Romancing the Countess (15 page)
Though she tried to forget, she kept recalling the feel of his hair beneath her fingers, the unexpected comfort of having him lie against her while she watched him sleep. Nor could she erase the memory of his breath on her ear and neck as he replaced the pins, or the warm press of his lips against her bare hand. She’d enjoyed his company, drunk though he was, just as much as she’d taken pleasure in his nearness and the way he touched her. It was the knowledge of the latter that tugged at her thoughts and turned her limbs restless so that she tossed from side to side. It was the realization of her own physical response to him that made her . . . frightened.
Only when the sun had risen did her body finally succumb to exhaustion, her mind allowed a brief reprieve for precisely five hours before a maid came to wake her.
She missed breakfast, but apparently so did the earl. Nor did he join her and the other guests when they took a morning ride over the grounds. When he didn’t appear for lunch and a servant reported that no answer had been given to his knock, she could only assume that he was still sleeping off the effects of the liquor. Privately, she hoped he remained secluded in his bedchamber for the rest of the day.
With a tired sigh, Leah straightened her posture and reached for the first envelope on the desk. The aggressive slant of her mother’s handwriting laced across the front. That one could wait, then. Adelaide had probably heard of the house party and demanded to know why Leah had decided to disgrace herself, her mother and father, her sister, all of her extended relatives, and so on.
It was the next four letters that Leah had been waiting for, responses to her invitations for the dinner party on the last night of the house party. There would be dancing afterward—one of the few activities planned for the house party that Ian had actually enjoyed. It would also be her first opportunity to dance since the carriage accident—a self-test.
Even now, after four months of being relegated to the periphery of society, after examining her heretofore dedication to all the rules and obligations and deciding that her own happiness was more important than obedience, a part of her still balked at the idea of violating the mourning rituals to such an extent. Yes, the very thought of dancing cotillions, quadrilles, and waltzes hour after hour set her blood to racing with anticipation, but dancing was far different from boating on a lake, practicing archery, or even being so bold as to host a house party so soon after her husband’s death.
Besides the fact that it was possible no one would want to be her partner, she still wasn’t certain if she wanted to invite that kind of scandal. Not because she feared Lord Wriothesly or his predictions about her behavior risking the revelation of Ian and Angela’s affair, but simply because, despite her wish for independence to do as she wished, it remained difficult to free herself from her role of quiet observer. The woman who watched everyone else live their lives, who analyzed their speech and actions, who admired the vivacity and charm of women like Angela but was content to allow someone else such a place of prominence.
But the dinner party was three days away, and she had until then to make her decision. Regardless of whether she danced or not, the others could enjoy themselves, and the house party would end with a fitting farewell. One last tribute to Ian’s memory, as her guests believed.
Sorting through the four final responses she’d received this morning, Leah found only one to be a note declining the invitation. In all, then, there would be nine more guests, mostly local Wiltshire gentry who favored the company of the aristocracy. In truth, it was a much better response than she’d expected.
Rising from the desk, she sent a look of longing toward her bed. A good hostess would return to her guests at once; it wouldn’t be very polite to leave them alone for more than a half hour, as she’d done already.
But they
were
occupied getting ready for the presentation of the
tableaux vivants
the next day, and as a recent widow she could now be excused far more easily than she would have been otherwise. Leah thought of Wriothesly, still asleep in his bed. If nothing else, she was much more tired than he was.
were
occupied getting ready for the presentation of the
tableaux vivants
the next day, and as a recent widow she could now be excused far more easily than she would have been otherwise. Leah thought of Wriothesly, still asleep in his bed. If nothing else, she was much more tired than he was.
Walking to the bellpull, she rang for a servant to take a message to the guests downstairs.
God, his head ached. Sebastian nodded, wincing, as Miss Pettigrew went on about the part she wanted him to act in her scene for the
tableaux vivants
. Unlike the others, she hadn’t selected a famous painting to portray, but the stabbing scene from Shakespeare’s
Julius Caesar
. Thus, Sebastian was supposed to kneel on the floor while Lord Baron-Giles and Mr. Dunlop aimed knives at his torso.
tableaux vivants
. Unlike the others, she hadn’t selected a famous painting to portray, but the stabbing scene from Shakespeare’s
Julius Caesar
. Thus, Sebastian was supposed to kneel on the floor while Lord Baron-Giles and Mr. Dunlop aimed knives at his torso.
A spectacular fun time, that’s what it would be.
And where was Leah?
For the past two hours he’d been pulled back and forth across the rose salon by each of the ladies, all claiming they needed his assistance to play a part in this pastoral scene or that painting of God’s retribution on earth. Various wigs had been shoved onto his head—men’s and ladies’ alike; garters and hose had been tossed at his feet, a doublet and a bow and arrow thrust into his hands. And from the looks of it, he wasn’t alone. The other men appeared to be suffering the same fate. Sebastian wasn’t sure whether Leah had planned the
tableaux vivants
as amusement or torture for her male guests.
tableaux vivants
as amusement or torture for her male guests.
She was supposed to have a headache. That’s what Herrod had announced shortly after Sebastian had joined the others downstairs. The ladies had murmured their concern and cast glances back and forth, their thoughts more than transparent.
Surely, their expressions said, Mrs. George must be suffering a bout of grief over Mr. George. The poor, dear thing.
Sebastian was more inclined to believe she was avoiding him. Unfortunately, he wasn’t exactly certain about the reason. He didn’t remember everything that had occurred in Ian’s study the previous evening, but he remembered enough. Drinking far too much brandy. Speaking about Ian and Angela. A fascination he seemed to have developed for Leah’s nape as his fingers reveled in the softness of her hair.
Although he couldn’t recall much of their discussion about Ian and Angela beyond Leah’s claim that they had meant to run away together, and he was still trying to figure out why he had touched her hair, beyond either of these he was far more disturbed by the memory of laying his head upon her lap.
That
he remembered, and much too well.
That
he remembered, and much too well.
He recalled not only lying down and feeling the surprising softness of her thighs beneath his head, but falling asleep to the rhythm of her breathing and the gentle strokes of her fingers in his hair. Waking to the mildly exasperated but low and throaty sound of her voice, thinking as he stared into her tired brown eyes above him that he never wanted to move again.
Earlier, when Herrod had first sent her regrets that she wouldn’t be able to return for a while due to her headache, Sebastian had been relieved. He didn’t want to see her again. Inside, where she wore a widow’s cap instead of a veil, it would be easier to read her expression. And God, but he didn’t want to see the same acknowledgment in her eyes that he’d been forced to make that morning when he woke. The same realization that there was more between them now than only Ian and Angela’s secret.
“Here you are, Lord Wriothesly,” Miss Pettigrew said, appearing before him again with some sort of wreath in her hands. Sebastian peered down at the evergreen and the little red beads meant to represent holly berries. “For your head,” she said, reaching upward.
Sebastian stilled the movement and took the wreath away. “I don’t believe this is the sort of thing the Romans wore on their heads.”
She bit her lip and nodded reluctantly. “Yes, but it was all I could find.”
“I’ve agreed to wear a toga, Miss Pettigrew.”
She beamed, her expression a mastery of sincerity and innocence. “I can’t thank you enough, my lord, for your help—”
“A
toga
.” He arched a brow.
toga
.” He arched a brow.
Miss Pettigrew’s smile faded. “Yes, you’re right, of course.” She removed the wreath from his grip. “This headpiece won’t do at all.”
As she turned away, Sebastian glanced at Lord Elliot on the opposite side of the room. He wore a brown robe belted around his abundant waist, a forked tree branch held as a shepherd’s crook in his right hand. Mr. Meyer stood nearby, his head bent to accommodate Lady Elliot as she painted his cheeks with charcoal. Sebastian cast both men a commiserating look. The only two who appeared to enjoy the attention were Cooper-Giles and Dunlop, though perhaps they were more enamored of the beatific smile Miss Pettigrew showered upon them as she passed rather than the particular roles they’d each been assigned.
Yes, at first Sebastian had been relieved to find Leah absent, but that had been two hours ago. Now he was simply irritated. He waited until Mrs. Meyer approached Lord Elliot with a pair of worn old shoes that, with a few more holes in them, might have resembled sandals. Then Sebastian caught her before she could return to the trunks. He drew her to the side, a few feet away from the others.
“I’m beginning to become concerned about Mrs. George,” he said, keeping his voice low. “I know she confessed to having a headache, but in all the time I’ve known her since she married Mr. George, never once do I recall her neglecting her guests in this manner.”
Mrs. Meyer clasped her hands at her waist and leaned forward. “But I don’t believe she does have a headache, my lord,” she whispered.
“No?”
She shook her head. “She seemed very pale this morning, and drawn. And her eyes were red.”
Sebastian frowned at this description. Perhaps she
was
ill.
was
ill.
“I believe she’s been crying, my lord,” Mrs. Meyer said. “I fear she’s still far from finished grieving for him. Although it was a nice gesture, perhaps having the house party and talking about everything Mr. George enjoyed was too much.”
“Hmm. I agree. Thank you, Mrs. Meyer.”
She curtsied, and then smiled up at him. “I must say, my lord, that toga is very fetching on you.”
Sebastian did his best not to look annoyed. “I’m going to find a servant to look in on Mrs. George,” he announced, then strode to the door.
“But, my lord . . .” Mrs. Meyer’s voice followed him into the hallway, soon subsiding beneath the sound of his footsteps on the floor.
Sebastian found a housemaid who directed him to Herrod. “I would like to see Mrs. George,” he told the butler.
“I’m sorry, my lord, but Mrs. George is currently unavailable.”
“Yes, I know. That’s why I would like to see her.” If he had to endure being dressed and made to feel like a doll in the middle of a game of make-believe, then she damn well wasn’t allowed to hide away in her room. Unless she was truly ill. And then Sebastian wanted to see the proof; he’d seen her play poor little widow far too many times not to be aware of her attempted acting skills.
Unfortunately, the butler merely stared at Sebastian with a mask of patient tolerance on his face. “Mrs. George is not to be disturbed,” he said, his blue eyes turning to steel behind his spectacles.
Sebastian inclined his head. “Very well.”
Then he turned and headed toward the staircase. True, he wasn’t certain if she still kept the mistress’ bedchamber, but he knew where the master bedchamber was, and the room next to it seemed like a fairly good place to start. Herrod followed him up the stairs.
“My lord.”
Sebastian turned down the right side of the corridor, heading toward the fifth door on the left.
“My lord!”
He halted before the door and watched as Herrod approached, his breath wheezing from the effort of chasing after him. Sebastian lifted a brow. “Shall I enter, or would you like to speak to her first?”
“Neither!” the butler whispered furiously. “Mrs. George is unavailable to see her guests because she is sleep—”
Sebastian opened the door and stepped inside.
“—ing,” Herrod finished with a sigh.
“Sleeping?” And indeed, it appeared to be true. Across the room, curled up in the center of the bed, Leah had her eyes closed, her mouth parted slightly, one hand flung out across the counterpane. Sebastian turned to the butler, frowning. “Is she ill? Has someone sent for a physician?”
No other glare had ever been so self-righteous. “I believe Mrs. George is simply tired, my lord,” the butler said, both his voice and expression acerbic. “There was a problem with one of the guests quite late last night.”
“Ah.” And now he felt like a bastard.
Herrod nodded and waved his hand toward the hallway. “If you would come with me . . .”
“Yes, of course.”
But before he could leave, her voice reached out and stopped him. “Sebastian?”
Not Lord Wriothesly, but Sebastian. Said in the same low, throaty tone—exhausted tone, he realized now— from the previous night. And just as the sound of her speaking his name in the study had caught him off balance as he’d tried to lay his head upon her lap, he found himself turning around, looking to her to set the world to rights again.
She was struggling to sit up, the bedspread tangled about her torso. “What are you doing here?” she asked, her gaze skipping behind him—to Herrod, he presumed.
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