Counting on a Countess: The most outrageous Regency romance of 2019 that fans of Vanity Fair and Poldark will adore
not much familiar with gentlemen of fashion and their interests,” she confessed. Farmers, fishermen, and smuggling sea captains—those were the men she knew best, but she couldn’t tell him that.
He lifted his brows. “I’m a gentleman of fashion?”
She eyed him, from the crown of his beaver hat to the toes of his gleaming tall boots. Today he wore buff breeches, a wine-colored waistcoat, and a bottle-green coat, all of the finest materials and assembled with an expert hand. No one in the whole of Cornwall had a fraction of his sartorial gloss, and that included Penzance. But he didn’t quite resemble a dandy, given the fact that the body wearing the garments seemed more suited for the battlefield. Or the bedroom.
“You’re no elderly farmer,” she replied.
He shook his head and exhaled. “I suppose that’s better than most of the names I’ve been called.”
That comment would have to be explored in greater depth—another time.
He guided her around a puddle on the sidewalk. “For one with scant practice talking to a polished gem such as myself, you’re doing admirably. London’s not known for plain dealing, but you speak your mind.”
“I try to be truthful.” Which was only partially true. “I’m not always successful.”
“No one can be completely honest all the time,” he said with the air of a man who had a few secrets of his own. What were they? Did she dare find out?
“I agree.” There was only one secret that she kept, but it was a big one.
They reached the tiny square, tucked between homes. It was a little treasure enclosed by iron railings, with a handful of trees and green grass currently occupied by a pair of pigeons. A wooden bench stood in the middle, as if waiting for two people on an assignation.
“I discovered this place on a walk,” Tamsyn explained as she and the earl approached the bench. Nessa stood a small distance away, feeding the birds with bread crumbs she pulled from the pockets of her coat.
“Given Lady Daleford’s chary eye,” Lord Blakemere said wryly, “I’m surprised she let you amble out of her clutches.”
“She was taking a nap,” Tamsyn admitted, “and I bolted.”
His crooked smile was a roguish thing with the power to weaken her knees. He didn’t admonish her for being disobedient, or seem particularly alarmed that she’d gone out on her own.
“If you grasp freedom again,” he advised her, “be sure to go to Catton’s. The best iced cakes in the hemisphere. It’s run by a woman, Isabel Catton.” He leaned closer and her mouth went dry. “She’s a scandalous woman, Mrs. Catton. A marquess’s daughter who shocked Society by marrying a commoner.”
Tamsyn barely paid attention to the words he spoke. All she could focus on was his nearness, and the warm, masculine scent of his skin.
“I hadn’t heard of the place,” she said, struggling for calm. She sat down on the bench and he sat beside her, leaving an unfortunately respectable distance between them. “Now I’ll be certain to go before I leave London. I do love a scandalous woman.”
“Me, too,” he said in a low, confiding voice. A frown suddenly creased his brow. “You plan to stay for the entirety of the Season, I hope.”
“I haven’t decided the length of my stay,” she answered, which was a better response than, I need to find a husband with heaps of money so I can keep smuggling.
He drew in a breath, then slowly exhaled. His profile was turned to her, so she could see the clean lines of his face, his slightly large nose, the angles of his jaw. His brows were drawn down, as if in thought.
“Let’s agree to honesty between us.” He turned to her, his expression serious, which seemed an odd contrast to his usual levity.
She made a noncommittal sound. Fortunately, he took that as a sound of agreement.
“In the spirit of that honesty,” he went on, carefully selecting his words like a man picking out precious stones, “I’ll state it plainly—I need to wed within five days.”
Hearing him say it out loud made her heart speed up. “I know,” she replied as evenly as she could.
He waited for a moment, as though expecting her to demand to be taken home. When she didn’t, he continued. “Your circumstances are known to me, as well.”
Her heart knocked into her ribs. “What do you know?”
“You’re from an old family,” he recited. “You were orphaned, but there wasn’t a will, so you have no dowry.” He cocked an eyebrow. “Did I miss anything?”
She forced a thin smile. “From stem to stern, that’s everything.”
Planting his hands on his knees, he went on. “Knowing what you know about me, would you be amenable . . . to becoming my wife?”
Her breath deserted her. She couldn’t speak.
“The short of it is,” he continued in her silence, “I need a wife and you need a husband. We’ll suit each other’s needs.”
“What a romantic proposal,” she said wryly. “‘You’ll do.’”
He grimaced. “I’ve never proposed before, so my skill is negligible. My apologies.”
She shook her head as she accepted the death of her final hope for affection. “Romance never figured into the picture for me, anyway.”
“Again, I’m sorry I have to be so businesslike,” he said with regret. “Time is slipping away, faster and faster. I can vow that, if you say yes, I will make your life very comfortable.”
She didn’t care about that—all that mattered was buying Chei Owr and keeping Newcombe from the deadly grip of poverty.
But she would also be married. She’d become Lord Blakemere’s property after years of almost-complete liberty.
Yet for all that the country considered her to be his possession, the same could not be said about him. He would not belong to her. She would give up her independence, and he’d keep his freedom, which hardly seemed fair. A husband could sue for divorce on the grounds of infidelity, but she wouldn’t have the same recourse unless he was physically cruel to her or a bigamist.
“Will you be faithful?” she asked.
He was silent for a long while. “I cannot guarantee my fidelity,” he finally said. Grimly, as though delivering a verdict.
Her sinking regret was expected, but that didn’t make it less painful. “I see.”
“Once you have given me an heir,” he added quickly, “you can take a lover. I won’t be jealous of you, and you won’t be jealous of me.”
She knew how city marriages worked. Even so, she confessed, “I didn’t think it mattered that we might be monogamous, but hearing it spelled out so plainly is”—she searched for the right word—“strange.”
He looked rueful, but not repentant. “Understandable. But I must say again that Lord Somerby was a very wealthy man. His wealth will be mine. You will have any material comfort you desire, so long as your spending is within reason.”
With no dowry and all her attention given to smuggling, she’d never expected to marry. She’d resigned herself to living as her uncle’s dependent at Chei Owr while she continued to run the smuggling operation.
She’d also reconciled herself to spinsterhood—and all its attendant loneliness. Yet to know that her future husband wouldn’t be faithful felt like a disappointment.
Never knew I’d given two figs about romance. And yet she did, seeing now that it would truly be denied to her.
You’ll have Chei Owr. That’s something.