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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      It took the work of a few moments to locate the night’s host, Lord Eblewhite. The viscount stood amidst a group of men and women gathered at one end of the ballroom. Someone had just said something mildly amusing, because the assembled company was all chuckling.

      Kit set his hand on the viscount’s shoulder. “May I have a word in private, Eblewhite?”

      “Of course, my lord.” The older man disengaged from his guests and together he and Kit walked to a quiet corner of the chamber. “How goes the search for a bride?” he asked heartily.

      Kit fought to keep his impatience in check. Whatever drew him to Miss Pearce, he felt the snap of attraction. He couldn’t ignore the fact that time slipped by.

      “You may be of assistance in that matter,” he replied. “What can you tell me about Miss Tamsyn Pearce?”

      Lord Eblewhite frowned in thought. “There are so many girls here. I’ve trouble recalling ’em all, like picking out one sugared cake from a banquet full of ’em.”

      “This particular cake comes from Cornwall and has red hair,” Kit noted.

      The viscount’s brows rose. “Ah. Lady Daleford’s guest. She’s hosting the girl here in London.”

      So that was the woman who snapped at him like a terrier. “What do you know of Miss Pearce?”

      “A spinster, if I recall correctly.” Lord Eblewhite cast his gaze toward the ceiling as he scoured his memory. “Old Cornish gentry. Not much of a dowry—she’s from impecunious circumstances.”

      Would that make her quick to spend his money, or would she watch every ha’penny? “Describe these circumstances,” Kit urged.

      Eblewhite looked impatient to return to his guests, but said, “Lady Daleford spoke to Mrs. Osterland, who told Lady Eblewhite that the family manor house is falling down around them. There may be mines on the property. Perhaps not. The nearby village is barely getting by on farming or fishing, but I can’t recall.”

      “Her family,” Kit pressed as Eblewhite started to edge away. “Tell me more about them.”

      His host sighed. “A fount of information, Lady Daleford. Said her father was Baron Shawe, but he and the baroness died in a boating accident when the girl was in her teens. Went on a pleasure sail one morning and didn’t come back. Their wrecked boat was found a week later, but the bodies were never recovered. But there wasn’t a will, a damned shame. The girl barely brings a groat to her future husband.” Lord Eblewhite shook his head. “Frankly, I’m surprised she’d try for a Season in London, given her age and lack of dowry.” He shrugged his shoulders. “She’s pretty enough, I suppose. Make someone a good mistress.” The viscount rocked on his feet. “Already got one, myself, and can’t afford another. But you ought to give her a go.” He knocked the side of his fist against Kit’s shoulder in a show of manly bonhomie.

      “Right now, I’m not looking for a mistress,” Kit answered. “Many thanks, Eblewhite.”

      “Good luck on the hunt, Blakemere,” the viscount replied.

      Kit bowed as he and Lord Eblewhite parted. Though the dancing and revelry would continue for several more hours, Kit was ready to leave. He avoided Society balls as much as possible, finding them dull and tedious, with an unfortunate lack of indecent behavior—a far cry from the revelry of a pleasure garden. But he’d gotten what he needed from the Eblewhite assembly, and it was time to go home and ponder his options.

      Making his way out of the ballroom, he considered all he knew of Miss Pearce.

       Item the First: she was poor with few prospects, so she wouldn’t mind a short courtship.

       Item the Second: she didn’t appear to be a fortune hunter.

       Item the Third: he could easily envision them spending pleasurable hours in bed together.

      Conclusion: she was perfect.

       Chapter 4

      Kit stood at the foot of the front steps leading to Lady Daleford’s town house on Boswell Street, readying himself for the world’s shortest courtship. He had five full days remaining to meet the conditions of Somerby’s will.

      He didn’t know if Miss Pearce would accept his brief attempts at wooing, let alone agree to marry. Ladies wanted long walks through sun-dappled fields and soul-stirring looks. They wanted romance. Or so Kit assumed, not having much experience with pursuing ladies’ hearts. He had considerable practice pursuing their bodies, however. That part could come after the wedding. Kit practically salivated as he imagined Miss Pearce’s taste. As a woman of gentle birth, she likely didn’t have much experience—and he couldn’t wait to show her the many ways he could give her pleasure.

      Yet if romance was what Miss Pearce wanted, the lack of time meant that Kit would have to disappoint her. He wasn’t entirely certain how to go about offering a genteel young woman marriage two days after meeting her. He would have to try, however. He’d faced Napoleon’s cannons—he could speed a lady through the wooing process and proceed directly to marriage.

      Now that he was poised outside Lady Daleford’s home, he wasn’t as certain about the bouquet of red gerbera daisies he carried. Perhaps he should have gone with the more traditional roses. Yet the cheerful, unaffected daisies recalled Miss Pearce’s open, guileless countenance, and the red indicated the passion that lurked just beneath her surface. He’d purchased the flowers without questioning his preference.

      Would his title be nothing but a courtesy with no fortune to support it, or would the money slip away and be granted to that distant relative in Bermuda?

      The only way to land the blunt is to climb the sodding stairs, he told himself sternly. Miss Pearce was also at the top of the steps, and that quickened his pace and brought him to the front door.

      He knocked smartly before a footman opened it with a polite, professional expression, the one he surely used for visiting hours.

      Kit handed the servant his card.

      “Is her ladyship expecting you, my lord?” the footman inquired politely after reading it.

      “Well, no,” Kit admitted. He hadn’t gotten permission to call. Lady Daleford hadn’t told him where she lived, either. That information had been gleaned from Anderson, his valet, who was a trove of information about matters both high and low, and knew the addresses of everyone in the ton. “Just present them with my card.”

      The servant murmured, “You may wait in the foyer, my lord.” He stepped back to admit Kit into the house.

      With a bow, the footman strode down a hallway, leaving Kit alone. The servant didn’t ask to take Kit’s hat, since it was known that callers never stayed for more than fifteen minutes—which suited him very well, since he hadn’t the luxury of long, protracted conversations.

      As he waited, a throb of edginess moved through him. Idleness often gave space for wariness to move in—a habit from so many years in combat.

       There are no enemies here. You’re in the heart of London, and safety is all around you.

      As he pushed the wariness back, unexpected anticipation rose up and strummed silver fingers along his arms and the back of his neck. Miss Pearce had vitality and spirit, with a hint of daring, as evidenced by her willingness to accept his staking her cards, and the directness of her gaze. Their mutual attraction couldn’t be ignored, either.

      Come find me, her eyes had said as she’d left the card room.

      Kit didn’t hunt, but he knew a lure when he saw one.

      He couldn’t question his rationale as to why Miss Pearce had been the lone woman to snag his interest. His

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