Captain Durant's Countess

chapter 21


“I believe it’s going to rain, Lady Kelby. You’re not still going out?”

“Pooh. Betsy, you are too much of a worrywart for someone your age.” Maris adjusted the rather forbidding black bonnet and wished she didn’t look quite so crowlike. She would not be able to wear any of Madame Bernard’s creations for ages, and by then her figure might be very different. She might not even have a figure.

It shouldn’t matter. Maris had never cared about what she’d worn, but it did seem a shame those beautiful new clothes might never be used.

“Dr. Crandall said—”

“Dr. Crandall is no longer involved, is he? The new man doesn’t seem to be troubled by my riding, if I’m careful.”

“The new man is a drunk,” Betsy reminded her. “I wouldn’t trust him with a litter of kittens.”

It was true Dr. Sherman had seemed a bit under the weather when she’d sent for him. So many doctors seemed to have an unfortunate tendency to imbibe. It must be escape from all the grim things they saw in their practices. But babies weren’t grim things. Maris had met the local midwife Mrs. Lynch, a calm, grandmotherly woman who’d delivered babies in and around Shere for more than thirty years. Maris was perfectly satisfied with her current arrangements.

She expected David wouldn’t be. She fully expected him to haunt her until the child was born. He’d ridden over the day before yesterday, though he was prevented from trying to completely terrorize her by the presence of that shy young clergyman Mr. Swift. She did not have much use for most men of the cloth, but had been glad of the vicar’s unscheduled company. He must have sensed her uneasiness, for he outlasted the usual twenty-minute courtesy call and bored David to tears with his random biblical platitudes. Maris had finally pleaded a headache and left both men to their own devices.

Before Mr. Swift turned up, David had been insisting he be present for the birth, so he wouldn’t be cheated. “For who knows?” he’d said. “You might get rid of a girl and slip a gypsy brat into the cradle.”

If only Henry had thought of that first, she thought with a sour smile. She would not find herself in such straits, yearning for what she couldn’t have.

She knew she was remiss about notifying Reyn of the surprising news. She’d picked up her pen a dozen times in as many days, but somehow the words hadn’t come. She, who had no difficulty writing about ancient Etruscan society, seemed incapable of describing the simple current event to the man who’d made it happen.

Perhaps when she got back from her ride—her rainy ride if Betsy was right—she’d make herself do it. A letter might not even reach him. Reynold Durant could be anywhere in the world.

She shivered. He might even be standing naked over someone with a whip.

The sky was indeed leaden and damp hung in the air. Stephen Prall waited for her on the drive with her pretty white mare Pearl. The horse was almost too showy. She was a countess’s horse, purchased by Henry for her amusement. Maris had neglected her for the last few years, hardly leaving the house as Henry’s health had worsened and his work had become paramount. Pearl seemed glad of her new circumstances and the exercise. She tossed her mane and pranced in greeting.

“Good morning, Stephen! Good morning, Pearl!”

“Are you sure you want to ride today, my lady? It’s going to rain.” He was prepared, in an oilskin jacket and battered cap. If she had those, she’d be wearing them, too. Her black riding habit had been let out at the seams and stretched as far as Betsy’s clumsy fingers could make it go, and the hat really was a disaster.

“So Betsy tells me. I’m sure. You won’t mind getting a little wet if we don’t get back in time, will you? We won’t be out long, I promise.”

“I don’t mind, my lady. You’re the boss.”

He didn’t sound thrilled, but Maris smiled at his words. She’d never really felt like anyone’s boss at Kelby Hall.

He helped her mount. To his credit, she didn’t feel like a sack of potatoes slung onto the saddle. She took a lungful of heavy air and wondered how long the rain would hold off. Not very, she’d wager. They’d ride to that pretty copse of trees that bordered one dog-leg of her property, then turn back. She hadn’t ridden out that way in a week or more.

Maris was too busy watching the darkening clouds to see the man beyond the leafy oaks at first. She raised an arm in a friendly gesture, then froze. It couldn’t be. It just couldn’t be. The first splash of rain fell on her cheeks and into her open mouth.





Reyn had come to the edge of his property yesterday when the gnawing urge could not be ignored. Twice, actually. Once in the morning, estimating when a gentlewoman might be persuaded to ride, then again near dusk, when he was near to exhaustion. He’d sat atop Phantom like a lovesick schoolboy staring at the empty green space on the other side of a clump of ancient oaks, listening as if he expected a band of Indians to drop from the trees and attack any second.

He’d ridden out again that morning and heard the horses, suddenly paralyzed by hope and fear. Phantom was alert, too, and whickered at the sight of a palfrey that was just missing a unicorn horn.

Maris—for it was she, ink-black against the white horse—waved.

Reyn’s throat dried and his wits deserted him completely. All the things he’d planned to say to her when he bumped into her “accidentally” flew from him like scalded birds.

She was as pale as her horse, looking every bit as stunned at the sight of him as he felt at the sight of her. A sudden drop of rain in his eye obscured her for a moment, and then her companion came into view.

Reyn had seen the man before in Shere. He was hard to miss, taller than Reyn and much broader. Some sort of laborer. Good. At least she wasn’t accompanied by a swain, or riding alone like a ninny. Anything could happen to an unprotected woman.

He kicked Phantom forward when it was clear Maris was immobile. He watched as the man bent to the countess and said something. Maris shook her head.

When he was just a few feet away, Reyn stopped. “Good morning. I didn’t mean to startle you. I collect we are neighbors.” The words sounded unsuspicious. Normal. There must be a God.

But she didn’t leap from her horse and into his arms and declare he was her long-lost love. In fact she looked at him as if she’d never seen him before.

“N-neighbors?” The shock in her voice was pure.

So, she didn’t know. Hadn’t been hiding from him. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Reynold Durant. My property borders this dogleg end of yours. My sister and I make our home at Merrywood Farm.”

“Cap—Mr. Durant. I am p-pleased to meet you.” She was playing it as he laid it for the benefit of her hulking companion. They were total strangers to each other—which was fundamentally true.

“I bought Merrywood in January. I understand you have recently come to Hazel Grange, Lady Kelby.” It wouldn’t seem odd that he knew her name. It was probably on everyone’s lips in the village, only he’d been too oblivious to listen.

“Y-yes.”

The rain was falling with some determination, and Maris’s servant shifted uncomfortably.

“Do forgive me for holding up your ride. Filthy weather, isn’t it? You must be on your way before you catch a chill. Good day to you then, Lady Kelby. I look forward to meeting you again under more clement skies.” Reyn wheeled Phantom away before she could respond.

His heart hammered. He could have reached across the horses and touched her skin. She was so very pale, just as she’d been when she’d found him at the Reining Monarchs Society. He’d shocked her then; he’d shocked her now.

How was it possible they were neighbors? Would she think he was stalking her? Nonsense. He’d come to the neighborhood first, had no idea that Hazel Grange belonged to the relict of the Earl of Kelby. When he first looked in the area, he was told a young family had leased the Grange, but that it was vacant. He’d been much too busy to worry about neighbors and let Ginny deal with visits and so forth.

Maris’s surprise had been so intense Reyn couldn’t tell if she’d been pleased to see him. Didn’t know if she would be pleased to see him again in a meeting that wasn’t by chance or rain-soaked. Swift had said she was not receiving. Would she make an exception for him?

She had to. He needed her to. His need was a palpable thing, preventing him from thinking clearly.

But there was one thing he had seen clearly. She’d been wearing his butterfly pin in the crown of her ugly black bonnet. It had twinkled amidst the raindrops. Totally unsuitable for a widow. If hope had wings—

He squelched his hope. Likely it was the first thing that came to hand when she fastened that monstrosity to her head. The woman needed him to help her shop, even for mourning clothes. Perhaps he should write to Madame Bernard.

His lips curled. By God, he was smiling. He imagined Maris’s face when she opened boxes at Hazel Grange and found the most exquisite mourning dresses straight from London. She might have reason to leave her house then. Pretty dresses were always a boost to a woman’s confidence.

She’d know at once who’d sent them. Reyn pictured her thank-you note. He’d work especially hard to interpret her loops and curlicues. She would invite him to the Grange, perhaps for tea, that huge servant nowhere around. She’d tell him she couldn’t possibly accept his gifts and then fall into his arms and kiss him.

Kiss him with all the ardor and innocence she possessed. It had been far too long since Reyn had experienced a kiss from his countess. He got hard simply thinking of her blush-pink mouth trembling beneath his . . . until a sluice of cold rain slithered down his neck.

Why couldn’t they engage in a discreet affair? It would not cause too much comment if he paid her a few visits. They were neighbors, after all. He might be there to advise her on draining her fields or her horse’s fetlock or the price of spring lambs. In a year—in less than a year—she might look to marry again, and there he would be, a respectable gentleman with a prosperous enterprise just next door.

He set to whistling. He wouldn’t leave Madame Bernard’s instructions to a letter. He’d go to London—why not leave in an hour? He was used to traveling light. He might visit Tattersall’s while he was there for a day or two and combine business with pleasure. Ginny would be fine. The young stable boy Jack would be elevated in consequence to think Reyn trusted him enough to be left alone with “the girls” for a few days.

Reyn’s whistling grew ever more cheerful as he entered the warped entryway of his home. During the winter, he’d planed the front door himself so it would shut properly, but the wood floor still bore evidence of years of incoming rain despite Ginny covering it with a moth-eaten Turkish rug she’d found in the attics. He tossed his riding gloves in a dented but polished copper bowl on the hall table and shook the rest of the rain off like a wet mastiff. “Ho, little sister! I’m home, but not for long,” he shouted. “Where are you?”

“In the parlor with Mrs. Beecham.”

Reyn found the two women industriously bent over lengths of curtain material. Ginny looked up, cheeks pink. “You foolish man, you are soaked through! And before you lecture me, these are for the vicarage, Reyn, so don’t think I’ve spent your coin on stuff we don’t need.”

Actually most of Merrywood’s windows could use new drapes, but he smiled down at his sister, not caring that his lawn shirt was stuck to his chest. “Moving in already? May I remind you, the man has not formally asked you—or me—yet?”

Ginny bit off some thread. “He will. The parish sewing circle is refurbishing the vicarage. It’s long overdue. I thought if I helped too I’d get some say in the decoration. You need to get out of those wet clothes.”

“You are a cagey one. Poor Mr. Swift.”

“He likes me just as I am,” Ginny replied.

“He must not know you at all,” Reyn teased. “Gin, I’ve some business in London and will be gone for a few days. You can hold down the fort without me, I know.” To his eternal shame, Ginny had gotten along most of her life without his care.

“London? Can’t I go with you?”

Reyn considered for perhaps a second. “You’ve been doing so well. Why risk it? It’s raining, too, in case you want to yell at me some more. I’m not taking the mailcoach. Old Phantom will earn his oats tonight.”

“Oh. You’re probably right.”

“It must have cost you to say that, little sister. I know I’m right. Have you forgotten the filthy air? The smells?” Reyn didn’t mind them a bit. They were the scent of civilization. Of industry. Of money.

And now that he had some, he was going to spend it on the countess he wanted to woo.