Eva Leigh - Counting on a Countess

“If you grasp freedom again,” he advised her, “be sure to go to Catton’s. The best iced cakes in the hemisphere. It’s run by a woman, Isabel Catton.” He leaned closer and her mouth went dry. “She’s a scandalous woman, Mrs. Catton. A marquess’s daughter who shocked Society by marrying a commoner.”

Tamsyn barely paid attention to the words he spoke. All she could focus on was his nearness, and the warm, masculine scent of his skin.

“I hadn’t heard of the place,” she said, struggling for calm. She sat down on the bench and he sat beside her, leaving an unfortunately respectable distance between them. “Now I’ll be certain to go before I leave London. I do love a scandalous woman.”

“Me, too,” he said in a low, confiding voice. A frown suddenly creased his brow. “You plan to stay for the entirety of the Season, I hope.”

“I haven’t decided the length of my stay,” she answered, which was a better response than, I need to find a husband with heaps of money so I can keep smuggling.

He drew in a breath, then slowly exhaled. His profile was turned to her, so she could see the clean lines of his face, his slightly large nose, the angles of his jaw. His brows were drawn down, as if in thought.

“Let’s agree to honesty between us.” He turned to her, his expression serious, which seemed an odd contrast to his usual levity.

She made a noncommittal sound. Fortunately, he took that as a sound of agreement.

“In the spirit of that honesty,” he went on, carefully selecting his words like a man picking out precious stones, “I’ll state it plainly—I need to wed within five days.”

Hearing him say it out loud made her heart speed up. “I know,” she replied as evenly as she could.

He waited for a moment, as though expecting her to demand to be taken home. When she didn’t, he continued. “Your circumstances are known to me, as well.”

Her heart knocked into her ribs. “What do you know?”

“You’re from an old family,” he recited. “You were orphaned, but there wasn’t a will, so you have no dowry.” He cocked an eyebrow. “Did I miss anything?”

She forced a thin smile. “From stem to stern, that’s everything.”

Planting his hands on his knees, he went on. “Knowing what you know about me, would you be amenable . . . to becoming my wife?”

Her breath deserted her. She couldn’t speak.

“The short of it is,” he continued in her silence, “I need a wife and you need a husband. We’ll suit each other’s needs.”

“What a romantic proposal,” she said wryly. “‘You’ll do.’”

He grimaced. “I’ve never proposed before, so my skill is negligible. My apologies.”

She shook her head as she accepted the death of her final hope for affection. “Romance never figured into the picture for me, anyway.”

“Again, I’m sorry I have to be so businesslike,” he said with regret. “Time is slipping away, faster and faster. I can vow that, if you say yes, I will make your life very comfortable.”

She didn’t care about that—all that mattered was buying Chei Owr and keeping Newcombe from the deadly grip of poverty.

But she would also be married. She’d become Lord Blakemere’s property after years of almost-complete liberty.

Yet for all that the country considered her to be his possession, the same could not be said about him. He would not belong to her. She would give up her independence, and he’d keep his freedom, which hardly seemed fair. A husband could sue for divorce on the grounds of infidelity, but she wouldn’t have the same recourse unless he was physically cruel to her or a bigamist.

“Will you be faithful?” she asked.

He was silent for a long while. “I cannot guarantee my fidelity,” he finally said. Grimly, as though delivering a verdict.

Her sinking regret was expected, but that didn’t make it less painful. “I see.”

“Once you have given me an heir,” he added quickly, “you can take a lover. I won’t be jealous of you, and you won’t be jealous of me.”

She knew how city marriages worked. Even so, she confessed, “I didn’t think it mattered that we might be monogamous, but hearing it spelled out so plainly is”—she searched for the right word—“strange.”

He looked rueful, but not repentant. “Understandable. But I must say again that Lord Somerby was a very wealthy man. His wealth will be mine. You will have any material comfort you desire, so long as your spending is within reason.”

With no dowry and all her attention given to smuggling, she’d never expected to marry. She’d resigned herself to living as her uncle’s dependent at Chei Owr while she continued to run the smuggling operation.

She’d also reconciled herself to spinsterhood—and all its attendant loneliness. Yet to know that her future husband wouldn’t be faithful felt like a disappointment.

Never knew I’d given two figs about romance. And yet she did, seeing now that it would truly be denied to her.

You’ll have Chei Owr. That’s something.

“Consider us as business partners,” he explained, “rather than a romantic couple.”

Could she sign her name to an agreement with the man who would be her husband, the man who would have control over her person and her future children?

Did she have a choice in saying no?

“If we wed,” he continued persuasively, “we’ll get along well. No illusions, no disenchantment.”

She could get up. Walk away.

Since her parents’ deaths, she’d had no love in her life. She and Nessa were friends, but that was all. None of the village men had ever vied for her hand. Oh, there had been kisses here and there, but nothing further. They couldn’t—she was a baron’s daughter and they were farmers and fishermen.

Lord Blakemere’s candid proposal was the best she was going to get. She doubted he would be around enough for her to grow attached—and his absence was necessary if she was to continue smuggling.

A fierce part of her didn’t want to share her man with anyone. Perhaps if the earl had been less fascinating, less alluring, she could say with confidence that it wouldn’t hurt if he went to other women’s beds.

What if it does hurt? What if I come to feel something for him?

Don’t care for him. Protect yourself. That was the best she could do. Perhaps, once she’d given him that heir, she could find love with someone who wasn’t her husband. How very sophisticated.

“Your silence alarms me,” he said, breaking her thoughts.

“No cause for alarm,” she replied. She drew in a breath. “My answer is yes.”

His smile was sudden and bright. The worry left his eyes, and pleasure with her and the world radiated from him. “This is . . . this is excellent.” His brow furrowed. “Are you content with a special license? We can be married in three days.”

“So soon,” she murmured, but she had understood it would be fast.

“I cannot wait longer,” he said with contrition.

“Understandable.” She clasped her hands in her lap. “We can wed in three days, if that’s what will help you.”

“It will,” he said eagerly. “Thank you.” His gaze narrowed on her face. There was a sudden determination in his eyes. “I’d like to kiss you.”

Ah, there went her pulse again. It sped up at his words, making breath hard to find and her palms damp.

“You don’t have to,” she answered quickly. “I’ll consider our agreement binding. Here.” She offered him her hand to shake.

He slid his palm over hers, and the thin leather of his gloves through her own kidskin was as hot as his bare skin touching hers. Tamsyn’s heart jumped into her throat at the contact. But he didn’t shake her hand. Instead, he cradled it, enfolding her with his broad palm and long fingers.