Counting on a Countess: The most outrageous Regency romance of 2019 that fans of Vanity Fair and Poldark will adore

Turning in her chair, Tamsyn fixed Lady Daleford with a cheerful smile, which was difficult to maintain in the face of censure. “You’ve found me,” Tamsyn said brightly.

“So I did.” Lady Daleford eyed the earl guardedly. “I find myself fatigued. It’s time we head home.”

Tamsyn’s chest constricted. She wasn’t ready to leave yet. Not when things with the earl seemed so promising. On many levels.

But first and foremost, she had to think logically. Though she had attracted Lord Blakemere’s interest, she feared it wasn’t enough to warrant him calling on her. He’d found other women wanting as potential brides. Why should she be different?

I can only be myself. That had to be enough.

Rising from her chair, Tamsyn looked at him with frankness. “I enjoyed our game.”

“The feeling is reciprocated,” he answered, standing. His movements were economical but smooth. He had command over his body.

They stood close. Far closer than was respectable. She had an aching awareness of the breadth of his shoulders and the way his evening clothes skimmed over his muscles. The earl was a soldier still, after two years of peace.

A small frown appeared between his brows, as though he was attempting to puzzle through an enigma. “Might I—”

“Now, Tamsyn,” Lady Daleford said in a clipped tone, already heading for the door.

Damn and hell, Tamsyn thought. Throwing Lord Blakemere a regretful look, she followed her companion out, though she could practically hear her body cry out, Wait! Go back!

Had she been successful? Was he intrigued enough to call on her? But she hadn’t given him leave to, nor had she told him where she was staying.

It seemed all she could do now was hope.

Kit’s eyes followed the intriguing Miss Tamsyn Pearce as she hurried out of the card room. He liked the way she moved with long, purposeful strides rather than using tiny, dainty steps. It wasn’t difficult to picture her tramping over wild, rolling countryside with her cheeks reddened by the wind, unconcerned by the mud edging the hem of her plain gown. He could well imagine that she was the sort of woman who needed to do something rather than restrict herself to being decorative.

He couldn’t deny his visceral reaction to her, either. Even now he felt the hot grip of desire, which had been heightened all the more by the seamless way in which they had played together. It had been a rhythmic give-and-take that had primed his body and excited his mind.

If nothing else, they would be a good match in bed. He knew this with a bodily certitude, an innate recognition of her sensual potential.

Was it enough on which to build a marriage? As he gazed at the door to the room—long after she’d vacated it—he searched for the instinctual aversion that had kept him from pursuing other ladies. But it wasn’t there. If anything, he yearned for more of Tamsyn Pearce.

She’d made her own interest clear. Yet she gazed at him not as a potential to keep her in luxury, but in the dark, elemental way women and men looked at each other.

He wasn’t a stranger to women making known their interest in him. Usually, such ladies were older, more familiar with the worldly ways of the ton. Tamsyn Pearce wasn’t a debutante fresh from the schoolroom, but she had only just come down from the country. She ought to be shy and diffident, yet she didn’t glance away when he looked at her.

She had refused to take the money they had won at cassino. So she wasn’t entirely mercenary.

Perhaps Miss Pearce was just as drawn to him as he was intrigued by her.

But she’d been dragged away by her sharp-eyed companion before he’d been able to ask about calling on her. Damn.

“The gel’s gone, Blakemere,” Lady Haighe said, rapping her knuckles on the card table. “So you can stop mooning after her like a sailor on shore leave.”

He always did like Lady Haighe. But now wasn’t the time to enjoy the baroness’s company.

“Please excuse me.” Kit bowed and hastened out of the card room, ignoring Lady Haighe’s muttered curses.

It took the work of a few moments to locate the night’s host, Lord Eblewhite. The viscount stood amidst a group of men and women gathered at one end of the ballroom. Someone had just said something mildly amusing, because the assembled company was all chuckling.

Kit set his hand on the viscount’s shoulder. “May I have a word in private, Eblewhite?”

“Of course, my lord.” The older man disengaged from his guests and together he and Kit walked to a quiet corner of the chamber. “How goes the search for a bride?” he asked heartily.

Kit fought to keep his impatience in check. Whatever drew him to Miss Pearce, he felt the snap of attraction. He couldn’t ignore the fact that time slipped by.

“You may be of assistance in that matter,” he replied. “What can you tell me about Miss Tamsyn Pearce?”

Lord Eblewhite frowned in thought. “There are so many girls here. I’ve trouble recalling ’em all, like picking out one sugared cake from a banquet full of ’em.”

“This particular cake comes from Cornwall and has red hair,” Kit noted.

The viscount’s brows rose. “Ah. Lady Daleford’s guest. She’s hosting the girl here in London.”

So that was the woman who snapped at him like a terrier. “What do you know of Miss Pearce?”

“A spinster, if I recall correctly.” Lord Eblewhite cast his gaze toward the ceiling as he scoured his memory. “Old Cornish gentry. Not much of a dowry—she’s from impecunious circumstances.”

Would that make her quick to spend his money, or would she watch every ha’penny? “Describe these circumstances,” Kit urged.

Eblewhite looked impatient to return to his guests, but said, “Lady Daleford spoke to Mrs. Osterland, who told Lady Eblewhite that the family manor house is falling down around them. There may be mines on the property. Perhaps not. The nearby village is barely getting by on farming or fishing, but I can’t recall.”

“Her family,” Kit pressed as Eblewhite started to edge away. “Tell me more about them.”

His host sighed. “A fount of information, Lady Daleford. Said her father was Baron Shawe, but he and the baroness died in a boating accident when the girl was in her teens. Went on a pleasure sail one morning and didn’t come back. Their wrecked boat was found a week later, but the bodies were never recovered. But there wasn’t a will, a damned shame. The girl barely brings a groat to her future husband.” Lord Eblewhite shook his head. “Frankly, I’m surprised she’d try for a Season in London, given her age and lack of dowry.” He shrugged his shoulders. “She’s pretty enough, I suppose. Make someone a good mistress.” The viscount rocked on his feet. “Already got one, myself, and can’t afford another. But you ought to give her a go.” He knocked the side of his fist against Kit’s shoulder in a show of manly bonhomie.

“Right now, I’m not looking for a mistress,” Kit answered. “Many thanks, Eblewhite.”

“Good luck on the hunt, Blakemere,” the viscount replied.

Kit bowed as he and Lord Eblewhite parted. Though the dancing and revelry would continue for several more hours, Kit was ready to leave. He avoided Society balls as much as possible, finding them dull and tedious, with an unfortunate lack of indecent behavior—a far cry from the revelry of a pleasure garden. But he’d gotten what he needed from the Eblewhite assembly, and it was time to go home and ponder his options.

Making his way out of the ballroom, he considered all he knew of Miss Pearce.

Item the First: she was poor with few prospects, so she wouldn’t mind a short courtship.

Item the Second: she didn’t appear to be a fortune hunter.

Item the Third: he could easily envision them spending pleasurable hours in bed together.

Conclusion: she was perfect.

Chapter 4 (#u7a856a6e-ba40-5dfc-9b62-df53e767eb99)

Kit stood at the foot of the front steps leading to Lady Daleford’s town house on Boswell Street, readying himself for the world’s shortest courtship. He had five full days remaining to meet the conditions of Somerby’s will.

He didn’t know if Miss Pearce would accept his brief attempts at wooing, let alone agree to marry. Ladies wanted long walks through sun-dappled fields and soul-stirring looks. They wanted romance. Or so Kit assumed, not having much experience with pursuing ladies’ hearts. He had considerable practice pursuing their bodies, however. That part could come after the wedding. Kit practically salivated as he imagined Miss Pearce’s taste. As a woman of gentle birth, she likely didn’t have much experience—and he couldn’t wait to show her the many ways he could give her pleasure.