Liz Tyner - The Notorious Countess

Without his celibacy, he would not have been able to increase his small inheritance. The town houses he had purchased and directed to be remodelled had taken vast efforts of economy to repair with so little capital. At the beginning, he’d feared he was going to lose everything with small rent coming in and so much being swallowed by delays and unexpected costs. He’d worked around the clock, planning and researching and overseeing every aspect he could. He’d hired Wilson to design more structures and, when those were completed, things changed quickly. He’d had funds to call upon and reinvest with each successive venture.

On several occasions recently he’d taken a pause from the work and had ridden by his properties, knowing they had been nothing until he imagined them. A contentment had filled him. Now they would be a part of the landscape for long after he’d left the world. How much better that was than the complications he’d found when desires raged within him and he attempted to appease them.

She examined him again. ‘You. No one has ever mentioned you with any talk but of...work. Wilson says you’re such a stick, I thought you quite, quite aged.’

He smoothed down the front of his coat. ‘I am extremely responsible. I have not had much time for soirées or frivolity in my life.’

She still smelled of baked goods, which disturbed him. He wondered if he would ever be able to eat a cake again without thinking of unrequited lust.

She looked at him. ‘I will never marry again. It doesn’t agree with my voice. Makes it rise to a shrill note. It seems to not do well for my husband, either. I do appreciate the offer of helping me. I am grateful for your consideration of my reputation.’ She ducked her chin, and smiled at him. ‘Very grateful.’

Truly, Andrew didn’t think his own reputation would be damaged to be associated with Beatrice for a short while.

A few days earlier, Andrew had overheard his valet and one of the maids muttering behind a door. He’d been described in exemplary terms, then he’d heard the last words, added almost as one might curse. ‘Dull as ditch water.’

He’d turned and left, not retrieving the drawings he’d left in the chamber—pleased. He’d worked hard to resist temptations of all sorts. He’d not let himself be idle for long periods, drink too much with Fox, or spend funds extravagantly.

He imagined they would hear of tonight’s indiscretion, but it would not be a concern. One small blot that hurt no one. He would make sure it did not tarnish Beatrice.

Helping Beatrice would be a pleasant diversion from the hours and hours of instruction he directed to his man of affairs and the restless moments which spurred him to complete his vision of his home. Whenever a room was finished, he had immediately noticed the shabbiness of another area and had begun a new renovation. The carriage house would soon be completed and his entire home and grounds would be as they should be.

Beatrice’s movements returned his thoughts to her and caused the warmth that had settled in his chest to strengthen.

Her nose crinkled and the challenge faded from her eyes. ‘I’m quite used to not being portrayed well. I am not fond of it. I don’t like it, but it’s...unpleasant only. I don’t lose any sleep over it. Tilly might not even mention...’ She waved her fingers. ‘No. I know she will mention it, but our encounter might not appear in print.’

‘I would not wager silver on that.’

She crossed her arms ‘I will survive with a smile on my face.’ Her nose wrinkled again. Sighing, she uncrossed her arms. ‘Once a beast, always a beast. Perception is everything. Perception is reality. What people believe to be the truth is their truth. I’m used to them getting the facts wrong and changing the details. Besides, Beatrice the Benevolent will not sell the papers.’

‘It could.’

Her tone lowered. Her lips turned up at one edge. ‘No.’ That snort again. ‘Read the print. I’m sure you could dig up a copy somewhere.’

‘What harm is there in trying? We can work together. One small act on your part will not change any perception of you, but if it is taken as part of a journey, the views of you can be changed. A house is not built with a single stone. Think how many years of your life you have left. Do you wish to be a beast when you truly wear the spectacles and cap?’

* * *

Beatrice paused, considering. The man stood before her in the same stance of a warrior who might have stepped from a painting and she wasn’t sure if he looked at her as a friend or foe. His eyes had narrowed a bit and she would wager he examined her more deeply than anyone else ever had.

The silence in the room oppressed her. ‘Just leave,’ she said. ‘I am used to the nonsense said of me. I have been notorious my whole life.’

That was true. Her bosom had not developed overly large, but it had matured well before the other girls her age. The stable boys had noticed and smirked. The children all acted as if she’d grown her breasts on purpose. Her mother had thought them blessings and insisted the modiste make Beatrice’s gowns show more flesh than Beatrice had preferred. Her mother had forbidden Beatrice to wear a shawl, saying the family must always keep up appearances and one could not wear such a lowly garment.

Her friends and their mothers had thought Beatrice brazen even then. She’d endured it with a smile, laughed it away, jested and pretended her figure was all a woman could wish for. And all men could wish for. On that, she didn’t think she’d been entirely wrong. Riverton had certainly been aware of her shape, wanting her to continue in the same gowns her mother had chosen. Within a month of marriage, she’d visited a modiste and ordered all new gowns in a cut she preferred.

She’d thought to gain respect as a countess, but then the whispers had reached her ears. Riverton admired all shapes and sizes, except—hers.

‘I am used to having people speak of me,’ she said. ‘They must speak of someone, so why not me? I have laughed the loudest. Life is a grand jest.’ Then she reached up, pushing an escaped curl towards her bun, but feeling the wisp spring back into place.

‘Perhaps.’ He stepped forward and, with his left hand, captured the curl. His fingers brushed her skin as he slipped the errant lock behind her ear. ‘But, Lady Riverton, there is more to you than words in a scandal sheet. I believe your brother once told me that his sister took to art the way some mothers take to their children. He said you hired several men to create figures on the ceiling and you sat in the room with the workmen, entranced, at your easel and canvas, trying to reproduce the scene of the men painting.’

‘I may have.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘Art is taking something from the air and putting it in front of you so others can see what you see—with a splash of your imagination added.’

‘Why do you not do that with your own image?’

She shook her head. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘You draw attention and it has been turned against you. Use it to your advantage.’

She sighed. He had no idea how many times her name had been mentioned in print. No idea how many stories about her husband had been whispered. How many times she’d been about and pretended not to know when she was being discussed, even if sometimes the words had been whispered so loudly she wondered why they were not just said to her face.

Her stomach churned, remembering the marriage. The foul smell of Riverton when he would return home after weeks. She’d hated the servants seeing him. Hated the knowledge that the footmen had had to treat him almost like a child who could not be reprimanded, but had to be cajoled.

She put her hand on his sleeve. ‘You don’t understand the vipers of the world. They wish to bite, not cuddle. I cannot turn them into lambs.’