The Notorious Countess

She folded the paper and tapped the edge against her bottom lip, a scent of masculine spice touching her nose. But he was too old, surely, to be a virgin.

Sniffing the paper, Beatrice remembered the curling warmth she’d first experienced in Riverton’s arms and how precious she’d felt. She grimaced. Those feelings had changed. Riverton had a gift for saying anything a woman wanted to hear, up to and including a marriage proposal.

When he’d told her that her lack of height made her even more beautiful, she’d not minded wearing the slippers with no heels. He’d even complimented the bit of imperfection of her nose being longish and the way her brown hair always curled and curled. He’d sworn sirens must have looked exactly the same to have been able to entrance so many men. Riverton knew exactly what she’d been unsure of and he’d fanned the insecurity away, pulling her into his web.

She’d never again be so daft. But no matter how much she wished otherwise, she’d loved the feeling of being cherished. Of course, she later discovered she’d have been better off falling in love with a maggot-infested rotting carcase. She was hard-pressed to tell the difference.

Now she was left with the memory of betrayal, and how much a man’s caresses could soothe and deceive. And the utter aloneness of being utterly alone. A man could visit a brothel and heads turned the other way, pretending to see nothing. Women, however, had no such meeting place.

She had no wish to court, or do anything to risk another marriage, but she longed to be held. Most widows could be free with their affections—but ones with the notoriety she had didn’t get many requests for late-night waltzes. She hadn’t really been aiming for Riverton’s private parts after he’d released the maid and turned on her instead, but he’d spread that tale from Seven Dials to Bond Street. He’d even claimed to have been asleep at the time.

What man would court a woman who might trim his anatomy while he slept?

To be held again would be nice... But for him to have to pay Tilly? She shut her eyes and shook her head. One could not imagine how ghastly he must look. She shuddered, imagining the popping waistcoat buttons and a scalp with little white flecks outnumbering the strands of hair. Perhaps his nose was longish, too. She gazed in the mirror, turned her head sideways and sighed. Her mother’s nose.

She crumpled the paper slowly. Even for the most dazzling earrings Tilly was terrible to do such a thing.

Or maybe Tilly was lonely. Incredibly lonely. Beatrice wrapped her arms around herself. Snuffed candles could do wonders for a man’s bad complexion. And wine. A lot of wine.

And a duke’s younger brother. She wasn’t sure which duke—most of them were so advanced in years she’d paid more attention to their grandsons than younger brothers or even sons. Surely this one would appreciate a little less than what Tilly would have offered. A virgin could be cuddled and coddled, and would leave thinking he’d been given a quite wonderful treat. She could even give him the little love nibbles that had always sent Riverton into those spasms of bad poetry.

And she would not let his age diminish him in her sight.

The lord might appreciate the care of a sensitive woman. Small niceties. She believed strongly in helping those less fortunate. The needy. The terribly, terribly lonely. Perhaps he was just very shy.

She walked to Tilly’s mirror and reached up, releasing her brown hair to flow around her shoulders. Then she grasped the strands, jerked the hair into a severe knot to capture the curls and jabbed the pins in. Not her best look, she realised, noticing how the bun listed to one side. She’d have to cover her hair anyway.

But if Tilly could wear Beatrice’s clothes, and her perfume, then perhaps Beatrice could wear a mob cap with ties under the chin and take Tilly’s room. And the housekeeper, Mrs Standen, had some hideous frocks stored. A pair of spectacles she used when mending. Even if Beatrice happened to meet the lord later, she doubted he’d recognise her.

Beatrice hoped Mrs Standen wouldn’t mind parting with some of her perfume, too. Beatrice swore the old woman mixed vanilla and cinnamon—because she always smelled as though she’d been rolled in confectioneries. A perfect scent to entice a mature virgin. She’d see if she could turn a sow’s ear into a delightful diversion—and give the poor old man a memory to take to his grave.

He’d never know she was Lady Riverton, or—she snorted—according to the scandal sheets, Beatrice the Beast.

* * *

Andrew ignored the view of the town houses out the carriage window, thinking back to Fox’s words. This was just another example of uncontrolled emotions destroying someone’s life. This woman had let her heart lead her and now that same heart was on the verge of destroying her.

This would not be the first time he’d seen a woman distressed over a man’s perfidy and had to calm her. Fox knew. Andrew had confided in Fox years ago.

But that was the past. Life went on—usually.

He’d taken great pains with his appearance, knowing the importance of creating a look of assurance and authority. Fawsett, his valet, had practically hummed his approval. The white cravat lay just so and the black frock coat accentuated Andrew’s lean form, and fit him with the same precision a suit of armour might. His chin burned from the close shave and the careful application of the shaving soap which reminded him of the mild scent of freshly sawn wood. He inhaled deeply.

He’d been pleased at the maid’s quick appraisal before she skittered away when he’d been leaving his home. He’d seen a certain glint behind her eyes.

The boots, new. The clothing—impeccable. Hair freshly trimmed and he’d had to stop Fawsett to keep him from combing the dark locks into waves.

He stepped down from the conveyance and paused. He recognised the house. He’d not heard the address or he would have known. This was the architect’s house. The one he’d hired to make drawings for the renovations he’d had done. A brute of a man who would have been entirely too tiresome except he was better than Nash. Only his reputation for throttling people who disagreed with his quest for perfection kept him from being the most sought-after architect in England.

But, perhaps a mistake had been made.

He looked to the driver. ‘Are you sure this is the residence Fox mentioned?’

The man nodded. ‘Yes. Foxworthy told me to see you to the servants’ entrance.’

Andrew felt little hiccoughs of despair in his midsection. He hoped this woman was not someone he’d seen before or would be seeing again. He did not want to meet her and feel her embarrassment later when she recalled their conversation.

He trekked the steps which led to the tradesmen’s entrance almost directly under the main door and was one level lower than the street.

He’d barely knocked when the latch opened. A shadowed face stared at him.

Blazes. This was Fox’s amour?

She wore one of the little caps like his grandmother had worn and spectacles, and her hair escaped from under the cap and straggled around her face. The tiny candle she held gave her shadows he supposed he should be thankful for, and the dress—long-sleeved with hanging things and loopy frizzles around her neck. His grandmother would never have worn anything so frightfully odd looking.

Surely she wasn’t—? ‘Tilly?’ he asked.

She raised the candle up, then down, then up again. He’d never seen a candle follow the gaze so.

‘Dash it,’ she muttered and took a step forward, nearly singeing him with the flames. He stepped away from the tiny wick.

‘Tilly?’ he repeated, knowing without any hesitation she was Tilly.

Andrew looked at the spinster, clamped his jaw and then opened his mouth, choosing his words delicately.

She let out a whoosh of air, nearly putting the candle out. He stepped backwards and she lunged, grabbing his sleeve. ‘Inside. Quick.’

He hardly had a choice—she was about to burn him with the flame. He puffed the candle out.

Dragging him into the house by his arm, she muttered, ‘Dark. Pardon. Follow me. I know the way.’

He kept his steps guarded, hoping not to trip over her skirts.

‘Oh, my,’ she muttered, moving towards a narrow band of stairs, pulling him along behind her.

He planted his feet firmly at the base of the stairway used by the servants. ‘Fox is deeply distressed—’

She turned to him, still gripping his sleeve. ‘Shh,’ she whispered. ‘We can talk in...’ she paused ‘...upstairs.’

‘Very well.’ He must accept that she had to guard her reputation.

* * *

She opened the door to a cramped room with a small bed, not big enough for his length. A wardrobe hulked over the space in the corner. A rather unappealing chamber, although it was hard to tell with only an insignificant candle lit—far from the bed. The room had cooled from the day’s heat.

She lit a lamp and placed it beside the candle. Then she pulled the chair closer to the bed, pointing him towards the seat of it. She sat on the bed and held out her arm, indicating he sit. Next, she clasped both hands on her knees.

This was not the shy, grief-stricken woman he’d expected. He sat. ‘You appear to be forgetting about my cousin rather well.’