Counting on a Countess: The most outrageous Regency romance of 2019 that fans of Vanity Fair and Poldark will adore. Eva Leigh
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the pianoforte and the unlikely named Bijou pirouetted around the chamber and twirled brightly colored scarves.
“Bravo, my dears,” he murmured as the melody and performance came to a stop.
“Another, my lord?” Bijou asked breathlessly. Her French accent wavered, revealing she was more likely born in Leeds, not Lyon, but it hardly mattered. She wasn’t in Kit’s rooms to provide lengthy discussion about the philosophy of Voltaire. He’d brought them home from the Royal Opera last night—or rather, very early this morning—and they had been such good company, he hadn’t sent them away. It was nearly dusk, and he contemplated with anticipation what the night had in store for him.
“Come and join me,” he said, patting his thigh.
“Which of us shall join you?” Jeanette asked.
“Both of you,” Kit replied magnanimously.
The two women giggled before fluttering over to where he sprawled. Bijou perched on his outstretched leg while Jeanette snuggled beneath his arm. They were silky and fragrant and lively—precisely what Kit wanted.
Bijou’s fingers trailed up his torso and dipped beneath the neckline of his open shirt. Agreeable curls of pleasure blossomed on his skin wherever she touched. “I thought earls weren’t supposed to have muscles,” she said with a playful pout.
“His lordship was a soldier,” Jeanette noted, her fingers toying with his hair. “He’s had to become very hard, you know.”
“I’m much harder in peacetime.” Kit grinned lazily as the two women twittered.
“Shall we put that to the test?” Jeanette nipped at his earlobe.
Before he could answer, a smart rap sounded at the parlor door. He frowned. His staff knew not to bother him when he entertained.
“Go away,” he called.
Yet the door opened anyway and his butler’s apologetic face appeared. The servant didn’t so much as glance at the two opera dancers draped over Kit. “Apologies, my lord. I told the gentleman you weren’t to be disturbed, but he insisted you had an appointment.” He held up a calling card.
Kit disentangled himself from Jeanette and motioned for the butler to approach. Taking the card from the servant, he glanced at the name.
Herbert K. Flowers, Esq.
The Law Offices of Corran and Flowers
Lincoln’s Inn Fields
“Damn,” Kit swore softly. He had a vague recollection of a letter from Flowers, requesting to meet at Kit’s earliest convenience, as the solicitor had a matter of some urgency to discuss. “Send him in.”
“Yes, my lord.” The butler bowed before hurrying away.
Bijou plucked the card from Kit’s hand and squinted at the writing. “What’s this mean?”
“It means that this Mr. Flowers deals with tedious and exhausting matters all day,” he answered.
She made a face. “How horrid.”
“Exactly.” Surely whatever this Flowers wanted, it would be dull and require the kind of serious, thoughtful consideration Kit avoided as much as possible.
Another knock sounded at the door, and after receiving Kit’s permission to enter, the butler stepped inside.
“Mr. Herbert Flowers, Esquire,” the butler intoned.
A hale, middle-aged man in well-tailored clothing entered the room carrying a leather portfolio. “My lord, thank you for . . .” Flowers’s steps slowed and his polite smile flickered as his gaze fell on Jeanette and Bijou. Face reddening, he coughed into his fist. “Forgive me, my lord, but it would perhaps be best if we conducted our meeting in private. The concerns are of a . . . delicate and confidential manner.”
Kit sighed. He did not, however, sit up. “Ladies, if you would be so kind as to await me upstairs.”
The women swayed to their feet and ambled past the solicitor, trailing perfume and laughter as they exited the chamber.
Kit waved Flowers toward a nearby chair. “Care for a drink? I might be able to cajole the cook into preparing something edible.”
“Your consideration is appreciated, my lord,” the solicitor said quickly. “But once we conclude our business, I am bound for home, where my wife and supper await me.”
“I suppose you could eat both,” Kit offered after taking a sip of wine. “Or take all of them to bed.”
Flowers’s cheeks blazed. “Ah . . . well . . . yes.” He cleared his throat. “Perhaps we might address the matter at hand.” Smoothing a hand down his waistcoat, he said with gravity, “I understand you were an intimate of the late Lord Somerby.”
A throb of grief squeezed Kit’s heart just hearing the old man’s name. “I first met him in Roliça in ’08.”
Flowers’s businesslike expression shifted into restrained melancholy. “The marquess had been an esteemed client of my firm for four decades. The news of his death was met with considerable sorrow.” The solicitor gazed at Kit with sympathy. “I imagine that you must also feel distress at the passing of your friend.”
Kit gave a wry half smile. “I keep expecting him to show up at my door and demand that I join him at his favorite chophouse. He never allowed me to beg off. Said my wenching and carousing could wait two hours.”
Flowers echoed Kit’s smile. “A forceful gentleman, Lord Somerby. It stands to reason that he served his country so admirably during the War.”
“No one said no to him,” Kit agreed. “Well,” he added with a self-deprecating shrug, “I tried. He had his ideas about troop movements and I had mine.”
“And that is precisely what he admired about you,” Flowers noted. “The marquess told me so, himself. Always had good things to say about ‘young Captain Ellingsworth.’ Courageous, he called you. A born tactician.”
Kit glanced away. “He was fulsome in his praise. I merely did my duty—nothing more.”
“With all due respect, my lord,” the solicitor ventured, “he was not the only man of influence with this opinion of you. His Majesty the Prince was much moved by Lord Somerby’s accounts of your heroism. You would not have been given an earldom if you had merely performed your responsibilities.”
Nothing in the parlor could hold Kit’s attention. He kept shifting his gaze from the paintings on the walls to the windows to the plaster friezes on the ceiling. “I suppose so.”
Sadly, the title was almost entirely decorative. It came with a middling estate at the very uppermost border of Northumberland—and hardly any income. Much as Kit appreciated the elevation of his status from marquess’s third son to earl, it had done little to alter the course of his life.
But he was grateful to Lord Somerby, just the same. Kit’s parents loved him dutifully, yet only Somerby had truly believed in him, even when Kit himself did not.
“So you and Lord Somerby were close,” Flowers noted.
Kit nodded. “He was a lieutenant general on the Peninsula for most of the War, so our paths crossed many times. He had a fondness for pastel de nata, and we’d have them in his tent, chasing them with strong whisky and talking about our favorite public houses back in London.” Kit smiled wryly. “We talked strategy, too, and the welfare of our men.”
Some of the senior officers Kit had met during his time in the army had been cruel or heartless, concerned only with upholstering themselves with glory. Not Lord Somerby. He remained steadfastly focused on the human cost of war.
“Did his lordship ever discuss marriage?” Flowers asked. “Specifically, yours?”
Kit frowned, the question catching him by surprise. “Occasionally.”