Read Online Courting the Countess by Barbara Pierce - Free Book Online
Authors: Barbara Pierce
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discuss what upset you earlier if you like.”
Lady A’Court clutched and released the fabric of her skirt. “I do not like. Thank you, I appreciate your kindness.”
“As you please,” he said, unwilling to upset her further. He rummaged though the basket he had brought. “Ah, saffron cake. I have a weakness for sweets and Mrs. Whitby has yet to disappoint me. Here.” He handed her a thick slice. Mallory took out another for himself. He broke off a small piece and popped it into his mouth. Chewing thoughtfully, he said after he had swallowed, “If I could convince the old girl to marry me I would have freshly baked cakes every day.”
The countess choked on the mouthful of cake she had been chewing. She covered her mouth with the back of her hand and coughed again. As she waved away his assistance it was then that he grasped she was laughing. The sound reminded him of her; soft, throaty, and hinting of shyness. She cleared
her throat and said, “Mr. Whitby might have something to say about you absconding with his wife.”
In Mallory’s wild youth, something as mundane as an irate husband would not have stopped him from claiming a willing woman. There was no point in inspiring Lady A’Court’s imagination about his misdeeds. She already viewed him as a scoundrel. “Well, then I shall have to find another lady who will satisfy my sweet cravings,” he said innocently.
Naturally, she was not taken in by his guise of innocence. Tilting her head upward, she managed to look down her nose at him despite her small stature. “You like to play games.”
Finishing off the last of his cake, he nodded. “There is no rule that having fun is for the young. I looked it up in a book once.”
She delighted him by laughing again. “Are you ever serious?”
“Why? My father makes up for my lack,” he said dismissively. He and Viscount Keyworth had been at odds long before Mallory had run off to marry Lord De Lanoy’s mistress. Unlike his younger sister and brother, he had not sought his sire’s approval. His cavalier attitude rankled his father more than his acts of disobedience. “Thirsty?” He uncorked the small jug and sniffed. “Nothing stronger than apple cider,” he said with some regret. Mrs. Whitby, bless her, had the foresight to include a small cup. He filled it with cider and handed it to Lady A’Court. For himself, he drank straight from the jug.
“It is good. Mrs. Whitby is a treasure,” she said, relaxing under the warmth of the sun. With her blond hair down, she seemed younger than five and twenty. “Did you know that when Mrs. Whitby is not looking after temperamental artists she comes to Loughwydde and helps her daughter with the laundry? Our laundress is carrying her third child.”
Mallory picked up his sketching book and dug around in
the basket for his lead pencil. Without asking permission, because people rarely gave it when asked, he began a rough outline of her face.
“What are you doing?”
“I am sketching the bear behind you,” he quipped. The only bears roaming England had human masters. “No, sit still!”
She huffed but complied with his order. “Are you always so overbearing when you work, Mr. Claeg?”
“Yes.” He thickened the line defining her jaw. While he sketched her face, he could imagine another one in oils. This one would be full-figure with the countess lying on her stomach counting the bluebells. Naturally, she would not have a stitch of clothing on. He would position her so that her long hair and the flowers concealed more than they revealed. Mallory grinned at himself. Lady A’Court would slap him if he suggested such a picture. Later, perhaps. Recalling her question, he added, “Or so my sister complains. Did I mention that I convinced her to sit for me the summer last? She became Eris, the goddess of discord, for me.” Saying not a word, Lady A’Court plucked some bluebells and brought the blooms to her nose. “I was rather pleased with the
Lady A’Court clutched and released the fabric of her skirt. “I do not like. Thank you, I appreciate your kindness.”
“As you please,” he said, unwilling to upset her further. He rummaged though the basket he had brought. “Ah, saffron cake. I have a weakness for sweets and Mrs. Whitby has yet to disappoint me. Here.” He handed her a thick slice. Mallory took out another for himself. He broke off a small piece and popped it into his mouth. Chewing thoughtfully, he said after he had swallowed, “If I could convince the old girl to marry me I would have freshly baked cakes every day.”
The countess choked on the mouthful of cake she had been chewing. She covered her mouth with the back of her hand and coughed again. As she waved away his assistance it was then that he grasped she was laughing. The sound reminded him of her; soft, throaty, and hinting of shyness. She cleared
her throat and said, “Mr. Whitby might have something to say about you absconding with his wife.”
In Mallory’s wild youth, something as mundane as an irate husband would not have stopped him from claiming a willing woman. There was no point in inspiring Lady A’Court’s imagination about his misdeeds. She already viewed him as a scoundrel. “Well, then I shall have to find another lady who will satisfy my sweet cravings,” he said innocently.
Naturally, she was not taken in by his guise of innocence. Tilting her head upward, she managed to look down her nose at him despite her small stature. “You like to play games.”
Finishing off the last of his cake, he nodded. “There is no rule that having fun is for the young. I looked it up in a book once.”
She delighted him by laughing again. “Are you ever serious?”
“Why? My father makes up for my lack,” he said dismissively. He and Viscount Keyworth had been at odds long before Mallory had run off to marry Lord De Lanoy’s mistress. Unlike his younger sister and brother, he had not sought his sire’s approval. His cavalier attitude rankled his father more than his acts of disobedience. “Thirsty?” He uncorked the small jug and sniffed. “Nothing stronger than apple cider,” he said with some regret. Mrs. Whitby, bless her, had the foresight to include a small cup. He filled it with cider and handed it to Lady A’Court. For himself, he drank straight from the jug.
“It is good. Mrs. Whitby is a treasure,” she said, relaxing under the warmth of the sun. With her blond hair down, she seemed younger than five and twenty. “Did you know that when Mrs. Whitby is not looking after temperamental artists she comes to Loughwydde and helps her daughter with the laundry? Our laundress is carrying her third child.”
Mallory picked up his sketching book and dug around in
the basket for his lead pencil. Without asking permission, because people rarely gave it when asked, he began a rough outline of her face.
“What are you doing?”
“I am sketching the bear behind you,” he quipped. The only bears roaming England had human masters. “No, sit still!”
She huffed but complied with his order. “Are you always so overbearing when you work, Mr. Claeg?”
“Yes.” He thickened the line defining her jaw. While he sketched her face, he could imagine another one in oils. This one would be full-figure with the countess lying on her stomach counting the bluebells. Naturally, she would not have a stitch of clothing on. He would position her so that her long hair and the flowers concealed more than they revealed. Mallory grinned at himself. Lady A’Court would slap him if he suggested such a picture. Later, perhaps. Recalling her question, he added, “Or so my sister complains. Did I mention that I convinced her to sit for me the summer last? She became Eris, the goddess of discord, for me.” Saying not a word, Lady A’Court plucked some bluebells and brought the blooms to her nose. “I was rather pleased with the
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