How I Met My Countess

To Diane Tice,

for her kind and generous spirit,

as well as her support of quality education.

And to Tia, her granddaughter,

for being such a sweet character—

in life and in this story.

Major Thatcher should have been the envy of Society when his grandfather died, for upon the man’s passing, Thatcher had been bestowed with the title of Duke of Hollindrake and all the lands, houses and great wealth that came with it.

But no one really envied him all that much, for he’d also inherited the care, feeding and headache of the previous three heirs’ widows.

The Dowager Marchionesses of Standon.

It wasn’t such an odd thing, to have one or two dowagers lying about, elderly widows who kept quietly to themselves while they waited out their eternal reward.

Not so the Standon widows. For not only were they young, they were of no mind to just wait patiently for their reward.

Now most everyone agreed that the first two dowagers—Minerva (having been wed to Thatcher’s uncle Philip) and Elinor (his uncle Edward’s bride), daughters of an earl and a baron, respectively—were every bit as haughty and aristocratic as their lofty title implied. That didn’t mean they weren’t capable of being, shall one say, difficult.

Difficult
was not the word used to describe the third dowager Lady Standon, the former Miss Lucy Ellyson, the widow of Thatcher’s older brother Archibald. On the contrary, Lucy, Lady Standon, left most of London speechless.

Or aghast. Depending on the day of the week.

But today was a Wednesday, and with a summons in hand from Thatcher’s wife, the now infamous Duchess of Hollindrake, Lucy alighted from her carriage in front of a house on Brook Street and knew that today, of all days, she needed to be on her best behavior.

To that end, she’d worn her favorite green silk, doing her best to look the part of a well-heeled and respectable lady. Glancing down at the expensive fabric, she shook out the wrinkles creasing her skirt and concentrated on what she was going to say.

Your Grace, I hardly know what that innkeeper is referring to. Damages to the entire wing? Why, when we left, the fire was well contained.

Lucy paused midstep.
No, no! That will never do.
That was akin to admitting that the fire was her fault. And there was no proof.

At least not the sort that could condemn one.

She took another deep breath and began mentally composing yet again.

Ah, Your Grace, how lovely you look! Letters? What letters? From Minerva? I daresay she has quite mistaken the matter. I am certain I wrote beforehand to let her know we would be using the abbey in Lancashire for the entire month of December. How was I to know she’d arrive with her own party of eight and we’d all be snowed in together for an entire fortnight? Actually it proved to be quite a snug, jolly Christmas.

Yes, that sounded as if they had all gotten along splendidly.

Which couldn’t be further from the truth.

Good heavens, how she was supposed to have known that Lady Gillmore was allergic to almonds? Or that Lord Wainewright would take offense for having his cheating at cards pointed out? Or that Mr. Mackey was intended for Miss Gillmore?

Lucy shook her head. Spoiled little chit! Why, the young lady should be thanking her for revealing what a scoundrel her nearly intended turned out to be. She—that is to say, Lucy—had certainly not given that bounder any indication she’d wanted him in her bedroom.

In truth, it had been a shocking and rather unpleasant surprise to find him waiting for her. Lounging on her bed in his altogether.

If she’d welcomed his advances, would she have screamed and chased him out with the fire iron?

Not that Miss Gillmore and her parents had believed her. Or even Minerva.

No. All because she was
that
Lady Standon.

Behind her, Thomas-William, her father’s former servant, was muttering as he unloaded the luggage to the curb. He paused and shot a wary glance at the plain door before them. “Are you certain this is the right place, Miss Lucy?”

“This is Brook Street, is it not?” she replied as she tugged at her yellow gloves and checked to make sure her bonnet strings were properly tied.

“Yes,” he answered, piling her hatbox atop a trunk.

“And this is the house number His Grace’s butler told us where we might find the duchess?”

Thomas-William shot a skeptical glance at the nondescript town house, his dark eyes narrowed. “Yes, it is. But I don’t like this, not one bit. What with her summons and all this shilly-shallying about.”

Lucy threw up her hands. “Well neither do I, but what am I to do? She is the duchess.”

Unfortunately …
she would have liked to add.

“I don’t put it past her high and mighty to be up to something,” Thomas-William was saying. One could argue that he’d muttered this to himself. Then again, he’d been with Lucy’s family so long that he had no compunction about speaking his mind quite freely, especially to her.

“You are much too suspicious, Thomas-William,” she chided, not that she hadn’t had her own qualms over the duchess’s sudden summons—er, rather,
her gracious invitation
, as dear Clapp, Lucy’s elderly companion, had urged her to refer to this great inconvenience of having to pack up everything she owned and bring her entire entourage to London.

But now that they were here, and Lucy was about to beard the lioness in her own den, so to say, she took another deep breath and got back to crafting a litany of explanations and the accompanying apologies that might be necessary to extract them from whatever dreadful reckoning lay ahead.

Because without the Duke of Hollindrake’s favor—which in translation meant the duchess’s good graces—Lucy didn’t know what she would do with her disreputable collection of dependants and servants.

For without a home of her own and very little money to speak of, she had no roof over her head other than the ones provided by her unlikely position as Lady Standon.

Lost in thought and her own anxieties, she barely heard the door open, nor took much notice of the man who came down the steps in a great hurry, for she’d gotten quite used to the efficiency of the duke’s servants.

But still, she mused, it was about time one of the footmen arrived to help poor Thomas-William.

What she hadn’t imagined was that the fellow, in his expedience, wouldn’t notice the great pile of mismatched luggage in his path, or that he would go tripping over it, landing in a heap near Thomas-William.

As he hit, the man let out a great oath, one that should never touch a lady’s delicate ear.

Then again, Lucy hardly cringed, for she’d heard such language most of her life, and now she had an entirely new set of worries.

“Oh, dear heavens!” she gasped as she eyed the large man lying all akimbo. Whatever would she do if he had a broken bone?

She could only imagine the duchess’s dismay over having one of her footmen put out of commission because of Lucy’s luggage.

Oh, yes, that would be the last and final straw, she had to imagine.

But to her relief, the fellow righted himself quickly, shaking out his coat and drawing his shoulders in a taut, proud line.

“Thank goodness,” she sighed, for he appeared quite in order. “Oh, yes, my good man, so sorry for that,” Lucy called over to him. “Do you think you can manage those three boxes over there? They aren’t as heavy as they appear.”

Then she gathered up her courage, turned from the latest scene of her crimes and went blithely up the stairs, as if she had been invited for tea and not this mysterious summons.

But even as she got to the top step, she had the uneasy feeling of being shadowed, and being her father’s daughter, she whirled around. And while she had half-expected to find the footman standing there, holding her luggage as he ought, instead she came nose to nose with a man who had every aspect of a ghost from her past.

Except he was quite alive. Very much so.

For it was no footman who had come to their aid. No Hollindrake servant who’d tripped over her luggage. There, standing on the steps, looking at her with an expression she couldn’t fathom, was the last man she’d ever expected to see again.

Him. Himself. The Earl of Clifton.

Then again, she’d never been able to read much behind those inscrutable blue eyes of his. Nor could she control the way her heart thudded, or how her insides fluttered, like a row of trumpeters.

It’s him. It’s him, Lucy. It’s him.

No, the sight of him made her forget that it was Wednesday, the day she was meeting with the duchess. It prevented her from remembering that she was a lady now, a marchioness even, a dowager to boot, and most important of all, she forgot she was supposed to be on her best behavior.

“Good God, Gilby, is that you?” she gasped, feeling her knees shake beneath the silk of her gown.

Her, Lucy Ellyson, quaking like a debutante. This was a remarkable day, indeed!

“Mi-ss Elly-son,” he stammered in a voice that held none of the old familiarity that had once existed between them.

They just stood there and stared at each other, the years that had separated them naught but a blink of an eye.

I’ll come back for you, Goosie. I promise. How could I not when I love you so?

And I’ll hold you to that, Gilby,
she’d teased back.
For if you don’t, I’ll come find you. I’ll make you remember.

But he hadn’t. “I’m sorry,” he managed to say. “I suppose I should use your married name, but I fear I don’t know it.”

She shook her head. “Lucy will still do, my lord.”

“Lucy, then,” he acknowledged.

Again they stared at each other, and for her part, she drank in the sight of him, her heart pounding as she gazed at his still handsome face.

Once she’d known every line of it—for she’d memorized it before he’d left, had held that visage in her heart all these years—but now? There was a light in his eyes she didn’t recognize, couldn’t fathom.

And that sent a frisson of worry down her spine.
It’s not him.

And it was in that disquietude that she realized she needed to say something and stop gaping at him.

Stop searching for the man she loved.

Had loved
, she corrected before she asked, “What are you doing here? I hadn’t heard, that is to say, I didn’t know you were …”

She snapped her mouth closed before she made a complete fool of herself.

Especially when he stepped back from her, leaving an aching chasm between them.

It was always there, Goosie. You just chose not to believe it,
a voice so like her father’s whispered to her.

“I’m here on business. And you?” he asked, in the polite and simple phrasing of an old friend or an acquaintance happened upon.

An acquaintance!
she thought with some pique. When once they’d been inseparable. Spent an unforgettable night entwined together … so close she would never have believed that anything could have torn them apart.

Yet everything had …

“I’ve come to London on business as well,” she managed to reply, so taken aback by his cool demeanor. “But what brings you here, to this house?” She tugged at her gloves, then looked into his eyes again.

And hoped …

“An old matter,” he said, taking a speculative glance up at the door behind her. “But it has come to naught—”

She glanced over her shoulder and wondered what sort of business the earl would have with the duchess, but before she could come to any likely conclusion, what he said next finally sunk into her ears.

“… I went by the house in Hampstead some time ago, only to discover that all of you,” he said with a nod toward Thomas-William and then back at her, “were gone.”

“You came to see me?” Lucy’s heart sparked with hope, but only momentarily.

And for a second, a brief, tiny flash, she thought she saw that old light, that bold spark of desire in his gaze.

The one, she’d once sworn, burned only for her. But like so many things about the earl, that too had proved to be wrong.

“To see your father,” he corrected. Then he paused and glanced away, obviously more than uncomfortable at this unlikely meeting.

As if he wished it would end.

Or worse, had never happened.

He glanced again to her father’s former servant. “Good to see you, Thomas-William. As hale as ever, I expect.”

“Yes, my lord,” the manservant said in a tight voice, not returning the rest of the greeting. Then the older man shot Lucy a glance. The one that usually warned her she was wading into deep waters.

But for the life of her, she couldn’t fathom what had him in such a fix until he tipped his head toward the carriage.

The carriage and its contents.

Or rather its occupants …

“Oh, good gracious heavens,” she whispered.

“Is something wrong?” the earl asked, as sharp-eared as ever.

“No, nothing,” she said, tugging once again at her gloves. “I just realized that I’m … well … most likely taking far too much of your time.”

“No, no,” he said. “I’m glad to have seen you. It saves me the trouble of trying to find you.”

He did want to find me
, the trumpets blared again, though in premature celebration, of course.

“I was most sorry to hear of your father and sister’s passing, especially when I learned of it from the new tenants. This chance meeting gives me the opportunity to extend my consolations to you,” the earl said, returning his attentions, what there was of them, to her. “Their loss was a terrible tragedy for you I am certain, especially Mariana—for she was too young to be taken.” He paused, as most everyone did when they spoke of Mariana’s death. She’d been the flirtatious one in the family, the blithe spirit who’d seen good in all, the one who could have been a duchess—and a good one to boot.

Then the earl spoke quietly, the words for her and her alone, spoken so low that quite honestly she thought she might be imagining them. “It was quite a blow to come to the house and to find strangers living there.”

Not that Lucy was really listening. “…

to see your father,
” he’d said.

He came to see your father, Lucy Ellyson Sterling, not you. You are a peagoose to think the Earl of Clifton would come back for an ill-bred, madcap girl like you … especially after all this time.