EVA LEIGH is the pen name of a RITA® Award-nominated romance author who writes novels chock-full of smart women and sexy men. She enjoys baking, tweeting about boots, and listening to music from the ’80s. Eva and her husband live in central California.

ALSO AVAILABLE FROM EVA LEIGH AND MILLS & BOON

The Scandalous Ladies of London series

FROM DUKE TILL DAWN

Counting on a Countess

Eva Leigh

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-0-008-27263-0

COUNTING ON A COUNTESS

© 2018 Eva Leigh

Published in Great Britain 2018

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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www.millsandboon.co.uk

To Zack

Contents

Cover

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

About the Publisher

Chapter 1

London, England

1817

Though he had been the Earl of Blakemere for nearly six months, Christopher Ellingsworth rarely entertained sober or virtuous guests in his bachelor lodgings. Today was no exception.

Kit lounged on a sofa in his parlor, a glass of wine in his hand. Warm, indolent pleasure made his limbs and eyelids heavy. His other hand beat time on the back of the sofa as Jeanette plinked out a merry tune on the pianoforte and the unlikely named Bijou pirouetted around the chamber and twirled brightly colored scarves.

“Bravo, my dears,” he murmured as the melody and performance came to a stop.

“Another, my lord?” Bijou asked breathlessly. Her French accent wavered, revealing she was more likely born in Leeds, not Lyon, but it hardly mattered. She wasn’t in Kit’s rooms to provide lengthy discussion about the philosophy of Voltaire. He’d brought them home from the Royal Opera last night—or rather, very early this morning—and they had been such good company, he hadn’t sent them away. It was nearly dusk, and he contemplated with anticipation what the night had in store for him.

“Come and join me,” he said, patting his thigh.

“Which of us shall join you?” Jeanette asked.

“Both of you,” Kit replied magnanimously.

The two women giggled before fluttering over to where he sprawled. Bijou perched on his outstretched leg while Jeanette snuggled beneath his arm. They were silky and fragrant and lively—precisely what Kit wanted.

Bijou’s fingers trailed up his torso and dipped beneath the neckline of his open shirt. Agreeable curls of pleasure blossomed on his skin wherever she touched. “I thought earls weren’t supposed to have muscles,” she said with a playful pout.

“His lordship was a soldier,” Jeanette noted, her fingers toying with his hair. “He’s had to become very hard, you know.”

“I’m much harder in peacetime.” Kit grinned lazily as the two women twittered.

“Shall we put that to the test?” Jeanette nipped at his earlobe.

Before he could answer, a smart rap sounded at the parlor door. He frowned. His staff knew not to bother him when he entertained.

“Go away,” he called.

Yet the door opened anyway and his butler’s apologetic face appeared. The servant didn’t so much as glance at the two opera dancers draped over Kit. “Apologies, my lord. I told the gentleman you weren’t to be disturbed, but he insisted you had an appointment.” He held up a calling card.

Kit disentangled himself from Jeanette and motioned for the butler to approach. Taking the card from the servant, he glanced at the name.

Herbert K. Flowers, Esq.

The Law Offices of Corran and Flowers

Lincoln’s Inn Fields

“Damn,” Kit swore softly. He had a vague recollection of a letter from Flowers, requesting to meet at Kit’s earliest convenience, as the solicitor had a matter of some urgency to discuss. “Send him in.”

“Yes, my lord.” The butler bowed before hurrying away.

Bijou plucked the card from Kit’s hand and squinted at the writing. “What’s this mean?”

“It means that this Mr. Flowers deals with tedious and exhausting matters all day,” he answered.

She made a face. “How horrid.”

“Exactly.” Surely whatever this Flowers wanted, it would be dull and require the kind of serious, thoughtful consideration Kit avoided as much as possible.

Another knock sounded at the door, and after receiving Kit’s permission to enter, the butler stepped inside.

“Mr. Herbert Flowers, Esquire,” the butler intoned.

A hale, middle-aged man in well-tailored clothing entered the room carrying a leather portfolio. “My lord, thank you for . . .” Flowers’s steps slowed and his polite smile flickered as his gaze fell on Jeanette and Bijou. Face reddening, he coughed into his fist. “Forgive me, my lord, but it would perhaps be best if we conducted our meeting in private. The concerns are of a . . . delicate and confidential manner.”

Kit sighed. He did not, however, sit up. “Ladies, if you would be so kind as to await me upstairs.”

The women swayed to their feet and ambled past the solicitor, trailing perfume and laughter as they exited the chamber.

Kit waved Flowers toward a nearby chair. “Care for a drink? I might be able to cajole the cook into preparing something edible.”

“Your consideration is appreciated, my lord,” the solicitor said quickly. “But once we conclude our business, I am bound for home, where my wife and supper await me.”

“I suppose you could eat both,” Kit offered after taking a sip of wine. “Or take all of them to bed.”

Flowers’s cheeks blazed. “Ah . . . well . . . yes.” He cleared his throat. “Perhaps we might address the matter at hand.” Smoothing a hand down his waistcoat, he said with gravity, “I understand you were an intimate of the late Lord Somerby.”

A throb of grief squeezed Kit’s heart just hearing the old man’s name. “I first met him in Roliça in ’08.”

Flowers’s businesslike expression shifted into restrained melancholy. “The marquess had been an esteemed client of my firm for four decades. The news of his death was met with considerable sorrow.” The solicitor gazed at Kit with sympathy. “I imagine that you must also feel distress at the passing of your friend.”

Kit gave a wry half smile. “I keep expecting him to show up at my door and demand that I join him at his favorite chophouse. He never allowed me to beg off. Said my wenching and carousing could wait two hours.”

Flowers echoed Kit’s smile. “A forceful gentleman, Lord Somerby. It stands to reason that he served his country so admirably during the War.”

“No one said no to him,” Kit agreed. “Well,” he added with a self-deprecating shrug, “I tried. He had his ideas about troop movements and I had mine.”

“And that is precisely what he admired about you,” Flowers noted. “The marquess told me so, himself. Always had good things to say about ‘young Captain Ellingsworth.’ Courageous, he called you. A born tactician.”

Kit glanced away. “He was fulsome in his praise. I merely did my duty—nothing more.”

“With all due respect, my lord,” the solicitor ventured, “he was not the only man of influence with this opinion of you. His Majesty the Prince was much moved by Lord Somerby’s accounts of your heroism. You would not have been given an earldom if you had merely performed your responsibilities.”

Nothing in the parlor could hold Kit’s attention. He kept shifting his gaze from the paintings on the walls to the windows to the plaster friezes on the ceiling. “I suppose so.”

Sadly, the title was almost entirely decorative. It came with a middling estate at the very uppermost border of Northumberland—and hardly any income. Much as Kit appreciated the elevation of his status from marquess’s third son to earl, it had done little to alter the course of his life.

But he was grateful to Lord Somerby, just the same. Kit’s parents loved him dutifully, yet only Somerby had truly believed in him, even when Kit himself did not.

“So you and Lord Somerby were close,” Flowers noted.

Kit nodded. “He was a lieutenant general on the Peninsula for most of the War, so our paths crossed many times. He had a fondness for pastel de nata, and we’d have them in his tent, chasing them with strong whisky and talking about our favorite public houses back in London.” Kit smiled wryly. “We talked strategy, too, and the welfare of our men.”

Some of the senior officers Kit had met during his time in the army had been cruel or heartless, concerned only with upholstering themselves with glory. Not Lord Somerby. He remained steadfastly focused on the human cost of war.

“Did his lordship ever discuss marriage?” Flowers asked. “Specifically, yours?”

Kit frowned, the question catching him by surprise. “Occasionally.” In truth, Lord Somerby had often harangued Kit about taking a wife, particularly when discussion turned toward life after wartime.

“You need a woman,” Lord Somerby had often declared. “And not one of those actresses or demimondaines you insist on keeping company with. A proper wife. Someone who’s got the backbone and sense to keep you in line. A man’s got to have a woman of strength by his side.”

Once, Kit had dared to retort, “I don’t see you writing letters to an adored helpmeet.”

A look of such profound sorrow had crossed Lord Somerby’s face that Kit had immediately regretted his rash words. “I am married, my lad,” the older man had replied quietly. “She and the babe she carried were brought to the Lord. I’ll not replace Lizzie.”

Kit swallowed hard. Lord Somerby and his wife were together now.

“Why do you ask about marriage, Mr. Flowers?”

Instead of answering, the solicitor set his portfolio on the edge of a low table. “I do not want to take up too much of your time, my lord.” He opened the folder and removed several documents covered in tiny, precise handwriting. “It is regarding Lord Somerby’s demise that I requested a meeting with you today.”

Kit set his glass aside and sat up, unease plucking along the back of his neck. “You’re his executor.”

“Precisely so.” Flowers glanced at the papers in his hand. “This is a copy of his will, and it concerns you.”

“I cannot see how. We were not related by blood or marriage.” His mind churning, Kit rubbed at the stubble along his jaw.

“Perhaps not,” the solicitor allowed, “but Lord Somerby named you as one of his beneficiaries.”

“He what?” Kit demanded.

Flowers pulled a pair of spectacles from his coat’s inside pocket and set them on his nose. His eyes moved back and forth as he perused the will. “While it is true that the majority of his considerable fortune has gone to relatives, the marquess earmarked a portion for you upon his death. You are to receive an initial sum of ten thousand pounds and an annual allowance of one thousand pounds for fifty years.”

Kit’s heart seized before taking up a fast rhythm. “Surely not.”

The solicitor drew himself up. “I, myself, transcribed Lord Somerby’s words as he lay on his deathbed. There is no mistake, my lord. The money is yours, and should you decease before the fifty years has elapsed, then your issue shall be the recipient or recipients.”

“I . . .” Words had always been Kit’s ally. They were reliable and came to him easily. Yet now, they were nowhere to be found.

His pulse hammered as though he had just liberated a town from enemy forces. Was it true . . . ? Could he believe it?

His allowance as a third son was, at best, modest, and seldom lasted long. The selling of his commission had provided a small increase—but it was short-lived. Like many men of his class, he lived on credit. His rooms, his clothes, his wine. God only knew what he owed at the gaming hells. But he returned to them again and again, staking too much money on steep odds, praying for the win that would secure his dream. A dream he’d held close throughout the War and that kept him sane when the world had turned to mud and madness.

He’d never truly believed he could make it happen. Until now.

“The news is welcome, I wager,” Flowers said, glancing up over the rims of his spectacles.

“Quite welcome,” Kit answered softly. “I have . . . plans.”

He hoped those plans would chase away the darkness that haunted him ever since his return from Waterloo. Shadows lurked in silent corners and whispered to him in the quiet moments, joyless thoughts that brought him back to the hell of war and the omnipresence of death. He ran from pleasure to pleasure, trying to outpace the wraiths. If he could accomplish his one goal, he might not have to face those ghosts again.

As the War had ground on, his life consisting of boredom and battles, blood and loss, Kit had turned again and again to thoughts of a world where nothing existed but pleasure. Where every day was filled with happiness and beauty.

He’d always loved going to Vauxhall, with its pavilions, gardens, lights, and music—an unending parade of joy. What if he could create a place like that, a pleasure garden entirely of his own design? He’d oversee it, immersing himself not in the business of death but life.

It would be his. Finally.

“Show me what to sign.” He stood and paced around the chamber. “There’s got to be a pen around here. I’ll ring for one.”

“Hold a moment, my lord.” Flowers got to his feet.

The grave expression on the solicitor’s face froze Kit in place. His instincts had kept him alive on the battlefield for more years than he cared to remember. Those same instincts rang like a bell, resonating through him.

“There is a condition,” Flowers explained. “It’s rather unusual, but Lord Somerby was most insistent.”

“Tell me.”

The solicitor cleared his throat once more. “Lord Somerby was, as you are aware, a widower, and spoke most effusively about the holy state of matrimony.” He paused. “Might I suggest you have a drink of wine, my lord?”

Kit strode instead to a decanter of brandy perched on a small table. He poured a generous amount into a glass and drank it all down in one swallow. He felt the warm burn in his throat and the softening of reality’s sharp edges.

“What must I do to claim my bequest?” he demanded.

“As of today,” Flowers announced, “you have thirty days.”

Kit narrowed his eyes. “Thirty days to do what?”

“Wed,” the solicitor answered. “Then, and only then, will you receive your portion of Lord Somerby’s fortune. If you do not, then the money goes to the late marquess’s distant relative in Bermuda.” Flowers tried to smile, but it resembled a grimace.

Blood rushed from Kit’s head like deserters fleeing combat. The room tilted, but it had nothing to do with the brandy he’d consumed. “Good God damn.” He clutched the neck of the decanter as though it could support the weight of his shock.

The chamber righted itself, but Kit’s world had been completely upended. “It appears that I’m getting married.”

Staring into the narrow, dark alley, Tamsyn Pearce calculated her odds of surviving the next ten minutes and determined they weren’t good.

“Did you bring a firearm?” Nessa asked as she peered over Tamsyn’s shoulder.

“I have a knife in my garter,” Tamsyn answered.

Nessa clicked her tongue. “A blade won’t do much against a pistol.”

Straightening her spine, Tamsyn said in what she hoped was a confident tone, “I’ve learned a few things after eight years of smuggling—including how to avoid the dangerous end of a pistol.” She aimed a smile at her friend. “Haven’t been shot yet.”

“There’s a first time for everything,” Nessa replied grimly.

Tamsyn shook her head. “A fine way to show your encouragement.”

Nessa attempted to look more cheerful, but the worry never left her eyes. She gently smoothed a hand down Tamsyn’s cheek. “Ah, my bird, forgive my worry. You’ve done so much for Newcombe, ever since you were but a child, and your poor mabmik and tas at God’s table.”

An old, familiar ache resounded in Tamsyn’s chest, even though it had been ten years. Her parents, Adam and Jane Pearce, had taken their pleasure boat out to sail along the rocky Cornish coast of their home, leaving fourteen-year-old Tamsyn behind to finish her schoolwork. They had not returned alive.

The barony had passed to Tamsyn’s uncle, Jory. But if the villagers of Newcombe had hoped to find in the new baron the same measure of concern for their welfare as his brother had demonstrated, they were bitterly disappointed. A poor fishing yield and strangling taxes decimated Newcombe’s livelihood. To Tamsyn, orphaned and adrift, there had been one audacious solution to the village’s plight.

But all that could come to an end if she couldn’t move this sodding shipment of brandy and lace. She’d journeyed all the way to London to help the village and if she failed, she imperiled over four hundred souls depending on her.

She glanced back into the alleyway. It smelled of copper and standing water, and shadows gathered thickly. Somewhere in that gloom, a tanner named Fuller kept a storefront, but that business was merely a pretense for a much more profitable enterprise.

“Can we be sure of this bloke?” Nessa pressed, giving words to Tamsyn’s own worries.

“He’s the best lead we’ve had in a fortnight.” Everyone else had fallen through. “Come on.” She stepped into the alley.

More than once, Tamsyn had evaded customs officers, running down the beach and hiding in caverns to lose her pursuers. She had learned how to fire a pistol and where to stick a man with her blade so that she dealt a punishing but not fatal wound. Every time a new shipment needed to be offloaded, she faced danger.

The fear that made her palms sweat had little to do with physical peril. So many relied on her. She couldn’t fail them.

Nessa’s nervous steps tapped behind her as she strode deeper into the alley, echoing her own rapid heartbeats. But Tamsyn vowed that she would brazen this out just as she’d done with everything else in her life.

She passed a man sleeping on the ground. He opened one eye as she went by and gave a grunt of surprise. Women of quality didn’t haunt shabby London alleys. Not for the first time, Tamsyn wondered if she ought to have changed her clothes before leaving Lady Daleford’s this morning. Too late to do anything about it now. She had to move forward.

Fuller’s shop front was little more than an awning-covered table strewn with hides in different stages of tanning. The reek of lime brought tears to Tamsyn’s eyes, and she heard Nessa gag quietly behind her. A jowly man in a heavy apron stood behind the table, warily watching Tamsyn’s approach.

He said with barely concealed disdain, “Looking for fine leathers, miss?”

Tamsyn fingered one hide, pretending to contemplate it. “Bill Conyer said you could help us.” In desperation, she’d gone to the docks to look for leads. Conyer, an out-of-work stevedore, had given her Fuller’s name and direction—though he’d had to be financially compensated for the information.

Fuller scowled. “Conyer don’t send no one to me for leather. Only . . .” His eyes widened. “But you’re a lady. Ladies don’t—”

“This one does,” Tamsyn interrupted. “Are you interested?”

“How do I know you ain’t playing?” Fuller demanded. “No ladies in this business.”

Tamsyn fingered the diaphanous fabric around her neck. “Chantilly lace. Fifty yards of it.” She calmly pulled a flask from her reticule and held it out. “This is a sample of my brandy. Five hundred gallons are sitting in Cornwall this very moment. I’m looking for the right buyer for both.”

Fuller glared at the flask but didn’t take it.

“Go on,” Tamsyn urged. She fought to keep her tone calm. It would scare Fuller off if she showed her desperation. “You’ll never taste anything finer.”

He snatched the container from her hand and took a drink. After wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he said with reluctant admiration, “That’s prime fuddle.”

Her heart rose, all the while she kept her expression calm.

“But I ain’t going to be your fence,” he added.

An icicle pierced her chest. “Why not?”

“On account of I don’t do dealings with gentry morts. Can’t trust ’em.”

“I assure you, I am most trustworthy. I have been in this line of work for nearly a decade and—”

“Then why don’t you got a fence?” Fuller demanded. “Why come crawling to me?”

She opened her mouth, but no words came out. How could she possibly explain? The smuggling operation ran through the family’s ancestral home, Chei Owr. Caverns beneath the house led directly to a cove, which was the perfect location to receive smuggled goods from a ship at anchor. Those same caverns served as the holding place for the brandy and lace, and they sat there until they were purchased by their fence, Ames Edmonds, who distributed the goods both in Cornwall and all over England.

It was a perfect system. Jory and his wife, Gwen, knew nothing about the smuggling operation, which was precisely how Tamsyn wanted it to stay.

Everything would have proceeded apace—if Jory hadn’t announced a month ago that he intended to sell the crumbling, neglected Chei Owr. He had every right to: he was Lord Shawe, and the manor house wasn’t entailed. He already had letters to agents in London, though no buyer had yet stepped forward.

Tamsyn’s horror at losing her home and last connection with her parents was doubled when she had received a hastily scrawled note from Ames stating that, with the possible sale of their base of operations, their partnership was over.

The latest shipment of brandy and lace had nowhere to go—and the village was in dire need of cash. Tamsyn had hurriedly concocted a plan wherein she and Nessa, acting as her maid, would travel to London under the guise of her finally having a Season. Her parents’ old friend Lady Daleford had offered her a place to stay and entrée into the city’s most elite gatherings. All the while, Tamsyn would undergo a frantic search for a new fence. Balls and soirees in the evening, haunting London’s seediest corners during the day.

There was one other component to her reason for being in London. But she hadn’t been pursuing it with the same dedication as the hunt for a buyer.

None of this could be relayed to Fuller, of course. The less he knew about her personally, the safer both of them would be. Hanging was always an option for smugglers. Or, given that she was of gentle birth, she’d likely be transported. Neither option was appealing.

“I fail to see what difference my motivations make,” Tamsyn answered coolly. “I have top-tier merchandise to move, and I’m giving you the option to buy it. We’ll both make out nicely.”

Fuller squinted at her as if she were tiny, illegible writing. He spat upon the ground. “If you was a bloke, I’d be singing a different tune. But you’re a mort.”

“I oversee an operation that successfully collects thousands of pounds’ worth of merchandise, from making connections with the ship’s captain to unloading the goods to its storage and sale,” Tamsyn noted, her words dry. “But I am not in control of my sex.”

“Ain’t my problem, Miss Lacy Drawers. Unless you want to show me what you got under them skirts.”

“Don’t you talk to her that way!” Nessa interjected hotly.

Tamsyn held up a placating hand. Fishermen and sailors had notoriously foul language, so she was well acquainted with salty words aimed at her person.

“If I did,” she said calmly, “would you buy my lace and brandy?”

Fuller grinned. “Naw. I just wanted to see how low a gentry mort would go.”

“Then we have nothing further to discuss.” Tamsyn turned away, feeling heaviness weighting down her limbs. With Nessa following, she moved toward the entrance to the alley, though she walked with deliberate slowness in case Fuller was merely trying to drive a hard bargain. She waited for him to call her back. He didn’t.

When she and Nessa emerged back onto the street, Tamsyn finally exhaled. She leaned against a brick wall and stared up at the greasy, gray London sky—so different from the bright blue that stretched over Cornwall.

“What do we do now?” Nessa practically wailed.

Tamsyn uncapped her flask and, after using her fichu to wipe off its mouth, swallowed a healthy mouthful of brandy. It burned a path through her body, strengthening her resolve.

“I have to find myself a husband,” she said.

Chapter 2

“How is it,” Kit said, “that I can happily find an eager lover with ease, yet the moment my thoughts turn to matrimony, none of the women I encounter are at all suitable as a bride?”

Kit surveyed the Eblewhites’ ballroom with a disheartened gaze. To be sure, the mansion in the heart of Mayfair boasted one of the most beautiful ballrooms in the whole of the city, and it was currently filled with pretty, marriageable women looking for a husband. They wore gowns in a kaleidoscope of colors, adorned with ribbons and flowers and expensive jewels, and to a one, they were lovely, with bright eyes, easy smiles, and soft skin.

Despite the elegance and gaiety around him, his gaze alighted on the corners of the room, searching out areas where an enemy could hide, and locating the best routes for an escape. The war had been over for two years, yet he couldn’t shake the skills that had kept him alive.

Someday, perhaps, that ever-alert part of him would realize that the threats had passed. For now, he endured his wariness and caution, and reminded himself to unclench his fists and loosen his jaw.

“It’s a deuced mystery.” Thomas Powell, the Earl of Langdon and heir to the Duke of Northfield, shook his head with wry dismay. He spoke with a faint Irish accent, evidence of his early years having been spent in County Kerry. “I’ve told you again and again that you ought to just pick one, marry and bed her, and then acquire a mistress. It’s what I would do in a similar situation.”

“You’re a duke’s sodding eldest son,” Kit noted tartly. He and Langdon stood near the punch bowl in a desperate bid to locate one young lady who would make a fine countess. “You’ll never find yourself in a similar situation.”

“I suppose someday I’ll have to find myself a wife,” Langdon mused, “but that day is thankfully a good distance away.” He and Kit bowed as a handsome, statuesque woman walked by with her debutante daughter in tow. The mother nudged her daughter and both sent enormous smiles in Kit’s direction. “Lady Briscoe is eager to offer up her daughter for your consideration.”

Kit nodded politely in the women’s direction, but he only gave the debutante a cursory look before his gaze moved on.

“What was wrong with that one?” Langdon demanded impatiently.

“Too pretty. I’d exhaust myself fighting duels.” It didn’t really matter to him, though. Remaining faithful to his future wife wasn’t in his plans, and so long as she kept her fidelity until she birthed an heir, he didn’t much care what his spouse did—or whom she took as a lover.

Yet impatience gnawed on Kit. His body was primed and tense, the way it was in the moments before battle. He felt the clock ticking, more precious minutes and hours lost in his desperate search.

His friend sighed heavily. “You’re a bloody piece of work.” Langdon sipped at his punch and made a face. “Is there any decent wine in this place?”

“None that I’ve seen.” Kit wouldn’t have imbibed anyway, much as he wanted to. He had to present an appearance of faultless respectability in order to attract a prospective bride.

“We’re clearly not going to find anything worthwhile to drink here.” Langdon set his punch glass on a passing servant’s tray. His expression brightened. “There’s new dancers at the opera tonight. It’s early enough for us to catch a performance. And meet the ladies afterward.” He raised a dark brow with an appreciative leer.

Much as he wanted to go . . . “I can’t leave.” Kit fought to avoid exhaling in frustration. “Time’s running out. I have only a week to find myself a bride.”

The punch bowl gambit was a loss. Anyway, he was too restless to stand idle, so he began to walk the perimeter of the ballroom. Langdon kept pace with him, and together they skirted the edge of the guests making their way through the complex patterns of a country dance.

The women dancing all looked at him as he walked, but the moment he caught their gazes, he found something else to attract his interest—the twinkling chandeliers or the vases of hothouse roses positioned at the perimeter of the chamber.

“You’re doing it again,” Langdon observed. “Dismissing girls left and right as though you’re deciding what waistcoat to wear.” He grinned at a willowy blonde widow, who sent him an inviting smile. Yet he continued to walk beside Kit as they made a circuit around the ballroom.

“It cannot be helped,” Kit answered. He nodded his head toward different young ladies in the chamber. “Her laugh is too abrasive. That one’s as shy as a fawn. She’ll spend all my blunt and leave me foundering in even greater debt.”

That last shortcoming was one he couldn’t permit. He needed Lord Somerby’s money to make his plans for the future come to fruition.

After learning about the matrimonial condition of Somerby’s will, Kit had immediately gone to Lady Walford, the ton’s most accomplished gossip. He’d informed her—in strictest confidence—of his intention to marry within a month. She had agreed to hold his confidence, and by the following morning, everyone in Society knew that Lord Blakemere had given up his dissolute ways in order to secure himself a wife and fortune.

“Here I am,” he grumbled lowly. “A titled man about to possess a considerable fortune, healthy, young, reasonably attractive—”

“Reasonably,” Langdon noted drily.

Kit shot him a quelling look. There had been a time not so long ago when he’d been full of good humor and jests, never wasting an opportunity for droll banter. But his sense of humor had disappeared the longer he was in the marriage market.

“And I cannot locate one woman who’d make for a suitable wife,” he continued. He didn’t understand himself or his mystifying impulse to find fault with each female to cross his path. None of them seemed quite right.

“I blame Somerby,” Langdon said. “God rest his soul. If he hadn’t gone on about what a sterling marriage he’d had and how he was utterly devoted to his late wife, you wouldn’t have such lofty ideals about what constitutes matrimony.”

“Don’t be an ass,” Kit answered at once. “I know what marriage is supposed to be.” His own parents esteemed each other, just as any aristocratic couple should, and behaved accordingly in public and in private. The love Lord Somerby had felt for his dear Elizabeth was highly unusual, almost gauche in its effusiveness. Love was not part of genteel alliances.

Neither was fidelity. Kit knew the concept existed in theory, but he’d never practiced it—nor did he want to. Sharing a bed with just a single person for the duration of one’s life seemed both impossible and terrifically dull.

And searching for someone he could love . . . That was nigh impossible. For a number of reasons. You didn’t just bump into a young woman at a ball and realize that she was your soul mate. It was ridiculous to think that he might entertain such a thought.

Duty was for wives. Passion for mistresses. And love . . . Love was a dream as elusive as peace.

As he said this, a comely blonde nearby smiled at him. He felt a rise of hope as he returned the smile. But then he observed the whitening of her knuckles as she clutched her fan.

Too desperate.

Kit bit back a growl of frustration as he glanced away. At this rate, he’d be lucky to marry a drunk donkey.

“You’re not precisely the ideal potential husband.” Langdon smirked.

“I’ll have money, won’t I?” Kit demanded hotly. “They gave me an earldom. What more could a girl ask for?” His could feel his pleasure garden slipping from his grasp, and the obstacle in his path was himself.

Langdon sent him a wry glance. “Oh, not much. Only temperance, fidelity, and fiscal responsibility.”

“Bah,” Kit scoffed. “Who needs such a dullard?”

“Most women of marriageable age,” Langdon replied.

It would have been better if Kit had never been given the opportunity to inherit any amount of money. He could exist in the same pleasure-filled haze he always did, dreaming his dreams but without the expectation of fulfilling them.

“I’ve been haunting every ball, tea, and soiree,” Kit muttered, fighting frustration and despair. “To no avail.”

“A sticky conundrum,” Langdon agreed. He yawned into his hand. “There’s a reason why I avoid these dull assemblies. A decided lack of nudity.” He glanced around the ballroom and made a scoffing sound. “I’m off to the theater. Come with me?”

Kit longed to leave, finding society balls as interesting as a sermon about dirt. But . . . “Got to stay here. No future brides wait for me in the demimondaines’ theater boxes.”

His friend nodded in acknowledgment. “When you tire of your hunt, you know where to find me.”

Kit gave him a distracted wave as he strode away, too busy brooding over his predicament to pay much attention to Langdon’s departure. They’d see each other on the morrow, anyway, at White’s. Ever since Kit returned from the War, he and Langdon had met at the club and then gone out every night—with a few exceptions—wringing excitement and diversion from London’s most disreputable attractions.

He’d done his best to avoid those attractions these past three weeks. He’d been so respectable, it fair turned his stomach. But his sacrifice was in vain. He was as brideless as he’d been at the beginning of those three weeks.

Frustrated, impatient, Kit muttered a curse and started for the card room at the other end of the chamber. He wouldn’t find a wife there, amidst the games of vingt-et-un and loo, since the amusements were set up primarily for men and married women. But at least it would help relieve a fraction of the tension that knotted his muscles and made him grit his teeth.

Distracted as he was, his head tucked low, his gaze fixed on the parquet floor, he didn’t see the young woman in his path until it was almost too late. They nearly collided, but he pulled himself up just before smacking into her.

“Excuse me, miss,” he exclaimed.

The girl spoke with a distinct Cornish accent. “No harm done, sir.” She smiled at him.

Her smile set off fires throughout his body. She fairly glowed with vibrancy.

Kit didn’t recognize her, and he wouldn’t have forgotten meeting a girl with such vividly red hair—coppery and bright beneath the light of the chandelier—and he had a fierce need to see it loose about her shoulders. He was drawn in by her wide-set, light brown eyes, slightly tilted at the corners. Her full, rose-hued lips stirred a need in him, baffling in its swiftness.

She had an elfin look, with a long, sleek form. The neckline of her pale green gown highlighted her modest but well-formed bosom, and his hands twitched with the desire to know the feel of her. Though the pink in her cheeks alluded to a life spent frequently out of doors, he easily imagined the same flush in her skin when roused to passion.

The hell? Kit wondered dazedly. He’d seen women and desired them within minutes of meeting, but never had he looked upon a woman and been suddenly dragged under the tide of sensual need.

It had to be because he’d been celibate these last three weeks, a drastic measure undertaken because he’d had to be on his best behavior whilst searching for a bride.

He waited for his reflexive dismissal of her. Yet it never came.

Her eyes were bright with intelligence as she looked at him, and her smile lingered, as though she liked what she saw. That baser part of himself puffed up and preened.

He gave her his best, most winning smile. “I—”

But that was as far as he got before a swain stepped between them. “I believe this dance is mine, Miss Pearce.”

“Of course, Mr. Carroll,” the girl answered. She sent Kit an apologetic look as she was led to the dance floor. He fought the urge to take her hand in his and run off into the night like some underworld king claiming his companion.

It’s finally happened. I’ve lost my goddamned mind.

He could wait for her. Bide his time, and then swoop down on her the moment she was free from this Carroll’s clutches.

Yet his response to her was too powerful. Frightening.

He had to regain control over himself. He needed balance. The only time he’d been this close to losing control of himself was on the eve of his first battle.

Kit turned away from the sight of Miss Pearce swaying on the dance floor like a living flame and made his way toward the room set aside for gambling. At least there, he knew the rules of the game.

Though Tamsyn did her best to keep her attention on her dancing partner, her gaze strayed to the blond man with the wary gaze and wide shoulders as he swiftly exited the ballroom. She ought to stay focused on Mr. Carroll—dancing often led to conversation, which could in turn become a morning call, and a few social calls might give way to an amicable connection, and then, hopefully, an offer of matrimony—but she was unable to help herself. Not only had the blond man been exceptionally handsome, but he carried himself with a singular determination, and sharp intelligence gleamed in his eyes.

Three weeks in London searching for a man she might consider marrying had revealed that, while there were a good deal of attractive men, very few of them possessed lean, athletic bodies, and almost none had a sense of purpose or keen intellects.

However, she didn’t need or want a husband to be observant. Or attentive. The more distracted and heedless the better.

It didn’t matter what she wanted for herself, that she had once dreamed of a marriage as devoted as her parents’. Such hopes were merely fancies, never to come to pass.

Yet as she moved through the figures of the dance, she found herself asking Mr. Carroll, “Who was that gentleman?”

Mr. Carroll seemed to know exactly to whom she referred. “Lord Blakemere.” He gave a puzzled frown when she only looked at him blankly. “You really are a country gel if you don’t know him either by face or name.”

She couldn’t feel embarrassed about her Cornish origins. Some London girls had a pale, pinched look and probably couldn’t walk over the moors without calling for a carriage.

But she couldn’t snap a tart reply to Mr. Carroll—not without seriously damaging her marital prospects—so she merely smiled. “We hear so little about the sophisticated city in Cornwall.”

“Can’t be faulted for being born in a backwater, I suppose.” Mr. Carroll sniffed.

She had considered Mr. Carroll moderately handsome, in a rather watery, overbred way, but her opinion of him took a sharp plummet. It would be bad form to simply walk away and leave him alone on the dance floor, so she kept moving through the figures of La Gaillarde.

“Tell me more about Lord Blakemere,” she said with as much sweetness as she could muster.

“Third son of the Marquess of Brownlowe,” Mr. Carroll said dismissively.

“But he’s Lord Blakemere,” she pointed out. She fell silent as she walked through the steps, pulling her away from her dance partner.

“He bought a commission, the way third sons do,” Mr. Carroll explained when they came back together. “Went off to war. Must’ve shown off over there like a trained lion because he came back and they gave him an earldom. But it didn’t come with any money,” he added quickly, clearly seeing her interest. “He’s strapped. Barely has a groat.”

Tamsyn’s heart sank. So much for Lord Blakemere. The second part of her objective in coming to London was finding herself a rich husband. If she was going to buy Chei Owr from her uncle and keep the smuggling operation alive, she needed a spouse with considerable wealth.

“You didn’t tell her the best part,” the man dancing next to Mr. Carroll added. Before Mr. Carroll could object to the interruption, the other man continued, “Blakemere’s got one week to find himself a bride.”

“What happens in a week?” she asked, trying to listen and concentrate on the steps at the same time.

“He loses his chance to inherit a fortune,” Mr. Carroll snapped. “No wife, no money. That’s the end of it.”

Inherit a fortune. The words reverberated in Tamsyn’s head as she fell into distracted silence.

It was certainly something to contemplate.

At the end of the dance, she curtsied to Mr. Carroll. “Thank you, sir.”

“Might I get you some refreshment?” he offered.

“That’s kind of you, but I believe I see my sponsor, Lady Daleford, standing alone. I must keep her company. Do excuse me.”

He looked annoyed by her dismissal as Tamsyn backed away from him, but his expression of irritation lifted when the same talkative gentleman from the dance whispered in his ear. Mr. Carroll glanced at Tamsyn with the look of a man who had narrowly escaped a ravenous ghoul.

She suppressed a sigh and turned away. Doubtless her lack of dowry was the topic under discussion. In the weeks she had been searching for a potential groom, all the men who had shown promise eventually disappeared when they learned of her impecunious circumstances.

Lady Daleford looked at her with sympathy as she approached. “My dear, you mustn’t let the chatterers deter you,” the older woman declared. She fanned herself slowly. “Your dear papa, God rest him, did you no favors by leaving this world intestate.”

The heaviness in Tamsyn’s chest pressed down. “I suppose he believed he could attend to that matter later.” His brother, Jory, hadn’t seen fit to make any provisions for her, and it was only through Lady Daleford’s largesse that Tamsyn had any fashionable clothes to wear during her brief, disastrous Season.

“We, all of us, think we have more time than we do,” Lady Daleford agreed.

Seeking a change in topic, Tamsyn said, “It cannot be factual that Lord Blakemere has only one week to find himself a wife.”

The older woman’s brows rose. “Heard the gossip, have you?”

So it was true, incredible as it might seem. “Why isn’t he swarming with debutantes?”

Lady Daleford’s expression grew sober. “He is. But no matter what gel seeks his favor, he continues on his hunt. But you would do wise to avoid him. Lord Blakemere wants a bride and will indeed come into a fortune, but he will make the most appalling husband.”

“Strong words, Lady Daleford,” Tamsyn said with surprise. She looked toward the card room.

“Though he fought bravely against our enemies abroad,” the older woman acknowledged, “on English soil Blakemere is the veriest rogue. He’s in a class by himself—well, Lord Langdon belongs in that class, as well.” Her expression became pinched. “Before he learned of his possible inheritance, he never attended a single respectable gathering. He consorts with dancers and actresses, and is a habitué of gaming hells.”

“Most men of his rank do the same,” Tamsyn pointed out. “As for gambling, ladies do that, too. Even in Cornwall the gentry play cards for coin and wager on horses.”

Lady Daleford shook her head. “Here in London, a city full of spendthrifts, he is the ne plus ultra of profligates. The considerable number of his vowels is said to be unprecedented.” She held up one gloved finger. “Mark my word, if he does manage to inherit that money, he will surely tear through it within a year.” She patted Tamsyn’s cheek. “My dear, when I agreed to let you stay with me for the Season, I swore a solemn oath to myself that I would steer you clear of any unsuitable candidates. You are here to make a good match, and by heaven, I will make certain that happens.”

“It’s impossible for me to fully express my gratitude,” Tamsyn replied sincerely.

“The very least I could do to honor your parents’ memory was to see that their daughter had her Season. Dearest Adam and darling Jane would want this for you.” She eyed Tamsyn critically. “Though you are a little on the mature side for a debutante.”

Tamsyn smiled wryly. At twenty-four, she was definitely older than most of the girls vying for husbands, and she’d wager had a good deal more worldly experience than her rivals.

Lady Daleford continued, “Despite your age, and the paucity of your dowry, you come from an ancient lineage and can make a relatively advantageous match. Mr. Simon Hoult has been staring at you all night, and he’s a baron’s second son. You could do far worse.”

Tamsyn risked a glance at Mr. Hoult. He was a tall gentleman with dark brown hair and a cheerful face. His smile widened when he caught Tamsyn looking at him.

“Would he make an attentive husband?” she asked Lady Daleford.

The older woman beamed. “Oh, he’ll assuredly be dutiful. His parents are devoted to each other, and I am certain he will follow their model.”

Much as she desired that for her own selfish reasons, Tamsyn’s mood pitched lower. So much for Mr. Hoult. However, likely encouraged by her brief look in his direction, the gentleman began making his way toward her from across the ballroom. He’d unquestionably ask her to dance, or request the honor of getting her a glass of punch, and Tamsyn didn’t have the heart to encourage him when his chances were futile.

“I need to find the retiring room,” she murmured. “Excuse me.”

As Lady Daleford protested, Tamsyn slipped away before Mr. Hoult could get any closer. She hurried down the corridor leading to the retiring room, but she didn’t go inside. Instead, she sat down on a settee. Running her fingers over the tufted upholstery, she mentally reviewed all of the Earl of Blakemere’s attributes.

1 He was a careless libertine.

2 He was terrible with money.

3 He only wanted a wife in order to claim a fortune, which likely meant he’d be a negligent husband.

In short, he was perfect.

Her pulse leapt at the thought of him, and a flame of attraction burned to life. Usually, she didn’t find herself drawn to blond men, but he had caught her eye from the moment she’d set foot inside the ballroom. He had wide shoulders and carried himself with supreme confidence, as if capable of conquering any obstacle that presented itself. No surprise that he was a former soldier.

He had a somewhat-long face, with a distinguished, largish nose and curved lips. Up close, she’d seen that his eyes were lake blue, and sharply discerning. He’d looked at her with sensual awareness—and judging by the ease with which he moved, his promise of carnality would be readily, enthusiastically fulfilled.

She shook off her thoughts. Lord Blakemere as a lover was not her purpose. She was here to land a husband, the more desperate and inattentive the better.

A flare of unusual nerves tightened through her body. Lord Blakemere fit the bill exactly, but the question was, could she make him want her?

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