The Runaway Countess (9 page)

Mazie gazed at the woman reflected in the gilt mirror—sleek, shiny dark hair, skin pink with health, dressed in a lustrous and expensive silk wrapper.

Lady Margaret.

The girl she had left long ago, the story she had erased, had returned to haunt her.

Her belly twisted. All those years of sacrifice and struggle, of living without comfort or security and she found herself back where she had started.

No, Mazie sat up straighter. No, she would not go back. She
had
gotten free.

Free of the painful memories. Free of the endless ache. Free of the cold indifference, the loneliness and sense that nothing could ever be good again.

Her life
had
become colorful again, joyful even. She would not go back. Could not.

She sat frozen for an exceeding amount of time while Alice tamed her hair into a ridiculous array of curls and ribbons. A pinch tightened in her chest with each twist and pin.

It was just a name. Just a story of a girl who had lost her parents. She was still Mazie. She could play at being Lady Margaret as long as it took to ensure Roane’s safety, but that did not change the truth in her heart.

She was still free.

She had to be.

A half hour later, finally trussed and stuffed for dinner with His Lordship, Mazie walked from her room into the empty hallway. No footman stood guard. No hulking shadow would follow her tonight. She straightened her spine and tried to embody the grace her mother had taught her.

The long hallway led to a balcony overlooking the main foyer, which was also empty. She had seen the entrance hall only the night she was arrested and had noticed little. Tonight, she admired the monumental stone staircase. Curved in a graceful half circle, it was at least eight feet wide and boasted four elaborately plastered shell niches displaying marble statues.

She stepped down onto the checkered floor, patterned in white marble and black slate, leaned her head back and glanced up at the two-story-high domed ceiling. Soft early evening light poured through the soaring windows and kept the hall from feeling intimidating.

It was a grand house. Rodsley Manor, where she had grown up, was no meager estate, but neither did it compare to Giltbrook Hall. She would guess the hall, with its large mullioned windows and plaster moldings, was built in the Elizabethan era. But there were touches of remodel here and there. Certainly some countess would have put her mark on the house in the last two hundred years.

The front hall led to a long corridor of open rooms, the first being a gallery of sorts, and the second a drawing room of deep red velvet. Across the room, Trent and Lady Catherine stood by a window overlooking the lake. Their heads bent together, they spoke in low tones.

How polite it all looked. What nonsense. She stepped over the threshold. “Good evening, Lord Radford, Lady Catherine.”

Brother and sister turned and, her heart frozen in amused anticipation, Mazie dropped into a deep curtsey. She had practiced this maneuver countless times with her maman but had not executed it in many years. It felt surprisingly familiar, the bending of her knee and humble bow of her head. She held the pose a beat longer than necessary and slowly straightened.

Nobody spoke.

Trent stared at her, a glass raised halfway to his lips. He was the picture of surprise, his eyes wide, his lips parted. She had to fight back her smile. He wasn’t thinking of the Midnight Rider now.

“Lady Margaret, you look lovely.” Lady Catherine came forward with hands extended. “I am speechless.”

Mazie held her head in the awkward position her maman had insisted made her long neck appear most elegant. “All compliments must be directed toward this exquisite gown you have lent me. Thank you for your kindness.” Made of two-toned satin the color of pale pink hydrangea blossoms, the fabric fell in cascades that shifted from pink to cream with the light. A delicious concoction, the gown felt light as a maiden’s sigh and the shy curl of a rose petal at once.

Mazie darted a glance at Trent. He watched her as he sipped from his glass, his neutral expression restored. An odd nervousness settled in her belly at the sight of him dressed in his formal black-and-white attire. His dark hair gleamed in the soft light from the windows, brushed back it brought out the hard angles of his cheekbones and lips. The scratch on his cheek had paled considerably and was hardly noticeable. She hated that he looked so good all the time, that his appearance had such an effect on her.

She refused to let her emotions show on her face and reflected back his mask of polite disinterest. But then he slid his gaze from hers, let it stray over her in a lazy perusal. He lingered on her décolletage before returning to her burning face.

Catherine laughed. “Oh, what fun this shall be.”

Mazie tried to smile but her muscles pinched rather than lifted. Alice had badgered her into wearing a corset—of course Trent had sent her an argumentative maid—that dramatically lifted and shaped her breasts so that the white tops pressed above the neckline of her gown. The effect left her feeling startlingly provocative, nervous in a new way, and tingling in the oddest places. And it seemed Trent had noticed.

“Shall we go in to dinner?” He walked across the room, putting an end to the pleasantries, and offered both ladies an arm. Mazie placed her gloved hand on his jacket and a thrill ran through her at the touch.

It was naught but exhilaration. The thrill of surprising him, that was all.

Trent led them into the dining room and a footman pulled back Mazie’s chair at the absurdly long and elaborate table. Decorated in shades of blue and silver, the room was lovely enough to worry her. The dress was one thing—who wouldn’t love it. But to be seduced by an entire estate? She did not want to enjoy the beauty of her surroundings. She did not want to sigh over the silver embroidery on the drapes or the rococo floral and leaf ornamentation around the ceiling. She certainly did not want to feel a pang of homesickness for the dining room at Rodsley Manor, where her mother had served the most delicious French food.

In a strange way, this was the worst sort of punishment Trent could inflict upon her. This was Lady Margaret’s world. Mazie could not afford to grow accustomed to the comfort and luxury of the lifestyle. After her parents’ deaths it had taken her years to accept a future of lumpy mattresses and ill-fitting dresses. She hardly wanted to face that sense of loss again.

A footman placed a bone china tureen in front of her. The fragrance of dilled cucumber wafted up and her mouth watered. Really, was it too much to ask that Trent’s cook be bland and boring?

She sipped her soup. Delicious. The flavor was delicate and fresh and brought to mind summer gardens and morning dew. She glared at the bowl.

“Is the soup not to your liking, Lady Margaret?”

She glanced up at the absurdly handsome man sitting at the head of the table and sighed. She could not dislike her soup, no matter how she tried. “It is delectable.”

He tilted his head to the side. “You say that as is if it were a tragedy.”

“I am not so irresolute as to be felled by a bowl of soup.”

A slight smiled played about his lips. “I thought this was dinner. I was not aware we waged a battle.”

Everything was a battle between them, he must know that. She sipped her soup, aware that he watched. The long, absorbed looks he sent her way brought to mind the hunger of the underfed. She hoped the presentation of the second course would diminish the intensity of his gaze.

No such luck.

A mousse of whitefish was placed before them and neither Catherine nor her brother seemed inclined to carry on conversation. He continued to stare between bites, his focus lingering on her longer than was comfortable. She wished his attention was directed toward the ample amount of her bosom on display, if only to give her a sense of righteous anger. He did notice her more fleshy parts, if his gaze was an indication, but then he seemed to notice everything. As if he were preparing a lengthy speech and needed details
—Lady Margaret Chetwyn, an epistemology of a fallen woman returned to the bonds of her heritage.

The fish was removed and a dish of creamed vegetables in pastry was set down. Mazie toyed with her fork, finally uncomfortable with the tension in the room.

Recalling her duty to keep the conversation going, Catherine smiled at her brother. “Did you enjoy your afternoon at farmer Smith’s? I still cannot believe you went farming. You’ve never even tended to your own horse.”

“Due to Father’s wishes, not mine.”

“You went to farmer Smith’s?” Mazie did not bother to hide her surprise.

“I did.”

She bit back her frown. When he had arrived in her room, disheveled and talking of a day in the cornfields, she had assumed he meant supervising his own crops. She never would have guessed he went to help the injured farmer. It only added to her worry—too many villagers knew of Roane, though only a trusted few knew the truth of the Midnight Rider.

“Are you so surprised I should assist a tenant in need?”

Yes
. “How is farmer Smith’s health? Is he recovering from the accident?”

“It appears he will recover with no ill effects.”

“Wonderful news.” And it was, even if Trent was the one delivering it.

“How did you find the villagers?” Catherine sipped her wine.

“Testy.”

Both she and Catherine stopped eating and looked over at him.

“Their animosity was much greater than I had assumed. They do not trust me, nor do they like me.”

Oh, to witness his set down. She had no doubt the villagers were rough on him. There was much cause for them to be wary of the reigning powers in Radford, but rather than subjugate themselves they were an uppity, opinionated bunch. She rather liked them.

Trent drew his eyebrows together. Another look that must intimidate men in Parliament. “I’ll be the first to admit that I’ve not been interested in the rural politics of Radford, my career has always been in London. But neither am I blind to the long-standing tension here. I recently provided new roofs and a better irrigation system to my tenants, but it doesn’t seem to have made a whit of difference.”

“I’m sure—”

“They still believe the ridiculous rumor about the Pentrich Uprising, Cat. Why would father send a spy to arouse the laborers into a revolt? Simply to see them hanged? To prevent a possible revolt in the future? It’s preposterous. The thoughts of an uneducated and mistrustful group of men.”

“It will take time,” Catherine said quietly. “Your absence has been felt.”

“Time is the one thing I don’t have.” He put down his fork. “The Committee on Foreign Trade is moving forward while I spent the afternoon dusting cornrows by a pile of manure.”

Catherine inhaled, shocked at her brother’s language. Mazie laughed and was rewarded with his glare.

“It is imperative that I have a seat on this committee. Foreign commerce is changing. New ports open every day in countries we haven’t even heard of.” His muscles were taut, but his eyes lit with excitement. “Great wealth is pouring in from the East India Trading Company, and the market in America shows unlimited potential. It is a time of unprecedented growth and opportunity. Britain will be part of it.
I
will be part of it.”

No one said anything, and the power of his emotion filled the room. A footman refilled Trent’s glass and Mazie shifted her attention back to her plate. He looked so passionate there for a moment, his eyes bright, his words inspired. She rather hoped he did secure a position on that committee.

“I am going nowhere until this debacle is resolved,” he muttered. “My loyal tenants have made it clear they will be no help to such as myself. But you, my dear Lady Margaret, are quite popular among them. I spent a better part of my time learning about your many accomplishments.”

Mazie looked up and met his burning gaze.

“Oh, how nice.” Catherine sounded relaxed at the change of topic.

Mazie’s cheeks warmed. “I hardly think they spoke at length—”

“You were called, let’s see, a saint, an angel and a true friend. There were more, what were they…”

She waved her hand in the air. Good God, what had they said about her? Certainly the villagers appreciated her help. She had no family and plenty of time to assist those in need. But she was far from a saint.

“And I learned some very interesting stories about the Midnight Rider.” He barely flicked his gaze toward the footmen standing by the door. “Leave us.” They emptied the room at once.

“Please, do share, Lady Margaret.” His voice was smooth as dark velvet. “I find myself curious about Mrs. Emerson and the switched chickens.”

She eyed him warily, weighing her options.

“Perhaps you would like to talk about your relationship with the true Midnight Rider?”

He was smooth and polite, but threatening her anyway.

Surely one story about chickens wouldn’t condemn her for life. “The Miller’s dog tore into Mrs. Emerson’s chicken house and scared away half her brood, even after she demanded they keep the creature off her property. She’s an old lady who doesn’t have the heart to shoot a dog, but she also doesn’t have the coin to buy more chickens for herself. How would she make it through the winter?”