Lynne Connolly - Counterfeit Countess

When he thought of doing that to Faith, his blood heated all over again. Under the desk he clenched his fist until his short nails dug into his palm. What kind of man would he be to do that to a woman? To a woman like Faith? However bravely she behaved, he knew she’d never survive his rejection. But neither would he.

While he understood the importance of the earldom, sometimes other matters prevailed, like honour and—dammit, personal considerations. He didn’t want anyone else. He wanted Faith.

Shock arced through him in a white-hot sweep, scouring everything else out of its way. Truth, pure and simple stared him in the face. The last obstacle had gone. He knew her secret and found her reasoning sound. But even without that, he’d want her.

When he had the paper in his hands, then John would tell him that he’d had his doubts, too, but he’d put them to rest with the new marriage. One he intended to urge Faith to enter as soon as he could arrange it.

When John crept into Faith’s room later that night, she had fallen asleep. He left her and went to his own bed, feeling strangely bereft, considering he could count the times he’d actually slept with a woman on the fingers of one hand. Hell, he’d bivouacked with colleagues more often.

Not that he felt for them what he felt for the woman sleeping in her room. He couldn’t remember feeling this way about anyone, for that matter. Warmth, protection, a desperate need to touch her, get inside her body, all that and more. While he was busy persuading himself that he wanted a friend and companion, a partner to help with the stressful position of Earl and Countess of Graywood, his body was protesting otherwise.

Patience had served him well in the past. He had to exert extreme self-control to make it do the same for him now.

The next days passed by in a flurry of activity, as if gaining momentum before speeding up. He saw Faith in passing, had a few conversations of a practical nature with her. Nothing else. That evening, they ate with the family, and arranged for attending church in the morning. He managed his own businesses, put up with the dowager’s admonitions about attending to his own concerns, rather than working completely through agents. He even managed a genial smile when she told him he wouldn’t have time for trade once the season started.

Oh yes he would. But telling her would achieve nothing except increasing her antagonism, if she felt that, and he was far from sure of it. He still hadn’t fathomed the dowager, not entirely. Obviously she had a strong sense of family. But he wanted to know the why, and she was unlikely to tell him if she disliked him or felt she was working against him.

Faith seemed subdued, but the ordeal in the Exchange, she had every right to feel that way. After a period of reflection he decided to track Cockfosters down and trap him in his own nest, but seek information first. That was better than striding into a rookery, sword in hand, and getting murdered for his pains. The rookeries were filthy, impenetrable places. For him to venture there unprepared and alone would mean suicide.

Consequently he set a few enquiries in train, but didn’t expect results for a while. He knew people, and those people knew others who could help. The workers on the docks, ex-soldiers he’d kept in contact with, he wrote to them and made the request. Surely not many men called themselves Cockfosters, even in London.

He went into her room that night but again she was asleep, or pretending. Despite what they’d done together, he didn’t feel he could intrude, although he wanted to wake her and lose himself in her. Longed for it, especially when he saw her in her nightclothes, without her armour, so to speak. Needed to hold her, to rouse her and take her with the passion built up over a long day. The fear that she’d reject him that didn’t stop him. He didn’t want to disturb her, or upset her.

She’d tolerated years of less than satisfactory sexual relations. He wasn’t about to start her on another path of the same. They would travel together, something he had every intention of doing.

Before he left, he slipped into her powder room and frowned to see the old bag set on the floor. He didn’t have to test the weight to know she’d left it packed and he understood the impulse. Not that he’d let her leave alone and unprotected. Without him, she’d subject herself to a life of drudgery and stress. Even if he had to stay out of her bed for a long time to come, he wouldn’t allow her to go.

If that was the price, he’d pay it.

If she was feigning sleep, that meant she didn’t want him. He’d best leave her alone. He told himself that as he went to find his lonely bed.

* * *

Faith dressed in her new blacks for Sunday church, and set a bonnet decorated with curled ostrich plumes on her curls. Subdued and dignified, she thought, if a little ordinary. She was ordinary, always had been. She’d make an adequate countess if he still meant to marry her on Monday. If he didn’t bring up the issue, she wouldn’t.

Yesterday he’d occupied himself with business.

When her new wardrobe arrived, she’d shut herself in her room and gloated over the beautiful clothes she found herself the shocked owner of. Even if they were blacks, greys, lavenders, whites, suitable for mourning. They suited her, but she did wish for a few blues and reds, but she appreciated that the whites were closer to ivory, the blacks deep, the lavenders nearer to blue than pink. Later. If she appeared in public in red, they’d know what to call her and she’d never lose the epithet “Scarlet woman.” Too easy to gain a nickname, too hard to lose it.

She chose the black she’d worn on her ill-fated shopping expedition, which had been expertly cleaned and repaired.

Robinson laced and hooked but chatted so much she threatened to give Faith a headache. While Faith had tolerated her chatter many times in the past, she almost snapped this morning. Nerves tightened, tingled, because this would be the first time society would get to see her. Or as many as visited St. George’s. From her perusal of the magazines and gossip sheets, she knew a fair number would attend. Perhaps more since they might expect a glance of the new Earl and Countess of Graywood.

Appalling thought. Her tension grew. Although she tried to breathe deep and regain some composure, her heart was drumming hard as she went down to the hall to find John. He was also attired in black. She took her time, lest she trip and fall.

“How are you?” he asked once she’d reached his side.

“Better for the sleep,” she said, managing to smile. Not too difficult, for he filled her with pleasure, the sight of him, the way he turned all his attention to her whenever she entered his presence.

Because she wanted to be as honest with him as she could, she murmured, sotto voce, “Nervous.”

He hugged a laugh. “So am I.”

The dowager countess arrived in short order, her daughters in her wake, wearing unrelieved mourning, and bonnets with veils covering their faces. Faith had a moment of doubt. Should she have worn a veil? The suggestion of one clouded her bonnet, but it wouldn’t cover her face. No, she decided. The spectators would think she had something to hide, and to mourn people she barely knew and who were not related to her at all would appear ostentatiously vulgar. At least, they’d say so. If she didn’t show enough respect, they’d call her brazen and ignorant.

Any excuse to castigate her. They’d have known the dead brothers, would have expected so much from them. Now hopes had gone and people they didn’t know now intruded themselves into their company.

They reached the church on foot. Many took carriages, but Sunday was supposed to be a day of rest, and taking carriages to church were looked on as an indulgence by some, especially the high sticklers. Since Lady Graywood graciously accepted the walk, they made a procession of it with two footmen and attendant maids.

Faith leaned towards John, who bent his head so she could speak to him quietly. “Perhaps we should persuade the attendants to circle us like satellites. Then we could form our own solar system.”

Gratified, she heard a low rumble of a chuckle although his features showed nothing except that the corners of his eyes creased a little. “Behave yourself, my lady, or I shall make them do it.”

Her turn to suppress a laugh. She knew people were watching, not obviously, but from behind curtains and out of the corners of their eyes as they too made their way to service.

“Which reminds me,” he went on. “Your grand new lady’s maid will arrive tomorrow. She’ll turn you out in fine style. My man, Kelly, is from Canada, but well used to serving me. I fear I’ll never shift him now.”

“He makes an excellent job of your appearance,” she said.

“I’ll have you know I do most of the chore of dressing myself, except for the final touches when I allow him to work his magic. He concentrates on keeping my wardrobe in order, trimming my hair, and shaving me. Not that I can’t perform many of those tasks for myself, but it would be beneath my dignity to do so, don’t you agree?”

When she risked another glance, he appeared again straight-faced, but with that gleam in his eyes that betrayed him, to her at least. A secret smile. “Totally,” she said, maintaining her solemnity, as befitted the situation. Perhaps she should have opted for the veil.

Outside the church a few people lingered, but not the Graywood party. Leaving the servants to sit at the back, John led Faith inside, waiting to escort the dowager into the pew of her choice. The high-backed seats gave a measure of privacy, but people could see them if they walked past or sat in the pews on their opposite side.