Counting on a Countess: The most outrageous Regency romance of 2019 that fans of Vanity Fair and Poldark will adore. Eva Leigh
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Автор: Eva Leigh
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Современная зарубежная литература
isbn: 9780008272630
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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.
“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 СКАЧАТЬ