to be here. It is very important. Pray do not expose me!’

She moved to the end of the sofa, not trusting her legs to support her if she tried to stand. He shifted his position to face her, sitting back, his arms folded and smiling as if he was completely at his ease, but a second glance confirmed her original thought: he was as relaxed as a cat watching its prey.

‘How intriguing,’ he said cheerfully. ‘You had best explain it to me.’

‘I...’ She clasped her hands, squeezing them together to steady her nerves and gazing down at the white knuckles. ‘I am trying to find out who killed my husband.’

It was not the answer Ran had been expecting. She did not look old enough to be married, let alone a widow. A closer look at her face made him reconsider. She would be one-or two-and-twenty, he guessed. She was very pale; there were dark smudges beneath her eyes and faint lines of strain around them. Young she might be, but he could believe she had known grief.

‘You think Lady Meon is responsible?’

‘No. Possibly. George was staying here with friends, you see. Before he died. From what he told me, when he was sick, I suspect, I believe something happened here.’

‘Why did you not write to the lady and ask her?’

She lifted her shoulders in a tiny shrug. ‘If my suspicions are correct, I doubt Lady Meon would have told me anything if I had approached her as Mrs Roffey.’

‘You decided you might have more success as a countess.’ When she did not respond he continued. ‘How long have you been masquerading as my wife?’

‘Just over two weeks.’ She added, as if in mitigation, ‘But only here in Devonshire and until this evening I had met only Lady Meon. Then she invited me to her party and I thought I might learn something.’

Loud voices came from the passage beyond the door. A burst of laughter and heavy footsteps.

She looked at him, her green eyes wide with alarm. ‘Will you tell them I am an impostor?’

‘Not here,’ he said, getting up. ‘Not tonight.’

Ran noted the slight lessening of tension in her dainty form.

‘I am most grateful, thank you.’

‘I will send for your cloak and order the carriage.’

That startled her.

‘But I cannot go now,’ she protested. ‘I have accepted Lady Meon’s invitation to stay the night!’

A grin tugged at his mouth. ‘Our hostess would hardly expect me to leave without you, but if you would rather I stayed, we could continue this charade until the morning.’

He let the words hang, watching with unholy amusement as the implication of his words sank in. She blushed furiously.

‘No, of course I do not want that!’ She rose and shook out her skirts. ‘I came in my own carriage. I will go and find my maid and we shall follow you.’

‘Oh, no, I do not intend to let you slip away from me. We shall return to the salon together and find our hostess. And then, my lady, I am taking you back to Beaumount. Your maid can pack your bags and follow later.’

Arabella wanted to protest, but she knew it would be useless. He was still smiling, but there was an implacable look in his eyes. She must capitulate. For now.