Captain Durant's Countess

chapter 20


May 1821

What were the odds? Reyn shifted in his seat in St. James’s Church and gave Ginny’s young vicar a gimlet eye. The man had managed to somehow get the living at Shere and his sister had never said a thing about it, the sly puss. She was blushing as they sat at the back of the church in a patch of stained-glass sunlight, in better health than she’d been in weeks and hanging on the new clergyman’s every word.

The move had been difficult for her. Had been difficult for him, too. If he’d known the trouble the emerald would cause, he would have tossed it back at Maris’s not-so-dainty feet.

It had been the devil to sell once he’d returned to London. He’d half-expected to be clapped in irons as a thief as he went from jeweler to jeweler. There was no provenance, no bill of sale. His fictional explanations as to how he’d acquired it seemed weak even to him, but he’d finally found a gem dealer who was less than particular.

Less than generous as well. Reyn had known he was being cheated, but he’d had no choice, accepting what the man would give him. Fortunately, it was enough to buy Merrywood Farm, a rather run-down horse breeding operation, from a gentleman who was not particular, either, and rather anxious to get out from under his failing enterprise. The sale had been accomplished in record speed that had made Reyn’s head spin with legal logistics and reams of paperwork, and by the end of January he was more or less landed gentry.

If one was not too particular.

Bravo for all those whose standards were low. Reyn possessed a ramshackle house, tumble-down stables, and sufficient acreage to support two dozen fillies of various pedigrees. Phantom, old war horse that he was, ruled the roost, though if he hadn’t been gelded would no doubt have been much happier in his new environment.

Reyn had been gelded himself. He had no time to return the flirtatious glances of the young and not-so-young ladies of Shere, who fluttered a bit every time he entered St. James’s on Sundays or the village when he was absolutely forced to leave his occupation behind. He was up to his eyelashes in hay and muck and repairs and loving every minute of it. He knew he needed to hire more help eventually, but at the moment he was reveling in the backbreaking labor required to set up his new business with the help of only a freckle-faced boy who had seemed to come with the property. Working with his hands kept his mind occupied, almost enough for him to forget a few days last December.

Almost.

He was not foolish enough to call the property a stud farm. Not yet. For one thing, he needed to find a stud horse he could afford without depleting his savings. He had half a mind to write to young Bob Hastings, lure him away from Kelby Hall, and offer him a position as head groom. Reyn might not be able to match his salary, but Bob could be his own man. The large apartment over the stable would be perfect for a fellow to raise a family if they didn’t mind the smell of horse.

Reyn’s house was sufficient for a family’s needs, too. Ginny had directed a great deal from her sickbed, and the old house had been scrubbed clean and simply furnished. The floors might list like a storm-tossed ship, but the dwelling was snug and warm. On her better days, she had replanted the garden, Rufus helping by digging random holes between the lettuces. Mrs. Clark was settled into the kitchen, never once complaining about the primitive range. All in all, Reyn’s little household was thriving beyond his humble expectations.

The days were filled with work. The nights, however, were vast oceans of wakefulness, when his hand was called to quell the waves of desire as regular as the tides. Reyn couldn’t seem to do anything about his longing for his countess. It had propelled him to buy property in Surrey. He’d told himself Merrywood Farm was a grand bargain, and that Kelby Hall was a fair distance away.

But he would be close enough to be called if needed.

As if he was needed. His job was done, wasn’t it? He snorted, causing the old man seated in front of him to turn and give him a sour look. No snorting in church, Reyn reminded himself. No talking unless giving the proper prayer book response, no shifting in one’s seat, no snoring, God forbid. Ginny’s vicar was a serious young man who seemed to be doing his damnedest to be interesting, though that was a losing cause with Reyn. He was there solely—soully—to support his little sister, who did seem to derive comfort from attending church.

Or perhaps it had been the vicar all along. He chuckled, and added no chuckling to his list as Ginny’s surprisingly sharp elbow caught him in his midsection.

He endured the rest of the service in relative peace, his mind drifting quite far from ecclesiastical things until he was shuffling down the aisle to shake the vicar’s hand.

Ginny dimpled prettily. “I do hope you might join us for Sunday lunch, Mr. Swift.”

Swift. Somehow Reyn had blocked the name from his mind. It was not as though the man didn’t earn it. The service had gone as fast as possible, he supposed.

Mr. Swift dimpled back. “I should be delighted, if I might postpone that visit until next week, Miss Durant. There is a new parishioner I wish to welcome to the neighborhood, though I confess I feel some trepidation. It is a lady, you see. A great lady. She has taken over Hazel Grange, but is not going about in our humble society at all. A recent widow. I fear I am not up to the task of conversing with a countess.”

Reyn stilled. What were the odds? What were the odds he’d ask himself that question twice in one morning?

“Ah! A countess! How exciting, despite her recent misfortune. Do you know, Mr. Swift, my brother spent some time in an earl’s household last fall? Perhaps he should go with you to smooth the way,” she teased.

“I am hardly an expert on countesses,” Reyn said, gruff. “I barely saw the Countess of Kelby.” Damn it all to hell and back. Forget his sister and her doorstep dance with the vicar. He seemed a good enough fellow, but if he thought Ginny would make a docile clergyman’s wife, he was in for a surprise.

Swift’s face lit up. “Why, Captain Durant. This is extraordinary! It is the Countess of Kelby I am bound for this afternoon. If she is not up to attending church, it is my Christian duty to bring church to her, so to speak. As I happily did for you some time ago, Miss Durant. It is a pleasure to see you well enough to be here at worship.”

“I wouldn’t miss it for anything,” Ginny said.

Maris was here.

Part of Hazel Grange’s land bordered his own. He remembered hearing the name as his solicitor read the deeds to him. What were the odds? he thought for the third time.

Reyn hadn’t paid attention to anything lately, except repairing the fencing, roofing the stables, and feeding his horses, who were always hungry. Had he passed Maris on the street in Shere and not even noticed?

No. Swift said she was a recluse. He pictured Maris swathed in deepest black, her nose pressed against a window. Hazel Grange sounded like a huge comedown from the grandeur of Kelby Hall. What had caused her to move? Surely David Kelby would have allowed her to stay on at the Dower House.

Unless he importuned her again and she felt she had to flee. Reyn felt a splash of bile rise in his throat.

“Reyn, are you all right? You look quite fierce all of a sudden.”

“I’m fine, Gin. Perfectly fine.” He would be once he got home and into the brandy. Much against his usual habits, he’d discovered brandy could block out the imaginary scent and vision of Maris Kelby’s wavy molasses-colored hair as it spilled over his chest.

“Shall I give the countess your regards, Captain Durant?”

“She would not even know who I am. Good morning to you, Mr. Swift. We’ll expect you next Sunday, if not before.” Reyn forced himself to smile and wink at the vicar, which caused the fellow to pale.

Perhaps Reyn’s eyes and lips weren’t working properly. Nothing felt like it was working right as he helped Ginny into their ancient gig—it had come with the ancient house—and hoisted himself up to take the reins. Maris was there and he hadn’t known it, hadn’t felt it. If he was meant to be with her, surely he would have throbbed like a tuning fork at her nearness.

What rot. He had let himself get carried away over two days. Two days.

Reyn’s mail was forwarded from London by Gratton, who’d stayed on in his old lodgings with a new gentleman to valet for. There had been no word from her, so their mission had been a failure. Not so surprising, given the limited amount of time they’d had.

Unless Gratton had gotten into the brandy again, and forgot to send the letter on.

No, the countess had not contacted him because there was nothing to tell. For all her reassurances that she was no one special, she was the widow of an earl. A great lady, as Swift had said. Why would she want to have anything to do with an illiterate soldier, even if she was free?

Reyn knew Maris was the most proper of women. She would observe a lengthy period of mourning not only because it was proper, but out of respect for her husband. She had loved him, loved him enough to go against all her instincts and lie with a perfect—well, imperfect—stranger. By the time she was out of black, Reyn would just be a blurred memory to her, if that. No doubt she wanted to push the whole unpleasant interlude straight out of her mind.

“You’re very quiet. Are you sure you’re all right?” Ginny asked.

“I’m fine. Isn’t it a lovely spring day?”

It was Ginny’s turn to snort. “Something’s upset you if you’re talking about the weather. Is it Arthur?”

“Who?”

“Mr. Swift, Reyn. I mean to have him, you know. He’s been very kind and doesn’t mind that I may not li—”

“You will,” Reyn interrupted. “You are getting better every single day. The country is good for you. You haven’t had a coughing fit in over two months. You’re sleeping through the night. You’ve got roses in your cheeks. You look pretty. Too pretty to be a dull parson’s wife.”

“He is not dull! You really should pay more attention to his sermons. Arthur says some very useful things in a remarkably short stretch of time.”

“Arthur. How long has this been going on?”

“Since Richmond, of course. You really need to pay more attention to everything.”

Undoubtedly that was true, but she’d hit upon the central problem of his life. Bloody hell. What kind of a brother was he?

“Has he kissed you?”

“I will not tell you if you’re going to make a fuss. You should see your face,” Ginny said, quite unruffled. “Remember, I have those eyebrows, too, and I’m not afraid of yours. Though I do pluck mine now.”

He would not be distracted by her beauty rituals. “That means he has, the cur.”

“Reyn, I am not a little girl. I just turned three and twenty. At my age, you’d been in the army for seven years. Think of the things you did miles away from home and then tell me I have no right to marry where I please.”

“Damn it, Ginny! I’m not saying you can’t get married!”

“Good. Then it’s settled. Summer weddings are lovely, I’m told.”

By God, she’d outmaneuvered him. “Are you sure?”

Ginny nodded. “I want to make good use of the time I have.”

“Don’t talk nonsense.”

“It’s not nonsense. Everyone should seize the day, even those whose health is good.”

“Carpe diem.”

“See? And you’re always saying school was a waste of time for you. You are much smarter than you think you are.”

He didn’t bother to disabuse her of her misconception. He knew exactly how smart he was. Not very, if his little sister had been carrying on with Arthur Swift right under his nose.

Oh, he’d known something was going on. But marriage? “Has he asked you to marry him?”

“Sort of, but not precisely. There has been nothing of the dropping to one knee, etcetera. We have talked around it, as it were, agreeing to most of the details. I believe he wants to ask your permission first and is working his courage up before dropping down formally. You do have quite a reputation, you know. War hero and all that.”

Lord. He hoped the vicar never found out about Reyn’s brief stint as a Reining Monarch. “Will you be happy, Gin?”

“The vicarage is quite lovely, you know. Arthur says I might bring Mrs. Beecham and Molly with me. He already has a housekeeper-cook, so Mrs. Clark is happy to stay with you.”

Mrs. Clark knew all this? Napoleon could have used his sister’s ability to strategize. Reyn’s entire household was privy to his sister’s marital plans, but Reyn had been so preoccupied getting his business up and running, he’d been oblivious.

She grinned up at him, looking all of six years old.

“I’m not talking about a house,” he scolded. “After getting us settled at Merrywood, I know you can work wonders. I mean, is he a good man? Does he treat you well? Do you care for him? Does he make you—”

Honestly, what was wrong with him? He was about to ask if Ginny burned to bed the man. He devoutly hoped she had not gone that far yet. He would shoot Swift and then himself. “Laugh?” he amended.

Her color had nothing to do with the fresh spring breeze. “I like him very well, Reyn. And yes, he is a good man, but not so good a man that he doesn’t know how to kiss.”

“Goddamn it, Gin!”

“Not on Sunday.” She giggled, then she turned to him, much more sober. “Please be glad for me. I did not think to ever be so happy.”

“Your happiness is all I’ve ever wanted.” Well, almost all. “If you have fallen in love with him, I suppose I shall have to like him.”

In her unthinking joy, Ginny squeezed his bad shoulder. “You will love him too, I know it!”

Reyn envisioned proper Sunday lunches—years of them, if his sister was blessed to live long enough. He would have to reassure himself by speaking with her doctor, though he hadn’t thought much of the man when they met earlier. If she was not strong enough for her marital duties, Reyn would forbid the match.

Gah. It was deuced unpleasant to think of his little sister in such a state, with the earnest Mr. Swift so very far from the pulpit. Reyn yearned for some strong soap to scrub his brain clean. He listened with half an ear as Ginny enumerated Swift’s many alleged virtues, and was never so happy to see Merrywood at the end of the lane.

The mares were outdoors enjoying the newly fenced pasture, their coats shining in the sunlight. Smoke rose gently from the kitchen chimney. Mrs. Clark, the cook-conspirator, was no doubt within, roasting a plump chicken for their luncheon. The sky was blue, the clouds were puffy.

And the Countess of Kelby was right next door.