His Countess For A Week. Sarah Mallory

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      Arabella surfaced from the dead faint, but kept very still, afraid the pain behind her eyes would be worse if she opened them. Someone was rubbing her hands, and a deep voice, rich with amusement, was speaking to her.

      ‘Gently now, my lady. You are safe.’

      Safe! Her heart began to pound as memory returned. She was at Meon House and had been regaling her new acquaintances with some tale. Then Lady Meon had said her husband was there. For one brief, blissful moment she had forgotten that George was no longer alive. She had turned eagerly, only to find herself looking into the face of a stranger. That had been a cruel blow. Shock, heartbreaking disappointment and alarm had combined to render her senseless, but now she was awake and all too aware that she was in trouble.

      The pain in her head had faded and she risked opening her eyes. The stranger was still there, holding her hands in a firm, sustaining clasp. He was nothing like George. He was older and his hair was fair, not brown. It was lighter than her own and, unlike George in those last months, this man positively glowed with health and vigour.

      He smiled and something twisted, deep inside. She wanted to smile back at this handsome stranger, to lie still and enjoy his ministrations for a little longer. She quickly closed her eyes again. Heavens, what an alarming thought!

      ‘We are quite alone,’ he said. ‘There is no need for pretence.’

      ‘My fainting was no pretence,’ she told him crossly as she struggled to sit up. ‘Who are you?’

      ‘I am Westray,’ he told her. ‘More to the point, madam, who are you?’

      She bit her lip. He was dressed fashionably and a diamond twinkled from the folds of his neckcloth, but he wore no other jewellery save for a gold signet ring. Could he really be the missing Earl? A felon. True, the reports said he had received a full pardon and she knew that people were transported for crimes as trivial as stealing a length of cloth, but he was a convict nevertheless.

      She looked at him now, the candlelight gleaming on his mane of fair hair, his skin glowing with the golden tan of a man who spent his time out of doors. Or on a long sea voyage.

      ‘Well?’ he said, when she did not speak. ‘Personation, that is, pretending to be someone you are not, is a crime, you know. I think I am entitled to an explanation. Let us begin with your name.’

      She looked at him defiantly and wanted to retort that he was the criminal, she had read about him in the newspapers. He was waiting patiently for her to respond and her defiance faltered. He did not look like a villain. Yet whatever he had done to earn his pardon, it did not mean she could trust him.

      He appeared relaxed, even amused, but there was a steely strength about him. She knew he would not be fobbed off with anything less than the truth. She had no choice but to answer.

      ‘I am Arabella Roffey.’

      ‘Go on.’

      His blue-green eyes were glinting with laughter but they were not unkind. She said impulsively, ‘I needed to be here. It is very important. Pray do not expose me!’

      She moved to the end of the sofa, not trusting her legs to support her if she tried to stand. He shifted his position to face her, sitting back, his arms folded and smiling as if he was completely at his ease, but a second glance confirmed her original thought: he was as relaxed as a cat watching its prey.

      ‘How intriguing,’ he said cheerfully. ‘You had best explain it to me.’

      ‘I...’ She clasped her hands, squeezing them together to steady her nerves and gazing down at the white knuckles. ‘I am trying to find out who killed my husband.’