Courting the Countess Read online

  Table of Contents

  Excerpt

  Praise for Donna Hatch

  Courting the Countess

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  A word about the author…

  Other Books You Might Enjoy

  Also Available

  Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  “Get your hands off my sister!” a voice snarled.

  Tristan snapped his head back and stepped away. Alone, Elizabeth wobbled on her feet. Her half-brother, Martindale, stalked into view, bristling like an angry dog.

  With his hands held out, Tristan faced Martindale. “My lord, we were merely—”

  “None of your lies, Barrett.”

  Other voices made exclamations of delighted horror. Elizabeth faced a nightmare; most of the houseguests stared at her, including some of London’s worst gossips. Naturally, they would assume the worst. Heat crawled up Elizabeth’s neck and burned her cheeks. She’d never live down the humiliation. Closing her eyes, she clamped her mouth shut to avoid screaming at the injustice of it all. She’d only desired a few moments alone with the man she loved. Instead, she’d been caught in an intimate embrace in a dark garden. Gossipers would spread an exaggeratedly sordid tale all over England. She’d be utterly ruined.

  Praise for Donna Hatch

  Donna Hatch has been twice nominated for the Whitney Award, was a finalist in the Oklahoma Romance Writers of America, and a winner of The Golden Quill and the International Digital Award.

  ~*~

  “No one creates chemistry between Regency Historical characters better than Donna Hatch. If you want a ‘sweet’ read, but with lots of sizzle, you have to read her books.”

  ~Carol A. Spradling, author

  Courting

  the Countess

  by

  Donna Hatch

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Courting the Countess

  COPYRIGHT © 2016 by Donna Hatch

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: [email protected]

  Cover Art by Debbie Taylor

  The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  PO Box 708

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

  Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

  Publishing History

  First Tea Rose Edition, 2016

  Print ISBN 978-1-5092-0948-4

  Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-0949-1

  Published in the United States of America

  Dedication

  To my husband,

  who never stopped courting me,

  even after twenty years of marriage.

  Chapter One

  England 1813

  Lady Elizabeth had never dared hope she would find the kind of joy that inspired poets and musicians…until she met the incomparable Tristan Barrett. She sat rooted in a wingback chair, fighting the impulse to rush outside to the garden where he’d invited her to meet him tonight. In the garden. Unchaperoned. Tristan was like no other, worth any risk, even defy social conventions and her parents, the Duke and Duchess of Pemberton.

  Elizabeth glanced at the clock over the mantel in the drawing room, her nerves stretched to a snapping point. When would the gentlemen end their after-dinner conversation and join the ladies? Time lengthened into eternity. If she survived the waiting, she and Tristan would steal away together for a few precious moments. She trembled in anticipation.

  Finally, the host of the house party led the gentlemen into the room. Tristan sauntered in last. Elizabeth’s heart leaped. From across the drawing room, his dark-eyed gaze fastened on her with an intensity that sent heat to her cheeks. He smiled at her, a smile filled with promise.

  Tristan. Elizabeth barely managed to suppress a sigh. Perhaps tomorrow Tristan would approach her father and declare his intention. He would marry her and rescue her from Duchess’s dominion. Elizabeth ached to build a new life of love and safety with him.

  One of the gentlemen launched into a terrifying account of his neighbor getting burglarized. “Servants discovered the burglars, but before they could raise the alarm, the burglars held them at gunpoint.”

  Several guests exclaimed. While sympathy for the ordeal the servants must have suffered touched Elizabeth, her focus remained so tightly on Tristan that she couldn’t summon true alarm.

  Elizabeth’s father, the duke, scowled down into his glass. “Dark days, indeed, when burglars get so brazen.”

  “I’ve heard similar stories.” Tristan’s brother, the Earl of Averston, spoke as solemnly as Father. “Bow Street is linking all such break-ins to the so-called King of Crime.”

  Tristan stood next to the earl near the French doors. Their dark superfine frockcoats and waistcoats, and crisp, white shirts contrasted with the blue and gold wallpaper and white woodwork. The Barrett brothers made a stunning pair—raven-haired, tall, and beautifully proportioned like two Greek gods, yet so opposite in temperament. Tristan, charming and gregarious, had caught her eye the moment she’d seen him. Though she’d pretended to be disapproving and unaffected by his flirtations, he’d wormed through her defenses. His grin banished the gloom in her thoughts, the gloom in her life, the gloom in her heart.

  Other guests took up the topic of crime in London, a subject Elizabeth thought best not to discuss in front of young ladies with delicate sensibilities like her younger sister.

  Tristan whispered to the earl, who nodded in reply, and he eased toward the open French door leading to the garden. Pausing, he glanced back at Elizabeth, a secretive smile tugging at his expressive mouth, before slipping outside.

  Excitement exploded in a shower of color. She was about to take a walk in a moonlit garden with the charming Tristan Barrett. If only for a moment, she wou
ld bask in the warmth of his affection.

  Her parents would think her foolish for forming a tendré for a younger son with a tainted reputation. They’d be furious if they suspected she agreed to meet him without a chaperone. Elizabeth smoothed her ivory silk gown with her gloved hands and shot a nervous glance at Duchess, the woman who condescended to call herself Elizabeth’s mother.

  Elizabeth arose and spoke under her breath. “I’m retiring for the evening, Mother.” Her face heated at her lie.

  Duchess waved her away without taking her eyes off the hostess. A brief flash of anger shot through Elizabeth that Duchess made so little effort to pretend she cared, even in the presence of others. Elizabeth murmured, “Good night,” in the unlikely chance anyone might hear. Or care. She slipped into a dimly lit adjoining room and headed to the French doors leading to the terrace, her shoes tapping on the hardwood floor. Moonlight cast long shadows on the floor, and illuminated a pathway. After opening the door, she paused at the threshold. Her stomach fluttered.

  Meeting Tristan tonight was dangerous.

  Yet, how could she not? Yes, she’d only known Tristan a week; however, Romeo and Juliet met mere hours before they were willing to smash the barriers separating them. If Elizabeth wanted to secure her Romeo, she needed Juliet’s boldness.

  She frowned. Perhaps Romeo and Juliet were the wrong role models. She certainly didn’t want a disastrous end. Perhaps she ought to emulate her favorite heroine, the courageous and devoted Lady Enide, to be worthy of her own knight.

  The memory of Tristan’s kiss that afternoon when he’d invited her to meet him tonight emboldened her. She would seize this opportunity for happiness. After taking a steadying breath, she stepped onto the terrace.

  A full moon cast near-midday illumination over the gardens. The balmy night air wore a sultry breeze, slipping over her skin, carrying the scent of roses, jasmine, and honeysuckle. Stepping softly, she crossed the stone terrace, descended the steps, and all but raced out into the garden where Tristan awaited. Her footsteps crunched on the gravel as she followed the melody of tinkling water through hedgerows and ornamental trees. A tall figure waited by the fountain.

  “Tristan?” she called.

  “I’m here, my darling.” Infused in moonlight, he was a black-haired Apollo come to life. As his hand closed over hers, she marveled again at his masculine perfection. His teeth flashed, his impenetrable dark eyes fixed upon her. “Shall we take a turn about the garden?”

  “That would be lovely.”

  His gaze rested upon her as they strolled, arm in arm. “I enjoyed your poetry rendition this afternoon in the library before the others arrived. It was exquisite.”

  She glanced up, basking in his praise. Though she once viewed flattery with suspicion, she’d learned to trust Tristan. His eyes always softened when he complimented her and his voice rang with sincerity. “Truly?”

  “Indeed. I’d hoped to hear more of it,” he added. “Pity we were interrupted before you could continue. I understand your shyness, and I was honored you gave me a glimpse into your heart through the way you read.”

  She turned over his words in her thoughts, “a glimpse into your heart.” Tristan did indeed have a poetic side, allowing him to feel the spoken word as deeply as she. “Do you think Keats had it aright, then?”

  “He is brilliant.”

  “I agree. I find Byron a bit dark at times, nevertheless, he has poignantly beautiful poems, as well.”

  Tristan quoted, his voice rich and resonant:

  “She walks in beauty, like the night

  Of cloudless climes and starry skies,

  And all that’s best of dark and bright

  Meets in her aspect and her eyes…”

  He gazed at her. “You do walk in beauty, Elizabeth. You are beauty. I am fortunate to have found you.”

  She moistened her lips, her pulse racing at his nearness. “I, too, feel fortunate.”

  He drew her close. She went willingly into his arms and rested a hand on his chest. His heart beat strong under her palm. With gentle fingers, he traced circles on her cheek, then bent his head toward hers. Tingles of nervous exhilaration raced down her back. He kissed her with warm, soft lips. Her heart thudded in her ears. At that moment, she fully understood what had driven Romeo and Juliet to such drastic measures and why Lady Enid and her Prince Eric fought so hard for one another.

  Tristan’s first kiss this afternoon had been a promise of more. Tonight, he grew passionate. She’d never been kissed by anyone before Tristan, but he clearly knew how.

  Tristan’s kiss enfolded her in a cushion of joy. Then his hands began a slow exploration of her body. Startled, she froze. All daring drained out of her.

  She let out a strangled breath, and pulled away. “Tristan, I’m not a strumpet.”

  “No, beloved.” He touched her cheek. “You are a lovely and desirable lady.”

  He enfolded her in his embrace and kissed her again, but disappointment that he would take such liberties cooled her ardor. She stiffened, pulled away, and captured his hands with hers. He was supposed to be the perfect storybook hero. They weren’t even married yet. Was he so sure her father would give permission that he considered them already betrothed?

  “Get your hands off my sister!” a voice snarled.

  Tristan snapped his head back and stepped away. Alone, Elizabeth wobbled on her feet. Her half-brother, Martindale, stalked into view, bristling like an angry dog.

  With his hands held out, Tristan faced Martindale. “My lord, we were merely—”

  “None of your lies, Barrett.”

  Other voices made exclamations of delighted horror. Elizabeth faced a nightmare; most of the houseguests stared at her, including some of London’s worst gossips. Naturally, they would assume the worst. Heat crawled up Elizabeth’s neck and burned her cheeks. She’d never live down the humiliation. Closing her eyes, she clamped her mouth shut to avoid screaming at the injustice of it all. She’d only desired a few moments alone with the man she loved. Instead, she’d been caught in an intimate embrace in a dark garden. Gossipers would spread an exaggeratedly sordid tale all over England. She’d be utterly ruined.

  Immersed in his role of haughty marquis, Martindale snarled, “Consider your second, Barrett. Tomorrow you shall receive my challenge.”

  Elizabeth’s heart stalled. “No! You can’t do this.” Elizabeth’s protest died on her lips as her brother rounded on her.

  “Silence! You’ve behaved like a common whore.”

  Elizabeth recoiled as if he’d slapped her.

  Tristan stiffened. “Hear now, that’s no way to speak to the lady. I give you my word, it was merely a kiss.”

  Martindale let out a scoff. “I should trust the word of a known rake?” He turned to Elizabeth, his eyes boring into hers. “You’ve brought disgrace upon the family.”

  Tears burned Elizabeth’s eyes. Her brother was right. Only Tristan could save her from shame. She turned to him, silently pleading for rescue.

  Tristan glanced at her, his expression unreadable, before returning his attention to Martindale. He lowered his voice. “Let us go inside and discuss this in private.”

  “You’ve compromised my sister,” her brother practically shouted. “There’s nothing to discuss. Choose your weapon.”

  Elizabeth hugged herself while her knees threatened to fold. Her voice collapsed to a whisper. “You cannot mean to duel.”

  “My formal challenge will be delivered at dawn.” Martindale marched away.

  “Elizabeth! What have you done?” Duchess’s strident voice broke through the buzzing in Elizabeth’s head as her mother arrived upon the scene.

  Oh, heaven help her. She’d probably be bedridden for a month. Elizabeth choked back the bile in her throat and grappled with the idea of running away, simply disappearing.

  Tristan started to reach for her but dropped his arm. “I’m sorry. I never meant for this to happen.” He strode away.

  Stunned, she sta
red after his retreating back. He hadn’t declared his intentions—no words of love, no vow to marry her and rescue her from her ruined state.

  She’d been abandoned.

  Chapter Two

  While other houseguests retired for the evening, Richard Barrett, the Twelfth Earl of Averston, paced Lord Einsburgh’s library. Though the hour crept past midnight, sleep fled in the face of Tristan’s stupidity and all the consequences that must follow. Richard wanted to slam a fist through the wall. Or through his brother. When word reached him that Tristan had dallied with one of the duke’s daughters, he’d stared in open-mouthed shock that his reckless brother had sunk to a new level of stupidity. Word spread like a contagious disease until all the guests knew of the couple’s folly. By tomorrow, half the county would chew on the gossip.

  Richard swung back to Tristan slumped in an overstuffed armchair, nursing a brandy “You half wit! What were you thinking? The daughter of a duke? How could you be so irresponsible?”

  He couldn’t remember being so angry. He swept a hand through his hair. Of all the thoughtless inanities Tristan had committed, this eclipsed them all. He clenched his hands unable to determine if he were more angry or more afraid. Afraid the duel would take place. Afraid Tristan would get hurt. Afraid he’d fail his family. Richard stuffed down fear and fed anger.

  Tristan never lifted his head nor offered a word in defense, just endured anything Richard saw fit to mete out. Which was a good thing, because Richard wasn’t finished.

  “I’ve warned you your debauchery would get you into trouble, but I never dreamed you’d be so idiotic as to try to seduce an eighteen-year-old girl, who, might I remind you, is a daughter of one of the most powerful dukes in England!”

  Tristan finished his brandy, set the glass on a Chippendale table, and proceeded to drink from the bottle. He remained silent.

  Richard itched to snatch the bottle from Tristan’s hand and smash it against the paneled wall. Struggling to think amid his roiling emotions, he continued, “Perhaps the girl’s brother will have a cooler head tomorrow and will reconsider delivering the written challenge, but I doubt the Duke of Pemberton will simply let the matter drop.”