Eva Leigh - Counting on a Countess

He barely noticed a ruddy-cheeked woman in plain clothing trailing behind her—instead, he couldn’t tear his gaze from the young woman. She’d donned a lavender redingote and wore a straw bonnet with a matching pale purple ribbon, making her look like a flower from a tropical climate. The color highlighted her complexion and made the light brown of her eyes shine. Everything about her spoke of freshness and vigor, and she seemed ready to meet any experience with unconcealed energy.

Even though she knew he watched her, she didn’t make a show of descending the stairs, prolonging his admiration. Coming to stand in front of him, he caught her fragrance—something warm and spicy—and he flared his nostrils, trying to inhale her all at once. She tilted up her chin. This close, he could see the many tiny freckles that danced over her skin.

Each one a place to kiss , he thought unexpectedly, and wondered if they covered just her face or if there were more on her body.

“Shall we?” He offered her his arm.

Wordlessly, she moved to stand beside him and placed her fingers on his forearm. She wore gloves, and he a coat and shirt, so there was no flesh-to-flesh contact. Just the same, his heartbeat jolted at the pressure of her hand on him.

Normally, he associated with women of a far faster character. Their touches were more bold, but from this simple contact, his whole body came alive.

Miss Pearce’s fingers pressed down with more firmness, meeting the solidity of his arm. She glanced at him quickly, as if surprised by the feel of him. He wasn’t a brawny country lad, but he had been a soldier, and he continued to visit the fencing and pugilism academies to keep his body healthy and strong. Kit allowed himself a moment’s vanity by flexing the muscles of his arm, and was gratified by her interested look.

“Don’t forget that we’re expected at the Newtons’ tonight,” Lady Daleford reminded her.

“I’ll have her home in time for supper,” Kit promised.

Lady Daleford looked unappeased, but Miss Pearce didn’t seem fazed by the older woman’s disapproval.

Realizing that his future depended on this innocuous walk, Kit led Miss Pearce out the door and into the sunlight and uncertainty.

Tamsyn tried to will her heart to beat at a steadier pace, but it staunchly refused to listen, thudding away with abandon as they ambled down the street. She couldn’t help her mingled nervousness and excitement. He clearly needed to wed quickly, but she didn’t know how long he’d spend courting her—provided she allowed him to.

“Russell Square isn’t far,” Lord Blakemere said as they walked.

She chanced a look at him through lowered lashes. The sunlight was his ally, tracing the planes of his long, handsome face with a loving hand. She felt flushed all over from being this close to him and sensing the potency of his body.

Tamsyn had often heard that a life of sin left its mark upon a person, yet that hardly seemed the case with him. Potency and virility radiated from him, as if nourished by his dissolution.

Perhaps if any of her acquaintances ever fell ill, she would recommend a thorough course of gambling and debauchery to set them back on the path to health.

She looked back at Nessa. Her old friend mouthed something at Tamsyn that she couldn’t understand, but judging by Nessa’s ogling of the earl, she approved of Tamsyn’s choice for a potential husband.

“A little green park isn’t far from here,” she noted. “There’s a good deal more privacy there than Russell Square.”

“By all means,” he said readily, “lead us there.”

It was a strange dance they did, she and Lord Blakemere. She imagined that he’d made inquiries about her, and knew some—but not all—of the reasons for her eagerness to wed. Further, he likely understood that she knew the nature of his own predicament. Yet neither of them could address this directly. Not yet, at any rate.

“London’s rife with entertainments,” he said as they headed toward the tiny park. His voice was deep with a faint, delicious huskiness. “I hope you’ve had a chance to visit some of them.”

“Lady Daleford has no fondness for frivolity. She sees assemblies and balls as a necessary evil, but won’t countenance other amusements.”

“That’s a shame. A pretty young woman needs her share of pleasures.”

Her stomach leapt at his suggestive words. She had the feeling he wasn’t referring to Astley’s Amphitheatre or strolls in the park.

“You sound like one well familiar with the city’s . . . pleasures.”

His gaze turned wicked and knowing. “There’s no better guide. Although,” he murmured half to himself, “the places I’m most familiar with aren’t quite appropriate for a gentlewoman.”

She didn’t doubt it. He could probably put to shame a sailor on leave.

“Before I return to Cornwall,” she mused, “I’ll convince Lady Daleford to let me see something of the city. Vauxhall, at the least.”

He grinned. “Pleasure gardens are amongst my favorite places.”

“From what I’ve heard, they’re rather wild.”

His grin widened and his eyes gleamed with excitement. “Precisely—the mix of all walks of life, the ecstatic chaos, the unpredictability and dedication to wringing joy out of every minute.” He looked as though he was about to say something further, but then seemed to reconsider it and was silent.

“I’m not much familiar with gentlemen of fashion and their interests,” she confessed. Farmers, fishermen, and smuggling sea captains—those were the men she knew best, but she couldn’t tell him that.

He lifted his brows. “I’m a gentleman of fashion?”

She eyed him, from the crown of his beaver hat to the toes of his gleaming tall boots. Today he wore buff breeches, a wine-colored waistcoat, and a bottle-green coat, all of the finest materials and assembled with an expert hand. No one in the whole of Cornwall had a fraction of his sartorial gloss, and that included Penzance. But he didn’t quite resemble a dandy, given the fact that the body wearing the garments seemed more suited for the battlefield. Or the bedroom.

“You’re no elderly farmer,” she replied.

He shook his head and exhaled. “I suppose that’s better than most of the names I’ve been called.”

That comment would have to be explored in greater depth—another time.

He guided her around a puddle on the sidewalk. “For one with scant practice talking to a polished gem such as myself, you’re doing admirably. London’s not known for plain dealing, but you speak your mind.”

“I try to be truthful.” Which was only partially true. “I’m not always successful.”

“No one can be completely honest all the time,” he said with the air of a man who had a few secrets of his own. What were they? Did she dare find out?

“I agree.” There was only one secret that she kept, but it was a big one.

They reached the tiny square, tucked between homes. It was a little treasure enclosed by iron railings, with a handful of trees and green grass currently occupied by a pair of pigeons. A wooden bench stood in the middle, as if waiting for two people on an assignation.

“I discovered this place on a walk,” Tamsyn explained as she and the earl approached the bench. Nessa stood a small distance away, feeding the birds with bread crumbs she pulled from the pockets of her coat.

“Given Lady Daleford’s chary eye,” Lord Blakemere said wryly, “I’m surprised she let you amble out of her clutches.”

“She was taking a nap,” Tamsyn admitted, “and I bolted.”

His crooked smile was a roguish thing with the power to weaken her knees. He didn’t admonish her for being disobedient, or seem particularly alarmed that she’d gone out on her own.