Counting on a Countess Read online

  He strode to the window and parted the curtains to look out at the darkness that mirrored his own shadowed thoughts. Too much silence unnerved him, reminding him of the calm before an ambush.

  Remember your objective. Woo her, get the money, build the pleasure garden. It was the light to his darkness, illuminating his way back to life in peacetime.

  There was no reason why he couldn’t enjoy courting his wife. But Tamsyn wasn’t the cure for his somber illness. She wouldn’t lead him out of the perpetual war being waged in his mind, his heart. He knew of only one thing that could finally give him tranquility.

  Tonight he’d go to his solitary bed, planning the next step in his campaign of seduction.

  Chapter 14

  Any rake of value knew that the theater was the prime place to find mischief. Like other young men of breeding, Kit had stalked many of London’s playhouses. He’d gather with other bucks in the lobby, trading barbs and posturing, all the while on the lookout for pretty, available women. Then it would be on to the pit and even more roguery.

  Despite his long history of pleasure seeking at the theater, a new excitement pulsed just beneath the surface of his skin as he escorted Tamsyn through the doors of the Imperial Theatre.

  He paid little attention to the elegant lobby, or the smartly dressed crowd milling around before the first performance. All his attention was focused on his wife.

  She held on to his arm as she looked with wide-eyed fascination at the exhilarating milieu. Her gaze was never at rest—staring at a puffery of dandies posturing near a column, following the progress of some daringly clothed courtesans as they tried to catch the attention of the dandies, or lingering on a well-to-do matron’s elaborately dressed hair. Voices clashed together and reverberated off the lobby’s low ceiling, and all around was the press of many bodies as everyone fought to see and be seen.

  A thread of apprehension wove up his back, but he tried to ignore it even as the sound crushed him and the walls loomed close.

  Push it back. Don’t give it room to breathe.

  Damned war. Since its end, large, noisy crowds could inspire notes of uneasiness in him. Only when he tracked an escape path did the concern fade.

  It was an irritating habit, yet he managed to live with it. He made himself focus on the delights of the evening rather than give any more attention to his darker thoughts. He donned the mask of a man fully at ease with himself and the world.

  “Are you all right?” Tamsyn asked with concern.

  How had she seen through his disguise? No one else ever had, not even Langdon.

  “Never better,” he answered.

  Despite his disquiet, his gaze lingered on Tamsyn’s lips while his body revisited the kiss they’d shared last night. He’d gone to bed hard and aching, wanting more of her. But he would go as slowly as necessary, moving forward incrementally, until she came to him willingly.

  Tonight was for her enjoyment. He’d mulled over ideas about what she’d like, what would bring her pleasure—and then he’d come up with this plan. A novel kind of nervousness danced along his limbs as he escorted her through the theater. Would she like what he’d arranged for her? Would it bring them closer together?

  “Don’t mind the crush,” he said into her ear, trying to be heard above the din. He caught her floral fragrance and it acted as a balm to the edginess he felt in crowds. “Some prefer Theatre Royal or the Haymarket,” he replied, guiding her around another clutch of young bucks. “But they can get tiresomely overcrowded.”

  “This isn’t?” she asked. “Any more people packed in here and I think the roof will pop right off.”

  He grinned. “The Imperial’s grown more popular since Mrs. Delamere, the playwright, married the Viscount Marwood and became a viscountess. Helps, too, that she writes a damned fine burletta.”

  “Is one of her burlettas on the bill tonight?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  He was about to elaborate on the talent of the viscountess when a male voice cried out, “Beggar me, is that Blakemere?”

  “So it is,” Kit said smoothly as he turned to a ruddy-faced gentleman moving toward him. Several other finely attired men followed, their faces also flushed from heat and—more likely—imbibing a healthy amount of wine before the performance. “Hatfield, how the deuces are you?” He stuck out his hand.

  Edwin Hatfield shook his hand with the same eagerness with which he did everything. His gaze moved appreciatively over Tamsyn, lingering on her face and the low neckline of her peach gown.

  Kit’s chest tightened and his jaw went rigid. “My dear, may I introduce Mr. Edwin Hatfield. This is my wife, scoundrel, so keep your ogling to a minimum else we’ll have an appointment at dawn.” He realized a moment later that he’d said this only half in jest.

  Tamsyn offered her hand and Hatfield bowed over it. He said gallantly, “The luck that kept Blakemere alive on the Continent must have surely followed him here, to marry such a gem as yourself.”

  “Perhaps, on both counts, it was more strategy than luck,” she answered.

  Hatfield laughed heartily, his laughter followed a moment later by his hangers-on.

  Kit quickly ran through introductions to the set of young men he’d recently been a part of.

  “Will you be joining us in the pit?” Hatfield pressed. Men of leisure almost always paraded their way through the theater’s pit, boasting, flirting with ladies of fast reputation, and generally making nuisances of themselves.

  At Hatfield’s query, Tamsyn looked at him, her brows lifted in a question.

  “My days of shouldering through that mob have passed,” Kit said without much regret.

  “I see how it is,” Hatfield answered glumly. “Get yourself a wife and full coffers, and suddenly you’re a stranger.”

  “It’s a sad, old story, my friend,” Kit replied. “Who am I to change the narrative? Now, if you’ll excuse us, we’re heading toward our seats.”

  Before Hatfield or any of the others could speak, Kit guided Tamsyn away.

  “We didn’t linger,” she noted. “But they’re your friends.”

  “Were my friends,” he corrected. “Heirs and younger sons, the lot of them. They’ve little to do with themselves all day but run from one amusement to the next.” He led her toward a curved staircase, and together, they ascended.

  “Sounds rather aimless,” she mused.

  “It is. Dedicated to filling time with meaningless diversions.”

  She eyed him as they continued to climb the stairs. “You miss it.”

  He waited for a pang of longing for that life. Oddly, none came. If anything, he felt more wearily tolerant than envious of his former set. It felt far better to be at her side and watch the play of excited emotions across her face. “Lately, there are other matters vying for my attention. Far worthier matters.”

  “You could continue to join them,” she offered, which puzzled him. He had little experience with marriage, but he would have thought a wife demanded the presence of her husband at home.

  “Let’s not discuss those purposeless reprobates,” he said. They reached the top of the stairs and he took them down a corridor lined on one side with curtains. “Tonight, we have eyes only for the stage. Ah, here we are.”

  He swept aside one of the curtains, revealing a theater box. Several seats were arranged near the railing, and there was also a bench. The box itself stood empty.

  As he moved into the enclosure, Tamsyn stopped at the entrance. “Kit, this is a private box.”

  He turned to face her. “What of it?”

  “This is where the wealthy and important people sit.”

  “We are the wealthy and important people,” he reminded her.

  “Did your allowance cover it?” She had accompanied him to the bank that afternoon when he went to withdraw a goodly portion of his quarterly allotment of money.

  “This is mostly on credit. It’s how everyone of fashion pays for everything.” He tried to smother the worry that chur
ned in his gut. “I wanted to please you with a surprise. I hope I wasn’t wrong to do so.” He gave her a smile that had softened many women’s hearts.

  After a long moment, she shook her head, murmuring, “Not wrong,” and he let out his breath.

  He held out his hand.

  Slowly, she took it. His body tightened at the slide of her gloved fingers as they glided over his palm. But other sensations threaded through him—elation and tranquility.

  He brought her forward, leading her to the chair set up in front of the railing. Instead of sitting, she looked around, from the empty stage to the crowded pit, to the tiers of seats where the more well-to-do audience members sat. Finally, she gazed at the other boxes as they filled with London’s elite.

  A few people called up to Kit, some from the pit and others from the boxes. He nodded a greeting but didn’t invite anyone to join them. He wanted this time alone with Tamsyn.

  Glancing at his wife, he noticed her scowling.

  “Would you like to change boxes?” he asked. “I know the management. We can have it done in a trice.”

  “Do any have screens?” At his perplexed look, she explained with an irritated expression, “People keep staring at me.”

  He scanned the crowd. Many pairs of eyes turned in Tamsyn’s direction, some bold, others more discreet in their attempt to study her.

  “They want a look at the scandalous woman who consented to a one-week courtship,” she said grimly.

  “Possibly,” Kit replied, gazing at her. “More likely, it’s because you’re one of the loveliest women here.”

  Though her cheeks were already flushed from the heat of the theater, her blush deepened. “You’re lavish with compliments.”

  “I am truthful,” he returned. With her russet hair piled artfully atop her head, showing off her slim neck, her peach gown bringing out her complexion, and her hazel eyes bright as she gazed back at him, he spoke the truth.

  Kit nodded and waved at a few more audience members vying for his attention.

  “Feels like I’m standing beside the sun,” Tamsyn noted wryly. “Everyone wants to bask in your glow.”

  “Some are friends,” he answered offhandedly. “Others only see me since I received the earldom. I’d rather be appreciated for who I’ve always been than what I’ve become.”

  Yet—he hadn’t always felt this way. He’d been married all of a few days, and in that time, he sensed something shifting within him with an internal realignment. Last night had been so much quieter than how he normally spent his evenings. However, the hours he’d spent in her company had been pleasurable and gratifying. He hadn’t longed to be with his wild compatriots or carousing with people of easy morals.

  He’d wanted to be with Tamsyn.

  As he did tonight. If given the choice between joining the bucks in the pit or staying in the theater box with his wife, he’d rather be with her. To see her smile, listen to her stories, flirt with her just to see more of her magnificent, redheaded blushes.

  Movement on the stage caught Kit’s eye. The curtains lifted as the orchestra struck up a dramatic tune.

  “The performance is beginning,” he murmured in Tamsyn’s ear. “We’re lucky—tonight is the debut of the viscountess’s newest burletta.”

  Tamsyn took the seat he proffered, and he sat himself beside her. Only when they were both ensconced in their chairs did he realize that they continued to hold hands. Rosy-colored happiness stole up his arm and wove through him as he contemplated their intertwined fingers. He realized at that moment that there was more to physicality than the satisfying of bodily needs. There was closeness, and the warmth that came from being near someone extraordinary.

  Tamsyn didn’t appear to notice their hands were still joined. Instead, her gaze was riveted on the stage as a trio of actresses appeared. Because the Imperial didn’t have a royal patent, unlike Covent Garden or Drury Lane, the works presented here had to include music. The performers half sang, half spoke their lines, like a recitative in an opera. As the actresses onstage sang, the audience quickly fell under their spell. Some cried out encouragement to the characters or hissed at the villains, but on the whole, comments from the crowd remained at a minimum.

  Both he and Tamsyn leaned forward in their seats, gazes fixed firmly on the performance as it unfolded before them. There were disguises, secrets, kidnappings, love lost and found. More than a few times Kit glanced over at Tamsyn and saw a shining tear roll down her cheek. His own eyes felt a trifle hot and itchy, especially when the two lovers were reunited after much tribulation.

  As the curtain fell, the audience roared its approval. Those who were seated surged to their feet as they clapped—including Kit and Tamsyn. The actors came out to take their bows, and finally, one of the performers pulled a diminutive dark-haired woman from the wings. The applause grew louder.

  “Is that the Viscountess Marwood?” Tamsyn asked above the din.

  “The very same,” he answered. “Usually, the author of the works isn’t brought out at the end.”

  “She deserves her own accolades,” Tamsyn said, then cried out, “Brava!”

  The cry was repeated around the theater, and the viscountess gave a grateful, humble curtsy before hurrying back into the wings. Finally, the actors retreated backstage and the applause quieted.

  “There’s a comic farce and some dancing after the intermission,” Kit noted.

  “I doubt anything could top what we’ve just seen,” Tamsyn answered with a laugh. She eased back into her seat. “But I’d like to stay.”

  “I’ll get us some refreshments. A lemonade for my lady?”

  Her eyes gleamed as she looked up at him, her smile wide. “Yes, please, my lord.”

  Kit hurried out into the massing throng in the corridors. He maneuvered quickly through the crowd, hardly stopping whenever someone tried to get his attention. Generally, he loved lingering between performances, feeding off the excitement and energy of the other theatergoers. Yet impatience nipped at him whenever some buck blocked his path and congratulated him on his newly acquired fortune. He barely glanced at the courtesans batting their eyes at him.

  Bellying up to the refreshment stand, he purchased a lemonade and some sugared nuts, then wove through the crowd to return to the box.

  As he neared, Tamsyn’s laughter spilled out, followed by the deeper tones of a man’s voice. Frowning, Kit threw back the curtain and stepped inside.

  Tamsyn was still seated, but she had turned to face a gentleman who stood close by. The gent in question stood a little shorter than Kit, but his darkly handsome and roguish looks would make any female entertain improper thoughts. Clearly, he’d been using his considerable skills at flirtation on Tamsyn.

  “Hell, Marwood,” Kit grumbled, coming forward, “if I had known you’d be here, I would have gotten another lemonade. To throw in your face.”

  “I’ve had far worse thrown at me,” Lord Marwood answered with a grin. He took Kit’s offered hand and shook it heartily.

  “You’ve met Lady Blakemere,” Kit noted. He handed Tamsyn her beverage as well as the packet containing the sugared nuts. She murmured her thanks.

  “Indeed, I have.” Marwood had a keen and discerning eye when it came to women, and it was with genuine appreciation that he gazed at Tamsyn. “I was just telling the delightful lady about my own poor attempts at playwriting when I was a youth.”

  “Your wife has enough talent for the both of you,” Tamsyn said.

  “And thank God for her.” The look of pure adoration that came over Marwood’s face when he mentioned Lady Marwood quelled any jealous thoughts that threatened to smother Kit. “Did you enjoy the performance?”

  “I was enthralled,” Tamsyn answered without reservation.

  Marwood rubbed his hands together. “Excellent. Excellent. Maggie still gets nervous before any new work is put on. It’ll do her good to hear that Lady Blakemere was, what was your word? Enthralled.” He turned to Kit. “You’re still coming over to
our home tonight, yes? After the performance?”

  “We’ll meet you backstage after the final curtain call,” Kit replied.

  “Brilliant. Until then.” Marwood bowed to Tamsyn before retreating out of the box.

  Kit took his seat and plucked the packet of sugared nuts from Tamsyn’s hand. He popped a few of the sweets into his mouth, enjoying the look of puzzlement on her face.

  “Will there be a fete at Lord Marwood’s?” she asked.

  “Not a fete,” he answered.

  “Supper?”

  “No supper.”

  “Dancing? Cards?” She gave him a playful swat on the arm. “You’re delighting in my torment.”

  “Perhaps a little.” He rather adored being teasing and lighthearted with her, watching the humor and enjoyment in her eyes. “But I will relent and end your suffering. Marwood has the best cellar in London. The finest brandy and Scotch whisky.” He chewed a few more nuts.

  “Ah.” She nodded sagely. “You’ll enjoy that.”

  “We will,” he corrected her. At least, he hoped she’d find it pleasurable. A tiny spark of concern flared. “After last night, I saw how much you appreciate a fine dram. So we’re having a tasting at Marwood’s. Just you, me, Marwood, and his wife.” At her silence, he pressed, worried, “If you’d rather not go, I can—”

  “That sounds wonderful, Kit.” A soft smile illuminated her face and his heart squeezed in response. “Thank you. For being so considerate.”

  Her gratitude warmed him. After he’d sent a note in the morning requesting time in Marwood’s cellars, he’d gnawed on his decision. Would she take offense at the idea? Would she be pleased by it?

  “Whisky’s better than cordial water, I should think.” He glanced at the glass in her hand. “And lemonade.”

  “It depends,” she replied, her smile shining in her eyes, “on who’s bringing the lemonade.”

  Unseen electricity crackled between them. She had been pleased with everything he’d done for her tonight. Surely that meant she was warming to him. He couldn’t be more gratified with how his plan was unfolding—yet he knew from combat-tested experience that, when it came to the future, every plan could fall apart. Nothing was certain.