Counting on a Countess

Chapter 3

Warily, Tamsyn approached the card room. Masculine conversation rolled out, borne aloft on fumes of a considerable amount of imbibed brandy. A handful of ladies’ voices joined in, sopranos to the basses, but overall, the room sounded occupied mostly by men.

Her heart made a hard, unsteady beat as she contemplated what she was about to do. She’d never deliberately set her cap for a man, laying out all the pretty little traps women were supposed to cunningly employ to ensnare suitors.

She wasn’t afraid of men by any means. At home in Newcombe, she often worked long hours side by side with the roughest of farmers and fishermen. She believed they tempered their words in consideration of her gender and status. Yet sometimes a barrel would crash down, spilling its contents everywhere, and colorful, profane curses were employed. She came from the countryside, too, where talk was likely more honest, more coarse than the way people spoke in London.

Tamsyn hadn’t had the luxury of being sheltered. But that also meant that she never truly learned the art of simpering or coquetry.

Yet somehow, she was supposed to attract Lord Blakemere’s notice, enough to let him know that she was interested.

She exhaled ruefully. She’d spent many a moonless night standing in freezing seawater, hauling crates of fabric and half ankers of brandy, knowing that the custom officers might discover her at any moment—and yet the task of flirting with a handsome, eligible man made her palms damp.

“Are you going to enter?” a young woman asked, fanning herself as she stood beside Tamsyn. “I’m not certain I want to go in. It’s so dull everywhere I turn.”

“I don’t know what you plan on doing,” Tamsyn said to the woman beside her, straightening her shoulders, “but I feel the need to gamble.”

Taking a deep breath, she stepped into the card room.

The setting was far more elegant than any of the taverns where she’d seen card and dice games played. Instead of seamen and farmers crouching around games played upon a coarse stone floor, fashionable men and women sat encircling polished mahogany tables. Rather than rough hands clutching battered cards, the guests wore gloves and played using cards so clean they had to be new, or rolled dice made of shining ivory. Everything here spoke of privileged leisure, so different from what she’d known.

Tamsyn’s gaze skipped quickly from table to table. Her heart jumped when she finally spotted Lord Blakemere in a corner, playing cassino.

God help her, he seemed to have grown more handsome in the half an hour since she’d seen him last. No wonder women—both respectable and otherwise—were drawn to him. She felt pulled in his direction, lured by carnal potential.

Look at me.

But the earl was too absorbed in the game to notice any newcomers, and she tried not to feel disappointment that he didn’t look up when she entered the room.

Trying to appear as nonchalant as possible, Tamsyn slowly made her way around the room, pausing at different tables, pretending to watch the play. She applauded when one of the guests won their hand, but all the while, she was acutely aware of Lord Blakemere’s nearby presence.

What was she going to do once she reached his table? She couldn’t very well throw herself across his lap and cry, “Marry me, my lord!”

She needed to be crafty and calculating, perhaps even more so than she was when storing smuggled French spirits in the caverns beneath her family’s ancestral home.

Finally, she reached Lord Blakemere’s table and found herself struck by the clean angle of his jaw and the hedonistic curves of his mouth. She barely noticed that one gentleman acted as dealer while the other players—another man, the earl, and a dowager in ropes of pearls—studied their cards.

Tamsyn positioned herself behind an empty chair opposite Lord Blakemere, but her target didn’t look up from his hand. It wasn’t until the round was over that he glanced in her direction.

His gaze met hers, and she felt a hot jolt travel the length of her body. Her breath left her in a sudden rush.

Forcing herself to inhale and exhale slowly, she smiled at him. Gradually, he smiled back. It wasn’t a gentleman’s polite smile, but one that seemed to promise wicked things leisurely done under cover of darkness.

Another bolt of electricity moved through her. She’d had men look at her with sexual interest before, but none of those looks held the seductive power of Lord Blakemere’s sultry smile.

He asked, “Would you care to play, Miss . . . I’m sorry, please remind me of your name.”

“Pearce,” she said breathlessly. “Tamsyn Pearce.”

“Odd name,” muttered the dowager. “Tamsyn.”

Tamsyn’s cheeks heated with a flare of temper. Back home, hers was a commonplace name. But she wasn’t one of the thousands of Annes or Catherines or Marys that seemed all the rage in London.

“A charming name,” the earl corrected the dowager. “Cornish, yes?”

“That’s right.” A point for the earl for not dismissing her as a country mouse.

“Never been to Cornwall,” Lord Blakemere said, “though I hear it’s lovely.”

“And a smuggler’s paradise,” the other gentleman at the table added.

Tamsyn forced herself to laugh, and it came out a little shrilly. “The tales of Cornwall’s criminal side are exaggerated by ballads and print sellers.”

“I should hope so,” Lord Blakemere said darkly.

She didn’t like the grim tone of his voice, so she said in a cheerful voice, “Fishing and mining, that’s how we earn our bread.” She smiled brightly, hoping it might cover up the sheer drivel pouring from her mouth.

Lord Blakemere continued to smile, as well. Their gazes held—with that curious heat unfolding deep within her as she stared into his deep blue eyes—and who knows how long they would have simply stared at each other if the dowager didn’t snap, “Are we playing or napping?”

“Miss Pearce, will you join us?” Lord Blakemere asked. “We can be a partnership.”

Oh blast. She hadn’t thought about this possibility. “I would very much like to,” she said, then added ruefully, “only I haven’t any cash with me.”

“I’ll stake you,” he offered at once. “Say, three pounds? No, four.” He reached into his coat, pulled out a sizable wad of cash, and peeled off four one-pound notes, which he set on the table.

She felt her eyes widen. Goodness, he really was profligate with money if he offered her—a stranger—the loan of four pounds. That amount of money could feed a dozen families in Newcombe.

The other gentleman at the table and the dowager merely shook their heads, as if familiar with Lord Blakemere’s extravagance.

“That’s kind of you, my lord,” she murmured.

“Sit down, gel,” the dowager snarled, “or I may perish of acute boredom.”

With a Herculean effort not to snarl back, Tamsyn took her seat opposite Lord Blakemere. He winked at her and her stomach fluttered.

Concentrate, Tam. You’re here to snare his interest, not fall all over yourself like a newborn calf.

Everyone anted one pound note. Her pulse hammered at the thought of risking so much money on a game, but people played deeper in London than they did in Cornwall.

“You know how to play cassino?” the other gentleman asked as he dealt each of the players four cards.

“She had better,” the dowager said tartly. “I’m too old to explain the rules.”

Once the hands had been dealt, the dealer laid out four more cards in the center of the table—the queen of clubs, the four of diamonds, the seven of spades, and the ace of hearts. Tamsyn studied her cards.

She’d negotiated more than one shipment of smuggled goods over card games in smoky taprooms. Surely playing against these stiff necks was easier.

The gentleman opened by setting the three of diamonds atop the four. “Sevens,” he announced. Tamsyn remembered that this was known as building.

Next was Lord Blakemere. He laid the two of hearts on the seven. “Nines.”

Clearly, then, he held a nine, and hoped no one would capture it before he had a chance to.

The dowager grumbled as she set down the jack of clubs, unable to build or capture anything with the card.

Now it was Tamsyn’s turn. She set the nine of diamonds atop the earl’s pile of cards. “Nines,” she announced.

He gazed at her with curiosity that gave way to admiration. She could have captured the build, but instead, she left it for him to take. It wasn’t unheard of for partners to assist each other in game play, but it seemed evident he was surprised she wanted to bolster him. They would both benefit when it came time to tally points, yet by helping him capture the build, she employed strategy.

And he liked her for it.

The other gentleman captured his sevens, and then Lord Blakemere captured the nines. As he did, he sent Tamsyn a slow-burning look. If we’re this good together at the card table, his gaze seemed to promise, imagine what we’d be like in bed.

The cards became slippery in her damp palms. She’d met her share of country scoundrels, braggarts who were crude in their attempts to woo her. It was easy to dismiss their thinly veiled efforts to get her to lift her skirts because they wanted only their own gratification—she was just a means to an end.

With Lord Blakemere’s knowing looks, however, her blood felt hot, gathering warmth in secret places. She forgot the other people at their table, and in the room.

He offered so much more with just his gaze. He guaranteed not just his pleasure, but hers, as well. Hours of it.

God above, but he was a rake of the first water. The men she’d known in Cornwall were mere awkward, fumbling boys compared to him, and it didn’t appear that he was even trying that hard to impress her. He simply was. How intoxicating.

The card game continued, with play following a similar pattern. Sometimes the earl helped her capture a build, and sometimes she came to his aid. They worked together seamlessly, give and take, and every time he gazed at her with greater and greater appreciation. With each look, Tamsyn felt flushed and powerfully aware of herself as a woman. She saw how his eyes lingered on her mouth or the curve of her neck, sometimes dipping even lower to follow the neckline of her gown—as though he was entranced by what he saw.

This is what a siren feels like.

He was clearly too fond of women to believe in fidelity. Perhaps he would be so distracted bringing willing females into his bed that he’d pay his wife no mind. And when the vast fortune was his, he’d hardly notice the cost of buying a run-down manor in Cornwall.

He’d make for a truly terrible husband.

I have to marry him.

At last, the game ended, and the points totaled.

“Blast it,” the dowager muttered.

“We win,” Tamsyn said, blinking with surprise. She’d been too caught up in the moment, and him, to notice the actual play of the game. But she collected herself enough to say, as Lord Blakemere handed Tamsyn her share of the winnings, “Oh no, you keep it.”

His brows rose. “The prize belongs to both of us,” he said with surprise.

“I only wanted to play for amusement,” she demurred, though she couldn’t manage to sound coy. It wasn’t the truth, but saying, “I played to flirt with you,” wasn’t very strategic.

“Are you certain?” he pressed, his voice low and seductive. He leaned closer to her, and she felt her cheeks flush in response to his nearness.

“I am a woman who knows my own mind, my lord,” she answered pertly.

His grin was sudden, white, and dazzling. She—a woman who’d never fainted once in her life—grew dizzy from his smile, and wanted to lean into him.

No wonder he possessed such a reputation. What woman could resist his charm? “And I’m too much of a rogue to persuade you to change your mind.” He tucked his winnings into his coat. “We make a good partnership,” he murmured in a deep voice. “Shall we play again?”

Oh, yes.

“Tamsyn!” a disapproving feminine voice said behind her.

Turning in her chair, Tamsyn fixed Lady Daleford with a cheerful smile, which was difficult to maintain in the face of censure. “You’ve found me,” Tamsyn said brightly.

“So I did.” Lady Daleford eyed the earl guardedly. “I find myself fatigued. It’s time we head home.”

Tamsyn’s chest constricted. She wasn’t ready to leave yet. Not when things with the earl seemed so promising. On many levels.

But first and foremost, she had to think logically. Though she had attracted Lord Blakemere’s interest, she feared it wasn’t enough to warrant him calling on her. He’d found other women wanting as potential brides. Why should she be different?

I can only be myself. That had to be enough.

Rising from her chair, Tamsyn looked at him with frankness. “I enjoyed our game.”

“The feeling is reciprocated,” he answered, standing. His movements were economical but smooth. He had command over his body.

They stood close. Far closer than was respectable. She had an aching awareness of the breadth of his shoulders and the way his evening clothes skimmed over his muscles. The earl was a soldier still, after two years of peace.

A small frown appeared between his brows, as though he was attempting to puzzle through an enigma. “Might I—”

“Now, Tamsyn,” Lady Daleford said in a clipped tone, already heading for the door.

Damn and hell, Tamsyn thought. Throwing Lord Blakemere a regretful look, she followed her companion out, though she could practically hear her body cry out, Wait! Go back!

Had she been successful? Was he intrigued enough to call on her? But she hadn’t given him leave to, nor had she told him where she was staying.

It seemed all she could do now was hope.

Kit’s eyes followed the intriguing Miss Tamsyn Pearce as she hurried out of the card room. He liked the way she moved with long, purposeful strides rather than using tiny, dainty steps. It wasn’t difficult to picture her tramping over wild, rolling countryside with her cheeks reddened by the wind, unconcerned by the mud edging the hem of her plain gown. He could well imagine that she was the sort of woman who needed to do something rather than restrict herself to being decorative.

He couldn’t deny his visceral reaction to her, either. Even now he felt the hot grip of desire, which had been heightened all the more by the seamless way in which they had played together. It had been a rhythmic give-and-take that had primed his body and excited his mind.

If nothing else, they would be a good match in bed. He knew this with a bodily certitude, an innate recognition of her sensual potential.

Was it enough on which to build a marriage? As he gazed at the door to the room—long after she’d vacated it—he searched for the instinctual aversion that had kept him from pursuing other ladies. But it wasn’t there. If anything, he yearned for more of Tamsyn Pearce.

She’d made her own interest clear. Yet she gazed at him not as a potential to keep her in luxury, but in the dark, elemental way women and men looked at each other.

He wasn’t a stranger to women making known their interest in him. Usually, such ladies were older, more familiar with the worldly ways of the ton. Tamsyn Pearce wasn’t a debutante fresh from the schoolroom, but she had only just come down from the country. She ought to be shy and diffident, yet she didn’t glance away when he looked at her.

She had refused to take the money they had won at cassino. So she wasn’t entirely mercenary.

Perhaps Miss Pearce was just as drawn to him as he was intrigued by her.

But she’d been dragged away by her sharp-eyed companion before he’d been able to ask about calling on her. Damn.

“The gel’s gone, Blakemere,” Lady Haighe said, rapping her knuckles on the card table. “So you can stop mooning after her like a sailor on shore leave.”

He always did like Lady Haighe. But now wasn’t the time to enjoy the baroness’s company.

“Please excuse me.” Kit bowed and hastened out of the card room, ignoring Lady Haighe’s muttered curses.

It took the work of a few moments to locate the night’s host, Lord Eblewhite. The viscount stood amidst a group of men and women gathered at one end of the ballroom. Someone had just said something mildly amusing, because the assembled company was all chuckling.

Kit set his hand on the viscount’s shoulder. “May I have a word in private, Eblewhite?”

“Of course, my lord.” The older man disengaged from his guests and together he and Kit walked to a quiet corner of the chamber. “How goes the search for a bride?” he asked heartily.

Kit fought to keep his impatience in check. Whatever drew him to Miss Pearce, he felt the snap of attraction. He couldn’t ignore the fact that time slipped by.

“You may be of assistance in that matter,” he replied. “What can you tell me about Miss Tamsyn Pearce?”

Lord Eblewhite frowned in thought. “There are so many girls here. I’ve trouble recalling ’em all, like picking out one sugared cake from a banquet full of ’em.”

“This particular cake comes from Cornwall and has red hair,” Kit noted.

The viscount’s brows rose. “Ah. Lady Daleford’s guest. She’s hosting the girl here in London.”

So that was the woman who snapped at him like a terrier. “What do you know of Miss Pearce?”

“A spinster, if I recall correctly.” Lord Eblewhite cast his gaze toward the ceiling as he scoured his memory. “Old Cornish gentry. Not much of a dowry—she’s from impecunious circumstances.”

Would that make her quick to spend his money, or would she watch every ha’penny? “Describe these circumstances,” Kit urged.

Eblewhite looked impatient to return to his guests, but said, “Lady Daleford spoke to Mrs. Osterland, who told Lady Eblewhite that the family manor house is falling down around them. There may be mines on the property. Perhaps not. The nearby village is barely getting by on farming or fishing, but I can’t recall.”

“Her family,” Kit pressed as Eblewhite started to edge away. “Tell me more about them.”

His host sighed. “A fount of information, Lady Daleford. Said her father was Baron Shawe, but he and the baroness died in a boating accident when the girl was in her teens. Went on a pleasure sail one morning and didn’t come back. Their wrecked boat was found a week later, but the bodies were never recovered. But there wasn’t a will, a damned shame. The girl barely brings a groat to her future husband.” Lord Eblewhite shook his head. “Frankly, I’m surprised she’d try for a Season in London, given her age and lack of dowry.” He shrugged his shoulders. “She’s pretty enough, I suppose. Make someone a good mistress.” The viscount rocked on his feet. “Already got one, myself, and can’t afford another. But you ought to give her a go.” He knocked the side of his fist against Kit’s shoulder in a show of manly bonhomie.

“Right now, I’m not looking for a mistress,” Kit answered. “Many thanks, Eblewhite.”

“Good luck on the hunt, Blakemere,” the viscount replied.

Kit bowed as he and Lord Eblewhite parted. Though the dancing and revelry would continue for several more hours, Kit was ready to leave. He avoided Society balls as much as possible, finding them dull and tedious, with an unfortunate lack of indecent behavior—a far cry from the revelry of a pleasure garden. But he’d gotten what he needed from the Eblewhite assembly, and it was time to go home and ponder his options.

Making his way out of the ballroom, he considered all he knew of Miss Pearce.

 Item the First: she was poor with few prospects, so she wouldn’t mind a short courtship.

 Item the Second: she didn’t appear to be a fortune hunter.

 Item the Third: he could easily envision them spending pleasurable hours in bed together.

Conclusion: she was perfect.

Chapter 4

Kit stood at the foot of the front steps leading to Lady Daleford’s town house on Boswell Street, readying himself for the world’s shortest courtship. He had five full days remaining to meet the conditions of Somerby’s will.

He didn’t know if Miss Pearce would accept his brief attempts at wooing, let alone agree to marry. Ladies wanted long walks through sun-dappled fields and soul-stirring looks. They wanted romance. Or so Kit assumed, not having much experience with pursuing ladies’ hearts. He had considerable practice pursuing their bodies, however. That part could come after the wedding. Kit practically salivated as he imagined Miss Pearce’s taste. As a woman of gentle birth, she likely didn’t have much experience—and he couldn’t wait to show her the many ways he could give her pleasure.

Yet if romance was what Miss Pearce wanted, the lack of time meant that Kit would have to disappoint her. He wasn’t entirely certain how to go about offering a genteel young woman marriage two days after meeting her. He would have to try, however. He’d faced Napoleon’s cannons—he could speed a lady through the wooing process and proceed directly to marriage.

Now that he was poised outside Lady Daleford’s home, he wasn’t as certain about the bouquet of red gerbera daisies he carried. Perhaps he should have gone with the more traditional roses. Yet the cheerful, unaffected daisies recalled Miss Pearce’s open, guileless countenance, and the red indicated the passion that lurked just beneath her surface. He’d purchased the flowers without questioning his preference.