Liz Tyner - The Notorious Countess

‘Tilly. Leave.’ The man’s voice sliced the air into slivers.

Andrew looked to the bed. Tilly didn’t move. The woman with the lamp, however, put her hand on the door facing. ‘I guess you may as well send my things. I don’t need them as badly as I thought. I need to have a few words with Mother. And she thinks I’m— Ha!’ She waved. ‘Farewell.’

She flounced out.

Andrew looked on the bed at Tilly and saw that her skirts had managed to slip down to demurely cover her knees, and she reached up to push the shoulder of her dress correct, but it didn’t stay.

‘Wilson,’ he inserted, moving a step towards the bed, shielding Tilly’s body from view. ‘I understand your wish for decorum in your household and I regret the display, but I do believe Tilly’s mistress is away and she is not needed, and we were just leaving.’

‘Get. Away. From. Her.’ Wilson’s fists clenched and his eyes had a cold stare.

The woman pushed herself up and she stared at the architect. ‘Don’t you have somewhere else to be?’ she asked.

Andrew looked to the bed. A companion should not speak so to the master of the house. ‘Tilly?’

Andrew dodged the fist. Heard the woman scream ‘No’ behind him, and then next thing he knew, she’d thrown herself between them.

Just as deftly Andrew moved her aside. He stood ready to flatten the other man.

‘Will,’ she snapped out from behind Andrew. ‘You shouldn’t be in Tilly’s room.’

‘My house!’ Wilson growled. ‘Lord Andrew, I do not know how you convinced my sister to dress in such attire to satisfy some strange craving you might have. I would never have thought you leaned that direction.’

Hell, Andrew thought as another realisation erupted inside him. He had erred. Just like his father. But he was not wed and he would not disgrace Tilly. ‘This woman and I,’ Andrew said, ‘are extremely fond of each other and are considering marriage.’

‘As if I’d let you marry her—’ Wilson exploded.

‘She’s old enough to decide for herself,’ Andrew said, his fists ready. ‘She’s on the shelf.’

‘She’s a widow,’ Wilson said.

Andrew lowered his hands and looked at her. Wilson had called her his sister. A widow. He’d heard of her. Thoughts pounded in his ears. This woman was not Tilly. ‘Beatrice the—?’

‘I would not continue that sentence,’ the woman on the bed told him, standing and smoothing down her skirt. Her mouth had a feral twist. ‘Else you will see what a beast I can truly be.’

* * *

The only sound since Andrew and Wilson entered the library had been the pouring and sloshing of liquid. The room couldn’t have been much wider than the length of two carriages, yet Andrew wagered his brother’s ducal town house lacked the same refinement. The filigree pattern of the gold had been subtly recreated in the weave of the curtains. Even the door panels had matching designs. Only the painting by the sconces jarred the room’s decor—an odd scene of a woodland frenzy with a growling bear, a badger-type animal and a dragon poised for combat.

The cabinet set back into the wall where the decanters rested wasn’t only to store things, but to display beautiful glass. Andrew stood at one edge of it, the architect at the other.

Andrew waited for Beatrice to join them. Wilson had insisted she change from what he’d referred to as her costume.

Beatrice the Beast. He’d nearly pounced on Beatrice the Beast. Not surprising, really. He’d let down his guard.

‘A marriage will be forthcoming,’ Andrew said. ‘I will not tarnish a gentlewoman’s reputation. It is unforgivable.’

‘I suppose she could do worse.’ Wilson broke the silence. ‘She has, in fact. Riverton. Thought an earl would do better by her than he did. Sad he died so. First, he waited too long after the wedding. When he did fall ill, he didn’t suffer enough. The bumble berry didn’t even appreciate good design when he saw it. If not for the generous marriage settlement on Beatrice and the provisions in his will... Still, I didn’t see how much of a scoundrel he’d become or I’d never have let him near Beatrice. Would have cracked him like a chestnut.’ He thumped his glass on to the wood and stared at Andrew. Wilson’s eyes reflected the sheen of brandy.

Andrew quirked his lips. ‘I certainly hope for Beatrice’s sake you could tackle something larger than a chestnut.’

‘I’m sure I could.’

Andrew moved, reaching for the decanter to pour more brandy into Wilson’s glass. He let his brandied breath reach the architect’s face. ‘If you need any help defending your sister, let me know. I will certainly be able to crack any chestnuts.’

Wilson’s brows acknowledged the statement. ‘Only reason I agreed to draw plans for you,’ Wilson said, ‘was because you appreciate a good design.’ His brows snapped together. ‘Look how you’ve repaid me. I created a masterpiece for you and you—’

‘I made an error, but I will correct it. I thought she was—someone else.’ He paused. ‘She is a fascinating woman.’ Andrew put the glass to his lips, let the brandy rest in his mouth, and then swallowed. ‘Even with the cap, she does burst into a person’s notice.’

‘You’re the first man I know of she’s shown any interest in since Riverton courted her, wed her and finally did the one decent thing of his life and died. Beatrice has such a sense of honour that she made me swear not to kill him.’ He chuckled, shaking his head in disbelief. ‘My trusting sister. If I were capable of murdering Riverton, I could certainly lie about it.’

The architect lifted the decanter. He poured more liquid, then thumped the container against the table top. ‘And you must know of the nickname she’s gathered in the papers because of the unfortunate incident with the scissors. It didn’t help when not too long after she hit Riverton’s carriage with a parasol because the lightskirt he’d loaned it to made such a spectacle of showing up at the house. Beatrice’s home.’ He swallowed a drink. ‘My sister’s actions catch every eye.’

‘With the scissors, she near cut her husband’s—leg off.’

Wilson shook his head. ‘Exaggeration. He healed. And he deserved it. At the time I was disappointed in her for not doing more damage.’ The architect’s eyes focused on Andrew and his voice burned into the air. ‘I dare say Beatrice would have little reason to dismember you. You keep your cards well hidden.’

Andrew nodded. He preferred to live his own life and not let others live it vicariously through the scandal sheets. He’d seen enough suffering because of their sharp-edged ink.

The architect shrugged. ‘You can’t be as bad as Riverton, or whatever else she might pull out from under a dustbin. I admit, Riverton presented well and I thought he would make a better husband than he did.’

The door crashed back and Beatrice swayed in, perched on slippers which would topple a lesser woman.

She waved an arm, ‘I hope you two have settled your differences. I must get a letter written to Mother so when she reads of this, she’ll not feel the need to interfere.’

She had a dazzling smile, chin out, and just the whisper of what might have been tears at her eyes.

‘Your brother and I have discussed this, Lady Riverton, and I would like to talk with you alone.’

Andrew knew he’d lost control in the bedchamber and she would not suffer for it. He would not repeat his father’s mistakes. Although he harboured no animosity towards his father, he retained the rage of how innocents could be hurt because someone else traipsed through mud and sloshed it in all directions. He would not cause anyone pain or embarrassment because of his actions.

‘No need.’ She raised her hand, fingers splayed, and rotated her wrist. ‘The scandal sheets need to fill their papers. People must have something to talk about. Better me than their neighbours.’ She moved her head, then stilled a moment as if posing for a drawing. ‘And I do make for a good tale.’