Courting the Countess by Barbara Pierce Page B

husband had come to her drunk on whatever spirits he and his friends had been toasting their nuptials with. Without ceremony, Lyon had unfastened his breeches, pushed up the fabric of her nightgown, and forged himself into her virginal body. She had sobbed during his rough invasion. Afterward, he had told her that she was to blame for his fierce ardor. She had looked so beautiful waiting there so patiently for him to pluck her virginity that he had succumbed to his baser instincts. He had accused her of trying to manipulate him with her tears. Angry, Lyon had stormed out of their bedchamber. She had spent the rest of her wedding night alone.
    “I pray I am not the reason for that sorrowful look.”
    Startled, Brook wondered how many minutes had passed while she stared through him into the past. “I beg your pardon.” Had she been gazing at his crotch all this time? If she could expire from embarrassment, she would have happily surrendered.
    She flinched at the hand he offered her. Muttering something under his breath, Mr. Claeg said, “We have tarried here
long enough, Countess. Besides, I have a better spot in mind.”
    Numbly she put her hand in his larger one. He led her farther into the woods, obviously comfortable with his surroundings. Why was he waiting? Mr. Claeg strolled with her hand in hand as if he were blissfully ignorant of his arousal. He was not demanding that she ease his pain, nor was he railing at her for placing him in this awkward predicament. The man had a notorious past and a string of mistresses. He was not the sort of man who denied himself anything. Her back was so stiff she hardly needed a corset. She felt like she was bracing for an expected blow that was never delivered. The anticipation was making her crazy.
    “We’ll stop here,” he said, abruptly snapping her out of her private musings.
    “Here,” she echoed, looking at where he had brought her. It was a small clearing, not unlike countless others, with the exception that spring had added color to the landscape. In this section of the woods, bluebells had created a fragrant carpet for them. “I had not realized the bluebells were blooming. It is a lovely spot, Mr. Claeg.”
    Brook tried not to panic when he set down the basket and began to remove his coat. He shook it out and laid it on the bed of flowers. Mr. Claeg looked up sharply. She was terrible at subterfuge. Everything she was feeling was there for him to read.
    “For you,” he gently explained, motioning for her to be seated. “I do not mind a little dirt.” At her hesitation, a wistful quality dimmed his natural exuberance. “Nor do I invite a lady I admire out into the woods so I can cruelly ravish her.”
     
    Lady A’Court sank onto his coat. Her rapid descent hinted that her compliance was dictated by a slight fainting spell more than her willingness to please him. Mallory wished he had not spoken his dark musings aloud. He had just grown weary of her staring at him ever since she had noticed his inopportune
arousal like he was a vile debaucher of virtuous widows. Was it his fault that bumping up against her sped up his heart and pulsed his blood into his nether regions? The countess was a prickly lady, but he had no desire to terrify her.
    Mallory crouched down beside her. He stretched his long legs out in front of him and braced himself upright with his arms. From his side view he could see that her color was improving and she was not dragging in air like a winded horse. He was content to listen to the birds and the soothing creaking and rustling of the trees.
    “I have been behaving horribly. Will you accept my apology?” she quietly asked.
    “I am afraid not, Countess.” She gasped at his rudeness, extracting a rueful smile from him. “I meant that you do not owe me one. I am an impassioned, sometimes selfish man who shares my joys and sorrows with whoever happens to be around. I understand bad temper,” he said, keeping his demeanor friendly. “We can