How to Capture a Countess (Duchess Diaries 1) (3 page)

He looked so pleased that her misgivings instantly disappeared.

Indeed, as the champagne coursed through her, the last silly worry about her actions flew away like an irritating bee before a brisk wind. And in its place was the sudden realization that this was her one and
only
chance to fix her interest with the earl. He was here, he was paying attention to her, and—more astonishing—Aunt Lettice was nowhere to ruin the moment.

Rose knew it wouldn’t last. In a half hour or sooner, her champagne confidence would be gone, Sin would be bored, and Aunt Lettice would arrive to “save” her. She didn’t want to be saved. She wanted . . . Oh dear, what
did
she want? She tried to swallow, but her throat was too tight. Her gaze traveled over him, across his face to his lips, and there she lingered, suddenly certain of her goal. She wanted nothing less than a kiss. A
real
kiss, one that would sear the memory of this moment into her soul so thoroughly that if she lived ten score years plus one, she’d never forget it.

Rose glanced around the ballroom, and the answer to her predicament came in a bubble of champagne clarity.
The terrace doors lead to the garden. A worldly woman would entice Lord Sinclair into the garden and, once there, she’d boldly kiss him.

Rose fixed a seductive smile on her lips. “Lord Sin, when you arrived, I was just going to repair a tear in my gown.”

He looked at her perfect hem. “Your gown is torn?”

“In the back, where you can’t see. I may trip if I don’t fix it soon. I thought I might find a seat in the garden and pin it, if you’d care to escort me there?”

His gaze locked with hers and something passed between them. Rose didn’t know what it was, but suddenly her skin tingled and she couldn’t breathe. As she always did when very nervous, she laughed softly.

Sin gave a muffled curse, removed her empty glass from her hand and placed it on a nearby table, tucked
her hand in the crook of his arm, and instantly bore her toward the terrace doors.

That was easy!
Feeling as if she were in charge of the world, she allowed him to sweep her along. Within seconds they were through the terrace doors and out into the cool night air, the noise of the ball left behind. Rose’s heart tripped along, happy and euphoric from a growing sense of awe and pride at her boldness. Sin’s hand was warm over hers, the faint scent of his cologne mingling with the jasmine and lilies that filled the lantern-lit garden.
Could this night be any more perfect?

Sin led her down the stone steps and to a path dimly lit by colorful paper lanterns. They passed a couple here and there, but Sin was careful to stay out of direct sight of anyone.

He turned down a broader path and finally led her into an open space where a large, low fountain bubbled. In the center of the fountain Aphrodite poured water from a jug, a small Cupid playing at her feet. Green lily pads floated all around, and the glowing paper lanterns reflected in the water like colorful stars. “This is beautiful,” Rose said.
The perfect place for my first kiss.

As if he read her thoughts, he led her to the fountain. A red paper lantern hung overhead and cast a seductive light across Sin’s face. Rose couldn’t believe she was here, alone with him, his warm hands now sliding about her waist as he tugged her close.

It’s exactly the way it was in my dreams.
Heart pounding, she placed her hands on his chest and lifted her face to his. She closed her eyes, swaying slightly from the champagne, and offered her lips.

Sin tightened his hold on her slender waist. And to think he’d been about to leave the ball. His body was aflame with desire for this little fancy piece, and he was determined to have her. He bent and captured her mouth with his, teasing her soft lips until they parted, and then flicking his tongue over her teeth. She gasped against his mouth and wiggled against him.

He almost groaned with relief at her wanton signal. That was all he needed. He slipped his hands to her ass and cupped her against him, rubbing his hard cock against her, showing her how she affected him, how she—

Her eyes flew open. For a frozen second, they looked at each other. And then, with a small cry, she shoved him as hard as she could.

Sin reeled backward, the back of his leg hitting the low lip of the fountain, and he fell in with a splash.

If shock hadn’t already killed the intense flood of desire, the icy water would have done so. He gasped as he struggled to right himself, coughing water as he grabbed the statue for purchase. Aphrodite, apparently disgusted with the whole display, continued to pour water from her vase directly upon his head.

Sputtering and furious, he moved away from the statue and glared at Rose.

She stood at the edge of the fountain, her eyes wide, her fingers over her mouth, which was formed into a shocked “O.” She regained her composure quickly, though, and held up a hand. “Don’t move!”

“Like hell; I’m not staying here.” He pushed his wet hair from his eyes and tried to wring some of the water from his coattails.

“Someone must help you out of that fountain and—I’ll fetch someone now.” To his astonishment, she lifted her head and yelled in a loud voice,
“Help! Someone, please help!”

“No, don’t!” He lunged across the fountain, trying to reach her. “You’re going to draw atten—” His foot caught in a lily pad and down he went again, into the net of lily pads.

He came up cursing, grabbing at the slimy tendrils and yanking them from his face and neck. “Damn it!” Water and something green dangled before his face. He snatched at it, and found a lily pad perched upon his head. He threw it into the pond in disgust . . . and realized that Rose and he were no longer alone.

A dozen or so ladies and their escorts stood gawking at where he stood, water pouring from his evening clothes, another lily pad in his hand. An assortment of astonishment, shock, and the growing suspicions of mirth could be seen in each face.

Grinding his teeth, he turned toward Rose. She was facing him with a wide, astonished look, her gloved hand pressed to her mouth.

She pointed to his shoulder. “I-I beg your pardon, but there’s a lily p-p-p—” To his chagrin and fury, a faint giggle erupted from her kiss-swollen lips. Instantly, Rose’s giggle trickled through the crowd and, like dry tinder, they burst into laughter.

The wave of it hit him like freezing water and his jaw tightened until he feared his teeth would crack. Rose’s laughter was now reflected in every gaze . . . except one. His grandmother didn’t look a bit amused. If anything, she looked as if she wished he’d return to the lily pad net and drown himself.

Lord MacDoonan, obviously recovered from the loss of his flask, chortled merrily. “Lud, Sin, look at you!”

Sin shot a baleful glare at Rose. Her laughter died as her gaze locked with his, and for an instant, he thought he caught a glimmer of something . . . Remorse? Fear? Whatever it was, it wasn’t enough.

“Sinclair,” his grandmother said, looking furious. “Get out of that fountain!”

A tiny woman wearing a puce gown, her white hair adorned with a ridiculous amount of flowers, scurried up. “Rose! Good heavens! What are you doing here? I’ve been looking for you everywhere and—” The woman’s gaze fell on Sin, and she gasped and jumped as if he were a loch monster. “Oh dear!” Face red, she gathered Rose. “Come. We are leaving
immediately.
”

“But, I—” Rose began, but she was no match for the tiny lady, who seemed to have grown arms as strong as a bear baiter’s.

“Now,”
she said, marching Rose down a path and away from the growing crowd.

“But Aunt Lettice, let me at least tell S—” Rose’s voice faded down the path.

Even though she was gone, the memory of Rose’s laughter still stung Sin’s ears as he waded to the edge of the fountain and stepped out. How
dare
she? He would n—

“Lord Sin!” Miss MacDonald, who’d tried so hard to charm Sin on the carriage ride to this atrocious ball, snickered behind her hand. “Something’s in your pocket.”

Sin looked down. His front pocket was moving slightly. As he looked, a small fish jumped out of his pocket and into the puddle at his feet.

“It appears that yet another waterlogged creature has escaped the fountain.” Miss MacDonald’s eyes lit with malice. “Wouldn’t you say, Lord
Fin
?”

A wave of unrestrained laughter met her sally.

Sin sent an icy look at each guest. Instantly, the laughter faded and an awkward silence arose.

Sin sent a stiff bow to his grandmother, then turned on his heel and left. He couldn’t believe that he—
he,
of all men—had allowed himself to be misled by a pair of wide blue eyes and a pert nose covered with freckles. Good God, how could he—he, who knew better than most men—have allowed such a thing to happen?
Damn it, that little wench tricked me. She played to my weaknesses and teased me with her sense of humor,
and I followed her like a lamb to slaughter.
He wasn’t certain why she’d done it—perhaps he’d dismissed her at some event, snubbed her when he’d been in his cups, or some other inconsequential thing—but for whatever reason, Rose Balfour had successfully orchestrated his very public humiliation.

Hands balled into fists, Sin passed through a gateway into the drive where, dripping steadily, he curtly ordered a wide-eyed footman to fetch his carriage.
Blast you, Rose Balfour! You will regret your actions this evening. And believe this: I will show no mercy.

Floors Castle

September 12, 1812

From the Diary of the Duchess of Roxburghe
For the last six years, my great-nephew, the Earl of Sinclair, has done naught but drive his grandmother to distraction with his antics. Oh, we thought him a wild one before The Incident, but we were wrong. Since then, he has shown us what “wild” truly means, and it seems that every day brings a new report of his lascivious lifestyle.

The fault, of course, is with my sister. At the tender age of seventeen, after his parents were killed in a carriage accident, Sin was left with titles and estates and the care of his younger brothers. Though several of us advised otherwise, my sister pushed to give the boy all of the weight of those responsibilities instead of appointing an executor until he was of a more appropriate age. My sister meant no harm, and thought that the boy would
mature as he assumed the mantle of responsibility. He did so, of course, but at a very high cost.

Without parents to guide him, or a partner to share his burdens, and left solely responsible for the care of his younger brothers, he became arrogantly conceited with his own independence. Though he now possesses what all women desire in a husband—excellent birth, a handsome visage, a charming manner (when he wishes), a respected title, and a growing fortune—he torments my adored sister by refusing to fix his attentions upon a woman of genteel breeding and instead openly cavorts with Notorious Undesirables.

The time has come for me to take matters into my own hands; my poor sister now regrets her lack of trust in my earlier judgment, and has made a desperate plea for help.

And desperate times call for desperate measures . . .

The butler’s sedate knock was met by a cacophony of barking. Over the yips and yaps, a feminine voice called for him to enter. MacDougal sighed regretfully for his polished shoes and well-ironed breeches, then opened the large oak doors to the sitting room.

A small herd of yapping pugs met him, a mixture of brown and silver fur, flat wet noses, and curly pig tails. The dogs jumped upon him, their little nails ruining his careful creases and marring his well-tended shoe leathers.

Even so, he couldn’t resist the charms of the large brown eyes now fixed upon him. “There, there, ye wee bairns. Stop yer yappin’; ’tis naught but me. Did I no’ feed ye bacon jus’ this mornin’? ’Tis fine treatment ye’re givin’ me now.”

Six curly tails wagged in unison. The Roxburghe pugs were as famous throughout Edinburgh and the surrounding countryside as their mistress, the notorious Duchess of Roxburghe, a woman well into her sixtieth year (though none were certain how far) and the icy-eyed mistress of Floors Castle for the past ten years.

The dogs sniffed MacDougal’s breeches and shoes as he edged through the pack and then crossed the many rugs to the two women seated before the fireplace at the far end of the cavernous room. Unable to maul his legs while he walked, the pugs had to be content with trotting and tumbling after him, puffing and wheezing as they pretended to herd him along.

As he reached the small circle of settees, Lady Charlotte looked up from her knitting. After a quick motion for silence, she pointed to the duchess, who was reclining upon the settee opposite, a kerchief soaked in lavender water covering her eyes.

Ah, yes. Her grace had played whist last night and, as usually happened when the vicar came to visit, she’d enjoyed her evening libations a wee bit too much. It showed not only in the fact that the duchess
was hiding her eyes from the sunlight, but also in the way her fashionable gown of blue muslin was crinkled and her red wig was slightly askew.

Lady Charlotte leaned forward to whisper, “Her grace isn’t feeling well this morning.”

“Aye, me lady,” he whispered back with a kind smile. The youngest daughter of the late Earl of Argyll and a distant cousin of the duke’s, Lady Charlotte Montrose was a short, rather mousy woman sadly given to wearing lace mobcaps in the French manner, a fashion that did not suit her plump face. MacDougal had been made aware of this fact only this morning by that secret fashionmonger Mrs. Cairness, the housekeeper, who—when not wearing the starched black gowns as befitted her station—often dressed better than the duchess herself.

“Perhaps you should return in an hour,” Lady Charlotte whispered. “Once her grace is through with her nap.”

MacDougal nodded. Lady Charlotte knew her grace better than most, as she’d made her home at Floors Castle for the last eight years. It was widely held that she’d come to stay with her cousin Roxburghe after an arranged marriage to some wild hobnob of society had fallen through. Whatever the reason, she’d never left and was now as much a part of Floors Castle as the duchess herself.