Captain and Countess Read online

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  No part of this work may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Kindle Press, Seattle, 2015

  A Kindle Scout selection

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, Kindle Scout, and Kindle Press are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  The evening Lord Roland Whitby took too much vodka and decided to curse all of womankind—loudly and publicly—at the Earl of Fernbridge’s elegant soiree, Elizabeth Webster was called upon to smooth the waters, as usual. Though the commotion hardly penetrated to the gaming room where Bess sat playing whist, a liveried servant approached, bowed deeply, and cleared his throat. “My lady, her grace would much appreciate your assistance in the ballroom.”

  “Hm?” She glanced up from where her partner, Violet Grimsby, was losing the hand by failing to draw trumps . . . again.

  “Lord Roland,” the servant said.

  She put down her cards. “What’s the man done now?”

  “If you please, my lady.”

  “Of course.” She rose, as did the two gentlemen she and Violet had been playing against. “Excuse me. A bit of trouble, I’m afraid.”

  Both men bowed, but Violet hardly seemed to notice she’d lost her partner. But then, Violet noticed very little of what went on past the tip of her own nose. The exact trait that made her such a bad card player, no doubt.

  As Bess followed the servant into the ballroom, the sounds of Lord Roland and his trouble grew clearer. He stood to one side of the dance floor, propped up on the shoulder of a man Bess didn’t recognize. By the looks of him, he’d have fallen over without the support, but that didn’t quiet his voice in the least.

  “Females,” he declared, vigorously waving a finger in the air. “May the devil take the whole race.”

  Because of her small stature, she could easily push between the onlookers. Few people ever saw her coming, which suited her purposes well most of the time.

  “So, we’re an entire race now, are we?” she asked.

  Lord Roland wavered and squinted in her direction. “Bess? They sent for you?”

  The man was a bleeding great fool—pleasant enough sober, ridiculous when drunk. Tonight, he’d ventured rather past ridiculous. “What have you got yourself into this time, Whit?”

  “If they’ve sent for you, I must be making a spectacle of myself,” he said.

  “And you do it so well.”

  A titter went through the crowd. Whit had attracted over a dozen observers, although they stood at a distance, either looking away or with their noses buried in their fans. None of them wanted to get any closer to a scandal, but neither did they desire to miss any of the delightful disgrace. Tomorrow, their servants would know every detail, and then the servants at other houses would learn. In less than a day, all of the ton would have heard that Lord Roland Whitby had been disappointed in love again. Most likely, even his wife would find out.

  “Someone have Lord Roland’s carriage brought ’round,” she said to the man nearest her.

  “Are you going to take me home?” Whitby asked.

  “If you want.” She’d do no such thing, of course. Once she’d deposited him in his conveyance, she’d leave him to the tender mercies of his servants. First, she’d have to get him outside.

  “Now, there’s how a female ought to behave.” He risked his balance by thrusting his hand into the air again. “You’re a good girl, Bess.”

  The old simpleton. She’d left girlhood and all its pretensions behind decades ago. Given it in marriage and then buried it with her husband. If that didn’t take the youth out of you, what would? She’d been spared the wreckage that childbirth bestowed on a woman’s body, but at five-and-thirty, she was hardly a girl.

  “Let me have him,” she said. “I’ll see if I can get him outside.”

  The man who’d been holding Whitby up handed him over gladly. When another fellow tried to take Whit’s other side, Whit pulled back, nearly toppling both of them to the floor.

  “Unhand me,” he said. “Bess is all I need.”

  She gave the man a smile in gratitude and turned her burden toward the door to the front of the house. He leaned heavily on her as they made their way, reeking of strong spirits.

  “Good Lord, how much did you have?” she said.

  “Enough to drown my sorrows. Enough to drown ten thousand sorrows.” He sighed. “It wasn’t enough.”

  “Who’s the chit?”

  “A gentleman never tells.”

  How preposterous. Right now, someone most probably was giving away the woman’s identity to someone else. Most likely, Sally would give her the news in the morning as she did up Bess’s hair.

  “Why don’t you give up the skirt chasing, old fellow?”

  “I’m not old,” he said.

  “You’ll look it if you don’t mend your profligate ways.”

  His only answer to that was a grumble. She was hardly one to lecture about propriety, although she didn’t indulge in dalliances of the heart . . . or any other body part. She’d earned her reputation for doing what she wanted to and when. After seventeen dutiful years of marriage to a man old enough to be her father, nothing a scold might have to say made the slightest impression on her. Which was why people turned to her to clean up social messes. She didn’t give a thought to what other people said about her, and she had the wealth to maintain that carefree attitude.

  “You might at least think of how your behavior affects Marie,” Bess said.

  “My wife.” He stopped suddenly. “What does she have to do with this?”

  “You are married to her.” The poor woman had given him four sons and never dared to venture an opinion of her own in public. That ought to win her some consideration. “You might try keeping yourself only to her as you vowed,” Bess added.

  “Well, there’s a sour idea.”

  “It would keep you out of scrapes like this.”

  “And miss having you rescue me?” His eyes managed a twinkle behind the haze of liquor.

  “What was I thinking?”

  They’d made it to the house’s huge foyer and had a long flight of stairs to navigate to the front door. Whitby showed enough sense to grip the railing, and they descended with a minimum of risk to life and limb. They passed only one couple coming up and missed bumping into them entirely. Good job all around.

  At the door, a footman offered Whitby’s hat, which Bess placed on his head. Once she’d draped his cape over her shoulder, they went outside, only to be hit in the face with a cold drizzle.

  Now, they came to the real obstacle. Another set of steps led down to the street where his coach stood waiting. With no banister to cling to, she’d have to take his weight if he slipped
, and he was sure to do that with the rain slicking the stones.

  “You’re a fine woman, Bess,” Whit thought to declare just as another man approached them on his way inside. A young fellow in uniform. Eighth Dragoons, if she recognized the regimental colors correctly.

  “I should have married you,” Whit added.

  “Such nonsense. One of us would have poisoned the other by now.”

  “May I be of assistance?” the officer said.

  “If you would help us to that carriage . . .” she answered.

  “I won’t hear of it,” Whit said loudly. “No one touches me but Bess.”

  “I can’t do this without help,” she said. “Let the—captain, is it?”

  The man nodded.

  “Let the captain take your other side, or I’ll drop you on your arse.”

  Whitby hooted a laugh, and the young man’s eyes grew wide enough for her to see the whites, even in the dim light.

  “That is, your bottom,” she corrected.

  Whit leaned his face toward the captain’s. “Isn’t she magnificent?”

  “She certainly is.”

  “We can ponder my magnificence tomorrow. Doing it now will only get us all wet.”

  “Right.” The captain took charge of things with military efficiency. She had only to follow with Whitby’s cape. Once he’d dumped Whitby onto the coach’s seat, she tossed the cape in after him. When the captain closed the door, the carriage rumbled off.

  Bess straightened her hair. “Thank you.”

  “Under the circumstances, I hope you’ll allow me to introduce myself,” he said.

  “I suppose you’ll have to. No one else is around to do it.”

  “Captain Jason Northcross of the Eighth Dragoons.” He made a very proper and formal bow. “At your service, miss.”

  “I’m not a miss.” Curse her if she didn’t curtsey. He brought it out in her somehow. “I’m Elizabeth Webster. The Dowager Countess of Rushford, or so they tell me.”

  “Dowager? You’re a widow?”

  “It does happen.”

  “Not to someone so young,” he said.

  “The light isn’t very good out here,” she said. “I assure you that indoors I’m quite ancient.”

  “Forgive me. I shouldn’t have broached so personal a subject.” The fellow looked as if he was about to bow again. Then she’d have to curtsey.

  She held up a hand to stop him. “Please don’t worry what I think. No one else does.”

  “You have me at a complete loss, Lady Rushford.”

  What a pleasant prospect. In fact, everything about Captain Jason Northcross pleased. Soggy with the rain, his hair didn’t give away its color, but he wore it long enough for it to have flopped over his forehead in the direction of his eyes. She had a better view of those, and found them a remarkable moss green. Crinkles at the corners suggested he laughed freely and often. His mouth was surely his most unusual feature. Ample lips set off by dimples at either side couldn’t help but make a lesser female think of stolen kisses under some spreading tree or other. All that and an easy masculinity enhanced by the starch and polish of his uniform.

  Yes, indeed. More than pleasing. Disquieting in his beauty, and good Lord, what had her mind going off in those directions? He was no doubt ten years her junior.

  He caught her staring, of course, but took that well in stride. No doubt women of all ages and varieties did that.

  “If it isn’t too forward of me.” He cleared his throat. “When may I see you again?”

  The question caught her off guard. “Why would you want to do that?”

  “Well . . .” His voice trailed off in obvious confusion. “We’ve forged an, um, acquaintance.”

  “I’m acquainted with a great many people, Captain Northcross.”

  “People more fortunate than I, obviously.” Most men would have understood her reply as an attempt to fob him off. Jason Northcross was made of sterner stuff, it seemed, and merely stood, smiling at her in a way that made her stomach flip in a rather exciting manner.

  “If you want to continue our acquaintance, you’ll usually find me at one of these parties,” she said. “Though I irritate the hostesses, I’m often handy in dealing with to-dos like my friend Whitby caused just now.”

  He laughed lightly. “You don’t irritate me.”

  “I’ll have to try harder next time.”

  He reached for her and then thought better of it and pulled his hand back. “I’ve offended you.”

  “Not at all, young man. You’ve confounded me.”

  “I’d like to do that again.”

  This time, she laughed. “No doubt. But we’re both getting wet, and I have to find Whitby’s wife and get her home in my carriage.”

  “Then I’ll wait for some other opportunity to devil you.”

  He bowed again, and she curtseyed in reply. All very proper, this bobbing up and down. Someone looking on might think the young captain exercised a good influence over her. Before that could happen, she turned and went back into the house. Whether he followed or not, she couldn’t say, because she kept her eyes straight ahead as she passed the footman and ascended the stairs.

  Such strange creatures, men. If she lived to a ripe old age, she’d never understand them.

  *

  The earl might have ordered up this party to help Jason with his hunt for a wife. Dozens of blushing innocents stood around the room in groups of two or three. Most had mothers nearby, gazing with adoration at the fine examples of femininity they’d created. Years of unremitting pressure to say and do things just the right way produced a stunning uniformity of charm. Their elegant backs wouldn’t touch their chairs when they sat. He’d have to select one and spend months or years to break her of all that infernal correctness if she was to grace his bed until death did them part.

  “Any luck?” Peter Weston, his friend and brother-in-arms asked.

  “Not so far. I have very specific requirements for the girl. She must come from a family with a lofty social position but who’s nevertheless willing to marry into mine.”

  “Your brother, the viscount, is a liability, I gather.”

  “Everyone knows of his eccentricities,” Jason answered. “That makes things difficult.”

  “He hasn’t set fire to the house again, I hope.”

  “Worse. He’s taken up experimenting with electricity.”

  “Electricity,” Peter repeated. “Good Lord.”

  “Well you may say. Thomas gave himself a shock that terrified his wife.”

  Peter tsked a few times. “Can’t you do anything about him?”

  “He’s the viscount. I’m not. I only hope I can find a girl with a father impoverished enough to tolerate all that.”

  “A new set will start in a moment. Let’s find some victims for our fumbling.”

  “Speak for yourself, man,” Jason said. “I can dance.”

  “Let’s see how well.” Peter glanced around. “Ah, there are some likely targets.”

  Peter led him off after a trio of young ladies, only one of whom Jason recognized. Harriett Ellsford would be in her first season, having just turned seventeen. She was a pretty thing with amber eyes and kissable lips, and he’d certainly consider her as a possible match, except for the fact that he’d bedded her mother on more than one occasion. Lady Sarah had, in fact, taught him a great deal of what he knew about satisfying a lover, and though he was no prude, using her tricks on her own daughter seemed indecent, if not outright incestuous. Still, he bent over her hand easily enough and watched her drop a lovely curtsey. But when one of the ladies declared that the next dance belonged to another gentleman, and Peter took the third to the dance floor, he could only extend his arm to Miss Ellsford and dutifully take his position in line.

  They moved well enough together, their hands joining from time to time. Her mother watched from a discreet distance as they danced, very much like the other mothers watched their daughters, except for the gleam of interest in La
dy Sarah’s eyes. She really ought to guard her expression more carefully.

  “It’s a lovely party, is it not?” Harriett said as they passed each other closely enough for conversation.

  “Very nice,” he answered.

  “The ballroom’s so bright and everyone is so fashionable.”

  “Quite.”

  “I’ve seldom seen such a delightful gathering, although we do have a masked ball every year at Deauville Hall. It’s quite renowned.”

  The quadrille separated them again, giving him time to think of a reply. Deauville Hall was the setting for his crimes against her family, and he couldn’t reappear there without giving her mother hope for more. Besides, Miss Ellsford’s vocabulary seemed restricted to adjectives, and women always had the upper hand with those.

  When their hands met again, she gave him a smile from beneath thick lashes. “Your uniform is most impressive.”

  “Thank you,” he said. “I always strive to impress.”

  That brought her up short, and she almost missed a step. Her flawless brow furrowed in confusion.

  “Forgive me,” he said. “I was teasing.”

  “Oh, well then. Teasing’s acceptable, is it not?”

  “Not only acceptable but expected.” There. He’d thought up an adjective of his own.

  The orchestra finished before he had to think up any more repartee, thank heaven. He bowed. She curtseyed. And then she led him right back to her mother.

  “Oh, Mama,” she declared. “We’ve just had the liveliest dance.”

  He bowed again, as formally as he could manage. “Captain Northcross, at your service, my lady.”

  “We’ve met, Captain, as I’m sure you’ll remember.”

  “Of course.”

  “Aren’t his regimentals impressive?” Miss Ellsford burbled. “But then, he told me he was trying to impress me. He was teasing, don’t you know?”

  Sarah looked up into his face and gave him a smile that wasn’t entirely pleasant. “I’m sure he was.”

  “I hope I haven’t overstepped,” he said.

  “Not at all.” Lady Sarah put her hand on her daughter’s arm. “But look . . . there’s Opal Hampton and her brother. You always enjoy their company.”