Counting on a Countess: The most outrageous Regency romance of 2019 that fans of Vanity Fair and Poldark will adore
but cheerfully in one corner. Candlelight glittered on cut crystal chandeliers, making the polished silver plates and goblets shine. Everything looked splendid. But the mood remained stubbornly dour.
Kit stood with a glass of wine by a large arrangement of gerbera daisies, watching the guests attempt to socialize. He fought a melancholy sigh. Men didn’t give melancholy sighs on their wedding days.
“Naturally, an original such as yourself had to buck tradition and have a wedding at eleven o’clock in the evening.” Langdon approached and gave Kit’s shoulder a good-natured shake. He stood beside Kit, and together they observed the reception.
“My parents came all the way from Yorkshire to be here,” Kit noted, “and their carriage became stuck in the mud four times today. I couldn’t have the ceremony until they arrived.”
The majority of wedding ceremonies had to be before noon in a parish church, but Kit’s expensive purchase of a special license—using a loan from Langdon—from the Archbishop of Canterbury ensured that he could be wed at the place and time of his choosing. Unfortunately, it had taken two days longer than Kit had anticipated. Added to that was the excessive amount of time it had taken his parents to travel from Yorkshire, and he’d barely an hour left by the time the vows had been exchanged.
“And on the very last day you had left,” Langdon added. He whistled. “I knew you were fond of gambling, but I didn’t think you’d risk your fortune.”
“It wasn’t by choice,” Kit grumbled. “I swore to my parents that I wouldn’t marry without their presence.”
He glanced over at his family. All of them appeared as though they had been drinking unsweetened lemonade.
“None of them are especially forthcoming with their felicitations,” Langdon observed drily. “You’d think they would be happier with their youngest son no longer being their financial responsibility.” He eyed Kit. “And I would think you would be happier, too.”
Kit took a drink of wine, but it didn’t round the sharp edges of his humor. “Nothing is settled until tomorrow. I’m to go to Lord Somerby’s solicitor’s office and finalize the paperwork. Until then, I’m the very impecunious Lord Blakemere, and my wife is the impoverished Lady Blakemere. Speaking of her . . .” His gaze skimmed over the small gathering. “Where is she?”
“Being watched over by a disapproving sentry.” Langdon nodded toward a corner of the room.
Tamsyn stood off to one side, her only company being the censorious Lady Daleford. Tamsyn’s expression was one of barely suppressed frustration.
“Excuse me,” Kit said to Langdon.
He crossed the room to reach her, aware of many gazes upon him. Nearing her, he observed how bewitching she looked in her pale silver gown adorned with tiny pearls and silver lace. It had been purchased ready-made, due to the time-sensitive nature of the wedding, yet she was a ravishing bride, the color and cut flattering her complexion. She wore a crown of white flowers, which gleamed against the fiery hue of her hair.
She’ll be mine tonight. That hair would spread upon a pillow, and he’d feel her arms around him. He’d learn the delicious secrets of her body and show her how much pleasure two lovers could create together.
He could barely restrain his eagerness.
“May I have a word with my wife, Lady Daleford?” he asked, feeling the strange shape and sound of the words my wife on his lips.
The older woman fixed him with a sharp glare. “You both have walked into a horrendous mistake,” she snapped before storming off toward the punch bowl.
Tamsyn rolled her eyes. “Lady Daleford’s candor was one of the qualities my parents admired.” She looked rueful. “I wouldn’t mind a little dissembling right now.”
“I would have liked to have met your parents,” he said.
“I would have liked the same,” she answered.
They both seemed to realize at the same moment that, had her parents been alive, there would have been no need for this wedding.
“Please excuse me for a moment,” Tamsyn said, and slipped out into the corridor.
Langdon, Greyland, and Greyland’s wife approached him. Kit couldn’t help but notice the way the duke and duchess kept close to each other, with Greyland’s hand possessively on her lower back as if he needed to touch her at all times.
“Best wishes on your marriage,” the Duchess of Greyland said cheerfully, raising her glass of wine. “She’s a lovely woman.”
“Felicitations,” Greyland added heartily.
Langdon also lifted his glass. “Blessings on you both. Though,” he added with a furrowed brow, “I fear for my own unattached state, given that my two closest friends have fallen prey to matrimony.”
“A duke’s heir must marry,” Greyland pointed out, ever practical.
“But at the time of my choosing,” Langdon replied. “With my father as hale as ever, I pray that time is long in coming.”
“Besides,” Lady Greyland noted pertly, “whoever she may be, your choice of bride is entirely at your own discretion. Even someone as entirely unsuitable as me.”
“Love, there’s nothing unsuitable about you.” Warmth shone from Greyland’s eyes as he gazed at his duchess, and she gave him a private smile that radiated devotion.
Though Kit and Langdon glanced at each other with exasperation, Kit admitted to himself that it was a rare luxury to have someone with whom you shared that kind of connection. Would he and Tamsyn ever grow as close? Unlikely. They’d sealed their bond on the basis of practicality. So long as they tolerated each other, they ought to do well enough. He knew with certainty that they would enjoy their physical connection, and when that paled—for desire always cooled—they could seek pleasure elsewhere.
Something odd and hot jabbed Kit in his belly. He frowned at the unfamiliar sensation. Perhaps the wine had spoiled. Or was it—no. He couldn’t be jealous at the thought of Tamsyn taking someone else to her bed. He never felt jealousy when his past paramours found new lovers, and besides, he barely knew Tamsyn. How could he possibly feel that strange emotion for her?
Yet it was there, just the same. Smoldering like the edges of paper moments before bursting into flame.
Out of the corner of his eye, Kit saw Tamsyn slip back into the chamber.
Before anyone could speak, he announced cheerfully to his family, “Your carriages are waiting.”
His father scowled. “I didn’t order my carriage to be made ready.”
“But I did.” Kit smiled, relying on the charm that had gotten him out of many a childhood scrape, including the time he painted a very detailed illustration of a dairymaid on the wall of the drawing room.
“How gracious of you,” Tamsyn said enthusiastically. She gave Kit a discreet wink, and when he winked back, she coughed into her hand, barely concealing a laugh.
“Lady Daleford,” Kit said, turning to her with as much charisma as he could muster, “your vehicle also awaits.”
Tamsyn managed to suppress her laughter enough to press a fast kiss on the elderly lady’s cheek. “Thank you so much for being here. And my sincere gratitude for your hospitality. I’ll have the remainder of my things brought to me tomorrow.”
“Where are you staying?” Lady Daleford demanded. “You cannot mean to make a home in his bachelor lodgings.”
“I’ve rented a house on Bruton Street,” Kit said. “Until we are settled in more permanent accommodations, it should suit us well. The house comes complete with a full staff,” he added for Tamsyn’s benefit. For the gathered crowd, he continued, “Lady Blakemere and I will spend tonight