Counting on a Countess: The most outrageous Regency romance of 2019 that fans of Vanity Fair and Poldark will adore
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?
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