Chapter Three
Nathaniel Carslake, the infamous Earl of Blackhurst, was an imposing-looking figure.
At least his portrait was. The countess’s very dead, apparently murdered, husband was scowling from his impressive position above the parlor fireplace.
He looked like a rabid dog had bit him on the arse.
All dark bushy brows and inky menace oozing from two equally matched pits of hell.
Oliver scowled back. It wasn’t as though he was happy about this situation either. Subconsciously he straightened to his full six feet and raised a brow. After a moment he shook his head and laughed. The situation was ludicrous enough without him trying to out-glare a painting.
“I’m going to expose your lady as a fraud and a thief. Hope you don’t mind,” Bellamy said to the portrait. “Then again you were a right bastard yourself, so I doubt you care much what happens to your wife.”
Blackhurst looked like he kept his sense of humor in his little toe. With a demeanor like that, was it really so surprising the sapskull had gotten himself killed by persons unknown, or most likely upstairs?
Oliver ignored the portrait as he inspected the stark parlor for oddities. There was nothing particularly special about this room, although it might once have been quite cozy.
It was spotlessly clean, like the rest of the house, but it lacked the warmth and inviting touches females usually brought.
Where were the flowers, the hundred or so attempts at water coloring, or the army of tiny miniature dogs along the windowsill?
Then again, his Aunt Petunia’s house was full of miniature dogs, of the living variety.
Oliver was not a fan of small crotch sniffing abominations.
The worst was that Aunt Petunia in all her frail eccentricity would not let him push them away, saying, “Oh, leave them be, Bellamy. They do so enjoy it, and we get so few visitors these days.” He had taken to carrying a book with him when he visited.
Both as a defense against the crotch snufflers, and to read when Aunt Petunia drifted off, as she often did—usually in the middle of a sentence.
Oh, how he loved that old woman.
He sighed as he looked around him. The room felt familiar in its emptiness.
He had the same problems with the townhouse he lived in.
It wasn’t his home, never had been. It was Henry’s house even if it now belonged to Oliver.
He didn’t want his dead brother’s house or anything in it, but for now it was necessary to keep up appearances.
For some reason people became somewhat suspicious when one started selling off the family heirlooms. Instead, he’d packed them away, leaving the house a little desolate.
He preferred desolate to depressing, which is exactly how he had felt before he had—cleaned house.
Perhaps the countess had felt the same. In this at least he could understand her Spartan theme.
He picked up a small book from a table. His eyebrows rose in surprise. Well, well, well.
*
Lisbeth watched from the doorway as Bellamy paced around the room, touching things.
Her things. In profile she admired his lean, athletic form.
A Corinthian, her sister would have said.
Her eyes drank him in. She watched his muscles flex under his jacket as he picked up a book, opened it, and fanned through the pages.
Her mind easily imagined rippling muscles carved from years of hard living in the army.
She touched her cheeks. Was it hot in here?
Lisbeth’s hand went to her breast. Her heart was pounding quite fast. Surely it was just nerves. She was not attracted to Bellamy. She disliked everything about him and his kind. Men like him had tortured her with their incessant attempts to win that loathsome wager for years.
Although, she had to admit as she watched him, he was the perfect compromise between masculinity and elegance.
He had a tightly bound energy about him.
It surprised and frightened her. On top of that he was physically strong.
She must always keep that in mind. As if she could forget.
However, she must be prepared. If he sensed a weakness, some vulnerability in her, he would swoop in and trample her into dust. She would never again allow a man to control her like Nathaniel had.
“Never,” she vowed in a whisper as she turned away and back towards the stairs to her room. She knew just how she was going to ensure he knew his place. She just hoped he was a quick learner.
*
Oliver picked up another book off the small table.
It was a horrid novel, the likes of which his Aunt Petunia had such a fancy for.
He would not have taken the Black Raven as one who would have the temperament for such a wickedly popular obsession.
To laugh seemed beyond her, though he supposed these kinds of books might have helped her research her disapproving scowl.
He wouldn’t have been surprised, however, to find several treatises on How to live an extraordinarily dull life without leaving one’s house or How to plot your husband’s demise before high tea.
It was better he think of something other than the Black Raven’s reported reputation for… well… bad luck and death.
The wager of choice tonight was sure to be simple considering he was escorting her to a ball. All he’d had to do was lure her out of her house. As it was her choice to go to this ball in the first place there was no luring necessary. It felt a bit like cheating.
Secretly, he hoped to waltz with her. That was bound to put a bit of puff into the fan-fluttering matrons and yet a few more coins in his purse.
Oliver felt strange taking it on, although it would make a fine dent in his brother’s loan repayments.
The bank loan Henry had taken out to go into the doomed speculation in the first place.
It still didn’t make sense; Henry had never been a foolish man, but Oliver had to remember what Ashton had told him. The Countess of Blackhurst wasn’t to be trusted. If she had made sure she had profited from this whole miserable affair, she deserved whatever punishment she got.
He would personally see to it.
“Bellamy,” the Countess of Blackhurst announced as she glided back into the room.
He closed his eyes for a moment before he turned to her and offered her a courtly bow and a cheeky smile.
“I’m glad to see you are on time.” Her voice held that crisp, husky tone that had kept him up last night as he debated his foolish agreement to her plan.
She was as beautiful as he remembered. No, more so.
“I am at your service, madam.” Despite what she may or may not have done in the past, he could not deny his body’s reaction to her.
It was intense, instantaneous and, surprisingly, inconvenient.
When he straightened, however, he saw she was looking at a gentleman’s pocket watch and wasn’t giving him the least attention.
She probably hadn’t heard a word he’d said.
So, he added, “You look like you need ravishing, my dear.”
She frowned. “Pardon? What did you say?”
“I said you look ravishing, my dear.”
She looked at him, shocked for a moment before turning away. “Oh, well, you look passable, I suppose,” she replied.
It was too late. He had already seen the blush on her cheeks. Perhaps she was not so immune to his charms after all. He smiled to himself. Was she nervous or just indifferent? He quite liked the idea that he might make her nervous.
When she turned back, all traces of maidenly embarrassment were gone, replaced by a fierce look of displeasure. Had he mistaken her blush? She took the few steps it required to stand before him.
He raised a brow and let one side of his lips lift.
“Pray, don’t strain yourself with such compliments, Countess; they will only go to my…
head,” he said as he looked down at hers.
She was staring at his jacket, her fingers hovering just above the superfine of his jacket.
He could not help but admire the elegant slant of her neck and shoulder, the glorious consistency of her pale skin, the pulse at her throat, and the fine dark curls at her nape.
His gaze traveled lower. The soft rise and fall of her breasts as they strained at her low neckline was hypnotizing.
She remained silent, her long and graceful fingers on the gold buttons of his dark-blue jacket. He watched her, fascinated. His heart thumped madly. His throat constricted and his hands flexed. What was she doing to him? Did she know what she was doing to him?
Slowly and with determination, one button, then another, then another slipped through their moorings. She was undressing him? A request for his permission would have been nice. Not that he would have said no.
This little exercise is going to seriously dent her carefully crafted schedule, he thought, as he watched her beautiful hands at their work.
Thankfully she had allowed fifteen minutes for fog in her schedule.
Perhaps fog had been a code all along. Even in his dreams, where such thoughts had free reign, he would not have expected her to be so…
bold. It was thrilling, uplifting—in more ways than one.
She reached in under his jacket and… what was she doing with his pocket watch? She’d pulled it out and flicked it open as if it weren’t still attached to him.
“I believe that belongs to me,” he said to break the tension between them.
She looked up at him. “As I suspected,” she announced. “You’re slow.”
His mouth fell open. She didn’t seem to notice for she was too busy re-adjusting his… slowness. Was she trying to issue an insult or was she really talking about his watch?
All he did know was she was close, very close, and that mysterious scent of hers had filled his nostrils like an oriental drug. He wanted more, much more.