Read Online Romancing the Countess by Ashley March - Free Book Online
Authors: Ashley March
Tags: Fiction, Historical Romance
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Cooper-Giles, and immediately Sebastian knew. He hadn’t misheard. “Whose party is it, if I may ask?”
Dunlop didn’t quite meet his eyes. “The widow George, my lord. We’re leaving tomorrow . . . We were leaving tomorrow for Wiltshire . . .” His voice trailed away. Likely he expected Sebastian to be upset; even though Dunlop couldn’t know of the affair between Ian and Angela and Sebastian’s subsequent agreement with Leah to keep it quiet, the idea of the recent widow of Sebastian’s close friend hosting a house party was absurd enough.
All thoughts of Angela fled, replaced by an image of the smiling, dark-haired deceiver. Three weeks. That’s how long it had taken for Leah George to betray her promise.
“Ah, of course.” He paused, calculating how long it would take for them to travel to the George estate. He nodded again, then turned back to the table where James sat.
“Sebastian?” James took another leisurely drink of his scotch. “Is everything all right? Your face is turning that lovely scarlet shade I so enjoy—”
“It appears Mrs. George is hosting a house party,” he bit out quietly. The tips of his fingers brushed the edge of the table. Not gripping, but a feather-soft touch to the dark polished wood—a testament to his control.
“Four months,” James mused. “That seems quite early.”
“Yes, and no one will be able to resist the scandal of it. The meek and mild Mrs. George, recent widow, hosting her own country house party.”
He could well imagine how the first scene would unfold: Leah greeting her guests as they arrived, sans widow’s cap, one of her bloody ridiculous smiles spread across her face. She might have even forsaken mourning clothes by now, dressed instead in a cheerful yellow or a provocative crimson that proclaimed to the world the joy of her new independence.
Reckless.
How she’d loved the word— feasted on it—her entire countenance lighting with glee. Had she already begun planning the house party when he’d visited her town house, or had he unknowingly sparked the idea with the use of those two little syllables?
But it made no difference. Whether she stood by her semantics of not directly telling anyone of the affair , the end result was that her actions risked the revelation of the truth. It didn’t matter that he would be revealed as a lovesick fool, the doting husband who’d never suspected he was being cuckolded. That gossip would eventually pass, and his pride would heal. No, there was another thought he could not bear for others to echo, one that haunted him every single time he looked at Henry: the doubt of his son’s legitimacy.
If only Henry could have had brown hair or green eyes. If only his face wasn’t rounded and he wasn’t so young, then he might show some feature or mannerism which would clearly mark him as Sebastian’s son. But all Sebastian saw now when he stared at Henry was a perfect little boy with Angela’s sweet, innocent face, his hair the same color as Angela’s . . . and Ian’s as well.
Ignoring the ache in his chest, Sebastian sat down heavily and reached for his untouched glass of scotch. He didn’t drink spirits often, but it seemed necessary to fortify himself for the rumors which would doubtlessly soon begin.
Why would the young widow George not mourn the husband so beloved by others? What could he have done to earn such disdain?
There seemed no possible answer but the truth.
Across the table, James raised a brow. “When is the party to be held?”
“In two days.”
Which meant Leah had already left London in preparation. He would never have enough time to travel to Wiltshire to convince her to rescind the invitations. And even if he could reach Linley Park early enough, there was little he could do. The scandal had already begun.
Sebastian set the glass down carefully; no thud against wood betrayed his masked calm. She must have known he’d disapprove of the house party. She also must have known
Dunlop didn’t quite meet his eyes. “The widow George, my lord. We’re leaving tomorrow . . . We were leaving tomorrow for Wiltshire . . .” His voice trailed away. Likely he expected Sebastian to be upset; even though Dunlop couldn’t know of the affair between Ian and Angela and Sebastian’s subsequent agreement with Leah to keep it quiet, the idea of the recent widow of Sebastian’s close friend hosting a house party was absurd enough.
All thoughts of Angela fled, replaced by an image of the smiling, dark-haired deceiver. Three weeks. That’s how long it had taken for Leah George to betray her promise.
“Ah, of course.” He paused, calculating how long it would take for them to travel to the George estate. He nodded again, then turned back to the table where James sat.
“Sebastian?” James took another leisurely drink of his scotch. “Is everything all right? Your face is turning that lovely scarlet shade I so enjoy—”
“It appears Mrs. George is hosting a house party,” he bit out quietly. The tips of his fingers brushed the edge of the table. Not gripping, but a feather-soft touch to the dark polished wood—a testament to his control.
“Four months,” James mused. “That seems quite early.”
“Yes, and no one will be able to resist the scandal of it. The meek and mild Mrs. George, recent widow, hosting her own country house party.”
He could well imagine how the first scene would unfold: Leah greeting her guests as they arrived, sans widow’s cap, one of her bloody ridiculous smiles spread across her face. She might have even forsaken mourning clothes by now, dressed instead in a cheerful yellow or a provocative crimson that proclaimed to the world the joy of her new independence.
Reckless.
How she’d loved the word— feasted on it—her entire countenance lighting with glee. Had she already begun planning the house party when he’d visited her town house, or had he unknowingly sparked the idea with the use of those two little syllables?
But it made no difference. Whether she stood by her semantics of not directly telling anyone of the affair , the end result was that her actions risked the revelation of the truth. It didn’t matter that he would be revealed as a lovesick fool, the doting husband who’d never suspected he was being cuckolded. That gossip would eventually pass, and his pride would heal. No, there was another thought he could not bear for others to echo, one that haunted him every single time he looked at Henry: the doubt of his son’s legitimacy.
If only Henry could have had brown hair or green eyes. If only his face wasn’t rounded and he wasn’t so young, then he might show some feature or mannerism which would clearly mark him as Sebastian’s son. But all Sebastian saw now when he stared at Henry was a perfect little boy with Angela’s sweet, innocent face, his hair the same color as Angela’s . . . and Ian’s as well.
Ignoring the ache in his chest, Sebastian sat down heavily and reached for his untouched glass of scotch. He didn’t drink spirits often, but it seemed necessary to fortify himself for the rumors which would doubtlessly soon begin.
Why would the young widow George not mourn the husband so beloved by others? What could he have done to earn such disdain?
There seemed no possible answer but the truth.
Across the table, James raised a brow. “When is the party to be held?”
“In two days.”
Which meant Leah had already left London in preparation. He would never have enough time to travel to Wiltshire to convince her to rescind the invitations. And even if he could reach Linley Park early enough, there was little he could do. The scandal had already begun.
Sebastian set the glass down carefully; no thud against wood betrayed his masked calm. She must have known he’d disapprove of the house party. She also must have known
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