Courting the Countess Page 5

  May put the brush down on the dressing table. “Possibly. Just be careful, Cousin. Mr. Claeg has the notorious habit of choosing widows for his mistresses.”

  Chapter Five

  The countess was altering her daily routine. He would be flattering himself to think she was deliberately avoiding him. Mallory did not mind her edginess. Nonetheless, he was guessing her family was distracting her. The new Lord A’Court did not trust him, and with good reason. The pompous earl sensed from the very beginning what Mallory wanted from the lovely widow because he wanted her, too. How ironic the recipient of their mutual lust was blissfully ignorant of the chaos she was causing.

  Then again, maybe she was not so blind. There had been awareness in her eyes when Mallory had hauled her slender body against his. She may prefer that he seek his affections elsewhere. Miss Hamblin was a sweet, fine-looking woman who hinted by her actions the other day that she would have welcomed a brief dalliance. It was a pity her classic beauty did not stir him. One day he might immortalize her on canvas, but she would not grace his bed.

  He had risen early. Mallory used the morning light to appease his muse. He had finished several watercolors of what he considered the countess’s cliffs and one stark seascape. It was not his favorite medium. He preferred working in oils. However, watercolors were advantageous for outdoor work because he required fewer supplies and there was a quicker drying time. Satisfied with his morning work, he returned to his thatch-roofed cottage and dropped off his supplies. He had hired a local woman who tidied up after him and prepared his meals. Mrs. Whitby arrived late in the morning. She remained there as long as it took to clean up, restock his pantry, and leave him with enough food so he would not starve to death. He tried to explain that he required very little when he was painting, but she was determined to earn the generous wages he paid her. Mallory grabbed the small basket of food she had assembled for him and waved farewell to her. More out of habit than plan, he retrieved his sketching book and a few black lead pencils and tucked them into the basket.

  The walk to Loughwydde was not arduous. The cottage’s proximity suggested that it might have once been part of the property. Perhaps some of the surrounding land had been sold off at the baron’s death. Whistling a tune, Mallory strode across the open area past the stone barn. From the corner of his eye he saw a blur of muted hues coming at him. The impact was not particularly painful. Dropping the basket, he wrapped his arm around his prize to steady himself. Mallory was pleased with his good fortune.

  “Countess, there is no need for these outrageous stratagems,” he said into her shocked face. “If you want me to touch you, all you have to do is ask.”

  Sputtering incoherent denials, Lady A’Court placed her hands on his chest and shoved. Hard. “I was not trying to touch you, oaf! What are you doing skulking about on my lands?”

  Her straw bonnet had been dislodged and dangled by its ribbons down her back. The careless knot she had twisted her hair into was coming undone around her face. She wore a lilac spencer trimmed with swan’s down at her wrists and across her bosom over a practical brown dress. Mallory gave her feet a passing appraisal and was pleased the ankle-length skirt revealed half boots.

  “Good, you have something sensible on your feet. Let us go,” he said, taking her by the hand and leaning sideways to grab the basket in the other.

  “I am not going anywhere with you, Mr. Claeg.”

  “Of course you will.” He nodded at the house. “You have the choice of walking in the woods with me on a fine spring day or returning to the house and allowing your family to badger you into something you do not want to do.”

  She resisted his subtle tug by keeping her feet firmly locked in place. “And why do you presume you would be the better choice?”

  He took a step toward her and leaned close so that she could feel his breath on her face. She shivered in reaction, confirming what he had sensed. Beneath all that ice, the lady hungered. “Because any sensible lady would rather spend the afternoon with a handsome scoundrel than being lectured by disapproving relatives.”

  Mallory Claeg was correct. She had been delaying her return to the house for that very reason. Not that she would admit it to him. He already looked so pleased with himself, smiling down at her with those sorcerer eyes, daring her to defy convention for a few hours. Oh, she was tempted! Brook was biting a hole in her tongue to keep from giving her consent.

  Her inner turmoil must have been apparent on her face. His jaw tightening in determination barely registered as a warning before he bowed low and threw her over his shoulder.

  She clawed at his back seeking purchase in her upside-down circumstances. “Put me down!”

  He shifted her with a series of bounces, trying to find a comfortable balance. She groaned, losing her bonnet. Her stomach roiled from the abuse. “Settle down, Countess. I predict things could become awkward if you alert anyone.”

  Awkward was the least of her worries. He spun them once around, testing his balance. She covered her mouth with her hand to silence any sound. It might have been laughter, but her corset was digging into various parts of her and it was making her a little queasy. Mr. Claeg had a firm hand on her backside. The pressure kept her in place, although she could have sworn he had caressed the round curve of her bottom. His gait should have been unsteady with her on his shoulder and the basket in his other hand. Somehow he managed both. He did not appear to be overburdened with muscles and yet he felt hard beneath his clothes. No one noticed as he carried her away from the house and toward the woods.

  One of them had to be sensible. “You have had your jest. Enough, Mr. Claeg. Put me down.”

  He twisted his face toward her and pressed a kiss into her corseted side. “I like where you are. Besides, Countess, I thought you would enjoy having me be your beast of burden.”

  The journey had shaken out many of the pins securing her hair. The loose knot bounced against the side of her head. “What do you hope to accomplish with this nonsense?”

  He did not answer her straightaway. When he spoke, he said, “I was looking for someone to share the sun with and I thought of you.”

  Brook did not have an acerbic rejoinder for what on the surface seemed like a reasonable, if not sweet, explanation. She winced, instinctively ducking when a low branch snagged some of her hair. Her hands clutched fistfuls of his coat. “Another minute like this and I shall lose my breakfast, Mr. Claeg. I demand—”

  Her world twirled again as he set her on her feet. The remaining pins could not support the weight of her hair. It tumbled free down her back. He had to hold her upright until the dizziness subsided. Brook glanced around, noticing that the woods concealed them.

  “Feeling steady?” he asked, rubbing his hands up and down her arms. “I have you until some of the blood leaves your face and pumps back into your limbs.”

  She shook off his hands and staggered back a step. “You most certainly do not have me.” Brook gave her spencer a furious jerk. There was nothing she could do about her hair. It was hopeless to try to fix it without her pins.

  “Well, not in the manner that first comes to mind,” he conceded, grinning at her useless attempts to rectify her disheveled appearance. “Then again, my hand was on your rump. You cannot imagine my delight, Countess, to discover that you were hiding a bit of flesh under all that fabric and whalebone. At first glance, you have the build of a boy.”

  A boy! Oh, the nerve of the man. She had always been slender and, in truth, had lost too much weight after she had lost the baby. However, she had slowly recovered and likely weighed slightly more than she had before her husband’s death. Pure feminine ire radiated throughout her body. “I refuse to remain another minute and discuss my inadequacies with you, Mr. Claeg.” Expecting resistance, she charged him.

  “Hold, you little fury,” he commanded, picking her up off her feet. The indulgence in his expression faded when she kicked him. Dropping Brook onto her feet, he backed her up against the nearest tree. He blatantly used his body to keep her from escaping. “I used to believe you were a sweet little thing. All fancy lace and meringue … .” He let his words trail off. “Did anyone ever tell you that you have the devil’s own temper?”

  She could see his pulse beating in his throat. During their struggle, his hair had come free from its queue. The luxuriant mass with rich hues of browns threaded with honey curled slightly as it rested on his shoulders. She was amazed by how much she wanted to reach up and touch his uncivilized mane.

  “I have been complimented countless times for my agreeable nature.” Mr. Claeg snorted in disbelief. “I speak the truth. If you find me disagreeable, you can blame your uncanny ability for provocation. You could goad a saint into committing violence.”

  He was looking at her with that brooding intensity that seemed to penetrate her skin. Inside her half boots her toes curled. “Ah, that explains it,” he said, pulling away from her.

  It was immediately apparent that their proximity had inflamed him. The impressive length of his manhood swelled notably despite his snug breeches. Brook remained against the tree as if he still held her in place. She could barely breathe, wondering what he was planning to do to her. They were alone in the woods. Encumbered by her skirts, she could not hope to elude him. Would he throw her down onto the leafy loam and slake his lust?

  Lyon had explained to her that a male could not control his reaction to a willing female. On the eve of their wedding, dressed in a white nightgown, she had expected a night of gentle touches, whispered assurances, and passionate declarations of love. Instead her new husband had come to her drunk on whatever spirits he and his friends had been toasting their nuptials with. Without ceremony, Lyon had unfastened his breeches, pushed up the fabric of her nightgown, and forged himself into her virginal body. She had sobbed during his rough invasion. Afterward, he had told her that she was to blame for his fierce ardor. She had looked so beautiful waiting there so patiently for him to pluck her virginity that he had succumbed to his baser instincts. He had accused her of trying to manipulate him with her tears. Angry, Lyon had stormed out of their bedchamber. She had spent the rest of her wedding night alone.

  “I pray I am not the reason for that sorrowful look.”

  Startled, Brook wondered how many minutes had passed while she stared through him into the past. “I beg your pardon.” Had she been gazing at his crotch all this time? If she could expire from embarrassment, she would have happily surrendered.

  She flinched at the hand he offered her. Muttering something under his breath, Mr. Claeg said, “We have tarried here long enough, Countess. Besides, I have a better spot in mind.”

  Numbly she put her hand in his larger one. He led her farther into the woods, obviously comfortable with his surroundings. Why was he waiting? Mr. Claeg strolled with her hand in hand as if he were blissfully ignorant of his arousal. He was not demanding that she ease his pain, nor was he railing at her for placing him in this awkward predicament. The man had a notorious past and a string of mistresses. He was not the sort of man who denied himself anything. Her back was so stiff she hardly needed a corset. She felt like she was bracing for an expected blow that was never delivered. The anticipation was making her crazy.

  “We’ll stop here,” he said, abruptly snapping her out of her private musings.

  “Here,” she echoed, looking at where he had brought her. It was a small clearing, not unlike countless others, with the exception that spring had added color to the landscape. In this section of the woods, bluebells had created a fragrant carpet for them. “I had not realized the bluebells were blooming. It is a lovely spot, Mr. Claeg.”

  Brook tried not to panic when he set down the basket and began to remove his coat. He shook it out and laid it on the bed of flowers. Mr. Claeg looked up sharply. She was terrible at subterfuge. Everything she was feeling was there for him to read.

  “For you,” he gently explained, motioning for her to be seated. “I do not mind a little dirt.” At her hesitation, a wistful quality dimmed his natural exuberance. “Nor do I invite a lady I admire out into the woods so I can cruelly ravish her.”

  Lady A’Court sank onto his coat. Her rapid descent hinted that her compliance was dictated by a slight fainting spell more than her willingness to please him. Mallory wished he had not spoken his dark musings aloud. He had just grown weary of her staring at him ever since she had noticed his inopportune arousal like he was a vile debaucher of virtuous widows. Was it his fault that bumping up against her sped up his heart and pulsed his blood into his nether regions? The countess was a prickly lady, but he had no desire to terrify her.

  Mallory crouched down beside her. He stretched his long legs out in front of him and braced himself upright with his arms. From his side view he could see that her color was improving and she was not dragging in air like a winded horse. He was content to listen to the birds and the soothing creaking and rustling of the trees.

  “I have been behaving horribly. Will you accept my apology?” she quietly asked.

  “I am afraid not, Countess.” She gasped at his rudeness, extracting a rueful smile from him. “I meant that you do not owe me one. I am an impassioned, sometimes selfish man who shares my joys and sorrows with whoever happens to be around. I understand bad temper,” he said, keeping his demeanor friendly. “We can discuss what upset you earlier if you like.”

  Lady A’Court clutched and released the fabric of her skirt. “I do not like. Thank you, I appreciate your kindness.”

  “As you please,” he said, unwilling to upset her further. He rummaged though the basket he had brought. “Ah, saffron cake. I have a weakness for sweets and Mrs. Whitby has yet to disappoint me. Here.” He handed her a thick slice. Mallory took out another for himself. He broke off a small piece and popped it into his mouth. Chewing thoughtfully, he said after he had swallowed, “If I could convince the old girl to marry me I would have freshly baked cakes every day.”

  The countess choked on the mouthful of cake she had been chewing. She covered her mouth with the back of her hand and coughed again. As she waved away his assistance it was then that he grasped she was laughing. The sound reminded him of her; soft, throaty, and hinting of shyness. She cleared her throat and said, “Mr. Whitby might have something to say about you absconding with his wife.”

  In Mallory’s wild youth, something as mundane as an irate husband would not have stopped him from claiming a willing woman. There was no point in inspiring Lady A’Court’s imagination about his misdeeds. She already viewed him as a scoundrel. “Well, then I shall have to find another lady who will satisfy my sweet cravings,” he said innocently.

  Naturally, she was not taken in by his guise of innocence. Tilting her head upward, she managed to look down her nose at him despite her small stature. “You like to play games.”

  Finishing off the last of his cake, he nodded. “There is no rule that having fun is for the young. I looked it up in a book once.”

  She delighted him by laughing again. “Are you ever serious?”

  “Why? My father makes up for my lack,” he said dismissively. He and Viscount Keyworth had been at odds long before Mallory had run off to marry Lord De Lanoy’s mistress. Unlike his younger sister and brother, he had not sought his sire’s approval. His cavalier attitude rankled his father more than his acts of disobedience. “Thirsty?” He uncorked the small jug and sniffed. “Nothing stronger than apple cider,” he said with some regret. Mrs. Whitby, bless her, had the foresight to include a small cup. He filled it with cider and handed it to Lady A’Court. For himself, he drank straight from the jug.

  “It is good. Mrs. Whitby is a treasure,” she said, relaxing under the warmth of the sun. With her blond hair down, she seemed younger than five and twenty. “Did you know that when Mrs. Whitby is not looking after temperamental artists she comes to Loughwydde and helps her daughter with the laundry? Our laundress is carrying her third child.”

  Mallory picked up his sketching book and dug around in the basket for his lead pencil. Without asking permission, because people rarely gave it when asked, he began a rough outline of her face.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I am sketching the bear behind you,” he quipped. The only bears roaming England had human masters. “No, sit still!”

  She huffed but complied with his order. “Are you always so overbearing when you work, Mr. Claeg?”

  “Yes.” He thickened the line defining her jaw. While he sketched her face, he could imagine another one in oils. This one would be full-figure with the countess lying on her stomach counting the bluebells. Naturally, she would not have a stitch of clothing on. He would position her so that her long hair and the flowers concealed more than they revealed. Mallory grinned at himself. Lady A’Court would slap him if he suggested such a picture. Later, perhaps. Recalling her question, he added, “Or so my sister complains. Did I mention that I convinced her to sit for me the summer last? She became Eris, the goddess of discord, for me.” Saying not a word, Lady A’Court plucked some bluebells and brought the blooms to her nose. “I was rather pleased with the results. Amara had intended to give it to our mother. Regrettably, her marriage to Mr. Bedegrayne has created a rift in the family. To my knowledge, neither my mother nor father has spoken to her.”

  Mallory blew a frustrated breath out. He was losing patience with the countess’s refusal to speak of anyone or anything that was connected to London. Something akin to slyness slid into his grim expression. “She will make me an uncle by summer’s end. Brock’s father, Sir Thomas, is thrilled there will be a new generation of Bedegraynes. I suppose I should be grateful that I did not murder Bedegrayne the second I suspected he had put his hands on my sweet sister.”

  No reaction.

  “Confound it, woman!” he roared, slamming down his book and lead pencil. He lunged for her before she could roll away. Seizing her by the shoulders, he shook the indifference from her face. The fear that replaced it was an improvement from the doll-like mask she had donned.