Eva Leigh - Counting on a Countess

“Lady Daleford,” Kit said, bowing. “I am glad to find you at home.”

The woman could not have looked more displeased to see him. Her lips were thin and her cheeks nearly red with indignation. “Lord Blakemere.”

How had Miss Pearce convinced the old dame to admit him? Though he was curious, he would gladly accept the results.

He glanced to Miss Pearce, who watched him with lively, curious eyes. Their looks caught. The distance between them seemed to dissolve to nothing, and the presence of Lady Daleford became a vague, remote annoyance.

Kit felt her gaze like a hot caress down his back. A lick of lust uncoiled, centering in his groin and curling outward with a probing, curious touch.

Her eyes widened, as though she, too, had felt that sudden flare. A candid, carnal flush bloomed in her cheeks. With her redhead’s complexion, she wasn’t able to hide her responses.

Intriguing, their reactions. As though they were both surprised, and neither had anticipated anything other than dutiful acceptance of an unwanted situation.

She cleared her throat. “Tea, my lord?”

Lady Daleford coughed with displeasure.

“A kind offer,” Kit answered. “The company is refreshment enough.” He inwardly grimaced. What a bloody trite thing to say.

A corner of Miss Pearce’s mouth turned up as if recognizing the ridiculousness of the situation. She waved toward a chair. “Please.”

He took his seat as she sank down on a nearby sofa.

A small clock on the mantel ticked. They sat in silence for a full minute.

What could he say to Miss Pearce now, anyway? We don’t know each other at all but let’s join our lives together forever seemed like an odd way to begin a conversation. I want to touch you everywhere and feel your hands on my naked skin also seemed inappropriate. And with Lady Daleford hovering like a vulture, he found it even more difficult to speak.

He had to think of something. “Are you enjoying London, Miss Pearce?”

“I get so blessedly confused here,” she said honestly. “The minute I set foot outside the door I don’t know west from east or north from south.” She spread her hands. “The curse of the first-time visitor.”

“You’ve never been here before?” He oughtn’t be astonished by this. Many people lived away from London, but other than his years fighting, he’d always returned to the metropolis. Anything a man wanted could be found here.

“All my life has been spent in Cornwall.” Her smile turned self-deprecating. “I must sound like the country mouse.”

“There’s very little about you I’d ascribe to being a mouse, Miss Pearce.”

Her lips pursed into an amused bow. “There’s another thing I’m not acclimated to—a city gentleman’s suavity.”

“I’ll endeavor to speak more coarsely so I can put you at ease,” he teased.

Her laugh was low and rich, sending another flicker of sensual curiosity careening through him. “If you could curse like a disgruntled fisherman, I’d be ever so much more comfortable.”

Kit’s laugh caught them both by surprise. He hadn’t felt much like laughing these past few weeks—but she brought lightness out in him.

Lady Daleford audibly grumbled.

“May I interest you in a walk to Russell Square?” he asked Miss Pearce. “For once, the smoke in the air is tolerable enough. We might even be able to see a glimpse of blue sky.” He glanced at Lady Daleford. “Of course, we’ll bring along your maid. It will be entirely appropriate.”

Lady Daleford opened her mouth, but Miss Pearce spoke first. “Yes, please.”

“I’ll await you in the hallway,” Kit said, standing as she also got to her feet. He bowed at the older woman, who looked as though she gnawed on salt cod.

He took a few steps past the door before stopping in the hallway. It was absolutely unforgivable that he eavesdrop, but Kit never claimed to have unimpeachable morals. In fact, his amorality had long been one of his greatest strengths.

“My dear,” Lady Daleford said lowly and urgently. “Please reconsider. Feign illness or a turned ankle. Anything rather than giving that man a moment’s privacy. He is a poor investment.”

What’s wrong with me? Kit’s pride gave an indignant throb.

“I’ve already agreed to go,” Miss Pearce answered. “And I want to go. I like him.” She sounded astonished by this fact.

A quick burst of brightness popped in his chest.

“Besides,” she continued, “I don’t think he’s a poor investment.”

“He’ll make a terrible husband,” Lady Daleford warned. “Men like him take mistresses . They stick their wives in the country and never see them. He’ll be exactly the same.”

Damn—the older woman seemed to have read his mind. He’d never desired marriage, but to hear her discredit his husbandly attributes irritated him.

“He’s precisely what I need,” Miss Pearce countered.

And what might that be? he wondered silently.

But whatever her motivations, the end result matched his own desire for a woman he could see himself marrying, and a woman who would be amenable to the world’s shortest courtship. She also seemed unconcerned by the fact that he’d have lovers or deposit her at a far-flung country estate.

“I will go,” Miss Pearce concluded in a tone that would brook no argument.

He couldn’t decide whether or not it was a good thing that she possessed a strong spine. If they were to marry, she would have to accept the fact that he had no intention of changing the way he lived his life. So long as he kept her comfortable, he reasoned, she’d have no cause to complain. He’d give her a comfortable allowance while he used the lion’s share of his income to fund the pleasure garden. Everyone would have what they wanted.

But all that was irrelevant unless she agreed to marry him. Though she might not if she found him lurking in corridors and eavesdropping, so he hurried to the foyer to wait.

Miss Pearce smiled at him as she entered the vestibule, then she passed Kit to go upstairs and change. She made a pretty shape as she ascended the staircase, moving with confidence mixed with instinctive sensuality.

Kit could hardly wait for the wedding night. If she agreed to marry.

“Ahem.”

He turned in mid-ogle to see Lady Daleford glowering at him.

She advanced on him, her eyes sharp and piercing. “I know why you’re calling on Tamsyn,” she said darkly. “You’re panting to get your hands on Lord Somerby’s blunt, and she’s the key.”

“It doesn’t seem like my being an earl, and making her my countess, is an abominable fate,” he answered blandly.

“The title doesn’t trouble me,” she retorted. “It’s your reputation. Gaming hells, demimondaines, opera dancers . . . hardly the pursuits of an honorable gentleman.”

“Perhaps I can reform,” Kit replied. I won’t .

“You won’t.” Lady Daleford sounded confident. “Tamsyn deserves better.”

Kit wasn’t precisely the ideal upper-class man, however her words were little barbs digging into his flesh. He might not be admitted to Almack’s, but, damn it, he’d fought Napoleon. One didn’t return from the blood and mud and boredom and terror without needing some relief—and it wasn’t found at the bottom of a cup of watery lemonade.

“Let’s allow Miss Pearce to decide what she wants,” he countered.

It looked as though Lady Daleford wanted to say more, but her mouth clamped shut as footsteps sounded on the stairs.

Kit turned to see Miss Pearce descending the steps, a shy but eager smile playing about her lips. His chest constricted with pleasure at the sight of her, and he felt his blood quickening.