My Favorite Countess by Vanessa Kelly Page A

whispered, fighting back a hollow, ringing despair.
    She wanted to crawl away and hide. Someplace deep and dark, where she didn’t have to think or be responsible for one more person. The thought of sitting next to Rachel again, watching the life drain out of her, was almost more than she could bear. Bathsheba knew how deadly these fevers could be, the havoc they could wreak. And, coward that she was, part of her feared that if she went to nurse her sister she would fall ill, too. She might end up like Rachel, her mind and body all but destroyed.
    â€œYou don’t have to go,” Matthew blurted out, divining her thoughts. “The Wilsons will do all that needs to be done.”
    For a moment, she gave in to the fear that seemed to reside permanently in her heart. As much as she loved Rachel, she had gradually come to loathe her sister’s physical weakness. But Bathsheba was the weak one now, and she loathed herself for it.
    She pushed herself out of the chair. “No. I must leave immediately. If you would see to the carriage, I would be grateful. It will only take me a few minutes to pack.”
    â€œYou can’t leave now,” he exclaimed. “It’s after nine o’clock.”
    She moved toward the door, barely pausing to glance back. “It’s not full dark yet, and the night promises to be fine. The moon’s almost full and my coachman is used to driving at night.”
    â€œBut it’s not safe,” he protested. “What if you encounter a highwayman?”
    â€œMy grooms carry pistols, Matthew.”
    He made a choking noise. She finally took pity on him, turning around to meet his worried gaze.
    â€œIn case you were wondering,” she said, “I carry one, too.” And given the mood she was in, any highwayman who crossed her path might very well come to regret it.
    Her cousin blinked rapidly. “You’re a good girl, Sheba.”
    â€œNo, I’m not. You said it yourself—I’m a harridan.” She gave him a bitter smile and left the room.

    â€œWe’ve arrived back at Compton Manor, my lady.”
    Boland’s Yorkshire burr penetrated the exhaustion that crushed Bathsheba into a listless daze. She blinked, forcing her bleary vision to focus on the comforting features of her longtime friend and abigail. The older woman sat bolt upright on the other seat of the carriage, looking as prim and self-contained as she had when they first set out from Thirsk several hours ago.
    â€œJust a few more minutes, Lady Randolph, and I’ll have you in a nice hot bath,” Boland added. “You can eat your supper in bed.”
    Steel-framed spectacles obscured Boland’s eyes, but Bathsheba could feel her perusing her carefully, as she had done for years—ever since she was a little girl on her father’s estate and Boland was her mother’s nurse.
    â€œAnd, your ladyship, we won’t be leaving for London tomorrow, either. No, don’t bother arguing with me. I won’t have it.” The older woman glared at her, the rigid posture of her slight figure signaling her willingness to fight.
    Actually, it hadn’t even occurred to Bathsheba to object. Time grew pressing, but she couldn’t bear the thought of days on the road, jostling through the heat and the dust, only to return to her empty town house and all the problems she must face. Five days by Rachel’s bedside had left her worn to the bone and feeling as substantial as a wisp of steam from a teapot.
    They came to a halt in front of Compton Manor. The steps to the coach were quickly let down, and her groom handed her with tender care to the gravel of the drive. She staggered, feeling woozy as she stepped into the glare of the hot summer day. Her stomach cramped with nausea and she had to close her eyes and grab hold of the carriage door.
    A slim but strong arm came around her waist. “I knew this would affect you.” Boland’s voice was