The Incomparable Countess. Mary NicholsЧитать онлайн книгу.
Once in her bedchamber, she stood and looked at herself in the mirror. She was a perfect antidote. The gown, although it had been clean when she left the house three hours earlier, was spotted and rumpled and some of her hair had escaped its pins and was curling about her neck. There was a smudge on her nose and a scratch on the back of one hand where the kitten they had bought to help keep down the mice at the orphanage had scratched her. It had been her own fault for teasing it.
Rose was waiting for her, clucking her disapproval. ‘And the Duke of Loscoe standing on the step,’ she said, pulling the gown over Frances’s head. ‘What must he have thought of you?’ Rose had been with her a very long time and considered that gave her the right to speak her mind.
‘I do not care a fig what he thinks, Rose.’
‘What shall you tell him?’
‘About what?’
‘This,’ she said, throwing the grey dress into a corner in distaste.
‘Nothing. It is none of his business.’
‘It will give him a disgust of you.’
‘Do you think that bothers me, Rose? Do you think I lay sleepless at night, wondering what people think of me?’
‘No, my lady.’
But there had been a time when she had lain sleepless because of the man who waited for her in her drawing room and that thought brought a wry smile to her lips. She had pretended not to care then for her pride’s sake, but she did not need to pretend now, she told herself firmly, she did not care.
But even so, she had a feeling her ordered way of life was about to be eroded by a man she thought she had left far behind in her youth. If she had not known him before, if they were only now making each other’s acquaintance, would she feel any differently? Would she find him elegant and charming? She did not know. It was not possible to rewrite history.
Marcus prowled round the room and wondered what the lovely Countess was up to. The house was furnished in exquisite taste, with carpets and curtains in pale greens and fawns. There were paintings by the masters on the walls and one or two that were unsigned and which he guessed she had executed herself. There was a cabinet containing some beautiful porcelain and vases of fresh flowers on the tables.
In his experience, when aristocratic owners of beautiful houses fell on hard times, it showed in threadbare carpets or peeling paint or walls bare of valuable paintings, but this was a room of quiet opulence, with not a hint that there was anything wrong with its owner. So why was the Countess so shabbily attired? The Earl had left her well provided for, hadn’t he?
But she didn’t own the house, he reminded himself. It belonged to her stepson, the present Earl of Corringham. Did he keep his stepmother on short commons? Was that why she had to paint those sickening portraits and teach young ladies to draw? Oh, poor, poor Fanny. He was glad he had decided to visit her. Teaching Vinny would add to her income and he felt he owed her something for the way he had treated her in the past.
He was standing at the window, looking out on a perfectly maintained garden when he heard her enter. He turned towards her, a smile on his lips which he only just managed to stop becoming a gasp of surprise.
She was dressed in a dark green silk day gown. It had bands of velvet ribbon around the skirt and a low-cut square neck. But what was so startling was that it showed her figure off to perfection: the trim waist, the well-rounded bosom, the long, pale neck and the raven hair, pulled into a topknot and arranged in careful curls at the back of her head. Without the least attempt to appear girlish, she presented herself as still a young woman of astonishing beauty and great poise. She wore no jewellery; her lovely neck was unadorned. He felt a sudden urge to bury his face in the curve of it.
‘Countess.’ He bowed towards her, realising his smile had become a trifle fixed, as if he were afraid he would let it slip and all his thoughts and emotions would be laid bare.
‘I am sorry to have been so long,’ she said, without explaining why. ‘I hope refreshments were sent to you.’
‘Indeed, yes.’ He nodded towards the tray which a maidservant had put on one of the tables and which contained a teapot, cups and saucers and a plate of little cakes. ‘I have been waiting for you to come and share them with me.’
‘Then do sit down.’ She sat on a sofa and indicated the chair opposite. ‘I prefer tea at this time, but if you would rather have Madeira or sherry…’
‘No, tea will suit me very well.’ He lifted the skirt of his coat and sat down, his long legs, clad in buckskin riding breeches, stretched out in front of him. There was no fat on him, she realised; the shape of his calves and thighs was due to well-toned muscle.
She poured two cups of tea and handed one to him, pleased that her hand was as steady as a rock. ‘Please help yourself to a honey cake.’
‘No, thank you, though they do look delicious.’
She sipped her tea with what she hoped was cool detachment, but this mundane conversation was driving her mad. What did he want? Why had he come? He appeared to be sizing her up, as if he was trying to make up his mind whether she had been pining after him all the years they had been apart. Surely he did not hope to take up where they left off? If that were so he was insufferably conceited and she would soon show him how mistaken he was. ‘It is a lovely day,’ she said. ‘I am surprised you are not out riding. I believe Lady Lavinia is very fond of that exercise.’
‘She is indeed. We had a ride this morning, and I took her home half an hour since, but she finds riding in the park somewhat restricting and, as I have not brought her mare to London, she has perforce to use a hired hack.’
‘She will be glad to return to Derbyshire, then.’
‘Oh, I have no plans to return in the immediate future, so if she wants to ride, she must learn to bear it.’ He was waiting for her to ask why he was visiting her, she decided, and she would not satisfy him on that score, even if they sat exchanging small talk all day. He put his cup down and she smiled and asked him if he would like a second cup of tea.
‘No, thank you,’ he said, looking round the room. ‘You have a beautiful home.’
‘Thank you. I have enjoyed refurbishing it over the years. Of course, it now belongs to the present Earl, my stepson, but he has said I may consider it my home for as long as I wish.’
It would be different when he came fully into his inheritance on his twenty-fifth birthday, when the Essex estate and the London house would be handed over to him. Then she would have to find somewhere to live; she did not like the idea of living there under sufferance and certainly not after he married. And before long he would. Her steady, unruffled life was about to change, but she had been putting her head in the sand and doing nothing about it. However, sooner or later, she must.
‘It would be an inconsiderate son who said anything else, Countess.’
‘He is far from inconsiderate, my lord. I cannot have wished for a better son, and, before you ask, I have not been so fortunate as to have children of my own.’
‘I would not dream of asking such a personal question, my lady.’
She was cross with herself for allowing her agitation to show and picked up his cup and saucer and put it on the tray to give herself something to do with her hands. ‘Stanmore House is said to be a very fine example of a London house,’ she said, doing her best to retrieve the situation with an easy smile. ‘I am told the staircase is unique and the decoration of the reception rooms superb.’
‘Yes, but old-fashioned. My late wife did not like London and never came, so it has remained as it was in my mother’s time.’
She longed to ask why the Duchess had not liked London, but that would be as personal a question as asking her about her childlessness and she would not give him the satisfaction of pointing that out to her.
‘My daughter has never been