Lynne Connolly - Counterfeit Countess

“You were at the farmhouse.” She remembered. Her husband had died there.

“Hougoumont.”

Faith closed her eyes and let her breath out in a rush. Many of the worst casualties in the whole of the battle came from that place.

“You could have died.” The action had drawn troops that Napoleon could have dispersed elsewhere. So much that the farmhouse had become a magnet for them. Some of the most desperate hand-to-hand fighting had occurred there.

“I nearly did.” He lifted her hand, placed it on his head. She felt the dent there, deep, one side straight, sharp-edged. He sighed and rubbed his scalp, now softened by thick, dark hair against her hand, like a cat demanding attention. “Afterwards, when I felt well enough to travel, I couldn’t wait to knock the dust of Europe off my boots. That’s why I never owned up to the initial mistake, that my name wasn’t John Dalkington-Smythe. I let them think I was John Smith. Any John Smith.” He paused. “How did you get involved in the mess? How did you come to take my name? To pose as my widow?”

She hesitated, still unwilling to reveal everything. Remembering what he’d said earlier, she decided to keep to the truth. She doubted she could lie to him and keep up the story for long. “They came to tell me that my husband had perished. They said you were dead, too. I don’t know how they arrived at that conclusion but I can guess.” She paused, pictures vivid in her mind. “You’ve seen what the thieves do to the bodies after battle. They strip them completely. They’d be more likely to desecrate an officer because of the gold on his uniform.” Any body with the remnants of a uniform lying next to it might have been identified as John. “There were a lot of dead bodies. A lot of wounded, too. I—I suppose I thought it better to be a Dalkington-Smythe than a Smith. I was confused, upset. I wanted to get away.”

She didn’t appreciate his perceptive gaze. Her hand was still buried in his hair. Caught there, her palm against the scar that was all that remained of the wound that nearly took his life. She leaned up, pulled him closer, and kissed him. At least he couldn’t ask any more questions.

His groan told her he enjoyed what she was doing. Forgetting about the rest she was supposed to take, she rolled on top of him, emboldened by the warmth she brought to him. She sat up, then paused, straddling his thighs. “I don’t know—“

“Oh, don’t stop now.” He placed his big hands on her hips, stroked down the crease at her groin, touched the knot of flesh, so sensitive. She cried out and moved against him without realising she would. “Do you know what this is, oh woman of crude words?”

She gave a laugh of pure joy. “I know what it does.”

“Good enough. It’s the clitoris. I believe the Greeks named it, although I don’t know for sure. They never taught me that word at school. Have you ever toyed with it?”

With heat rising to her cheeks, she opened her eyes wide and stared at him. “S-sometimes, but I thought it was wrong.”

“Not if you need it. I have a theory that if we don’t relieve our needs in that area, then we suffer in other ways. We might lose our tempers more, or the aches and pains of frustration may attack another part of our bodies.”

That made her laugh. “What an odd theory.” She sucked in a breath when he continued to play.

“We need never put it to the test. Women may come as strongly from that as from the act itself.” He urged her up on her knees, so she moved closer to him, her sex hovering above his chest. “Come down on me, Faith. Fuck me.”

Oh, the words. Now he knew the words excited her, he’d be relentless. Her lips suddenly dry, she licked them, and he followed the motion with his avid gaze. “Do it, Faith.”

Her name coupled with the command that was no command.

John decided not to help her, but let her do it. She took hold of his member and held it steady so she could push it inside her when she came back down on him. The heat in her eyes told him everything he needed to know. She loved it; she hadn’t said it to please him. He’d found someone who enjoyed slightly rougher play and his darker vocabulary, and that delighted him. To know he didn’t have to guard his tongue around her meant he didn’t have to guard his opinions, either. Someone to share, to talk to—

Coherent thoughts fled John’s head when she wrapped him in her hot sheath. Then she began to move and his sanity threatened to follow coherence. She rose and fell as if she’d done this with him many times before, and yet the freshness of the occasion seeped through his every nerve. He watched her, enjoyed the way she opened to him, and savoured the first few strokes before he did as he promised.

He brought his hand down to where they joined and touched the place. She stopped but when he shook his head, she continued to move. He wanted to experience everything he could of their joining. Already the scent of them wreathed around his senses with intoxicating power. She reduced him to quivering heap. A delighted one, he had to admit, but he needed to do something in return.

Sliding his hand out a little, he positioned his thumb where it would hit her clitoris every time she plunged down on him. The first time she gasped, and jerked her body off his.

“No, keep going.” His voice sounded hoarse, but he managed the instruction and then he watched her pleasuring him and herself.

Keeping his body rigid, he thrust up in tempo with her actions, saw her arousal rise to unmanageable proportions. They moved together in a dance neither could break. The best dance he’d ever performed with the best partner he’d ever had.

Fire gathered in his loins, liquid heat that didn’t douse the flames but roused them. If the house had fallen around his ears he couldn’t have stopped. Here he didn’t have to worry about making a noise or anyone knowing. In fact, it would help him if people did know.

Although he tried to hold back, gritted his teeth and willed himself not to come, it was no good. He stiffened as his peak tensed his balls, gathered at the base of his cock and then he exploded.

His last thought before his world dissolved was, “Thank God,”

when her channel twitched and then clenched him hard. “Ah, Christ in heaven, darling!”

He held his arms wide, waited for her to fall into them and when she did, closed them around her to keep her safe. And to ensure she didn’t get away. Because if he’d chosen her for himself he couldn’t ask for a better partner.

When John told Faith that before he left to dress for dinner, she gave him a harassed smile and he knew. Saw it in her eyes. He’d warned her he only wanted her until he’d established himself as the earl. After only a short time together, he was beginning to believe the impossible; that they’d deal excellently together in the long term.

Once he’d required love in his marriage, dreams engendered by seeing his parents together, perfect harmony and a deep, abiding passion for each other that lasted until death. Not a realistic proposition, but certainly he could aspire to companionship with an intelligent woman he could discuss matters with, and a satisfactory bed partner.

He’d seen it in his parents, but never since. After they’d died, he’d sold most of the property and joined the army. Wounds long healed over still left scars. The army had kept him busy. Now this, and unexpectedly, he’d found the kind of friendship he hadn’t expected.

Too experienced in the ways of life to expect romantic entanglements, he’d instead uncovered someone he liked.

Although, he reflected, gazing at his image in the mirror as he tied his neckcloth, she had her faults. Thank the lord, because God knew he had his. His mouth tightened when he recalled what she must have seen, her knowledge of things she should by rights know nothing of driving her to seek a quiet life. Her last secret remained for him to discover, and until he did, he wouldn’t make any commitment. She was hiding something that had happened around the time of Waterloo. Before or immediately after, because when she spoke of that time she kept it vague, and she showed signs of discomfort, fidgeting. And her eyes went hard.

He pulled the folds of his black neckcloth too tight and had to start again. Mourning wear. He hated it, but at least he didn’t have to bear it for long. He wondered if Faith had mourned him properly, and decided yes, because her mourning clothes were well worn. Not the new ones. They’d be new and crisp, ironically more fashionable than anything else she owned. At least he could give her that.

He picked up a discreet silver pin from the dressing table and used it to secure the neat folds at his throat. She’d imagined she’d stay in that pleasant little house she’d bought, perhaps for the rest of her life. One, if truth be told, that he’d have chosen for himself.

Instead, she’d found herself a countess in Grosvenor Square.

Overwhelming for him, so God knew what it was like for her.

He hadn’t mentioned the second reason he’d offer his name in a true marriage. If their fraud was exposed, if anyone discovered that they were not correctly wed, he’d have no choice. If society realised that he knew about it, his name would be dragged in the mud. So he’d claim the prior marriage was irregular, and marry her again, perhaps say he hadn’t realised before. Not that he’d tell her. Yet.

Faith was fashioned from stern stuff, and he needed her by his side right now. Yes, need was the correct word. At least she wouldn’t bolt tonight, and she’d given him an idea of her plans.

He’d wager they involved that damned carpet bag in her powder room. She still appeared skittish. She needed settling. He smiled when he thought of the best way of doing that. He didn’t want her disappearing overnight.