The Notorious Countess

He was a man who could not even allow himself flaws. His clothes fit him to perfection and he was as comfortable at the soirée as if he were the duke himself. She felt like a scullery maid trying to be a countess. She always had to some extent, but then she had not been born into such a life. No matter how much she spent on clothing, her corset always chafed, or the pins in her hair fought to loosen, or her shoes tightened on her feet. She pretended to brush her glove over her shoulder, making sure her chemise had not slipped from under her dress. Luckily, her stockings remained in place. So far they had not tried to bunch at her ankles.

She’d like to be someone other than herself for one night, she supposed. Now she just wanted to leave. To get back to the studio and paint. To close herself into her world and forget about the words that might be printed about her. She did not belong at a soirée—she belonged at a studio.

When she opened her mouth to speak, he stepped away.

A memory surfaced—Riverton leaving while she begged him to stay and left her with the knowledge he was going to another woman. For a moment, a familiar emotion surfaced and stilled the blood in her veins. She took a breath, and reminded herself that Lord Andrew meant nothing and had promised nothing. Fate had brought them together, or Tilly, or a mistake, or whatever it could be called. He didn’t owe her anything, truly, and yet he’d agreed to help her. She would paint him. The art would be a gift to him. A thank-you for trying to retrieve her reputation. She could already imagine showing him a life-sized mirror image of himself.

‘Lady Riverton. We should perhaps return to the others and waltz.’ His voice barely reached her ears.

She considered her goal and then thought of him. ‘Andrew. If you don’t dance with me, you might not be connected to me. Let us part now.’

She hadn’t called him Lord Andrew, but he had not seemed to notice, which she appreciated. Riverton would have shot her a killing glare.

‘No. I am desperate for a waltz with you.’ His lips didn’t smile, but happy crinkles appeared at his eyes and his voice was just a touch more resounding, possibly able to carry to others. ‘A waltz, Beatrice?’

She kept her words for his ears only. ‘Don’t say you were not warned.’

‘Is your dancing that bad?’ His face tipped near hers, words soft.

She raised her chin. ‘It’s quite grand.’

He clasped his hand over her gloved fist and pulled it to his lips for a quick brush, then opened the door for her. ‘Then I will not give you an opportunity to refuse.’

When she stepped into his arms for the waltz, she did not care what was said about her, even in the past. It had led to this moment and this dance, and she looked into the eyes of her muse.

‘Andrew. You must pose for me. We did get along quite well the other night and we do now.’

‘I cannot be blamed for that. You looked so lovely in the spectacles and mob cap. I was overcome with madness,’ he whispered, but his eyes sparked humour. ‘And the name... I’ve always had a penchant for women named Tilly. Sadly, I was misled.’

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