Читать книгу Counting on a Countess: The most outrageous Regency romance of 2019 that fans of Vanity Fair and Poldark will adore - Eva Leigh, Eva Leigh - Страница 12

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.

“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.

The corners of his eyes crinkled as he smiled, but there was no mistaking the desire in his gaze. “We may be entering into this union with practical intentions, but I’m a man before I’m a businessman. And I’d very much enjoy kissing my future wife.”

“I . . . oh.” She glanced at his lips. They were curved and well formed, and she feared what they would feel like against her mouth. She suspected that he knew the art of kissing and could make a woman surrender everything with just his mouth.

“Don’t be afraid,” he murmured. “I’ll make it good for you.”

That’s what I’m afraid of.

But I want to know. I want to taste him.

She drew in a breath. “You may kiss me.”

He leaned closer to her, slowly, as if afraid of frightening her. Engulfed by his masculinity, she grew light-headed. There was faint stubble on his jaw and cheeks where his beard would come in. Would it be gold or brown or even reddish? It was a shame that beards weren’t fashionable, because there was something so definitively masculine about them. If she had her way—

Her thoughts stuttered and died as he pressed his lips to hers, and her eyes fluttered shut. She sank into the sensation of his mouth gently stroking back and forth, as if learning her, testing the feel of him and her together. He lingered that way for a while, as if in no hurry to speed the process along. If kissing was music, then he was a maestro, building gradually, allowing the melody to take shape before plunging ahead.

The press of his lips grew firmer, and she found herself meeting him, leaning into the kiss and letting it delve deeper. At her response, a low sound of approval rose up from his chest. He slowly urged her lips apart and took the kiss further. The very tip of his tongue dipped to taste her. Without thought, she nipped at his tongue and met it with her own.

Hot electricity shot through her. It coursed along her body, forking into bright strands that wove through her breasts and between her legs. She inhaled sharply, stunned by the sudden, powerful sensations.

I’m going to be married to this man? Mercy.

They pulled back in unison and her eyes flew open. His gaze was clouded with dazed pleasure and astonishment.

It seemed he’d also been shocked by the heat of their kiss and the speed of its intensity. He, a known rake and libertine, looked aroused by what surely had to be one of the chastest kisses he’d experienced in a long while.

Except it hadn’t been chaste. It had been brief, but their tongues lightly touching had been profoundly erotic, hinting at greater pleasure to come.

He cleared his throat. “That was . . . a welcome revelation.”

Her thoughts whirled while her body clamored for more. Hellfire—if this quick kiss had affected her so much, what would happen when they went to bed together? What if she liked it? What if she loved it, and her heart followed her body’s devotion? Then she’d have to reconcile herself to him leaving her bed for another.

“I should be getting back,” she said.

“Yes.”

She stood, and he did the same, but it was then that she realized their hands were still clasped. She let him go at once, dropping him as though he burned.

“Let’s get you home.” He held out his arm.

Still shaken by the kiss, her legs wobbled slightly as they headed toward Lady Daleford’s town home, with Nessa trailing after them. Tamsyn looked back at her friend, who responded with a grin and a raised thumb.

“I’ll go for the special license tomorrow,” the earl said. “I can pick the venue, too, unless you’d like to make the selection.”

“I trust you.” Did she? Tamsyn was about to join with this man for the rest of her life. Aside from a few facts, she knew almost nothing about him. He was basically a stranger. Yet in three days, they would share a bed. They would share everything. According to the law, she would belong to him, and her own identity would dissolve.

Was this the right choice? She’d gotten what she wanted, but she couldn’t help the fear that poked its sharp fangs into her heart.

I have no idea what I’m getting myself into.