Courting the Countess (33 page)

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Authors: Barbara Pierce

Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #Historical Romance

BOOK: Courting the Countess
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“Mallory!” she cried, frustrated he could not hear her.
Lord De Lanoy lowered his head and tackled him. They went down hard. Twisting to unbalance his attacker, Mallory brought his bound hands down on the man’s head. The lord clutched his head. Scooting backward, Mallory kicked out. His foot caught the marquis in the chest and he fell facedown
in the sand. A murderous fury possessed her lover. He straddled the fallen man and curled his bound hands around Lord De Lanoy’s neck.
“You are going to kill him!” she shrieked. Brook did not bother with the remaining steps. She leaped. Her knees collapsed under her when she landed on the sand. Climbing to her feet, with the walking stick still firmly clenched in her hand, she ran toward the fighting men.
She noticed the pistol as the marquis reached for it. He aimed it at Mallory’s chest and fired. Screaming his name, she watched her love cover his wound and collapse.
De Lanoy shuffled to his feet. “I did not kill Mirabella!” He gestured with the empty pistol. “You were the one.” Raising the butt of the pistol, he intended to strike Mallory in the temple. If the wound in his chest did not kill him, the blow to the head might finish him off.
Brook was not going to lose Mallory Claeg to a madman!
She swung the walking stick at Marquis De Lanoy’s head. The impact was sickening. Retching, she realized the small jutting handle was imbedded in the side of his head. The man fell sideways toward the surf. Blood quickly darkened the sand under him.
“Countess!” Mallory called out to her, pulling her away from the violence she had committed. “Your aim is remarkable.” As he clutched his chest, his chuckle turned into a cough. To her horror, the circumference of blood was expanding beyond his hand. “Remind me to throw out all of my walking sticks.”
Dropping the offending weapon, she literally fell on her hands and knees beside him. Terror gave her the strength to rend her skirt. She wadded the piece of fabric into a pad. “Move your hand. I need to press this to your wound. You are losing too much blood.”
He leaned heavily against her. “Mirabella …”
“We can talk about it later,” she snapped, and clamped her hand over his to stop the bleeding. The knot on his head was ugly and sticky with blood. “How am I going to get you up those steps?”
“I was wrong—wrong about many things. De Lanoy was responsible for us meeting the Hennings. He … he thought she would return to him if I—”
“Hush. You will make the bleeding worse if you move.”
“Edda Henning shot my wife. I was right about the drugging. Mirabella saw … misunderstood.” He grimaced at the pain. “I hope you killed him!”
Brook did not know if the marquis was dead or alive. At the moment, she did not particularly care, since the horrid man was responsible for so much of the pain in Mallory’s past. A whistle aloft had her looking up at the cliffs. She waved, recognizing the men.
“Hold on, Mallory Claeg. Help is coming,” she promised.
“No,” he rasped, stopping her heart.
She felt her lids sting with unshed tears. “You must. I cannot bear to lose you.”
A faint imitation of the smile appeared. “That sounds like a declaration, Countess.” He struggled to sit up. “Help me up so you can propose to me properly.”
“You must be delirious from the pain. What are you trying to do? You will bleed to death if you keep flailing.”
“Gentlemen never flail. It stresses the seams of one’s coat and looks rather ridiculous. Besides, I am not dying.” Mallory sneered derisively at De Lanoy’s body. “The man had the barrel pressed against my chest and still managed to bungle it. If I perish it will be from disgust at his incompetence.”
Brook covered her mouth with her hand and quietly sobbed. No one dying of a mortal wound would have the vigor to mock his attacker. If Mallory said he would not die, she believed him.
“Are you hurt, Lady A’Court?” her headman asked, rushing to her side.
“I am fine.”
“Check him,” Mallory ordered, through gritted teeth, the groom leaning over De Lanoy. Despite his assurances, Mallory’s wound was not as paltry as he wanted to believe.
They turned the unconscious man over. One of the men pressed his ear to the marquis’ chest and listened. “He lives.”
“A pity. I suppose I will have to be content his new residence will either be Newgate or a prison hulk.” Mallory motioned the men. “Get him out of my sight. And have someone ride for a surgeon. This lead ball will have to be dug out.”
“Aye, my lord.” Picking the marquis up by his arms and legs, they hauled him toward the stone steps.
“Why do we care what happens to Marquis De Lanoy?” Brook challenged, outraged that Mallory had ordered her men to attend to his attacker first. “I want you off this beach. You need to be in bed.”
“It might be best for the surgeon to bandage the wound before I am moved.” At her alarmed expression, he said, “Merely a precaution, Countess. I have too much to live for now that we are getting married.”
“I never agreed to marry you.”
“You cannot bear to live without me,” he reminded her, settling his head against her breast. Mallory closed his eyes.
“Moreover, at the moment, it looks like marriage to you would make me a widow again.” Brook pressed harder on his wound and prayed her men would hurry.
“I love you.”
Her heart swelled at the simple words. “I love you, too.”
“We are getting married,” he said drowsily. “I devised a plan.”
“This was before you were hit in the head, bound, battled an old rival, and were shot with a dueling pistol?”
“I will admit De Lanoy distracted me for a few minutes.”
She merely lifted her brow at his arrogant statement. “Give me a few days to heal and we can act on it.”
“Hmm,” he sighed, cuddling her closer. “Kidnapping.”
Uncertain she had heard him correctly, she asked, “I beg your pardon?”
“I was planning to kidnap you from Loughwydde. Dashing off to Gretna Green sounded romantic until I estimated the miles. Too bloody far.”
She kissed his head. “So you have given up on your plan?”
“A Claeg give up? Never.” Brook smiled at his indignation. “We will go to London. Special license. Give our friends and family a chance to fuss.”
She gazed down lovingly at him. He had saved her from despair the day he found her standing at the edge of the cliff. Brook had fought him every step as he dragged her back from the precipice and forced himself into her life. With him she had discovered passion and pieces of herself that she thought Lyon had destroyed.
In turn, she had returned something Mallory thought he had lost when Mirabella had died. His heart. And hope. He desired a family and if it was possible, she wanted to give him that precious gift.
Mallory opened one eye. “Do you think my plan will work?” She had thought he had fallen asleep. Instead he was patiently waiting for her to mull over his proposal.
“When you feel up to it, I will let you convince me.”
Satisfied with her answer, he let his eye close. “Two days. Three at the most.”
Brook was already anticipating how he would go about persuading her. After all, it only seemed fair to let the wicked scoundrel have his way.
Three weeks later …
 
“This has been too much for you,” Brook fretted when she caught him leaning heavily against one of the balcony doors. Mallory had slipped away from the festivities for a few minutes because he had not wanted anyone to know how easily he still tired.
He responded to the worry he heard in her voice by wrapping his arms around her. Being able to claim her as his bride had been worth the weariness and discomfort that had plagued him for weeks. Amara, with the assistance of the Bedegraynes, had taken care of the wedding preparations in London while he had patiently endured the countess’s fussing at Loughwydde. Though they had not made a romantic dash to Gretna Green, Mallory was rather pleased with the results. Brook’s back bumped against his bandaged chest and he grimaced in pain. “Tired of me already, Countess?”
“No,” Brook said, offering him her profile. She wore the cerulean gown she had purchased for the Haslakes’ ball and the pearls he had given her. He leaned into the light caress of her fingers along his jaw. “I should not have allowed you to talk me into returning to London so soon. Although I appreciate what everyone has done for us, the wedding could have been postponed until you were stronger.”
Swaying them gently to the music coming from the
drawing room, he said, “I would have spoken my vows from my bed if you had consented.”
She smiled, recalling his arrogant assurances on the beach the day De Lanoy had shot him. “Two days, you had said. Three at the most.”
Mallory playfully nuzzled her cheek with his chin. “So I was somewhat optimistic in my recovery.”
“You view everything too optimistically. It was nothing short of a miracle the bullet glanced off your ribs, breaking them instead of—”
“Knocking my heart out of my chest? Too late. I lost it that day on the cliffs when you were glaring down at me, demanding to know if I was mad or simply drunk.”
“Well, I have my answer, now. You are mad.” Brook fidgeted in his arms. “Will you please sit down? You have been on your feet too long. If you do not trust my opinion I am certain Tipton would concur.”
Accepting her nagging with affable resignation, he led her to the sofa and pulled her into his lap. At her soft protest, he said, “Yes. You have been entirely too gentle with me, Countess. I miss having you in my bed.”
After the misfortune on the beach, she’d had him taken to Loughwydde. There she had remained by his side throughout his convalescence. The fear of losing him had crumpled her remaining defensive walls more effectively than sweet flattery or calculated seduction. Her unwavering devotion had been humbling to a man who had not thought to find love again.
“You jest, sir. I have rarely left your side, and well you know this.”
Overlooking her protest, Mallory said, “I have not shared my bed with my wife. There is a difference.”
She rested her cheek against his. “Yes, there is a difference.”
While he had been bedridden, he had told her the sorrowful tale he had pieced together from what he had learned from Edda Henning and De Lanoy. He did not spare himself by glossing over his role in the affair because Mallory had not wanted to build their life together on a foundation of lies. She had listened without interrupting him. Then she had pressed her face into his shoulder and cried. She understood too well how it felt to be used as someone’s pawn. Brook had cried for Mirabella and she had cried for him.
Through Tipton’s discreet contacts, Mallory had learned the Hennings had left London again. Their selfish machinations would leave him wondering always if that shy, beautiful little girl was connected to him by blood. Even if she were, the Hennings had denied him any means of proving it.
“What are you brooding about?”
“My past,” he replied honestly. “It haunts me at odd moments. My life before you came along, Countess, was not devoted to honor or duty. Nor have I loved wisely. I would not have you hurt by mistakes.”
Brook sighed against him. “Whereas I devoted myself to the virtues you shirked and still managed to marry a man who hurt me and twisted passion into something ugly. The scandal of his life and death will be talked about for years, Mallory. It pains me to know that you are suffering for my ill choices.”
He assumed she was referring to his parents’ notable absence from the wedding festivities. An invitation had been extended to them, but his mother had sent a note that morning regretfully declining. She had used Lord Keyworth’s poor health as the reason for their refusal. Mallory was disappointed in his mother’s decision. It was not his father’s health that kept his mother away, but rather, whom he had invited to share their special day. He foresaw a future sea of notes from his mother extending her regrets since he had no intention of
cutting his sister out of his life to punish her for marrying into the Bedegrayne family.
“The Keyworths’ absence had nothing to do with you, love. My mother was truly ecstatic to learn I had aspirations of marrying an A’Court.”
“She will be less enthused when she hears the A’Court family is not very pleased with me for refusing Ham’s offer of marriage,” Brook said glumly.
“Well, not to worry, my family thrives on discord. It is the family motto.”
She pulled her cheek away from his and stared. “You are making that part up.”
“No,” Mallory leered wickedly at her. “It’s some fancy Latin phrase … goes something like,
est thriva discardo
. When they put it in Latin, you know it is old.”
Brook pleased him by laughing. The sound of her joy warmed his heart, his very soul. He could be content spending the rest of his life devising mischief to humor her.
“I am acquainted with the language, Mallory Claeg, and that phrase you uttered was not Latin.”
“No? Well, how about—” Cuddling her closer, he whispered an indelicate Latin phrase he did know. Noticing that her ears were turning a charming pink, he bit her tender earlobe.
“Gad,” Gill muttered, scowling at them with disappointment. “I should’ve known I’d find you two kissing. Claeg, you are missing everything!”
It pleased him that his young apprentice was enjoying herself. With the exception of art and Egyptian artifacts, he could not think of anything that induced such enthusiasm. “You underestimate me, Gill. If you will be a good girl and close the door behind you I will make certain I get my everything.” He and Brook had talked Gill into coming to the Bedegrayne house for the wedding, but no amount of coaxing had put her into the pretty dress Mallory had purchased for her.
“There is always time for
that,
” the girl sneered, unimpressed with his hint for her hasty departure. “Have you seen the cakes? One even has a mix of candied fruit and nuts on it!” The wide-eyed excitement in her young countenance made his heart ache.
Mallory and his new bride exchanged amused glances. Without being asked, Brook slid off his lap. The lingering touch on his shoulder was a silent signal that she was willing to make, as Gill so delicately put it, time for
that
later when they were alone. For now, they had family and friends waiting for them.
He linked his hand in Brook’s. “Well, Countess, there are few things that surpass cake.”
“Especially, with fruits and nuts on top,” Brook said, winking at Gill. Satisfied they were on their way to rejoin their party, Gill dashed off to tell the others they could start cutting into the desserts.
Mallory nuzzled her ear. “Of course, when we are alone, I would be delighted to demonstrate what does outdo my hunger for sweets.”
His teasing torment of her ear had her shivering. Turning her face up to his, Brook said, “No, love, the delight will be all mine.”
 
With a wistful smile on her lips, Maddy Wyman watched along with the rest of the guests as Mallory and Brook Claeg kissed in front of their guests. The clapping and bawdy cheering made the bride blush. It was a small intimate gathering. Almost everyone was connected to the Bedegraynes by blood or marriage. Sir Thomas Bedegrayne had commented on Lord and Lady Keyworth’s absence since they had not deigned to attend either one of their children’s weddings. His elder son had efficiently squelched his querulous diatribe by reminding him that this was a day of celebration.
Maddy was about to join the hungry group eyeing the table
of desserts when she noticed her three-year-old nephew, Lucien, entering with her poor little dog clamped fiercely to his chest. Flora was an exuberant white Maltese who was used to entering a room on all four paws. Maddy had locked her in the conservatory to avoid any embarrassing incidents.
Her brother noticed his toddling son with his cumbersome companion. They simultaneously approached the boy from opposite directions.
Lucien brightened as he saw her. “Aunt Maggy, Flaw-ra!” he exclaimed, butchering her and Flora’s names. He tried to hold out the struggling dog. Flora took advantage of his divided attention and wriggled out of his grasp. She hit the floor with an ungraceful splat when her short legs buckled under her when she fell.
“I thought you locked her up?” Tipton asked accusingly as he watched the dog run away from the gleeful boy and under one of the tables.
This was not her fault. “I did,” Maddy said, through clenched teeth. Paying no heed to her elegant dress, she crouched down to grab the frolicsome dog. “Flora!” she called out in frustration as a flash of white hair charged past her just out of reach.
“I’ll help, I’ll help. Here, Flaw-ra,” Lucien yelled, chasing after her.
Amara snickered into her husband’s shoulder as Maddy pursued the boy and dog. Great! She had become the evening’s entertainment. At least, they were not browbeating her into playing the pianoforte. She should be grateful for small blessings.
Tipton caught his son with one arm and hauled him into his arms. He gave his sister an impatient look.
“I know, I know. I will capture Flora and lock her up.” She playfully pinched her nephew’s nose as she walked past father and son. “Little imp. Maybe we should lock you up, too.”
Maddy headed out of the room and into an outer hall. Hearing the telltale sounds of tiny nails clicking across the marble flooring below, she rushed down the stairs. “Stubborn dog,” she said, her tone promising a retribution she never intended delivering to her beloved Maltese. The sight of a stranger hunkered down petting her dog had her skidding to an abrupt halt. She slipped on the last step and landed smartly on her backside.
The gentleman looked in her direction and grinned at the very salty utterance she had borrowed from one of the garden jobbers she occasionally worked with. Maddy felt the impact of his smile even from a distance. He appeared to be somewhere in his late twenties. His face was lean and tanned by the sun. If not for the subtle charm of his smile, she might not have considered him handsome. She could tell from where she was sitting that his nose had been broken once or twice. There was an aura of severity emanating from him that had nothing to do with his dark brown hair or coloring. He seemed to be as curious about her as she was of him. Unwilling to give him more of an advantage than he already had, Maddy climbed to her feet when he stood.
“Who gave you leave to enter this house?”
“Not exactly the greeting I was expecting.” He picked up Flora and tucked her under his arm. The smitten dog was arching her little body up to lick him on the jaw. He bore the animal’s affectionate nature better than most. “Though somehow befitting the prodigal son.”
Clutching the newel, she braced herself as he approached. “Who are you?”
“Exactly the question I was about to pose to you,” he replied, his gaze too bold to be considered admiring. “Who do you belong to, fair nymph? Sir Thomas Bedegrayne or his heir?”
Maddy’s brow furrowed in bewilderment. There was a familiarity about him that she could not place as he circled
around the interior of the hall and halted in front of her. “Neither, sir. Now give me my dog.” She held out her arms, but a sound from above caused them both to look upward.
Brock Bedegrayne stared down at the gentleman. He made no attempt to conceal his astonishment. “Christ.”
Stroking Flora, the man’s brow crookedly cocked in amusement. “Not quite. Father always likened me to the fallen one. It is good to see you as well, Brother.”
“Nyle,” Maddy whispered, almost as stunned as his sibling.
The Bedegraynes’ dark seraphim had returned home.

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