Igniting the Countess (Inevitable Love 3)

By Lisa Torquay

A LONELY NOBLEWOMAN

Loraine Durant, widowed Countess of Crawford, lives her life for her toddler son, the heir of the late Earl. But the world seems to go out of its axis when she lays eyes on the new breath-taking footman. She fights arduously the flaming attraction she feels for him, deeming it inappropriate, failing notoriously. With the shadow of scandal looming over her, she has to stay away from him. When she discovers he is much more than a servant, it is too late and he already hates her.

THE HUMBLEST SERVANT
Garth Evans is the bastard son of a Marquess, trying to make his unprivileged way in the world and holding back from trouble with women. Being constantly in the presence of the Countess proves to be a hellish temptation and he can hardly keep his hands off her. After they part, he thinks she is as whimsical and frivolous as any other lady of her rank..

AND A FORBIDDEN ATTRACTION

Now, he hates her for all she represents. Wrenching passion threatens to break his resolve to keep her at arm's length, his desire for her about to burst at any moment
Level of Sensuality: Hot, Sizzling

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lisa Torquay
• Release date: Aug 10, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463151440

Lisa Torquay

Lisa Torquay comes from a multi-cultural family. She graduated in History and earned a Master’s Degree in British Empire. She has worked as an English and History teacher at high schools. She married a Norwegian and moved to Norway, where she has lived for three years. Writing has been her passion since she was thirteen. When she’s not writing, she’s messing up in the kitchen because she loves cooking as much as she’s clumsy. She hopes you enjoy her books and would love to know your opinion about them. Just go to www.lisatorquay.wixsite/main

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Copyright

Igniting the Countess

Copyright 2016 Lisa Torquay

Published by Lisa Torquay

(Originally published with New Concept Publishing)

Edition License Notes

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Cover Art

Jo Singleton

Table of Contents

FROM THE BACK COVER

A LONELY NOBLEWOMAN

Loraine Durant, widowed Countess of Crawford, lives her life for her toddler son, the heir of the late Earl. But the world seems to go out of its axis when she lays eyes on the new breath-taking footman. She fights arduously the flaming attraction she feels for him, deeming it inappropriate, failing notoriously. With the shadow of scandal looming over her, she has to stay away from him. When she discovers he is much more than a servant, it is too late and he already hates her.

THE HUMBLEST SERVANT

Garth Evans is the bastard son of a Marquis, trying to make his unprivileged way in the world and holding back from trouble with women. Being constantly in the presence of the Countess proves to be a hellish temptation and he can hardly keep his hands off her. After they part, he thinks she is as whimsical and frivolous as any other lady of her rank..

AND A FORBIDDEN ATTRACTION

Now, he hates her for all she represents. Wrenching passion threatens to break his resolve to keep her at arm's length, his desire for her about to burst at any moment

Level of Sensuality: Hot, Sizzling

EXCERPT

She could not take her eyes from him for the life of her. They were both silent and the enclosed space felt cramped, hotter.

An eternity passed, neither moved. She heard their breaths; he could surely hear her heart tambour-pounding as in a war. The world went still, so still. She perceived the heat of his body, his scent, and the blaze of his stare as her senses sharpened, primed. Overeager.

Time froze.

And then all was movement again. He leaned his whole body on her, grabbed her waist with one strong arm, flushed her to him, and his male lips descended on hers thirsty, coarse. His stubble bristled on her skin, her breasts pressed against his chest.

She moaned, desisting to oppose any token resistance because this was what she had wanted for a long time. She placed her hands on his strong chest as he feasted on her mouth. He licked her upper lip with such gusto, she almost melted at her core. He abandoned her poor upper lip to go to her lower lip and banqueted on it. He nibbled one corner, slid to the other corner and nibbled it, too. Starvation was all she could feel. She whimpered in sheer frustration. He had no mercy. He nibbled the pouting centre. She had no more shame in her. She snaked her arms around his neck, brought him even closer, demanding whatever he had in store for her. And she did not regret it. He opened her mouth with his and invaded her, full blast, inserting his whole tongue in her warm cavity without ceremony.

God, why did he take so long? Her fingers dived in his sable hair, keeping him locked to her, as her tongue lapped at his with delicious abandon. He pressed her more against the wall, imprinting his hard as a rock erection on her belly, almost incinerating her. Her breasts plumped, fire coursed through her, pooling in her needy middle. His other warm hand closed on her nape and he deepened the kiss—if that was even possible. She opened more for him and in seconds they were devouring each other, voracious and mindless.

He did not spare her because she was a lady. He did not deny her because she was sheltered. He did not recoil because she stood above his rank. He treated her like a flesh-and-blood woman and that ignited her to explosion point. Completely given to the kiss, she rubbed against him as if this would placate her ache. It did not. If anything, it made her more desperate.

Dedication

To all romance writers. Women writing for women, with women.

Chapter One

London, 1822

Lorena Durand, Countess of Crawford, climbed her town house sweeping stairs, eyes on the end of the flight steps, sighing freely now that she came home at last. It had been another of those washed-out tea-parties with false smiles, artificial conversation and useless conventions.  She felt overwhelmed with all those social functions. Endless afternoons and evenings lined with every kind of gathering, where her cheeks ached from the forced smiles, decidedly sick with the nothingness of the whole ritual. It bored her to dumbness. And the season was only starting.

Her single solace, the time she spent with her little son—probably the one positive thing remaining of her desperately empty marriage. Her deceased husband had meant very little to her. Lorena’s family had pressed her to accept his very haughty suit. The Earl of Crawford had managed to produce an heir between his exclusive club, his exclusive sports, and equally exclusive mistress. Nothing of those touched her a bit. Not her feelings. Not her daily life. And most certainly not her pride. She was more than content to be left to her own devices, unladylike as they might seem. Cooking was one of them, for example. A habit developed during her time spent with Cook in her former petit-noblesse home. Here, in this mausoleum of a townhouse? Cook seemed to have more power than the Countess herself. She could sneak to the kitchen and bake some oat biscuits only on the servant's day off. Blast this whole pedant tonish phlegm!

She opened the door to the nursery, her eyes coming up, searching for her son. And stopped short, as much as from the unexpected presence of someone other than the nurse as for something else entirely. A footman bent over the cot repairing one thing or another. He lifted his head and, seeing her at the door, straightened immediately.

Your ladyship. He bowed.

A gust of heat tunnelled in her. Probably new staff, she thought. She had never seen him before. She had never seen such a…such a…remarkable man in her life. He was tall, much taller than the average servant, as they usually came from poor backgrounds—where scarcity of food put them in disadvantage during child's growth. The black livery complimented sable obsidian hair that fell over his brow, despite the paste he must surely have applied. In a vain attempt not to stare, she let her eyes fall to his feet. Wrong choice. Because then her light brown eyes lifted from his polished work shoes, up his toned thighs, his broad shoulders, his mobile lips, blade nose, to reach his eyes. Goodness me! His eyes. The afternoon sun coming from the window illuminated his fine face…and his eyes. Dark, so dark, as black diamonds. They had a translucent quality to them that made them black and liquid at the same time. She had never seen anything like that before.

She searched her foggy mind for something to say, but first she needed to find air. Urgently. She concentrated on drawing in air slowly, too slowly for her breathless condition. She managed to square her shoulders, lift her chin, and breathe calmly.

You must be the new footman Mr.  Pierce mentioned.

Yes, my lady. He answered simply, his broad shoulders square and his chin even higher.

His lack of subservience put a pinch of annoyance in her mood. And your name? She employed a haughty tone more to hide her reaction to his blatant masculinity than to assert ranks.

Garth Evans at your service, my lady. He bowed again, but this time his liquid black diamond eyes remained on hers, causing something electric to flash in the very core of her.

A Welsh name that suited him to perfection. His Celtic looks and tall frame matched the fierce sound of his name. She looked around, only now realising the nursery empty. She must be in very low spirits not to have noticed it before.

Trying to tamp down her unlikely reaction to a servant she asked, Do you happen to know where Master William might be?

In the garden, my lady, since I had to repair his cot. He eyed her fixedly, so fixedly that her comfort zone became a mere memory.

She inhaled again, but the upheaval in her insides persisted. Thank you. She turned and left the nursery as if the contents of the open Pandora's box flew after her.

As soon as Lady Crawford left the nursery, Garth exhaled heavily. Her appearance in there bombarded him with the most unconfessable sins. He had never expected his employer to be so earthshakingly beautiful. Petite, not even reaching his shoulders, he would guess, glossy light brown waves piled elegantly up on her delicate head and big, bright pale brown eyes that flashed at him in an almost physical stare. His very healthy libido responded promptly to her hair-splitting examination of him. She was certain trouble and he would do well to keep out of her delectable way.

He looked at the now empty doorway and waited for his body to cool down from the instant arousal that assailed him there and then. So fulminating that, had she not left, he did not know how he would have handled it. Her outlook appeared so lofty that she probably listed among those whimsical noblewomen he had so often crossed paths with in his job. That put a pinch of disparagement in his first impression of her.

No novelty that women noticed him. All of them. Rich and poor; young and not so young. The rich ones hid behind disdain for his humble origins; still, they stole hungry stares. It would have been easy to take advantage of their money and status, but he preferred to sow his oats elsewhere and keep to his own rank. He, better than anybody, knew where mixing ranks led.

Beautiful or no beautiful lady of the house, he had a purpose to pursue. The bastard son of a Marquis, he did not expect things to fall on his lap out of the blue. Even if his father had provided him with an education, he had soon realized he would have to fend for himself if he wanted to survive. He had no reason to complain. The Marquis of Warwick provided for his Welsh scullery maid-turned-mistress, giving her a cottage and some income after he had tired of her. He got along rather well with his half-brother, the heir, and his half-sister; they used to play together in the manor’s grounds. But rank was rank, as he soon learned. His siblings had to follow their strict, ritualized nobility ways, while he…well, he used the servants’ stairs, of course. No resentment there, his mother had taught him that the world was not fair so he went to find more practical things to do. Like assemble enough references to climb the service ladder. At thirty, he needed to rush; this was the first step yet, after a number of setbacks due to coveting ladies and their jealous husbands.

****

Loraine stepped into the garden still flushed from the brief conversation in the nursery. With her repressive and controlling young lady’s upbringing, men meant duty. She had never looked at one with anything other than politeness in society or dutiful respect to her father and husband. Her mother, prior to her daughter’s wedding, had said that the marital bed was made of toleration and endurance. Proven correct, Loraine never thought beyond it. Widowed for two years, she intended to remain without a husband and to concentrate on raising his heir. The Earl of Crawford died in a carriage accident when returning from his mistress’s appointed house. Pitiful death, but she had no qualms in being a widow. It suited her splendidly. Except for…

Lady Crawford, the nanny interrupted her thoughts. The Dowager Countess has been here to visit Master William.

Except for her mother-in-law, evidently. She sighed. The Dowager Countess had never approved of her pampered son’s choice of a wife. Daughter of a baronet with more ambition than a sense of propriety, one who had sought every opportunity to infiltrate the society too far above him and to use his daughter’s beauty as bait to climb the fiercely resistant upper spheres. Needless to say it produced results; she had managed to attract the attention of the pampered count.

Indeed. She managed to answer without expressing any inflection.

That the Dowager dared to come into her home while she was absent showed the extension of her power. A power she had yet to hinder if she wanted to keep a minimum of privacy.

****

Her Lady’s maid gave the final touches in her elaborate coiffeur before she declared it to be ready. At least, tonight it would be the Opera, which she liked and thought it had the advantage of giving her some space and solitude while the act was on. Her introspective self was thankful for it.  Few platitudes would be needed, only during the intervals, and then she would retreat to the dimness of her box and dream about the story on stage.

She made a point of keeping some semblance of a social life for the sake of her son, who would need to build connections if he wanted to be a prominent member of the ton. Were she to follow her inclinations, she would gladly live in the manor—vast and chilling as it was—riding and planting flowers in spring, going to picnics in summer, and collecting wild berries in autumn. She craved a peaceful life away from the bustling town and her prying mother-in-law.

She stood up and assessed herself in the mirror. At twenty-six, her body had kept few signs of birth but for her full breasts. She had a slim but curvy figure she knew to be attractive to men, though her height leaned on the medium. Tonight, she dressed in a gauzy dress of a water green shade that brought out her golden oak eyes and hair. The result made her comparable to a nymph.

She climbed down the stairs to the entrance hall, seeing the new footman standing by the door. Her heart skipped a beat for no reason at all. His broad shoulders hugged by the livery jacket, his powerful thighs clad in black trousers, and his shiny hair in the candlelight were more appropriate to a ball. He would be a stunning presence in any of society’s event.

The stairs ended and she deviated her attention from him, vexed that she had even given it. But it was impossible to eschew from the torrent of reaction that assailed her. It should be forbidden that such men threaten any woman’s peace of mind. The mind was only the minor part. The currents her body was receiving did not compare. Deviating her stare with a difficulty equivalent to the pleasure her eyes were having during her descent, she looked at the door, which he opened with a formal bow. She hid her face with her fan, sensing a blush flourish on it. She heard his steps following her, as was his duty. The carriage was already in the wait.

He placed the wooden step near it and extended his gloved hand to help her up. She placed her lacy gloved one on his and the world went out of its axes. A current of heat climbed up her arms and flushed her whole body. The warmth of him filtered through the layers of fabric, which did nothing to prevent it. Startled, she looked at him; he had a quizzical glint in his black diamond eyes, that darkened in contact with hers. Her heart kicked again and her breath stalled, dizzy, she was about to lose balance, swaying shamefully. Sensing it, he used his other hand to hold her elbow and everything got a thousand times worse. His touch, impersonal and necessary, seared through her in a way she had never thought possible. Struggling to recover her balance, she quickened her steps to the carriage, sitting far from the door, while it closed behind her. Almost tumbling on the sit and ruining her dress, she opened her fan and moved the