Before she could even stop to consider the consequences of her actions, she found herself responding to Mr Markham’s audacious words.
‘I am Bess, sir - Bess Newcombe.’ She used her mother’s maiden name. And from that moment she
became
Bess, and it was as if Elizabeth, Countess of Dansmere, had never existed.
‘It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Newcombe,’ he said gravely. ‘May I be permitted to intrude myself upon your solitude for a short time?’ Bess smiled and nodded towards the seat opposite, which he immediately took possession of, adding, ‘I fear I have the advantage over you.’
‘In what way, sir?’
He laughed. ‘Why, I already know all about you.’
For a moment she actually paled, and the spell she had fallen under was all but broken. Surely he could not know the truth!
‘Do not be alarmed, Miss Newcombe,’ her companion entreated, observing her reaction, but mistaking its cause. ‘I am not a sorcerer, I assure you. And perhaps I exaggerated a little. It is merely that the whole inn was in a buzz with the news of your unfortunate accident when I arrived earlier. But I see the report of your injury was not strictly accurate. I suppose,’ he added with a raised brow, ‘that the countess is not well enough to come down herself? Or is it beneath her dignity?’
‘I -1 could not say, sir,’ Elizabeth (or was it Bess?) answered, not knowing which way to look. If he had confused the mistress with the maid, it was no wonder.
‘Your loyalty does you credit, I’m sure.’ He inclined his head and leaned forward a little. ‘I cry pardon, and will not say a word against your mistress - except that, peeress or no, she could not be half so lovely as her maid.’
Bess knew that she was blushing again. She also knew that she should stop this bold gentleman at once. But his nearness was having the strangest effect upon her. Or was it only the wine that made her feel so curiously light-headed? Whatever the reason, it was impossible to miss the warmly admiring look in those hazel eyes. That, and the sincerity in his voice, was very pleasant indeed.
‘Please, sir—’ she began, aware that her protest was not as strong as she would have wished.
‘Forgive me,’ Mr Markham said softly, ‘but, to tell you the truth, you are much more my idea of what a countess should be. Do you never envy your mistress? Do you never imagine what it would be like if you were a countess yourself?’
‘I would not be
this
countess for anything in the world!’ she cried, so vehemently that he looked at her in obvious surprise.
‘Is your mistress unhappy, then?’ he enquired. ‘I should have supposed, with her rank and fortune, she would have no cares worth the name.’
‘There is more to life, Mr Markham,’ Bess said seriously, ‘than a fine home, jewels and pin-money. When there is no love - no respect...’ Her voice trailed off as she became aware that she was about to say far too much. Mr Markham did not press her, however.
‘Perhaps,’ he said with a shrug, ‘I have worked in a counting-house too long. But I must admit that, to a humble clerk like myself, a larger income would certainly increase
my
happiness.’
‘Perhaps it would,’ Bess conceded, trying to imagine what this man’s life must be like as a clerk in a London business. ‘I do not say that it is not pleasant to command the luxuries of life. I merely meant that it is perfectly possible to be happy without them - and that possessing them is no guarantee of contentment.’
‘I could never doubt your word, Miss Newcombe,’ he said. ‘The mercenary spirit of the world has not touched a heart such as yours.’ He reached across as he spoke and clasped her hand in his. Bess felt the power in that hand. It was most improper, of course. She should have given him a sharp reprimand and withdrawn her own hand at once; but she did not.
For hours they talked, and never had Bess felt so much at ease, so perfectly content, in anyone’s company. Nick - she was already beginning to think of him as that - told her something of himself and his ambitions. He would have his own business someday, he said. In the meantime, he had his widowed mother and a maiden aunt to support, and a younger brother who had recently gone into the army and of whom great things were expected. His mother was the niece of a clergyman and the sister of a bookseller. He was more well-read than many of his class, and Bess soon discovered that they shared a similar taste in books.
Her own remarks were more guarded, of course. She told him that she was an orphan and that she had a younger sister who lived in Wiltshire. They discussed music and dancing, and she related a few of her childhood adventures with her sister, which he seemed to find highly entertaining.
They were both more than surprised when Nick took out his watch and exclaimed, ‘Good heavens! It is half past eleven already. What gabsters we are.’
‘Oh dear!’ Bess said, realizing how the hours had slipped away and that her dream was drawing to a close. ‘I really should go up now.’
‘Of course. Your mistress may have need of you.’
‘I - I do not think so, sir,’ she said, not sure if he were quizzing her again. ‘The doctor has given her a sedative, which should make her sleep through the night.’
‘Then why the haste?’ he asked, then sobered suddenly. ‘But you have had a very trying day, by all accounts, and must be quite fatigued. It is selfish of me I to keep you here.’
‘Oh, no!’ she protested softly.
‘But I
am
selfish,’ he insisted, with a self-deprecating curve of his well-shaped mouth. ‘I have been enjoying your company so much that I do not want the night to end. No doubt I have been imposing dreadfully upon your kindness with my endless prosing.’
‘No, indeed!’ she assured him. ‘It has been the most wonderful evening—’ She caught herself, afraid to say more, afraid of the way her heart was pounding in her breast. She did not want the night to end, either.
‘Do you leave tomorrow?’ he asked intently, his fingers resting once more on her hand.
‘Oh, yes,’ she answered, breathing with some difficulty. ‘As soon as it is light, I believe.’
‘Do you think that we shall ever meet again, Bess?’
‘It is hardly probable, Mr Markham.’ She could scarcely believe the pain she felt at the thought of never seeing him again. She hardly knew the man. It was madness!
‘I
must
see you again.’ His voice seemed to vibrate with the intensity of his emotion, and his gaze locked with hers as he spoke. She was both excited and afraid at what she was feeling.
‘It - it is growing late....’
‘And high time that a respectable young female were in bed,’ he finished for her, regaining his composure. His tone was lighter, but his look was still darkly disturbing. His reluctance to end their
tête-à-tête
was perfectly obvious.
Side by side, they ascended the staircase, each with a single taper. No one else was about. They reached the door of Nick’s chamber first.
‘Goodnight, Miss Newcombe,’ Nick said, adding rather stiffly, ‘parting is indeed sweet sorrow.’
‘Goodnight, sir,’ she replied. The words came with unaccustomed difficulty from her suddenly dry throat. They both knew that this was also goodbye, but neither could bring themselves to speak the word.
She began to walk away, hearing his key turn squeakily in the lock as she went. She had moved only a few paces when his voice halted her in a loud whisper.
‘Miss Newcombe.... Bess....’
She turned at once. His face seemed strained, uncertain in the candlelight. He hesitated a moment, and then, as if the words were forced from him, said, ‘Don’t go, Bess. Stay with me.’
Every principle which Bess had ever been taught, every precept she had ever believed, urged her to walk away. What he asked was impossible! If only she could look away from his eyes - those beautiful hazel eyes, which said so much more than mere words ever could. They spoke to her now, and her heart heard what ears could not.
Bess had seen desire in a man’s eyes often enough. Certain gentlemen in London - some of them calling themselves her husband’s friends - had wanted more from her than just friendship. They were hunters: men who pursued a woman as they did a fox, for the sport. But she had no wish to be their prey, for she knew instinctively that they would take far more from her than they
could ever give in return.
But this man’s eyes were different. There was a light in them which promised something wonderful. He did not wish to take but to share - to give as well as receive pleasure. For the first time in her life, Bess saw more than mere lust in a man’s gaze.
There was an instant, even then, when she almost withdrew. But when he held out his hand - neither demanding nor begging, but simply offering - she took it. When he drew her into the shadowed chamber and closed the door softly behind them, she made no protest. And when his lips closed gently but with compelling warmth over hers, she gave herself up to him with a completeness which later astonished her, but seemed perfectly natural then. She went into his room, into his arms and into his bed with equal abandon.
Never had a man’s touch stirred her so. Never had she experienced this apotheosis of pleasure. Only with this man - a stranger, with whom she would have had no dealings in the ordinary way - had she learned how beautiful the physical union of man and woman could be. She would not let herself think beyond the moment. But the moment was more than enough.
It was only later, as Nick lay sleeping with his head on her breast, that Bess awakened slowly and painfully from her dream world. Tonight she had permitted herself a dangerous indulgence. But here it must end. He was not of her world, and even if he had been, she was not free. For once in her life, she had forgotten duty and decorum, had lost herself in a romantic interlude which was as ephemeral as it was beautiful. Now the dawn was coming; the night was all but over.
Carefully, so as not to disturb the man sleeping beside her, she slipped from the bed. As she did so, he murmured her name -
Bess -
and smiled faintly in his sleep. Impulsively, she leaned over and kissed his forehead, half fearing and half hoping that he might awaken. Dressing hurriedly, she left the room and went to summon Robert.
Startled and confused, still half asleep himself, the poor coachman was none too pleased to be roused at such an hour and told to seek out the carriage. He could hardly refuse, however. By the time he returned with the news that all was prepared, Elizabeth had already helped Janet dress and discharged their debt to the landlord, who was not only curious, but also quite annoyed at the eccentric behaviour of the British aristocracy.
So it was that, as the first faint fingers of dawn caught hold of the sky, the Countess of Dansmere bid farewell to Upper Tredleigh and to a handsome clerk who lay sleeping peacefully at The Lamb and Lion Inn.
* * * *
The weeks that followed were a kind of exquisite torture for Elizabeth, and she sometimes feared that she might go mad. At first she was terrified that Gerald would guess, by some word or sign on her part, what she had done. But, although he was annoyed at her late arrival, he remained mercifully unconscious of any alteration in her manner.
Most disturbing of all was the incomprehensible state of her own emotions. She had lain with a strange man, without any real sense of guilt or shame. Yet now, whenever her husband shared her bed, she was almost overcome by a disgust stronger than any she had experienced since the early days of her marriage. She felt, absurdly, that she was betraying Nick. Yet surely it was Gerald whom she had wronged!
When she discovered that she was going to have a child, she was even more profoundly disturbed. She never doubted for a moment that Nick Markham was the father, but she could hardly confess such a thing to Gerald, who was so proud of having at last got himself an heir that Elizabeth was almost in danger of believing her sinful secret to have been an act of divine providence!
It was certainly nothing new for a woman of the ton to pass off her lover’s child as that of her husband. She had always despised those who were a party to such sordid arrangements. Now that she was forced into the same sort of deception, she had nothing to do but despise herself as well.
Yet the next few years were the happiest Elizabeth had known for a long time. Gerald no longer displayed any interest in the intimate side of marriage, much to her relief. Now that he had an heir, he seemed perfectly satisfied. It was no wonder, Elizabeth supposed. The Dansmere family line stretched back before the Conquest, but Gerald was the last of them. He was determined that his ancient lineage should not die with him. As his wife, she could not deprive him of the comfort of knowing that his name would continue, although she alone knew that his blood would not.
Gerald lived only two years more. In that time, he was content to be a doting father to little Nicholas, and was far more indulgent with his young wife. At his death, Elizabeth was even conscious of a certain sadness, although she was now truly free for the first time in her life.
She was a widow with a young son who was - in name, at least - the new Earl of Dansmere. She was young, pretty, and indecently rich. The possibilities were endless.
But those who expected the widowed countess to indulge in those pleasures and privileges which she had so far been denied were doomed to disappointment. The lady had little taste for the frivolous world of London, spending most of her time quietly in the country. The only male whose company she sought was her own son.
If Elizabeth ever dreamed of a certain handsome clerk, no one but herself knew of it. Certainly she was never allowed to forget her momentary madness, seeing that her boy was the image of his father. How often she had wondered what Nick’s feelings must have been when he awoke that morning to find her gone. She regretted, sometimes, that she had not at least left him a note. But what would she have said, and what good could it have done? No, it was better as it was.
She never expected to meet Mr Markham again in this life; now here he stood in her sister’s drawing-room. His eyes were hard and accusing, reminding her of a shared secret which could utterly destroy the fragile peace she had managed to achieve over the years.