Counting on a Countess Page 4

  Everyone anted one pound note. Her pulse hammered at the thought of risking so much money on a game, but people played deeper in London than they did in Cornwall.

  “You know how to play cassino?” the other gentleman asked as he dealt each of the players four cards.

  “She had better,” the dowager said tartly. “I’m too old to explain the rules.”

  Once the hands had been dealt, the dealer laid out four more cards in the center of the table—the queen of clubs, the four of diamonds, the seven of spades, and the ace of hearts. Tamsyn studied her cards.

  She’d negotiated more than one shipment of smuggled goods over card games in smoky taprooms. Surely playing against these stiff necks was easier.

  The gentleman opened by setting the three of diamonds atop the four. “Sevens,” he announced. Tamsyn remembered that this was known as building.

  Next was Lord Blakemere. He laid the two of hearts on the seven. “Nines.”

  Clearly, then, he held a nine, and hoped no one would capture it before he had a chance to.

  The dowager grumbled as she set down the jack of clubs, unable to build or capture anything with the card.

  Now it was Tamsyn’s turn. She set the nine of diamonds atop the earl’s pile of cards. “Nines,” she announced.

  He gazed at her with curiosity that gave way to admiration. She could have captured the build, but instead, she left it for him to take. It wasn’t unheard of for partners to assist each other in game play, but it seemed evident he was surprised she wanted to bolster him. They would both benefit when it came time to tally points, yet by helping him capture the build, she employed strategy.

  And he liked her for it.

  The other gentleman captured his sevens, and then Lord Blakemere captured the nines. As he did, he sent Tamsyn a slow-burning look. If we’re this good together at the card table, his gaze seemed to promise, imagine what we’d be like in bed.

  The cards became slippery in her damp palms. She’d met her share of country scoundrels, braggarts who were crude in their attempts to woo her. It was easy to dismiss their thinly veiled efforts to get her to lift her skirts because they wanted only their own gratification—she was just a means to an end.

  With Lord Blakemere’s knowing looks, however, her blood felt hot, gathering warmth in secret places. She forgot the other people at their table, and in the room.

  He offered so much more with just his gaze. He guaranteed not just his pleasure, but hers, as well. Hours of it.

  God above, but he was a rake of the first water. The men she’d known in Cornwall were mere awkward, fumbling boys compared to him, and it didn’t appear that he was even trying that hard to impress her. He simply was. How intoxicating.

  The card game continued, with play following a similar pattern. Sometimes the earl helped her capture a build, and sometimes she came to his aid. They worked together seamlessly, give and take, and every time he gazed at her with greater and greater appreciation. With each look, Tamsyn felt flushed and powerfully aware of herself as a woman. She saw how his eyes lingered on her mouth or the curve of her neck, sometimes dipping even lower to follow the neckline of her gown—as though he was entranced by what he saw.

  This is what a siren feels like.

  He was clearly too fond of women to believe in fidelity. Perhaps he would be so distracted bringing willing females into his bed that he’d pay his wife no mind. And when the vast fortune was his, he’d hardly notice the cost of buying a run-down manor in Cornwall.

  He’d make for a truly terrible husband.

  I have to marry him.

  At last, the game ended, and the points totaled.

  “Blast it,” the dowager muttered.

  “We win,” Tamsyn said, blinking with surprise. She’d been too caught up in the moment, and him, to notice the actual play of the game. But she collected herself enough to say, as Lord Blakemere handed Tamsyn her share of the winnings, “Oh no, you keep it.”

  His brows rose. “The prize belongs to both of us,” he said with surprise.

  “I only wanted to play for amusement,” she demurred, though she couldn’t manage to sound coy. It wasn’t the truth, but saying, “I played to flirt with you,” wasn’t very strategic.

  “Are you certain?” he pressed, his voice low and seductive. He leaned closer to her, and she felt her cheeks flush in response to his nearness.

  “I am a woman who knows my own mind, my lord,” she answered pertly.

  His grin was sudden, white, and dazzling. She—a woman who’d never fainted once in her life—grew dizzy from his smile, and wanted to lean into him.

  No wonder he possessed such a reputation. What woman could resist his charm? “And I’m too much of a rogue to persuade you to change your mind.” He tucked his winnings into his coat. “We make a good partnership,” he murmured in a deep voice. “Shall we play again?”

  Oh, yes.

  “Tamsyn!” a disapproving feminine voice said behind her.

  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 eac
h 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

  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.

  Yet if romance was what Miss Pearce wanted, the lack of time meant that Kit would have to disappoint her. He wasn’t entirely certain how to go about offering a genteel young woman marriage two days after meeting her. He would have to try, however. He’d faced Napoleon’s cannons—he could speed a lady through the wooing process and proceed directly to marriage.

  Now that he was poised outside Lady Daleford’s home, he wasn’t as certain about the bouquet of red gerbera daisies he carried. Perhaps he should have gone with the more traditional roses. Yet the cheerful, unaffected daisies recalled Miss Pearce’s open, guileless countenance, and the red indicated the passion that lurked just beneath her surface. He’d purchased the flowers without questioning his preference.

  Would his title be nothing but a courtesy with no fortune to support it, or would the money slip away and be granted to that distant relative in Bermuda?

  The only way to land the blunt is to climb the sodding stairs, he told himself sternly. Miss Pearce was also at the top of the steps, and that quickened his pace and brought him to the front door.

  He knocked smartly before a footman opened it with a polite, professional expression, the one he surely used for visiting hours.

  Kit handed the servant his card.

  “Is her ladyship expecting you, my lord?” the footman inquired politely after reading it.

  “Well, no,” Kit admitted. He hadn’t gotten permission to call. Lady Daleford hadn’t told him where she lived, either. That information had been gleaned from Anderson, his valet, who was a trove of information about matters both high and low, and knew the addresses of everyone in the ton. “Just present them with my card.”

  The servant murmured, “You may wait in the foyer, my lord.” He stepped back to admit Kit into the house.

  With a bow, the footman strode down a hallway, leaving Kit alone. The servant didn’t ask to take Kit’s hat, since it was known that callers never stayed for more than fifteen minutes—which suited him very well, since he hadn’t the luxury of long, protracted conversations.

  As he waited, a throb of edginess moved through him. Idleness often gave space for wariness to move in—a habit from so many years in combat.

  There are no enemies here. You’re in the heart of London, and safety is all around you.

  As he pushed the wariness back, unexpected anticipation rose up and strummed silver fingers along his arms and the back of his neck. Miss Pearce h
ad vitality and spirit, with a hint of daring, as evidenced by her willingness to accept his staking her cards, and the directness of her gaze. Their mutual attraction couldn’t be ignored, either.

  Come find me, her eyes had said as she’d left the card room.

  Kit didn’t hunt, but he knew a lure when he saw one.

  He couldn’t question his rationale as to why Miss Pearce had been the lone woman to snag his interest. His instincts had kept him alive for nearly a decade of warfare, and he wouldn’t ignore them now.

  A clock somewhere chimed the quarter hour, and he checked his pocket watch to see that a full ten minutes had passed since the footman had departed with Kit’s card. Which meant that he was currently being debated by Lady Daleford and Miss Pearce.

  Straining to hear, he caught faint tones of women’s voices speaking in hushed, urgent whispers. A corner of his mouth curved up ruefully.

  The voices reached a peak, and then stopped abruptly. Kit’s heart thudded in the silence. His fate had been decided. Had Lady Daleford won? Or did Miss Pearce emerge victorious?

  The footman appeared, but the expression on his face gave nothing away.

  Kit’s breath halted.

  “Follow me, my lord,” the servant said.

  Kit exhaled, thinking to himself, Well done, Miss Pearce!

  He trailed after the footman down a short corridor before stepping through the doorway to a drawing room.

  “Lord Blakemere,” announced the footman before disappearing.

  A wall of windows permitted sunlight to stream into the chamber, forming halos around the furnishings. Miss Pearce, standing with her back to a window, became a fiery saint as her vivid hair caught the light. She wore an equally brilliant smile, full of surprised pleasure as she turned to face him.

  For a moment, Kit forgot the mechanics of breathing before they came back to him in a rush. Both he and Miss Pearce took a step toward each other.

  He held out the flowers. “Forgive my presumption, but I was compelled to bring these.”

  She crossed the room, her eyes bright as she accepted the bouquet. “Daisies! My favorite!”