My Elusive Countess

By Carolynn Carey

Although Amanda was born into the merchant class, she married into the aristocracy, a fact she would regret were it not for the son she bore to the Earl of Willowvale. Now widowed for two years, Amanda is attempting to protect her son from exposure to the vices of the nobility when her plans are overset by the unexpected appearance of a guardian for her son. She immediately realizes that the Marquess of Blackbourne is a danger to her plans, her peace of mind, and, quite possibly, to her resolution to avoid entanglement with another nobleman.

            The Marquess of Blackbourne is convinced that when he finally locates the Countess of Willowvale, she will be the crass and manipulative harridan her late husband had described. Unknown to the countess, Blackbourne is guardian to her young son, and he intends to see that the boy is raised as befits his station, even if that means taking him away from his mother. But Blackbourne’s plans change the second he sets eyes on the beautiful countess. He immediately realizes that he must have her, no matter what her background and her character flaws may be. The countess, however, proves elusive in more ways than one, and she leads Blackbourne on a merry chase that eventually teaches him that love is in a class of its own.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Carolynn Carey
• Release date: Feb 15, 2016
• ISBN: 9781386716334

Carolynn Carey

Carolynn Carey is the award-winning author of twenty-five books. In addition to her contemporary novels, she writes Regency romances. Several of her books have won or finaled in national contests such as the HOLT Medallion, the National Readers’ Choice Award, the Maggie, and the International Digital Awards. Carolynn lives in Tennessee where she spends her days writing, reading, knitting, and watching for text messages about the amazing exploits of her only grandchild. To receive notification when she has a new book coming out, sign up to receive her newsletter. For more information or to contact her: www.CarolynnCarey.com [e-mail]

Book preview

This novel was originally published by Cerridwen Press in 2012. The following version has been updated and revised. 

WHAT THE STORY IS ABOUT:

To please her merchant father, Amanda married into the aristocracy, an act she would regret were it not for the son she bore to her husband, the Earl of Willowvale. Now widowed for two years, the countess is attempting to shield her son from exposure to the vices of the nobility when her plans are overset by the appearance of a guardian for her son. She immediately realizes that the Marquess of Blackbourne is a danger to her plans, her peace of mind, and, quite possibly, to her resolution to avoid entanglement with another nobleman.

THE MARQUESS OF BLACKBOURNE is convinced that when he finally locates the Countess of Willowvale, she will be the crass and manipulative harridan her late husband had described. Unknown to the countess, Blackbourne is guardian to her young son, and he intends to see that the boy is raised as befits his station, even if that means taking him away from his mother. But Blackbourne’s plans change the second he sets eyes on the beautiful countess. He immediately realizes that he must have her, no matter what her background and her character flaws may be. The countess, however, proves elusive in more ways than one, and she leads Blackbourne on a merry chase that eventually teaches him that love is in a class of its own.

Chapter 1

London, Spring 1817

Garath Melbourne, sixth Marquess of Blackbourne, sighed softly. Alone in his book room, he leaned back in his desk chair, frowning as he stared at the single sheet of white paper centering the desk’s polished surface.

Amanda, he murmured, allowing the name to roll off his tongue. He could almost see it hanging in the still air, an ugly little word—ungraceful, unpleasant, unrefined.

Not to mention unholy.

He had come to hate the word almost as much as he hated the woman who bore the name. He’d never met her, of course, but the mere thought of her existence called to mind the stench of mud and the crack of gunfire, the screams of wounded horses and the deaths of men he had loved.

One of those men, Amanda’s husband, had died in the mire amid the madness of Waterloo. Now, nearly two years later, Blackbourne’s hatred for Amanda burned as strong as ever, even though he knew she wasn’t aware of his feelings. Hell, she probably didn’t know he existed.

Yet.

But she would know.

She’d know in spades as soon as he located the greedy, lying little—

A soft knock interrupted Blackbourne’s internal fuming. He transferred his gaze from the document on his desk to the library door. Enter, he called.

Dulaney, who’d served the Blackbournes as butler for the last thirty years, opened the door and stepped inside. A person is asking to see you, my lord, he announced with rigid formality.

Does this person have a name? Blackbourne knew the answer before he asked the question. Dulaney’s supercilious tone had been reserved of late for the Bow Street Runner.

Sawyer, my lord.

Show him in, Dulaney.

Yes, my lord. Dulaney disappeared into the hallway.

The minute Sawyer strutted into the room, Blackbourne knew he’d located Amanda. The news was written clearly in the Runner’s broad grin and cocky stride. I’ve found the countess, yer lordship, he said, his eyes glittering.

Blackbourne allowed a smile to touch his lips. Wonderful. Where is she?

Sawyer clasped his hands over his belly and rocked back on his heels. At Willow Place.

Blackbourne jumped to his feet, the force of his motion sending his chair slamming into the wall behind him. Don’t play me for the fool, Sawyer. I’ve been to the Willowvale estate myself. I planted one of my own men there as a groom. If the countess had moved back to the estate, he would have notified me immediately.

Sawyer took a quick step back and his tongue flicked out to moisten his lips.

Well? Blackbourne narrowed his eyes.

The Runner swallowed convulsively but he didn’t back down. She’s there all right. She’s in the old dower house.

Blackbourne placed his palms in the center of the desk and leaned forward. I checked the dower house, Sawyer. It has been empty for years. Are you telling me that she slipped onto the estate and into the dower house without my man seeing her?

Sawyer affected an expression of righteous indignation. "I didn’t say the dower house, yer lordship. I said the old dower house."

Blackbourne stared at the Runner for several seconds before taking a deep breath and dropping back into his chair. I’m sorry, Sawyer. We seem to be talking at cross-purposes. Pour yourself a drink and sit down.

The Runner lumbered over to the oak sideboard sitting against the wall to his right, poured himself a generous portion from one of the crystal decanters, and then looked toward his host with his eyebrows raised.

Blackbourne declined with a quick shake of his head.

Sawyer replaced the stopper and hurried to seat himself near the desk.

"What’s this about an old dower house?" Blackbourne asked.

The Runner took a sip of his brandy before answering. There’s two dower houses on the estate, yer lordship. The one you checked was apparently built for the fourth earl’s mother, but there’s a second one—a real old place—hid in the woods on the far west side of the Willowvale estate.

Hidden? Blackbourne leaned back in the chair and clasped his hands behind his head. A muscle twitched near the corner of his mouth. He hoped to hell Sawyer hadn’t stumbled upon some destitute Willowvale relative being housed by the estate and mistaken her for the countess.

Aye, the house seems to be hid. I wouldn’t have known it was there if I hadn’t made some friends in that village nearby, Little Lindanham.

Blackbourne raised his brows. I’m surprised the villagers would tell a Bow Street Runner about the place.

They wouldn’t have if they’d known I was a Runner. They thought I was a gent looking to buy some land in the area. Even then, they wouldn’t have mentioned the old dower house if we hadn’t had a pint too many at the tavern one night and got to talking about ghosts. The villagers think the place is haunted.

Oh? And were the villagers resurrecting ghost stories about the old dower house because they’d heard someone is living there now?

They didn’t seem to know it. At least if they did, they didn’t mention it to me. But I got curious-like, you know, and slipped out the next day to spy on the place. Sure enough, the lady was there.

Blackbourne leaned forward. How do you know it was the countess? I wasn’t able to give you a description.

It was her. She came out for a walk in the little garden beside the house. She had the boy with her. He looked to be about five years old, and he’s the spittin’ image of his pa.

You knew the late Earl of Willowvale?

Sawyer downed the last of his brandy, then shrugged. I’d seen him around a few times before he went off to fight Boney. Brown hair. Green eyes. Nothing out of the ordinary except fer the ear. This little boy has his ear, like I hear all earls of Willowvale have had for the last hundred years. The top kind of folds down. Sawyer reached up to his right ear to demonstrate.

Blackbourne allowed a smile of satisfaction to lighten his face for a few seconds before a new worry intruded. It sounds as though she’s in hiding. Could she have heard that I’m searching for her?

I don’t see how, yer lordship. I never used her name nor her description, considering I didn’t know what she looked like.

Then I wonder why she’s living in this house that you say appears to be hidden.

I don’t know. I couldn’t find out without asking questions, and you told me not to ask questions. Do you want me to go back and try to find out why she ain’t living in that big mansion like she’s entitled to, her being a countess and all?

No, I’ll see to that myself. I assume you can tell me how to find this old dower house.

That I can.

Five minutes later, Blackbourne thanked the Runner, then pulled out one of the desk drawers and retrieved a small leather bag, after which he stood and walked around the desk. The bag he held out to the Runner jingled. Your work for me is finished, Sawyer, and you’ve earned your fee. In fact, you’ve done a fine job.

Sawyer took the leather bag, hefted it once in his hand and smiled. Feels like there’s a bit of a bonus in here, yer lordship. I thank you.

Good day, Sawyer.

The Runner bowed and lumbered out of the room.

A smile of relief, which was mingled with anticipation, lifted the corners of Blackbourne’s lips. So, my elusive countess, he murmured. You will soon realize that whether you like it or not, you now have someone to answer to, someone who will be less patient with your foibles than the husband you drove to his death.

EAGER TO FINISH THIS business he’d put off for too long, Blackbourne decided to travel to the Willowvale estate the following day. The next morning he was up and dressed by ten o’clock. Have you completed my packing, Stephens? he asked his valet, glancing around the bedchamber to ensure that his less-than-dependable servant had not left half of his clothes lying on the rumpled counterpane.

Aye, yer lordship. Stephens motioned to a valise sitting beside the bedchamber door. Are ye sure ye don’t want me to go with ye? Stephens was the only one of his servants Blackbourne had hired himself. He’d inherited all the others along with the town house when he came into the title.

Thank you, Stephens, but I believe I can survive a couple of days without your dubious skills.

The valet shrugged. ˝Suit yerself, milord. But ye know ye can count on me to watch yer back, even if I don’t know as much as some do about valeting."

Blackbourne smiled and shook his head. He’d earned Stephens’ undying loyalty when he pulled him out of a muddy ditch in Belgium, saw to it that he got medical treatment for the saber wound that had disfigured his face and then gave him a job back in England while many former soldiers were left to starve in the streets. Thank you just the same, Stephens, but I won’t be gone long. Did you tell Dulaney to have my curricle brought around?

Aye, that I did. The old vinegar barrel didn’t answer me. He just stuck his nose up in the air, but he’ll do it.

Very well. Oh, and Stephens, try not to irritate Dulaney too much while I’m away.

Stephens raised his left eyebrow, which was neatly bisected by a scar that began in his hairline and ended at his chin. Aye, yer lordship, he replied with an irreverent grin. Whatever ye say.

Blackbourne sighed, blowing his breath out through his lips. He knew the London servants thought Stephens reflected poorly on the dignity of the Blackbourne household. Blackbourne himself didn’t doubt that Stephens had lived the life of a felon before joining the army, but he had no intention of letting his incompetent servant go. The man occasionally came in handy for chores that had nothing to do with his position as valet. Blackbourne shot him a warning look, then gave a mental shrug. Hand me my gloves, Stephens, and carry my valise downstairs.

Right, guv. I mean yer lordship. I’ll be right behind ye.

Blackbourne strode out of the room. It would be good, he decided as he hurried down the stairs lined with portraits of long-dead ancestors, to get away for a couple of days from the town house he had never expected to own and from the problems that came with inheriting a rank he’d not been trained to hold.

It would be even better when, in just a few short hours, he could confront the Countess of Willowvale with the sheet of paper that was carefully folded away in his pocket. He smiled to himself, trying to envision what her reaction might be. Surprise, certainly. And after that? Fury, perhaps. Or would she try to seduce him in hopes of manipulating him?

His smile broadened into a grin. Whatever she might try, he would be more than ready to deal with her machinations. Her late husband had seen to that.

THE DAY WAS PLEASANT for traveling. The sky was cloudless, the sun was bright but benign, and the road was not overly crowded. By noon, Blackbourne had begun to relax. Such days were among the many compensations for having survived Waterloo to return to England—the soft air on his face, the smell of newly turned earth, the satisfaction of sitting behind a well-matched pair and feeling them respond to his slightest touch on the reins.

But the horses were tiring and Blackbourne was growing hungry. Don’t worry, fellows, he murmured to the grays pulling his curricle. We’re only about a mile from the Three Ducks. I’ll get a bite to eat and you beauties can have a well-deserved rest.

Ten minutes later, the innkeeper at the Three Ducks hurried out to greet Blackbourne with a wide grin on his weathered face. Hollins always expressed delight when welcoming the nobility. Good to see you again, yer lordship. Will ye be needing a fresh pair?

Blackbourne returned the innkeeper’s grin. I definitely need fresh horses, Hollins, and I also require something to eat. Do you have a private parlor available?

I’m sorry, yer lordship. Ordinarily, at this time of day, I would have plenty of space but there was a prizefight near here yesterday and some of the gentlemen from London who spent the night are just now having breakfast. The taproom is vacant. If yer lordship would condescend to eat there, I’ll put you in a nice, private corner and bring you some of Mrs. Hollins’ mutton chops.

The taproom will be fine, Hollins. In fact, I would eat standing up for some of your wife’s mutton chops and a mug of your excellent homebrew.

Hollins’ ruddy face turned a shade darker as he flushed with pleasure. Thank ye, yer lordship, he said, turning to lead the way.

Nearly an hour later, Blackbourne pushed back from the table in the corner of the deserted taproom. As usual, Hollins’ wife had provided him with an excellent repast, and he rejoiced in having left London behind. It was good to get back to the country where the air was refreshing and the atmosphere was less oppressive.

But just then, a burst of raucous laughter emanated from the men who occupied the private parlor, and their enjoyment brought to mind days when he’d shared that sort of camaraderie with friends. It also served to remind him that he’d spent most of the past two years alone. When he’d returned to England and his new responsibilities, he’d lacked the time needed to nurture friendships. Still, he failed to understand the restraint he occasionally encountered from former acquaintances.

He wondered if those people blamed him for not returning to England to attend the services held for his deceased father and his two half brothers. If so, he could hardly go around explaining that he’d been on the verge of dying himself, lying in a barn in Belgium fighting the fever that had decimated the ranks of his regiment, when his sire and older brothers had managed to drown themselves while accompanying a smuggler on his run to France to pick up a load of brandy.

The last thing Blackbourne had expected was to come back to his senses only to learn he’d come into the title, nor had he ever wished for such a thing. But he was well aware that his father and brothers were spinning in their watery graves, knowing he’d stepped into the shoes they had assumed would never pass to him.

The sound of a horse whinnying from the inn’s yard pulled Blackbourne’s thoughts back to the present. He picked up his tankard, downed the last of his ale, then stood and hurried toward the entrance hall, eager to settle his account and get on the road.

Ten minutes later, as he bounded into the curricle and grasped the reins, he thought he heard a man call his name. The voice, which sounded vaguely familiar, tugged at long-forgotten chords in his memory, but the yard was busy and he realized he was blocking other carriages waiting to leave. Still, he glanced around and when he saw no one he recognized, he assumed he’d been mistaken.

I must be hearing things, he muttered before guiding his pair out into the road on the final phase of his journey.

Chapter 2

It was two o’clock that afternoon when Blackbourne passed the stone gatehouse that marked the beginning of the long drive leading to the home of the earls of Willowvale. He didn’t stop or even pause. He’d been down that oak-lined drive six weeks earlier and had drawn his horses to a stop in front of the house. He’d sat and drunk in the beauty of Willow Place with its huge portico and spreading wings that reminded him of an Italian palazzo. And at that moment, he had fully understood why Oliver loved his estate so much that he’d been willing to marry a manipulative and scheming female to help preserve it.

But today, unlike six weeks ago, he knew he wouldn’t find Amanda residing in that house. Instead, for whatever reason, Oliver’s widow was now living in an obscure dower house on the property. Blackbourne couldn’t help wondering if the countess had learned he was looking for her and thus was hiding from him. He expected he would soon know.

Following Sawyer’s directions, he simply kept to the main road, which was bordered by a tall park wall overhung with ivy. When the wall ended, he turned left onto a small lane that meandered into the forest. He followed that until it ended in a grove of trees.

Pulling his pair to a stop in the shade of a chestnut, Blackbourne jumped down from the curricle. He was happy enough to leave the horses grazing while he proceeded on foot. He needed to stretch his legs and the temperate afternoon promised to be perfect for a tramp through the woods. Aware that the ancient oaks around him were alive with woodcock and partridges, he paused occasionally to listen to the chirping of birds and to inhale the rich, dark fragrance of the decaying vegetation underfoot.

A few minutes later, a flash of red through the green leaves off to his right captured his attention. He paused, realizing he was close to the small garden where Sawyer said he’d seen Amanda with her son.

A lone, spreading rose bush about five feet tall wavered from side to side, almost as though it were being tossed about by a whimsical wind. Frowning, Blackbourne glanced at the trees around him. Their leaves were totally still but the limbs of the rose bush continued to dip and bob. He couldn’t help recalling Sawyer’s report that the villagers thought the old dower house was haunted.

Giving himself a mental shake, he crouched and then eased toward the rose bush. It continued to shake back and forth, shedding dozens of petals that fluttered through the air for long seconds before floating softly to the ground.

Staying low and moving silently, he stepped out of the forest and onto the unscythed grass. He was within a few feet of the rose bush and still had detected no reason for its thrashing movements, but then he saw a flash of metal near the base of the shrub.

What the—? Blackbourne muttered, straightening to his full height. Apparently, someone behind the rose bush was attempting to whack it down by clobbering the limbs at its base with a saber.

Two long strides brought him close to the bush. A little too close, he realized rather quickly. A flailing branch and its wicked-looking thorns came within an inch of his thigh. Damnation, he yelped, jumping back.

The rose bush stilled.

Three forward steps carried him to the back of the shrub. Looking down, he saw a small boy with a huge sword drawn back in preparation for delivering another blow. The boy glanced up and paused with the sword suspended above and behind his right shoulder. Then, the weight of the weapon proving too much for the lad’s balance, he fell backward, dropping the sword. His head landed with a thump on the bulky hilt.

Blackbourne quickly bent over the supine child. Are you hurt, lad? he asked.

The boy sat up slowly, frowning and rubbing the back of his head. His lower lip trembled for a second before he gripped it firmly between his teeth. Then he scrambled to his feet.

There was no doubt that this was Oliver’s son. The boy’s eyes were larger and more hazel than the clear green his father’s had been, but the right ear was proof conclusive. It was a defect, Oliver had explained, that had been passed from father to son in the Willowvale family for generations. Fortunately the deformity was less pronounced in Oliver’s son. Only the very top of the ear was bent down, giving the lad, with his huge eyes, the appealing look of a playful puppy.

What’s your name? Blackbourne knew the boy’s name was David, but having little notion as to how one established trust with a child, he decided to start with a question the boy could easily answer.

David continued to glower.

The marquess forced a smile and tried another tack. Did you hurt your head?

No response.

What were you trying to do to the rose bush?

Silence.

Stifling a sigh, Blackbourne picked up the sword. It was quite heavy. He was surprised the boy had managed to lift it at all, let alone wield it.

Shall I finish the job for you? He nodded at the rose bush, which was still in amazingly good condition. The dull sword had bent some of the lower branches, but only a few twigs had actually been whacked off.

It hurt my mama. The boy transferred his glare to the bush.

Blackbourne was amazed at the intensity of the relief that swept through him when the boy finally spoke. He was not in the habit of trying to communicate with a child, and it was proving more unnerving than he would have imagined.

The rose bush hurt your mother? he asked carefully, fearful lest he say the wrong thing and destroy the fragile thread of trust he hoped had been established.

The boy nodded. It scratched her arm and her arm bleeded. She cried.

I’m sorry your mother’s arm bled. Was she cutting roses?

Yes.

Perhaps the bush scratched her because it did not want its flowers cut, Blackbourne suggested.

The boy’s look of scorn was instantaneous. Rose bushes expect their roses to be cut. That’s why God put them here and made them so pretty.

I see. Blackbourne paused, unsure how to respond to such certainty.

Who are you? the boy asked, frowning.

Blackbourne took a deep breath. Now he would see how much David had been influenced against his father’s memory. I am a friend of your papa’s.

My papa’s dead. He died fighting for England.

I know. Your papa was a very brave man.

Are you a friend of my mama’s, too?

I’ve not had the pleasure of meeting your mother, but I would like to do so.

Why?

Blackbourne hesitated for only a second. Clearly the boy loved his mother. He would have to choose his words carefully so as not to alienate the lad. Before your papa died, he gave me a message for your mother. I wish to pass it along to her.

It won’t make her cry, will it? I don’t like it when my mama cries.

Does your mother cry often? Blackbourne asked, playing for time. He strongly suspected David’s mother was going to cry a great deal when she learned the

Reviews for My Elusive Countess

[Leena Aluru · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

Very boring run of the mill type. A very thin story line that has been stretched beyond limits. And the story doesn't match up with the synopsis provided. I'm a little disappointed especially after having read A Simple Lady by the same writer.