The Notorious Countess

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.’

‘No.’ His voice quietened, but it didn’t lose the rumble, the masculine richness that pulled her like a vine twining towards the sun. ‘I can help you, though. We can create a new world around you. One in which you glitter as you should. This blunder tonight could be fortunate. It can be the moment you begin painting the world around you in the colours you wish.’

‘You are daft. No one has a brush that can do as you suggest.’

‘What is the harm in trying?’

She didn’t answer, with words, but her lips turned up. ‘You have lost your senses.’

‘I can help you.’

She examined his face. No laughter lurked. Brown eyes with the tiniest flecks of green studied her. In all her marriage—all her life—she’d never felt another person could see into her as deeply as he did.

She took a quick step back, breaking the connection—giving the world a chance to start moving again. ‘You really don’t know what you say.’

‘I will let you consider it, tonight,’ he said. ‘Tomorrow we will take a ride in the park. We can discuss it further then. You’ll have a chance to decide if you’d like to rebuild your reputation.’

He moved closer, leaning in, lips almost against her cheek. ‘Let that be the first thing you think of when you wake tomorrow.’

After he left, she wasn’t quite certain if he’d kissed her cheek or not, but she was certain her heart was beating.

Chapter Four

When Andrew returned to Wilson’s home the next day, the door opened one small creak at a time and the butler came into view. Andrew noted the crevasses of age on the man’s face. Wilson should have considered the man’s health. Ire spiked in Andrew’s body at the architect’s oversight. The frail servant should have been pensioned off years ago.

‘Please let Lady Riverton know that Lord Andrew awaits the moment when he might again be in her presence,’ Andrew said.

An infant could have taken a nap in the time it took for the man to nod. But the butler’s eyes now had nothing slow about them and he examined Andrew in much the same way a woman’s father might assess a suitor.

In the sitting room, Beatrice didn’t keep him waiting. She whooshed into the room within seconds of the door opening, beaming a greeting. She wore a dress the colour of a calm sky and the garment clung above the underlying corset, moving with each step. Even if he turned his back, he would have been aware of her.

She immediately asked if his carriage was ready and was at the door before he finished an answer.

When he assisted her into the curricle and her skirts swished by his hand, he wondered what he’d been thinking to take her for a ride in the park. At the time he only considered it a necessary means to increase the appearance of an established relationship between him and Beatrice. He hadn’t thought of the narrowness of the seats in the small open carriage and how close their bodies would press.

As the carriage turned into the park, a breeze wafted, cooling the air and bringing the floral perfume of Beatrice against his face. He didn’t miss the smell of baked goods. He much preferred the lavender.

Sitting shoulder to shoulder, aware of every one of her curves, he forced himself to think of plans for Beatrice’s reintroduction to society.

She turned her face to him. From the gentle brushes of movement at his side, he knew he need move only the barest amount and she would be in his arms.

‘I don’t think your sleep agreed with you,’ she mumbled. ‘You look quite grim.’

He nodded, aware of her fluid movements, confined by the seat, and yet she didn’t still. Her body moved constantly, checking its boundaries.

She coughed and lost all seriousness. ‘Did you, um, think of me last night?’

His thoughts jumped from her body to her words. ‘Of course.’

Her shoulders wobbled and she managed to squeeze so close to him he braced himself not to be pushed out of the other side of the conveyance. Tickles of warmth moved from the place she touched to flood his entire body. Wide eyes blinked up at him in feigned innocence. ‘I do have a place in the country...’ Then she grimaced. ‘Except it’s rather crowded. My mother’s there.’

‘I was trying to think of ways you might impress the ton.’

‘I did not think of that once after you left.’ She moved closer to her side of the curricle. ‘They cannot be impressed by me. I assure you. They’ve spent too many teatimes murmuring about what has happened in my past.’

Andrew slowed the horse.

‘Past. Present. The future. You must only consider the future now. I don’t believe anyone is really aware of the events of the night yet,’ Andrew mused, ‘so I want us to be noted today. A pre-emptive move for when Tilly’s words are spread about.’

He ignored the scepticism on her face. ‘Also, you might adopt a worthy cause and pour yourself into it. A cause which shows your heart. With your ability to draw attention you’ll gather print. At first people will be unimpressed, but over time you’ll gain acceptance. People are fascinated when others change from what is expected. Think reformed rakes. Ordinary people into war heroes. Women who sacrifice for others. Those gather a lot of discussion.’

‘So you think to tame the Beast.’

‘I think for you to tame her,’ he said. ‘Things have been exaggerated in your past and now you will merely control what is noticed and embellished.’

She gave a distinctive grimace and touched the blue at her sleeve. ‘Not the carriage incident.’

‘You must also refrain from rolling your eyes in public, I suppose. And smirking. And using scissors.’

‘Is this better?’ She brushed her shoulder against his again, kept her chin down and looked up at him. Her lips parted. ‘This is my entranced gaze.’

‘You do that very well.’ Too well. He could become quite lost in it. But that would never do. Her volatile nature caught his attention, but concerned him at the same time. He could help her become less explosive in public. True, she didn’t deserve all the bad reports. Those did not concern him in the least.

But the bursts of energy—the disorder of her spirit—those concerned him. She’d dressed in a mob cap and impersonated her companion. He smiled at the thought. His friends sometimes did outlandish things. Harris had once worn a bonnet and cape—nearly scaring Waters into an early grave. They’d all laughed for months over that. But friendship was one thing. A romance something else. And someone like Beatrice was best kept at a distance. He could not let himself become close to her. She was too much like wildfire and the night before he’d been closer to being dry tinder than steel.

There was a definite discreet nudge of her elbow to his side. She kept her eyes forward, but her head tilted in his direction. ‘You’re not terribly unpleasant to look at either, Andrew. Have you had your portrait done before?’

‘As a child. I hated it beyond belief. I had to stand still for hours while the artist scowled at me from head to toe.’

‘Trust me, I would not frown if I painted you.’

The lilt in her voice caused a similar response inside him. ‘It will not hurt for us to be seen about together. We can use the abruptness of it to your advantage and to add interest. We can both attend my older brother’s soirée and then, a few days later, the theatre. This will bring everyone’s attention to you afresh. You’ll have a chance to attract the right kind of notice.’

She did need some guidance concerning how her actions were interpreted by others and he could assist with that.

Her lips thinned. She sniffed in and then expelled the air with more force. ‘They may be wondering at what moment I will begin to attack you. The suspense of it all.’

‘Let that work in your favour now.’

‘It sounds like acting a part. A grand performance. I might like it a lot. Though you are sure your brother will not mind my presence?’

‘He will be delighted.’ Not really, but it didn’t matter. He’d be too refined to show even the flick of an eyebrow to anyone but Andrew.

She smiled and he could see the remains of the boisterous child she must have been. And something he didn’t think would ever be tamed. And some sort of planning of her own.

‘Beatrice,’ he said, firmly, reprimand in his words. ‘Think demure.’

With a little smirk of agreement, she blinked away her thoughts. ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘I’d like to be seen differently. With my brother being such a bear, and me being a beast, it would be wonderful to be invited—anywhere. My mother doesn’t know it, but she reminds me of a dragon.’

Now the portrait above the mantel in her brother’s house made sense.

Two public meetings with her should be enough. Perhaps three. He’d make sure some of the more retiring men noted her. Women were not the only wallflowers. Lord Simpson could hardly raise his eyes to anyone and he lived an exemplary life. Palmer was rough at every edge, yet he’d been faithfully married until his wife passed. Either of those men would be suitable for an adventurous woman such as Beatrice.

‘I understand. When Riverton and I courted, his past was seen as a youthful indiscretion. Older women smiled at us as if remembering how it felt. Young women looked enviously at me... Then, reality.’

Coldness replaced the warmth in her voice. ‘I was blissful—blissfully unaware of what a pit I was dancing into. Trust me. Marriage is a lovely thought, but a bad reality. If murder were not frowned upon so much, few marriages would last beyond two years.’

‘Your opinion is harsh.’

‘That opinion wasn’t pulled out of the air. It is based upon careful study, my marriage and eavesdropping.’

‘But my plans work on the premise that you are correct in how research is done by others. Now we must assume everyone is also taking careful study and eavesdropping. That will be to your advantage.’

‘It’s not been a boon in the past.’

‘It will now.’ He would guide her. She wasn’t the only one involved in this pretence, but his role in it would be short.

‘I would love to attend the duke’s soirée—if you are certain your brother will not toss me out—and I will act quite the perfect lady.’ She stretched her arm forward, fluttered a gloved hand at a passer-by and smiled warmly.

Without looking his way and in an undertone, she said, ‘I feel no one wishes to see me, but everyone wishes to watch me. But I will attend the soirée.’

He paused, reminded again of a baby bird fallen from its nest. He did not want Beatrice to feel alone in the world.

Chapter Five

Beatrice looked across the room and her stomach churned. Everyone in the ducal residence seemed too full of gaiety, except when she stood near. The scandal sheet had not been kind. Wilson had grumbled, but the plan to escort her to the duke’s soirée had pleased him. She imagined everyone wondering if she’d truly been invited.

If Andrew had seen the scandal sheet, he might have decided to call the whole thing off. He would be wise to do so. He’d not even been mentioned. Apparently Tilly hadn’t recognised him and the servants probably had not even known who he was.

Chattering voices, smiling faces and a sea of glasses going bottoms up, and the feeling that everyone in the room was speculating about her private life—as if she’d had one since she married.

So much like when her glittering world as Riverton’s countess had crashed.

Had she known how events would unfold, she still would have stopped Riverton when he attacked the maid, but she wouldn’t have kept quiet and let his version of what happened become labelled as fact. And she would have found another way to convince his mistress that she wasn’t welcome.

She looked to the doorway, wondering if Andrew would arrive. She tamped down those thoughts. At least she could be certain if he did arrive he would not be sotted. Long ago she’d learned it was better not to coerce a man into attending an event where he didn’t wish to be.

Then two men entered the grand doorway and Beatrice knew who they were just from their outline.

Since the unfortunate encounter, she’d discovered all she could of Andrew and his family. She’d already known of Foxworthy. Every woman in the ton knew of Foxworthy. Andrew she’d only known of from her brother. Wilson had made him sound so tedious. He’d complained that Andrew often asked for the near impossible to be designed, and Wilson had made Andrew sound meticulously stuffy.

Seeing the cousins side by side, though, one didn’t doubt their bloodlines. If they hadn’t already been written up in Debrett’s, then she supposed the regent would take one look at them, consider it an oversight and rush to correct the error. No woman in the country would even think of questioning a decision like that. The mothers of unmarried daughters would merely rub gloved palms together—thankful of a boon for the marriage mart.

Dressed in black evening wear, the men appeared to be bookends of each other, but her eyes never really made it to their faces. Both stood tall enough to clear a regular-sized door, but only just. Framed by the entrance, they appeared as works of art.

She tried to imagine how she’d missed Andrew before. Possibly because Riverton had taken so much of her and she hadn’t been about in society much since then.

She’d been very young and entranced with Riverton when he’d approached her father and brother with a dream for a new mansion. She’d been too much in love and too green to have any idea what he would be like. His family had flatly forbidden the union, which she knew now had earned her a proposal and a special licence. Riverton had been doted on far too much to believe he didn’t have a right to his every wish and he’d been one toddle away from falling into a tangle of his own excesses. Perhaps he’d thought she could save him. Or perhaps he’d known she couldn’t.

Watching, she could tell when the men’s presence became noticed. Women began to flutter around Foxworthy. One would have thought the sun had just risen. And Fox was clucking to the cluster, gathering them, letting them fluff and preen, while he crowed and postured.

Andrew excused himself and moved aside. Women tried to catch his eye, but he never noticed, intent on stepping away, eyes searching. She knew the very instant he became aware of her, because he stilled.

Her thoughts exploded with possibilities. Her breathing quickened. Strong jaw. Yes. Nose. Yes. Pleasant skin. Brows. All the normal male attributes, arranged in just the right proportions. What she wouldn’t give to pull that white cravat aside and see his Adam’s apple. She could almost feel it under her hand. Little bristles from shaving. Masculine mixed with softness of skin. Her mind instantly took care of the excess clothing for her, letting her imagination see him as if no barrier existed.

Beatrice kept her face serene. His body would be perfect for art. It was much like his thoughts if the dearth of information about him was to be believed. Pristine. Cautious. Wilson said Lord Andrew had refused to accept less than perfection from any of the craftsmen he’d hired to work on his properties. A man who did not tolerate flaws well.

He walked to her, moving among the other guests with a quick word here and there, but with little detour. She watched his movements more closely than she’d ever studied another man. Other needs had been foremost in her mind on the night they’d met, but now she could see him with shadows flowing over his face. This was the man she’d been looking for, if not all her life, then at least for a year. If she could convince him to let his hair become a bit unkempt. His jaw could use a bit of darkness on it, too. The valet would have to spare the razor perhaps. She could paint him as a knight, a rogue, a rake for any century.

Yes, the man was exactly what she needed for inspiration. Already she could imagine him, standing bold, sunlight flowing haphazardly over him. The contrast of light and shadows emphasising the nature of a person, good and bad. If he held a sword, tip into the ground beneath him, perhaps a sheen of moisture on his face, hair in damp spikes on his forehead, framing his eyes. Standing as if he’d been awakened from another century, and risen, ready to do battle with whatever the fates thrust his way.

She might well send Tilly the amethysts with a lovely note. Not any time soon, though.

When he stopped in front of her, she looked up into the depths of dark eyes. Her words crumbled at his feet even before they were spoken. His jawline was firm, but not too long to detract from the beauty of his face. It only made him seem stronger. And she knew, if he were to gain weight as years passed, the thinness of his cheeks would fill and he would only become better to view.

She imagined all the ravages of life she could think of on his face. Andrew would not disappoint in later years. His bone structure was that of society’s world, but her brother had said he’d dressed in workman’s clothing at the back of his home where repairs were being done. Wilson claimed Andrew had selected the men who worked on his repairs, inspected their work and directed them. Looking at Andrew, she could imagine him bounding up a ladder, scampering along the frame of a roof, or carrying lumber on his shoulder. Her fingers burned to return to her brushes. She could not speak.

The night she’d first met him would have been so different if she’d known. He would have walked into a room lit by a thousand candles and her eyes wouldn’t have blinked.

‘Lady Riverton,’ he spoke courteously, but nothing soothed her in his countenance. She suspected he didn’t enjoy the attention turned his way.

Watching his expression, she flicked a finger against the back of the amethyst earrings he’d sent. They’d arrived that morning. His eyes flashed a glint of a smile and his lips firmed, but he appeared to struggle to keep them that way.

‘Lord Andrew.’ She waited half a breath. The moment passed and it almost felt as if they were strangers. The man in public did not seem quite the same as in private. But that was for the best. It would not do to become close to him.

But she wanted to paint him. Certain risks came with that. She had never been able to distance herself from a model completely.

‘This is my entranced look for today,’ she said, covering for the fact that she knew she gazed at him too strongly.

His nod would have been imperceptible to anyone standing near.

‘I thought you might wish to change our—your plans after the sheet was printed. You weren’t named,’ she said. She didn’t want him trapped in any mire. He would not take well to it.

He leaned in slowly, his voice strong, assured and moving over her like a warm fog enveloping a valley. ‘The plans have not changed, Beatrice.’

In response, he took her gloved hand and tucked it around his arm. ‘The only reason I did not approach the man who printed that trash and thrash him is because he will be quite useful.’

His breath brushed past her ears. Her heart beat in her chest, her knees and her toes. He had to know every eye in the room was on them.

Her mind recovered first and then she gasped. Yes, he knew everyone watched. She could not let herself be fooled.

His eyes tightened. ‘Are you choked? Do you need a glass of lemonade?’

‘Only the glass. Perhaps with something else inside it.’ She had to get herself out of the crush of people. To think. ‘Later.’ Those same butterflies in the brain feeling from before. Oh, she could not let herself fall into that chasm.

She must talk to him privately. It would look as if they were moving away to be alone because they were besotted. He might not react well, but so be it.

The scent of shaving soap bathed her, but then she realised the aroma might not be shaving soap, but laundered wool, mixed with leather and something she couldn’t quite place. Then she remembered. When the carriage house had been expanded, that gentle scent had wafted through the air mixed with the sound of hammers. She shivered inside. He really did smell a bit like a forest.

If she could translate this man into a portrait, it would be her masterpiece.

She leaned closer as they walked. ‘I must paint you,’ she whispered.

His feet stopped abruptly, causing her shoulder to bump into his, her opposing foot swinging wide. He steadied her.

He raised a brow as he moved forward with her. ‘No.’ He proceeded on, leading her through another doorway and to the entrance of the duke’s gardens. They stood on the steps, the doors behind them. In front, light shone to the open grounds. Several people lingered about, but far enough away to ensure privacy for Beatrice’s words.

‘No?’ she said. ‘I’m quite experienced. I assure you. I’m naturally talented.’

‘I am certain.’ He pulled his arm from hers, but he remained close, his words low. ‘I do not have time to be painted. I have too many irons in the fire as it is. I have no time for it.’

Someone chattered, moving closer. She smiled while tightening her arm.

Voice low, she whispered, ‘You should make time for art.’

For a moment, neither spoke, moving aside for a couple to return inside. Once the door snapped shut behind them, he gave her a rueful smile.

‘I admit, I do appreciate that likenesses are captured for the family to view after a person is gone. But that is about the extent of my tolerance for such things.’

‘Art is my reason for life.’ What spirit possessed her, she didn’t know or care—it always remained nearby. She wondered if she wanted to push him away.