Lynne Connolly - Counterfeit Countess

His hand tightened on hers and she knew he was remembering, too. “So you were John Smith?” she prompted gently, trying to dispel the visions that would help nobody, least of all her and the man sitting next to her.

His voice dropped steadily into the room, too measured. Faith heard the rigid control. “I could remember no more. Hardly surprising because someone struck me on the head, a vicious blow that rendered me helpless. While the result of the battle relieved some of my concerns, my personal memories had left. I knew I was English, because I spoke the language naturally. While some memories returned rapidly, others remained hidden. They came back only recently.”

When she met his gaze the bottom of her stomach fell away.

This was it, the moment she’d dreaded for years, her undoing. She could read nothing in his dark eyes before he turned to address her ladyship and her daughters.

“I still don’t recall the month before the battle. On that, my mind is almost completely blank. I received a severe a shock when my cousin told me that my wife was living in London and considered herself a widow. As far as I knew, I had no wife.” Again, he swung around to meet her eyes. The corners of his mouth twitched in the beginnings of a smile and his expression warmed.

“Such a lovely wife, too.”

The breath caught in her throat and she had to tell herself to breathe. He didn’t remember? He didn’t know? “Do you recollect much before that month?”

He shook his head. “It’s patchy. I think my memory is at full strength about a year before.” He stopped and picked up a glass of wine from the table on his other side. She remembered her own drink and took a fortifying sip of what remained. Lord knew she needed it. He continued with his story. “After Waterloo I got out of that medical tent in a week. Nobody wants to linger in those places and once I was out of danger they required the space for the worse-off. The man in the bed next to me had decided to leave Europe for the New World. It sounded an excellent idea to me, so we took ship to Canada as soon as we could get a berth.” He turned a sombre gaze on to her. “You helped with the wounded?”

“Pray do not tell me you saw the injuries!” Lady Graywood exclaimed and her eldest daughter Charlotte shivered, more, Faith thought, in excitement than horror. But then, she hadn’t been there. Journalists, storytellers, could make it sound exciting.

Newspapers did it all the time.

“Everyone did,” she said. “Ladies of high renown did all they could to help too.” Even though she’d hated every minute she’d helped, the wails of the wounded terrifying her. She’d never forget the moment when they passed from life into death and left everything behind. The soldier became—not a person any longer.

Only a carcass. Perversely, the sight had increased her sense of the spiritual, that something had gone. Not that it assisted her at the time. She’d moved on to the next wretch, who was as likely to curse her or vomit on her, depending on the state of his wounds.

“Not a scene I would wish my daughters to witness,” Lady Graywood said.

“But a service the injured were immensely grateful for,” John said, and squeezed her hand. Camaraderie. Kinship of a kind that went beyond blood. She felt the shared experiences flow through them, and knew here was one person she could talk to who would understand. Except, of course, she couldn’t. She had to keep her guard up around him, more than anyone else.

“I rejoiced to see the back of Europe,” he said. “I had nothing at home, or I thought I did not. By the time I reached dry land, most of my memory had returned, but I saw no reason to return to England. My parents were dead, I was an only child, and two healthy men stood between me and the earldom. I sent a letter to inform you of my decision to stay away, although I understand that it never arrived, and I set out for the wilds of Canada. I found work when I needed it and kept moving. Eventually I discovered a trade.

Fur trapping. I made a reasonable amount of money, enough to buy a house in a more civilised area, and employ a few people.” Yes, he was dressed respectably, not in the first stare of fashion. His coat didn’t fit him like a glove. It looked as if he could remove it for himself, rather than have a manservant peel it off his form, but a Corinthian would envy the figure under.

He was the husband she’d always secretly dreamed of.

Except he wasn’t her husband.

The moment he saw her face John regretted his decision to prevent any attempt to give Faith the news of his survival. He’d wanted to see her reaction untarnished by prior knowledge. He’d only arrived at the house that afternoon, having taken a day to rest and consult with his man of business in London. That meant the dowager countess hadn’t exactly had time to gather her thoughts, either.

When he’d given her the news about her sons she’d retreated to her private chambers. She hadn’t re-emerged until half an hour ago, still dressed in her morning gown. He’d taken it on himself to cancel the dinner for that evening. From what he remembered of her, this was as unlike her usual behaviour as to suggest the sad tidings he’d delivered had affected her more than she revealed publicly.

John sensed that if he let go of Faith’s hand, she’d bolt for the nearest door. Or window, if she couldn’t find a door close enough.

Faith Dalkington-Smythe had fooled the dowager completely. Lady Graywood was one reason he’d shaken the dust of Europe—or the mud—off his boots with such alacrity. Fur trapping beat soldiering any day of the week, although he could have horrified her delicate ladyship with tales of the conditions he’d lived through. She’d never have received most of the men he called friends in her elegant drawing-room.

He kept his grip on Faith. It anchored him to reality, reminded him of his nature, what he was, what he wanted. Because she wasn’t the only one whose mind whirled. Keeping his attention on his story stopped that happening. When his cousins had suggested a brief visit home, he’d firmly told them he would spend only a month in England, then he’d head back to Canada. Certain they’d made a mistake with their account that he had a widow waiting for him in London he’d set out, determined to put Europe behind him for good. Until the tragedy at sea. Then he knew he’d never see his home in Canada again. Unhappy with this new twist of fate, he decided to do what he would face up to his burden of responsibility.

At least he’d had time to get used to his new circumstances.

He’d decided to spring the news on the woman to shock her into confessing the truth—that she wasn’t married to him.

Then Stephen had mentioned his “widow”’s first name and his memory had shot back. He had so many visions of Faith in his mind, of her working in camp, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, sitting outside her tent mending her ragged clothes, all without protest or complaint. Braver than any other woman he knew, she never failed her husband. His main recollection was of the inappropriate erection he sometimes sported when he allowed himself to dwell on her too long. Completely inappropriate, absolutely ungentlemanly and his problem to bear and conquer alone. His own private battle, one he’d never quite managed to win.

When he’d seen her valiantly erecting temporary shelter, playing a foolish game with the children or cooking for her husband on an open fire outside some makeshift accommodation, he’d wanted to sweep her up. He’d take her somewhere safe, where he could pamper her.

The woman posing as his widow in London couldn’t possibly be that Faith, his Faith. But it was. Seeing her had sent a jolt of recognition that had nearly buckled his knees. His desire for secrecy had redounded back on to him, and he received as much of a shock as she had.

The woman with the scraped-back, dark hair had become a beauty, soft curls framing her face, her skin glowing with health.

No, she’d always been a beauty to him. He’d hardly dared believe the woman he’d watched for so long was the wife who’d fallen into his hands like a ripe peach.

Now he had her, and he didn’t intend to let her go until he’d had his revenge. Dragging him back to a life he didn’t want, didn’t ask for, claiming his protection when in reality he had no claim on her—he needed to hear her story first. Most of all he wanted her, his erection performing the same antics it had every time he saw her.

“I spent most of my first year in the wilderness.” Too enthralled to think of anything except what was happening to him. Too fascinated by the country and its people. “I didn’t live in a place that took post regularly. I wasn’t aware anyone would miss me.” And cared less. “When my cousins visited me, I agreed to return for a short time.” His lips thinned when he recalled they’d asked him to try to create an heir for the earldom with his wife. “I admit it surprised me to discover that my married cousin hadn’t produced offspring, but it didn’t concern me.” The other was hardly likely to produce an heir, for reasons of his own. “Two healthy males stood between me and the title so I considered myself a free agent. I was until recently. They prevailed on me to come home for a visit, and we took ship.”

“The danger of the three heirs to an ancient title taking the same vessel is shocking,” Lady Graywood said, the tremble in her voice more apparent. “It was a mercy you didn’t all perish.”

John remembered his mother, so loving and careful of her children. So unlike the dowager, sitting opposite him. The summers he’d reluctantly spent at the family seat were some of the coldest of his life, despite the sun shining for most of the time. He could only bless his good fortune he’d not spent more time there.