The Notorious Countess
“People must have something to talk about… And I do make for a good tale.” After escaping an unhappy marriage, Lady Riverton enjoys her notoriety among the ton…even if her reputation isn’t deserved. But when she’s caught in a most compromising position with Andrew Robson, for the first time the truth is even more scandalous than the rumors! And yet, in Andrew’s arms, Beatrice finds she’s no longer defined by her reputation and is free to be the woman she truly is. Is it time for Beatrice to trust in Andrew and end her reign of scandal once and for all?
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‘I am used to having people speak of me,’ she said. ‘They must speak of someone, so why not me? I have laughed the loudest. Life is a grand jest.’
Then she reached up, pushing an escaped curl towards her bun but feeling the wisp spring back into place.
‘Perhaps.’ He stepped forward and with his left hand captured the curl. His fingers brushed her skin as he slipped the errant lock behind her ear. ‘But, Lady Riverton, there is more to you than words in a scandal sheet.’
She put her hand on his sleeve. ‘You don’t understand the vipers of the world. They wish to bite, not cuddle. I cannot turn them into lambs.’
‘No …’
His voice quietened, but it didn’t lose the rumble, the masculine richness that pulled her like a vine twining towards the sun.
‘I can help you, though. We can create a new world around you. One in which you glitter as you should. This blunder tonight could be fortunate. It can be the moment you begin painting the world around you in the colours you wish.’
‘You are daft. No one has a brush that can do as you suggest.’
‘What is the harm in trying?’
Hand me a romance novel with a tortured hero, brooding in his mansion, rescued from his solitude by the love of a beautiful woman, and I’m hooked. But I wanted to add a different perspective to the old tale of a beauty and her brutish hero. I thought of a heroine wanting to hide in her art studio, and a hero hoping to rescue her from her scandals.
After viewing James Gillray’s caricatures, and some of the less acceptable drawings his contemporaries created, I realised that an unfavourable portrait circulating in the early 1800s in London might have been similar in consequence for the subject as having a picture posted on the internet would be today. The term ‘scandal sheet’ is relatively modern, but I wanted to use it as a vehicle to illustrate the concept of news travelling fast.
With that in mind, Beatrice and Andrew’s story began—and I embraced writing it. I hope the characters curl into your heart as they did mine.
LIZ TYNER lives with her husband on an Oklahoma acreage she imagines is similar to the ones in the children’s book Where the Wild Things Are. Her lifestyle is a blend of old and new, and is sometimes comparable to the way people lived long ago. Liz is a member of various writing groups and has been writing since childhood. For more about her visit liztyner.com.
Contents
Andrew Robson felt a burning urge to smash in his cousin Foxworthy’s nose. One more story about Lady So-and-So’s eyes or Lady This-and-That’s breasts or Lady Whoever’s whatever and he would punch Fox right in that ugly face of his that women swooned over.
Brandy in hand, Fox leaned sideways, catching his balance to keep from falling off the desk. ‘You’re a virgin.’ He sloshed liquid on his frock coat, but it hardly showed against the dark wool.
Andrew gripped the ledger. If it had been any other book, Fox would have felt the weight of the volume right between the eyes. ‘My life is not your concern.’
‘How many times have I invited you along on my encounters and you have declined?’ Fox finished his brandy and then stared at the empty glass, yawning. ‘I’m thirsty,’ he grumbled, and reached for the pull to summon a servant. He missed and almost lost his balance again.
‘Reach the decanter yourself,’ Andrew snapped.
Fox yawned, refilled his glass and pinned a glance on Andrew. ‘Who have you done?’
Andrew picked up his brandy, swirled the liquid and downed it. ‘A gentleman doesn’t speak of such things to another man.’
‘Neither does a virgin. And I’ve told you of every skirt I’ve lifted since I discovered what I had behind my buttons.’
‘I suppose less than half of those tales are true and less than half of those occurred as you recounted them.’
Fox grimaced, patting the stopper on the decanter. ‘I do not do numbers, my friend. Quality—not quantity—always my rule.’ Fox frowned. ‘You’re my cousin. My blood. And you’ve no notion of the true pleasures of life. You stand there so—’ He twirled his finger. ‘Sombre, dressed like a man in mourning... Or dressed like the man already buried. And you’ve reason to look grim, I suppose. No woman to put a smile on your face.’
‘I have to hide you from enough husbands and beaus that I don’t relish doing it for myself.’ That was the only thing he truly hated about Fox. His cousin did not understand how his actions could affect others.
‘I told you,’ Fox murmured. ‘They jump to conclusions. Because I am such a stallion, a man cannot bear to see me even talking with his wife without assuming I have ulterior motives.’
‘You do.’
