Page 12 of More or Less a Countess
Nick sighed. No matter what Lady Westcott said, he had no intention of remaining in England, wife or no wife. He’d return to Italy at the first possible opportunity, and once he was there he’d lose himself in his mistress’s arms until all the years he’d spent in this cursed place became nothing more than a distant, hazy memory.
But he couldn’t wed Louisa. She’d been a dear childhood friend, and she’d suffered enough when Graham died. He could never marry her and then abandon her to a lonely fate once he’d put a child in her belly. She deserved far better than that.
No, what he needed was a businesslike arrangement with a lady who’d happily tolerate his absence in exchange for the chance to become a countess. A lady he could tolerate for a few months and just as easily forget when he left her behind.
After he got an heir on her, of course.
“I will not marry Louisa Covington, Aunt. Now that we’ve settled that, shall we move on?”
Lady Westcott wasn’t one to waste her time with fruitless negotiation. She intended for Nick to marry, they both knew it, and now it was just a matter of settling the terms. “But you will marry, and soon.”
“Yes, but I’ll choose my own bride. This is not a point that’s open for discussion, my lady.” He didn’t intend to be choosy, either. He’d take the scullery maid if it got him out of London sooner.
But his aunt must have read his mind, because she instantly crushed that plan. “Very well, but she must be a lady of impeccable birth and graceful manners. No actresses, none of your former mistresses, and no serving girls, if you please, Nicholas. The lady is to become the Countess of Dare, after all.”
Nick gave a reluctant nod. “I’ll find a lady you can tolerate, and I’ll remain in England long enough to see to the question of an heir, but after that matter is settled, I intend to return to the Continent at once.”
Lady Westcott’s eyes narrowed. “The Sussex estate is in shambles. You’ll see it set to rights for the sake of your tenants, and you’ll arrange for a reliable steward to keep it that way. And you’ll return to England for one month out of every year.”
A month every year? Bloody hell.
“For pity’s sake, Nicholas,” his aunt snapped when she saw his expression. “Is it too much to ask I be allowed to see my nephew for a single month out of every year? I flatter myself you’ll wish to see me before I die, and that’s to say nothing of your children, who at the very least are owed a glimpse of their father now and again.”
In fact it was very little to ask, and shame crept over Nick, as familiar as it was unwelcome. “Once a year, for one month, and of course you’ll come see me in Italy as often as you like.”
“Nonsense. I’m much too old to go traipsing around the Continent.”
Nick raised his eyebrow at the idea she was too old to do anything at all, but she paid him no mind. Now the negotiations were over, she rose to her feet and smoothed her skirts with businesslike efficiency.
“Dinner is at seven. Do be prompt this time, won’t you? You’ll give poor Gibbs an apoplexy otherwise.” She moved to sweep by him, but at the last moment she hesitated, and laid a hand on his shoulder. “I’m pleased you’re here, Nicholas, even if it is only for a short time.”
Nick nodded, and after a moment her hand slid away, and she left him alone in the drawing room with bitterness welling in his throat. He wished he could say he was pleased to be here, but as much as he loved his aunt, he couldn’t offer even that small, comforting lie—not when every one of his instincts screamed at him to leave England and never look back.
But first, a wife. It should be simple enough to find a willing female. He was an earl now, after all, and heir to Lady Westcott’s fortune, which was massive, but there was nothing simple about finding a bride who’d satisfy his aunt’s strict requirements.
Even under the best of circumstances it could take months to find a lady she’d deem worthy of the Dare title, and these were not the best of circumstances. He likely wouldn’t be able to find a bride before next season, and that was months away.
How convenient for his aunt that his father should have died in the winter instead of early spring. If he didn’t know it to be impossible, he’d suspect Lady Westcott of arranging it herself, to keep him in England on a quest for a countess for as long as possible.
Nick cringed at the thought of remaining in London so long, but there was little he could do about it, unless he happened to stumble across an accomplished, well-bred young lady in London in mid-November—
He went still, his thoughts grinding to a complete halt as the strains of Haydn’s final piano sonata drifted through his head.
An accomplished, well-bred young lady…
Good Lord, a stroke of luck at last.
As it happened, fate had thrown just such a lady into his path.
Hyacinth Somerset.
If he could have conjured an ideal potential bride with a wave of his hand, Miss Somerset was just the kind of lady he’d produce. She had impeccable bloodlines—even his haughty, demanding aunt couldn’t find fault with Lady Chase’s granddaughter—and she played the pianoforte like an angel. Her musical ability would be such a comfort to his aunt during the long, lonely English winters at his country seat in West Sussex.
A whirlwind courtship, a quick betrothal, and a quiet wedding. With any luck he’d have a boy in his new bride’s belly by Christmas and be back in Italy in Catalina’s bed before the spring thaw.
Memories of the Tyrrhenian Sea flashed in his mind’s eye—the water sparkling in the warm Italian sun, and Catalina, her skirts hiked to her knees, her generous breasts spilling from her bodice as she crawled toward him across the bed—and they made up his mind.
He needed a proper English wife, and the sooner he secured one, the sooner he could leave London behind him for good.
