Romancing the Countess by Ashley March

mother, by society’s expectations. She’d never thought to rebel against those rules; she’d been content to play along, believing that her reward was to marry a nice man, hopefully someone who loved her, and have children. But being obedient had brought her nothing but misery so far.
    Leah spun on her heel, her skirts lashing against the chair. It was almost as if the room was closing in on her, the silence overwhelming. She’d been alone with Ian’s secret for so long, afraid to allow herself close to anyone lest they see the truth in her eyes. But now that he was dead, why should she accept the loneliness anymore? She shouldn’t have to become a pariah because she was a widow. She understood that no one sent her invitations because they expected her to be consumed by her grief, but she wasn’t.
    She paced across her bedchamber, her gaze running to the walls, the floor, the various bric-a-brac she had set around her room not because it pleased her, but because she had wanted the room to appear like she expected a lady’s bedchamber should. The perfume bottles on the vanity, with a comb placed precisely on the table—not resting haphazardly, but exactly straight and centered. The landscaped paintings on the walls, fields of dotted violets and peaceful pastures. No, if she had obeyed her own desires, she would have chosen the bold brushstrokes of Delacroix, or Géricault: bold, vivid life flung across the canvas instead of settling for a passive tableau.
    She whirled again and spied her writing table set against the opposite wall. Inside were the letters Angela had written to Ian. No matter how many times she’d picked them up and held them out over the fire, she couldn’t burn them. Their secrets wouldn’t let her alone.
    Pulling out the drawer, Leah lifted the letters in their pink silk ribbon. Though the vanilla and lavender scent was fainter now, it still stung her senses. A flare of memory, of watching Ian climb into her bed, of smelling the same perfume on his skin, slashed across her mind.
    Her hand gave a slight tremble, itching to fling the packet away. Instead, she clutched them more securely and turned toward the chair near the hearth. A trickle of sweat inched down her temple as she sat, but she didn’t ring for someone to douse the flames inside.
    She held the letters so tightly in her hands that she could feel the moisture from her palms soak into the parchment. She breathed. In. Out. In. Out. Great shuddering breaths, as if she’d run up the stairs a few minutes ago instead of climbing them at a dignified pace.
    The sweat trailed down her cheek and over her chin, along her neck and beneath her fichu to trace the line of her collarbone.
    With hands still shaking, Leah loosened the ribbon and drew out a random letter from the stack. It could have been the first letter Angela had written or the last; it didn’t matter. She didn’t know what she was searching for, or even why she was reading one.
    Tucking the others at her side, she opened the letter.
    The parchment became like thin tissue, damp and worn between her fingers as her eyes focused first on the salutation.
     
    My dearest love.
     
    Leah waited for her eyes to burn and her throat to thicken with tears, but none came. She couldn’t deny the sense of betrayal at seeing another woman refer to her husband in such a manner, but it didn’t crush her. Her heart was no longer a delicate, fragile thing, and she was relieved by the realization that it wouldn’t be broken again so easily.
    Thank you for the flowers. They were beautiful. I do not even remember telling you that orchids are my favorite. They’re in my bedroom now, and whenever I see them, I think of you and smile.
    However, I must insist that you stop sending me gifts. I had to explain to Sebastian that they were from my cousin Gertrude, meant to brighten my spirits. I don’t want him to grow suspicious, and I do despise lying to him. Sometimes I can’t remember what I’ve