The Notorious Countess

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.

He was a man who could not even allow himself flaws. His clothes fit him to perfection and he was as comfortable at the soirée as if he were the duke himself. She felt like a scullery maid trying to be a countess. She always had to some extent, but then she had not been born into such a life. No matter how much she spent on clothing, her corset always chafed, or the pins in her hair fought to loosen, or her shoes tightened on her feet. She pretended to brush her glove over her shoulder, making sure her chemise had not slipped from under her dress. Luckily, her stockings remained in place. So far they had not tried to bunch at her ankles.

She’d like to be someone other than herself for one night, she supposed. Now she just wanted to leave. To get back to the studio and paint. To close herself into her world and forget about the words that might be printed about her. She did not belong at a soirée—she belonged at a studio.

When she opened her mouth to speak, he stepped away.

A memory surfaced—Riverton leaving while she begged him to stay and left her with the knowledge he was going to another woman. For a moment, a familiar emotion surfaced and stilled the blood in her veins. She took a breath, and reminded herself that Lord Andrew meant nothing and had promised nothing. Fate had brought them together, or Tilly, or a mistake, or whatever it could be called. He didn’t owe her anything, truly, and yet he’d agreed to help her. She would paint him. The art would be a gift to him. A thank-you for trying to retrieve her reputation. She could already imagine showing him a life-sized mirror image of himself.

‘Lady Riverton. We should perhaps return to the others and waltz.’ His voice barely reached her ears.

She considered her goal and then thought of him. ‘Andrew. If you don’t dance with me, you might not be connected to me. Let us part now.’

She hadn’t called him Lord Andrew, but he had not seemed to notice, which she appreciated. Riverton would have shot her a killing glare.

‘No. I am desperate for a waltz with you.’ His lips didn’t smile, but happy crinkles appeared at his eyes and his voice was just a touch more resounding, possibly able to carry to others. ‘A waltz, Beatrice?’

She kept her words for his ears only. ‘Don’t say you were not warned.’

‘Is your dancing that bad?’ His face tipped near hers, words soft.

She raised her chin. ‘It’s quite grand.’

He clasped his hand over her gloved fist and pulled it to his lips for a quick brush, then opened the door for her. ‘Then I will not give you an opportunity to refuse.’

When she stepped into his arms for the waltz, she did not care what was said about her, even in the past. It had led to this moment and this dance, and she looked into the eyes of her muse.

‘Andrew. You must pose for me. We did get along quite well the other night and we do now.’

‘I cannot be blamed for that. You looked so lovely in the spectacles and mob cap. I was overcome with madness,’ he whispered, but his eyes sparked humour. ‘And the name... I’ve always had a penchant for women named Tilly. Sadly, I was misled.’