Romancing the Countess by Ashley March Page A

already told him. Two days ago I claimed to have a headache, and he nearly sent for a physician again because I’d told him earlier that my stomach was ill. I wish I didn’t have to continue deceiving him with this ruse of sickness, but I can’t bear the thought of him touching me any longer.
     
    Leah paused, sucking in a breath. Lord Wriothesly had been right in refusing to read the letters.
    Would that I had met you first, or that you would have been born an earl’s son instead of a viscount’s. Every day I wonder . . . but no, I know there is no use for such thoughts. I love you, my darling. You asked me before and I wouldn’t admit it, but yes—I am jealous of her. When we’re apart, I think of you together. How I wish that I could be the one to see you every day. I imagine sitting quietly in the evenings, working on my embroidery while you read. Quite the domestic scene, I know. Our children would sit at our feet and listen to you. You would make them smile, and laugh, as you make dear Henry laugh. And then when it becomes late, you would take my hand and lead me to your bedchamber.
    My dearest Ian, I would write more, but . . . I will save the words until I see you again.
    How long the days are without you.
    I love you.
    Eternally yours,
Angela
     
     
    Leah held her breath. Her eyes unfocused, the dark ink becoming a blur. Her shoulders slumped, her fingers releasing their death grip on the letter. It shifted in her lap, almost forlorn in its abandonment.
    They’d been in love. Or at least, Angela had loved him.
    She’d assumed lust, yes, and probably a little obsession, but . . . not love. Not the way she’d loved Ian. Half of her had been hoping the letter was nothing more than a vulgar mechanism to spout passion words. It would have been difficult to read any fantasies of lovemaking, but then any remaining anger or bitterness over their betrayal would have been justified. Now . . .
    They had all lost, hadn’t they?
    Leah stood from the chair, the letter falling from her lap to the floor. She took half a dozen harried steps before realizing and turning around, going back to tie the letters back together.
    But perhaps Ian and Angela hadn’t lost, not precisely. They’d done what they could to be together; they hadn’t allow society’s expectations—moral or otherwise—to rule their lives. Angela’s letter bore echoes of her misery and loneliness when they’d been apart, but if her writing was any indication, her desolation was only more acute because of the joy they’d shared when they were together.
    Leah opened the drawer again and slid the letters inside, the scent of vanilla and lavender no longer an offensive stench to her senses. It was something more. A reminder she would not forget. An encouragement she hadn’t known she needed.
    A dare.

Chapter 5
     
    Don’t tell me you know how I feel. Do you know the joy in my heart when you’re near, or the desolation when you depart? No, I fear you do not, and I am alone in my heartache.
     
    Sebastian took a slow breath as he surveyed the room. It stank of old titles and little wealth, the heavy fog of cigar smoke lining his lungs as he inhaled.
    “I regret it already,” he murmured to James. He hadn’t ventured into the gentleman’s club since Angela’s death. It wasn’t that he didn’t welcome the sight of people, or company; James had made himself such a fixture in the town house that Sebastian was surprised the maids hadn’t begun polishing him along with all the other furniture. No, it was the normalcy of the club, the same reason he now avoided dinner parties and musicales. It was as if Ian’s and Angela’s deaths had never occurred, as if his life hadn’t collided with the somber coldness of reality four months prior.
    “You may regret it all you wish,” James answered as they moved to a table in the center of the room. Not one in the corner—God forbid—but directly in the middle of things. “Just be thankful I didn’t