Contracted as His Countess Read online

  ‘Acceptable?’ Lady Macclesbourne said sharply. ‘His breeding is excellent, but he has no lands. The man does not even use his title. Such eccentricity is beyond what is pleasing. I am very surprised to see him here. He tends not to be invited, you know. One can hardly cut an earl to his face, even under the circumstances, but he is not good ton.’

  ‘Possibly he has other attributes,’ Madelyn remarked, earning herself a very pointed look from the older woman.

  ‘He is a fortune hunter, I have no doubt. I would take care, Miss Aylmer.’

  Too late. ‘But the proverb tells us that fair exchange is no robbery,’ she said, marvelling at her own courage in the face of the Lady Macclesbourne’s disapproval.

  Beside her Miss Caroline tittered and Madelyn felt herself blush at her unintended suggestion that one would be buying the Earl’s undoubted physical attributes. Or was it unintended? She would certainly be in possession of them... The heat in her cheeks burned.

  * * *

  Jack entered the noisy, brightly lit salon in no very good temper. It was beginning to dawn on him that this business of marrying to secure his lands and then beginning to use his title was not going to be the straightforward process he had thought it. His reception here had been a case in point. He’d had to ask a favour of a friend to secure an invitation and it was clear that Lady Dalesford was doubting her own judgement in sending one.

  He could feel the curious stares like fingers poking him between the shoulder blades, hear the whispers. Some people looked away when he caught their gaze, a few matrons glowered at him. He knew what they all thought—he’d heard it enough, after all. He was a traitor to his class—he was as good as saying that a title did not matter. He was probably being blamed for the actions of every radical writer of seditious literature, every mill owner in Manchester who wanted the vote and said so at the top of his vulgarly accented voice, every beggar who spat when a crested carriage passed, splattering him with mud.

  It was a while since he’d deliberately put himself in a position where he had to deal with this. Now he was going to have to come to terms with these people if he wanted to use his title, return to society, bring up a family who would be accepted in this world.

  He was not going to grovel and apologise, that was certain, but somehow he was going to have to negotiate his return to the fold and keep his temper at the same time. And how, exactly, did he let it be known that he would answer to Dersington? It was hardly something that one announced in the press or stood up and shared at a social gathering. He could tell his closest friends and tell them to spread it about, he supposed, grudgingly aware of just how much talk that would cause. There would be less if he let it be known before his marriage, but that went against the stubborn principle that had kept him from using it in the first place. No lands, no title.

  So, wed first and start a whole new life as the married Earl of Dersington? There was still time to decide, but now where was his intended? Slightly behind him, he heard someone murmur, ‘It’s Lackland’, and felt the social smile harden on his lips. It seemed he was no longer able to shrug off that particular slur so easily. He turned, identified the young Viscount who must be the one who had spoken, then turned away when the man dropped his gaze from the challenge in Jack’s eyes.

  And there was Madelyn, sitting beside Lady Macclesbourne and her three pretty daughters. Tall, clearly ill at ease and managing to look dowdy even in what was clearly a very expensive gown. And she had been foolish enough to attempt to counter her natural pallor with lavish amounts of rouge. With those limply dangling ringlets it made her look like a wooden Dutch doll, he thought irritably as he got closer.

  Surely he had found her more attractive when they first met? He distinctly recalled a feeling of attraction, a desire to kiss her. He had been too angry over the changes to the house to really notice her appearance the other day, now his mood darkened further at the thought of tying himself permanently to this eccentric, stubborn woman. He had thought Madelyn had style, a certain strange elegance, but he must have been in a state of shock at the revelation that she held all his lands and so he had seen what he wanted to see. Perhaps that garden had drugged his senses. Or maybe he had fallen into a fairy story and been bewitched.

  Bewitched or not, he had agreed to marry her, he had given his word and, however little was left to him of his inheritance, he was still a gentleman. Jack rescued a smile as he arrived in front of the seated ladies. ‘Lady Macclesbourne, Miss Macclesbourne, Miss Daphne, Miss Caroline. Miss Aylmer.’

  ‘Mr Ransome, good evening.’ Lady Macclesbourne looked as though she had bitten a lemon, unflattering little lines appearing all around her lips. ‘You know Miss Aylmer?’

  ‘We met in Kent,’ Jack said, deriving some enjoyment from Lady Macclesbourne’s uneasiness at his presence. In the past he had flirted a little with Miss Caroline and knew the last thing her mother wanted was her fixing her interest on a landless man who did some kind of unspecified but doubtlessly dubious work for a living. Teasing her by paying attention to her daughter would repay a number of slighting remarks in the past, but he could not be so careless of Madelyn’s feelings.

  ‘Would you care to take a turn around the room, Miss Aylmer?’

  She looked so taken aback by the suggestion that for a moment he thought she would refuse, but she rose from her chair and took his proffered hand. ‘Thank you, Mr Ransome. Excuse me, Lady Macclesbourne.’

  ‘How are you enjoying London society?’ Jack enquired, attempting to ignore the fact that quite the tallest lady in the room was stiff and unspeaking by his side and that they were the subject of some interest, very little of it kindly. Any other young woman would be flirting by now, sending him intimate glances, smiling. Not Madelyn Aylmer, chin up, lips pressed together, holding herself as though he was leading her to the stake. A glance told him that the high colour in her cheeks was natural and wondered what she was blushing about. Perhaps she was one of those unfortunate girls who turned bright red when too warm. At least that long nose had not gone pink.

  ‘Enjoying myself?’ she echoed. ‘Why, not at all. But then I did not expect to.’

  Chapter Eight

  ‘Why do you dislike this so much?’ Jack was conscious of a shock that was not so much disapproval as interest that Madelyn should feel no need to pretend, even if it was only to him.

  ‘I feel awkward, uncomfortable, out of place and I dislike the clothes,’ she said with devastating honesty.

  ‘Why?’ Jack asked, equally blunt as he steered her towards the nearest footman. He nodded to the man who came forward with a tray of glasses. ‘Champagne?’

  ‘Thank you.’ She took the glass, still frowning over his question, sipped, sneezed. ‘This is remarkably peculiar wine.’

  ‘Persist, you may come to enjoy it,’ Jack suggested. Perhaps alcohol would help Madelyn relax. ‘You were telling me what is wrong with the clothes.’

  ‘They are indecent. My ankles show, the fabric is as flimsy as cobwebs, the bodice—such as it is—is about to slide off my shoulders and the stays pinch.’

  Stays? Jack took an incautious sip of champagne and choked. ‘Pinch?’

  ‘And poke apart and push up. How one is supposed to breathe I have no idea. Are you laughing at me? Because you can have no idea of the discomfort of the beastly things.’

  ‘I am glad to say I have not.’ Jack managed to get his amusement under control. Madelyn might not flirt, but she certainly knew how to take the wind out of a man’s sails. ‘I should point out that men wear them, too. No, not me!’ he protested as she cast him a dubious glance. ‘Those inclined to corpulence, like Walgrave over there. See? In the navy-blue waistcoat and the ridiculously long tails.’

  ‘I imagine that he creaks,’ Madelyn observed dispassionately. ‘He is fat. I am not.’

  ‘I would suggest that the garment you are wearing would feel even more indecent without th
em,’ he suggested. It would certainly look it. He got a firm hold on his imagination and discovered, to his surprise, that he was in a much better mood. Although what Lady Dalesford would say if she knew he was carrying on a conversation about ladies’ underwear in the middle of her salon he shuddered to think.

  Beside him Madelyn sighed, then stopped dead. ‘I hate this gown.’ They were facing one of the long mirrors that hung on the rear wall of the room to echo back the windows opposite. Their reflections faced them, a man in fashionable clothes and a tall woman, awkward and uncomfortable.

  ‘Do you want to go back on our agreement?’ Jack asked. ‘Because I can promise you that styles are not going to revert to the Middle Ages and corsets are not going to vanish.’

  He felt Madelyn’s reaction as her fingers tightened on his arm. ‘You think I am not happy simply because of the clothes? How shallow you must think me. But I gave my word and I will abide by it.’ There was a pause and Jack could hear her take a long breath. ‘I would be obliged if you would introduce me to some more people. I find my acquaintance somewhat limited at present.’

  ‘Where is Lady Fairfield?’ he asked, annoyed. ‘She should be making more effort. Ah, there she is with the Macclesbournes, looking for you, I imagine. Much better if she makes the introductions—we do not want to start any speculation.’

  ‘Do we not?’ Madelyn enquired tartly as they crossed the crowded room. ‘When, exactly, are you intending to announce our coming marriage? Or will you simply produce me along with your title and hope no one actually notices?’ She gave a little start as though she had alarmed herself with that abrupt question, then took her hand off his arm and walked away, back to where the two friends had their heads together, deep in gossip.

  Hell and damnation. She is quite right. I have to face up to this even though I cannot decide what is the best way to go about it. Or the least bad way.

  It was no good putting things off, even though he was beginning to realise that he was committing himself to a woman who was going to make an exceedingly prickly wife. On the other hand, life was not going to be dull...

  ‘Taking pity on the maypole, Lackland?’ Lord Ivor Handley, younger son of the Duke of Evesham, drawled as he strolled up, clearly bent on mischief. ‘Probably as eccentric as her father—but rolling in money unless the old lunatic spent it all on his fantasy castle. Thinking of trying your luck? Be all right if you keep your eyes shut, I suppose.’

  Finally, a legitimate target for his ill humour. ‘You are speaking of a lady of my acquaintance, Handley. I’ll thank you to keep your opinions to yourself.’

  ‘Oh, come on, Lackland, you are not serious—’

  ‘My name is Ransome and I am finding you increasingly boring, Handley. My tolerance for bores is never very high. Or perhaps you would care to continue this conversation outside?’

  Handley was handsome, rich, indulged and rarely thwarted, let alone told he was a bore. He turned an unlovely shade of red and began to bluster. Jack flexed his fingers and toyed with the idea of planting the man a facer right where he stood. No, bad tactics. Best to get him outside first...

  ‘I say, Ransome, just the man I need. Tell me, is it true that Fakenham’s selling his greys?’ Charlie Truscott, one of Jack’s closest friends, blundered cheerfully between them. ‘Evening, Handley. You all right, old chap? You look a bit feverish. I’d cut down on the curried lobster patties if I were you. Now, Ransome, what about those greys?’

  Handley turned on his heel and cut through the crowd towards the door. Truscott looked after him, shrugged and quirked an eyebrow at Jack. ‘Hitting someone in the middle of a soirée’s not the thing, you know. What’s the fool done now?’

  ‘Insulted a lady and bored me.’

  ‘Fair enough, but hit him later, not here is my advice. Now, do you know about Fakenham? There are all kinds of rumours going about that he’s in difficulties.’

  Jack watched Handley’s disappearing back in case he decided to go and be unpleasant to Madelyn in retaliation, but he answered his friend. ‘He is selling his greys and his high-perch curricle, that’s true. But it is nothing to do with his finances. After that last accident his wife put her foot down. Stop racing or lose his—how shall we put it?—privileges.’

  ‘Phew! That’s a lady with spirit.’

  ‘She said they had two children already and she did not want to be left with any more fatherless infants when their father broke his neck.’

  Truscott’s hoot of laughter had heads turning, including Madelyn’s. She was being introduced to a small group of young matrons, Jack saw with approval. He knew of them all and they were lively, fashionable and likely, he hoped, to be kind enough to an unconventional newcomer.

  ‘Who was that I saw you with just now? Not a female I recognised—a proper long Meg, if ever I saw one. Not your style at all.’

  ‘Miss Aylmer.’

  ‘What, not Castle-Mad Aylmer’s daughter? How come you know her? Rich, of course.’ He shot Jack a swift glance and cleared his throat. ‘Er...interesting lady, I imagine.’

  ‘She considered using my services at one time,’ Jack said repressively.

  He should have known better, Truscott immediately picked up the edge to his voice. ‘Oho. Saw she got value for her fee, did you?’

  ‘I was on the verge of calling Handley out for insulting her just now,’ Jack said mildly. ‘The lady is still in the nature of a client.’

  ‘Peace, peace.’ Charlie held up both hands, palms out in the fencer’s gesture of surrender. ‘Of course she is.’

  ‘Actually, there is more to it. I could do with your advice,’ Jack said, suddenly determined to get this thing out in the open.

  ‘I was just thinking this is becoming an intolerable squeeze. Fancy coming back to my place and trying the new brandy I’ve just discovered? We can put our feet up, discuss horses or whatever else takes your fancy.’

  ‘I will, thank you.’ Jack looked over to Madelyn, who had Lady Fairfield at her side, decided she could well do without him to aggravate her and turned for the door. ‘And where did this brandy come from, might I ask?’

  ‘The Rector of my parish sent me a cask up. The stuff keeps landing on his doorstep. Most mysterious and, of course, he has to get rid of it.’

  ‘Nothing to do with leaving the keys of the crypt in the lock on moonless nights, I suppose?’

  * * *

  She was as aware of him and the people he came into contact with as she would be a pebble in her shoe, Madelyn thought resentfully as she struggled to find something harmless to talk about. Jack Ransome always seemed to be at the edge of her vision, even as she concentrated on memorising the names of the pleasant group Louisa had introduced her to.

  There was that attractive brunette who had brushed against him and then pressed close when he turned to apologise, the pair of giggling debutantes—he had dodged neatly behind a large woman in a turban to escape them—and then that good-looking young man with the sneer. She had thought for a moment that something was wrong there, Jack had seemed suddenly formidable somehow and the other man was clearly annoyed. Then that stocky man who looked as though he’d be happier on a horse than in a ballroom had intervened and now he and Jack were laughing—had she ever heard him laugh before?—and leaving. Leaving?

  She should be pleased—it was not pleasant trying to conform to his expectations while under that deceptively lazy scrutiny. But she felt safe when he was there, as though he was a link to the Castle, to where she could be herself and not this out-of-place awkward creature that people pretended not to stare at.

  ‘Madelyn, dear?’

  That was Louisa, indicating yet another new acquaintance. She had Louisa, of course, she reminded herself as she went through the ritual of smiles and handshakes and polite responses to the same questions yet again. Yes, that castle in Kent. No, she was nothing like the scholar her father had be
en, unless it was of garden history. She received an unobtrusive nudge from Louisa for that—young ladies were not supposed to be scholars of anything, even something as feminine as flowers.

  Madelyn had expected to feel afraid of this new world and had thought that lifelong habits of obedience would somehow get her through. She had followed her father’s wishes and proposed to a man, after all, and that had been terrifying enough. Now there were still those moments of panic and dizziness, although she was learning to disguise those. But what she had not expected to feel was anger. Anger with these so-polite people who could barely disguise the fact that they thought her an oddity. Anger with Jack for expecting her to adapt and conform and lose her real self so entirely. Anger with herself for not fighting back.

  That at least she could control and she did not care how dizzy with panic it made her feel. Madelyn smiled at Lady Brondesbury, who had observed that she must find so many aspects of modern life vastly superior to existing in the Middle Ages. ‘Only one, ma’am.’

  ‘And what might that be?’

  ‘The modern privies are so much less draughty, I find.’

  Beside her Lady Fairfield made a sound that might have been a gasp of laughter or, more likely, horror. Lady Brondesbury said, ‘Draughty?’

  ‘Yes. You know those little projections from castle turrets, like tiny lean-to buildings? Well, they overhang the moat, you see. Those are garderobes, or privies. They are called garderobes because the fumes keep the moths away,’ she added helpfully, ignoring sounds of real anguish from Louisa.

  ‘And you observed antique modes of living so accurately? I had no idea.’

  ‘Naturally I followed my father’s wishes,’ Madelyn said, attempting to look demure. It was amusing to tease her ladyship and not reveal her mother’s insistence on modern closets.