Chapter Two

O phelia fairly barged into the small drawing room that she used as a receiving chamber and a study. The door closed behind her as she sighed and rested her head in her hands. With another intake of air, her head lifted while her slipper-shod feet paced the medium-sized room.

To fake indifference to this man returned eight years on, took a good deal of her energy reserves. She'd managed to keep her eyes on the paper. Barely. To sit across from his rugged figure and not ogle proved to be a task for Boudicca. If she'd been born into a less privileged family, she should have chosen the theatre. The news on The Times ? She had not the faintest idea. Just sat at the table, moving her head over the page and then turning it like a script that required the right action to go with. The entire time, her awareness had fixed on her husband.

She'd not had the chance to select what to keep in the stack of publications before the man happened on her. If she had, she would have excluded the darned scandal sheet, which she used to give to the maids. Or burn it in the fireplace, whichever was more convenient, the edition that the Earl read a case in point.

Society never left a young woman alone. And if the young woman in question gathered beauty, position, and wealth, she became a veritable target. As people labelled her a widow, her every move received a careful survey. A nobleman invited her to dance? She must be having a dalliance with him. Did she accept the invitation to a bachelor's dinner party? Oh, they were having the wickedest of secrets together and behind closed doors. Even if the event counted dozens of guests with her arriving and leaving with friends. The gossipmongers weaved all kinds of fantasies stemming from their own frustrations.

The first time she read the scandal sheet using the metaphor about butterflies and gardens, she released an amused scoff. It almost felt like the writer wished to follow in her example. Or boast about their writing skills, more like. Whatever the case, everyone would be staring at her as she entered any ballroom, not wondering, no. No woman deserved the benefit of the doubt, did they? They deserved downright judgment and condemnation. In the beginning, she wished to bury her head in the sand at such unfairness. Then she learned better: to pretend to ignore that. It got worse when she waved it away. And that gave her more fits of laughter. Defying the ton proved entertaining, indeed.

The exact same waving-off she exhibited in the morning room a few minutes prior. A positive development that the ton trained her in that. It became easier and easier with each episode. So, it came as a natural reaction in the presence of her very much alive husband.

Granted, when they implied she had a tryst with Mr Percy Russel, the cotton mill magnate in question, she did not laugh at all. One of her best friends, Lady Elvina, had married him and they lived in happiness up in the north. On that occasion, she'd put distance between herself and the man who had yet to marry her friend, unwilling to bring even more distress to Elvina's already upside-down life. One brought about by the events involving her brother Hadrian.

Even though she played the sassy number back in the morning room, the long and short of it was that she never had a single tryst, not even an innocent assignment in the garden with anyone. After being abandoned with nigh a wedding night, without so much as a word, she wanted nothing to do with a man. Ever.

Until Mr James Hamilton, that was. But the complete debacle sat too fresh in her mind for her to indulge in musings about it.

Her pacing halted as she looked through the window to the garden, a yellow rose basking in the sun. It resumed as her mind flooded with more thoughts.

She held more pressing matters to find solutions to. Like moving away from this house, for example. Of course, she could not stay here now that the Earl came into residence again. Ha, the irony was not lost on her. Wanting out when her husband returned, how romantic! But romance did not figure in her list of achievements, so that would be fine.

The reality that she did not wish to have anything to do with the Earl loomed as a stark condition for her. She refused to stay with someone who did what he did to her. And she would take swift action in that regard.

Putting her clogged frets out of her head, she sat at the escritoire to check on her mail and answer letters.

That evening, she climbed down the stairs, adjusting her pelisse over her dress. The frock she chose was of a forest-green shade with an overlay of golden lace that never failed to elicit admiring glances from her friends. She'd accepted the Duchess of Rutherford's invitation for her first ball since they cleared the Duke from the accusations of murder. Although the season contained not so many balls, her cousin had the mood to celebrate.

When she reached the landing, her gaze collided with her husband standing by the entrance dressed in all his finery, hands at his back, head lifted to her. Ophelia froze as she took in the man and his wall of muscles confined to the layers of fabric.

Their wedding night flashed in her memory. She'd remained in her nightgown, and he kept his shirt and breeches. It hit her that she'd never seen her husband, or any man for that matter, as they came into this world, even if she felt his hardness pierce her softness. On the occasion, she'd held his shoulders, and they were not as broad and unforgiving as they were now. Her midriff flipped at the notion of touching him and cataloguing the differences. Her cheeks flamed with the thought, and she pretended to check her skirts before her gaze shot to him again.

"It has been a long time since I saw Rutherford," he said as she neared the door, Knott standing solicitously by it. "Your maid told me you are attending." He gave her a bland smile that did not fool her at all because his dark irises held a pinch of mordancy. The cause of which she could not fathom. "We can as well ride in the same carriage."

Since her second day as a married lady, she'd become so used to doing things by herself that it never crossed her mind he might accompany her. To be frank, she preferred him not to. An edge of the miff bit at her insides. She'd learned to like the independence he'd left her with as he upended and left. And had not a drop of an intention of changing things at this point in her life. All he made her feel was this unwelcome invasion of her space.

"Fine." A slight lift and fall of her shoulders meant to show a dismissal, even if false. "You can use this one. I will have another one readied." She might even change her mind about attending and visit Matilda on the morrow with her apologies. Her dear cousin and best friend would not mind, given the, ahem, circumstances.

One male arm shot to the outside, as the other one stayed at his back. "I insist." The stretched arm joined the other one as he turned his full body to her. "It would be a waste of time to wait for a second one." He tilted his head with a pull of his lips. And now that she looked at them, she noticed their softness and fullness appealing to her senses against her will.

Her eyes darted to the side, her lungs filling with the night's cool air in search of patience. If he deluded himself that she did not understand what was happening here, he would be in for a surprise. He was taking control of his property, his horses, and the other possession in sight, his wife.

Sending a blank glance at the man, she made herself produce the same bland smile plastered on him. "Of course, my lord." Then walked past him towards the conveyance. For lack of a choice, she would bend now. As for the future, they would see.

Before he could help her up, she took her seat, cramming herself on the opposite side, head turned to the window. But her senses followed his every move until the footman closed them inside and they lurched ahead. The air filled with a scent she had to riffle her mind to recognise. Cumin seeds, perhaps?

She'd once gone for tea at Mr and Mrs Darroch's house. The shipping magnate had access to just about everything the world traded. Edwina had displayed an entire tray of spices coming from India at the tea party. Ophelia had explored their flavours and textures as she'd ordered them from the warehouse Mr Darroch kept at the docks. Cook opened a broad smile at the expensive acquisition and made good use of it.

Cumin seeds, then. The smoky, bittersweet tang wafted its way to her nostrils and begot approval. No, that would be a lie. She revelled in the scent, inhaling deeper to take more of it blended with the scent of man. What she should have done was slap her handkerchief to her nose to block it, unwilling to find anything positive about this stranger sitting on the other bench.

All of this passed with her head turned away from him. Looking at her husband already infused much more than approval. With the beguiling scent to go with it, she risked making a fool of herself.

"Not looking at me will not make me go away, you know." His drawl caused her head to whip to him. In the carriage's dimness, she more felt than saw his falcon eyes centred on her. Heat skidded along her skin at his scrutiny. A street gas lamplight smuggled itself inside, casting him in a jigsaw of light and dark, his chiselled planes becoming harsher.

"True." Her face masked into superficial agreeableness. "Happy-ending fairy tales do not exist, I am told."

"And what do you intend to do about it?" He sat still in his seat. Too still. Like the bird of prey that described his eyes, he thrummed with a restless energy that might cause him to startle into action at any second.

"Avert my gaze and enjoy my evening?" Though it would not make her forget about his presence, unfortunate as it was.

"Good luck with that." His rasp came drenched in a purpose that bellied his words.

Their carriage drew to a stop, however, barring her from digging more into it. This time, she had no chance of preventing him from helping her. He exited and posted himself by the door to hold his gloved hand to her. She stood from her seat and neared him. Her gaze darted to the hand and then to him. They were out in public now and she did not wish to cause the tongues to go wagging even more. So, her lace-clad fingers reposed on his palm, his warmth seeping into the sheer fabric.

The sensations that whooshed like a tidal wave into her were so acute that her feet almost froze on the wooden steps. Her stare clasped to his for seconds that felt like weeks. But if she lingered, this would last forever. She snapped her eyes to the townhouse in front of them and kicked her legs into gear to climb down. But it did not end there. The etiquette demanded she took his arm, which made it impossible to avoid new contact as her palm rested on his sleeve. This had been the exact reason she would have rather come to the function alone. Instead of being awkward, these rituals were getting on her nerves with every contradicting emotion they arose.

"Lord and Lady Ramsgate." The footman announced as they stepped into the ballroom.

Silence.

The room was overflowing with people. As the announcement rang loud and unmistakable, every single reveller fell into a speechless spell. The hundreds of guests turned their heads towards the newcomers as though they'd seen a ghost. Not least because everyone had heard that the Countess of Ramsgate sat on the brink of ditching the outdated title for a new husband.

Unless the new husband in question had come into a title, not for the likes of him, the real Earl of Ramsgate present in the flesh, had to be the best guess. And only now did she understand his insistence to attend. More than that, attend in her company. Standing amid his peers, he was sending a message. The mighty Earl of Ramsgate had come back and would slot in his due place in society, countess in tow.

Most of the noblemen and noblewomen in this place would remember the disappeared Earl in a younger version. His presence here and the likeness of his stance would inform of his actual return.

"My dear cousin." Matilda came to greet them, breaking the silence and the ice that had set in Ophelia's spine. "What a delight you are back in London." The new Duchess of Rutherford, however, pinned Ophelia with a quizzical stare that spoke volumes. Ophelia gave her a covert shake of her head and a look promising to talk to her later.

The Duke of Rutherford caught up with his wife. "Ramsgate." As far as Ophelia knew, both men had been fast friends before they absented themselves from London. "I am glad to see you alive and well."

The Earl smiled at his friend. "As do I" He bowed to the Duchess, his cousin by marriage. "I am curious to hear how you escaped transportation."

The Crown had accused Rutherford of killing the son of a marquess and condemned him to transportation to Australia. His recent return to town brought up fresh evidence that cleared his sentence.

Hadrian sent an affectionate glance to his wife. "My Duchess proved pivotal in my retrieved freedom." Matilda smiled back, and the couple's eyes shone with love for each other. The couple had been betrothed at the time of the transportation, their story going a long way back.

Ophelia turned her attention to the room at large, reluctant to witness her cousin's renewed love for the betrothed she'd see sailing away forever. The Countess did not believe in love, and never would.

"Come, Ramsgate," the Duke invited. "I am sure you will wish to meet with our old friends."

The men walked away, and the ball resumed its lively atmosphere.

Matilda linked arms with her as they jaunted around the ballroom. "What was that?" The question acquired a stunned pitch.

Ophelia's mouth pursed to one side. "The man showed up at my wedding."

The Duchess looked at her with mirth in her tea-coloured eyes. Ophelia understood the laugh. She would also have given a good, unladylike guffaw if she heard it from someone else. Imagine a lady giving direction to her stalled life at last, only to have the years-long-absent husband come and crash it all to the blazes.

"Poor Mr Hamilton." Matilda commiserated. "His financial prospects went under very fast."

"I will make it up to him; do not worry." Ophelia had already sent word to Mr Gresham, her solicitor, to take care of it. Her ex-intended had not shown his face in town since the fiasco. She suspected the ladies would not enjoy the Adonis looks so soon.

"Has he told you what kept him from London?" Matilda ventured, referring to the Earl.

"No." Ophelia's reply emerged dry. "And I have not asked." She should have, she understood that. But the shock of it all and her deep resentment blocked her from it. Like all entitled noblemen, he would offer a possible inane answer. He could have been hidden away with a mistress for all she knew. The acidic feeling that the notion poured into her insides daunted her. She cared nothing for the man and had to have zero reasons to concern herself with his probable escapades. "I have spotted Elvina. Let us go talk to her." She preferred to put the matter off for now and do the rounds as usual.

It only presented the slight problem that the entire cluster of aristocrats stared at her as she passed them by nodding as she always did. Instead of answering in kind, they went on staring.

Leonard and Hadrian neared a group of noblemen, and he recognised the Duke of Brunswick, the Marquess of Worcester, but the third man he did not believe to have met before.

"Ramsgate!" the Marquess exclaimed. "We are all happy to see you back."

It'd taken eight long years to reach his country again. Now that he did, however, he saw that he would have to patch up a series of matters, not least of all his marriage. The view of a very vexed Countess realising she would have company tonight popped into his mind. He did not blame her for any of her less-than-effusive reactions to his resurgence. It might take another decade until he pulled his life back on track. An intake of air became clogged in him.

He registered Hadrian directing a gaze at him. "Allow me to present Mr Percy Russel." And motioned to the dark-haired man in their group. "Owner of the biggest cotton mill in the land."

That caused Leonard to shoot a reproachful glare at the other man. "My lord," the Russel man answered and bowed.

Hadrian snorted. "You do not need to be so formal," he said to the dark-haired man. "You are my brother by marriage, after all." The connection put the businessman in a lofty position.

Leonard's eyes narrowed. Did this man have a tryst with his wife being married to Lady Elvina on top of it? "A pleasure to meet you, sir," Leonard volunteered with a convoluted suspicion.

The three other men started a debate about investments, in which the Earl displayed a vast outdated state, making it impossible for him to take part in it.

"I was afraid you would not make it." The Duke of Brunswick had moved to his side and said that under his breath. "We all did."

Leonard darted a glance at the speaker. "Me included," he replied in the same tone. "But I pulled through in the end."

"A feat, to be sure." Titus surveyed the crowd before he spoke again. "Russel is as devoted to his wife as I am to mine." He must have sensed Ramsgate's ire at his new acquaintance.

"Say, shall we take advantage of Rutherford's splendid card room?" Worcester suggested, interrupting the side conversation.

"I will pass, thank you," Leonard declined.

As the group headed to play cards, Brunswick fell behind. "Come see me when you have settled in residence."

Leonard nodded and wheeled in the opposite direction. When he found his wife, he neared her just as the first notes of a waltz drifted in the air. "My lady, honour me with this dance."

In the carriage, he could barely stop staring at her. The golden silk of her gown made her skin glow and provided the perfect contrast with her eyes. Even demure, the decolletage hugged her breasts with that tenderness robbed from him on their wedding night.

To tell the truth, he'd wanted her from the first time they met. She'd been the most dazzling debutante to grace the ballrooms. Those same eyes had sparkled beneath the chandeliers; her smile transformed her face into a fairy-like one. She'd been so full of life, and joy, and that hope in the future only the pure of the heart harboured. Besides bewitching him, she'd had a dowry to go with it. That would mitigate his precarious finances.

He'd learned of his value in the marriage mart and intended to make the most of it. So, when her parents approached him, he acted aloof and asked for a few days to ponder on the arrangement. In his mind, he'd already accepted the proposal. In the months that followed, he used the utmost caution not to jeopardise the match. Hidden from the others, however, he counted the minutes to walk down the aisle and bring the bride to his bed. That first night, he was loath to scare her with his voracity for her, which led him to be very bland about it. He'd believed they would have time to build a more satisfying intimacy. A week, at the very least. What a fool he'd been.

At that moment, his wife speared him with those contemptuous eyes, condemnation dripping in gallons from them. He knew he'd put her in a position where she could not refuse without causing a ripple of gossip. But he was intent on staking his claim on a woman whom everyone—men in particular—saw as a widow, available to trysts. He planned to send a very distinct message that she would be on her way out of the paramour mart.

Damn it all to hell! The woman loomed on the brink of marrying another. The sight of her at the altar with someone else had the power to twist his guts until they bled. Worse, he'd envisioned rearranging the pretty boy's face into a broken nose and fallen teeth. Had he been a few minutes too late, he would have had a tremendous battle with the law to undo the damage.

As she climbed down the stairs to the foyer to take the carriage here, he'd watched her with stricken eyes, absorbing the veritable vision she presented wrapped in golden silk. Aware that at the landing her gaze would shift to the entrance, he'd schooled his expression to one of detached casualness. But his blood had been rushing into a direction that would have given away his, say, thoughts on the matter.

At the time of their nuptials, she'd been just out of the schoolroom, a young woman whose loveliness presaged the beauty she would become. And she did, with her hourglass figure and expressive eyes. The image of her in a deep slumber the morning after their wedding had haunted him in these years away. Not a day went by without him imagining the changes in her, or how she'd been living her days. He'd built several scenarios in his head, but the intense loathing that emanated from her every time they stood in the same room never figured in it. The last he'd seen of her, she held a dreamy smile on her face at that long-ago wedding breakfast.

In the middle of this ballroom, they stood as though no crowd cramped them, eyes slapped together. Even with hers blazing with vexation, her full lips drew a dazzling smile as she curtsied and let him take her hand.

They took their position on the dancefloor, their gloved hands joined while the other lacy one rested on his shoulder with ever so light, too light, a touch. Those hazel eyes widened on the patch her hand had gone to before they darted away.

He found her slight waist as his palm moulded to the perfect shape of it. And they twirled together with the other couples.

Her head tilted at a slight angle, her gaze somewhere over his shoulder. It made it possible for his eyes to slide over the satin skin of her swan neck, up to the patrician cheekbones that gave her face that exquisite attractiveness that no one could resist. His eyes dared higher still, to the delicate shell of her ear, the drop of her pearl earring bouncing from its tip. The chandeliers fell on her eyes and the hazel irises sparkled like a rare jewel. His perusal left no doubt that she had to be the most stunning woman he'd ever seen.

Around them, the couples send covert glances at the earl and countess as if they would get answers just by looking.

"Have you hosted any balls during my absence?" His question came out of the blue, just popping up in his head and out of his mouth.

Those luminous eyes flicked to him and then through him. "Not many." Her curt reply came with a slight shrug of her dainty shoulder.

"Why not?" He pressed her into a conversation. "You seemed to enjoy such functions," he was going to add when they married, but thought better of it, "before."

A delicate scoff escaped her cushiony lips. "Nobody knew whether they would attend the ball of a countess or a dowager countess."

Leonard stiffened as he studied her face while guiding her through the waltz. It'd not occurred to him that his absence might put her in an awkward position. In his mind, it sufficed that a lady was accounted for by a husband. Her willingness to attend her cousin's ball on her own, however, revealed her as an independent woman. Whether that had come about as a response to him not being around, he preferred not to learn.

Still, he spoke again. "You, for one, seemed to have made the most of it." The needling joined his ire at remembering the gossip rag.

Her eyes smothered with a contemptuous glint. "If you expected me to hide in the country like a timid lady, you had another thing coming."

All in all, she would not want for comfort in his opulent Oxfordshire seat. The country house his father insisted on fully renovating was what got the finances in dire straits to begin with.

His wife had been too sparkling a debutante to reduce herself to obscurity. "A proper lady would have done just that." He held no qualms in expressing his backwards opinion, even though he knew better now. Not that he was about to tell her of the veritable metamorphosis his worldview had suffered of late.

"Ha!" She laughed at him. "And pass the rare chance of enjoying my freedom?" Her ravishing face resumed its dead seriousness. "Never."

"You should thank me in this case for giving you that chance." Her eyes whipped to him at last, but drenched with ludicrousness. Their stares crashed like two meteorites on a collision route.

"For one, gratitude would be the last thing you would inspire in me." Her chin notched up as she cast him a quelling look. "And you gave me nothing. I built my life on my terms."

"What does not kill you and all that, I suppose." His smirk was intended as self-effacing. In the back of his mind, though, he admired the strong woman she'd become.

"A timely proverb, considering the present circumstances." Pure scorn lathered her words as she meant his return.

He would have thrown his head back and laughed at her sharp words if they would not attract other people's attention. But before he could think of a quip, the waltz died down.

As though she could not leave fast enough, his countess curtsied to him and gave him her back before marching toward the refreshments table. For endless heartbeats, he stood on the spot enjoying the sway of her hips, another part of her he'd had no time to explore with meticulous attention.

Ophelia did not enjoy a restoring night's sleep, and it got her in an irritable mood. At present, she sat in the morning room sipping her tea, The Times in hand.

Knott told her that her venerable husband had taken his breakfast at dawn and sat in his study writing letters. The piece of information bloomed relief in her, which made her exhale, her body relaxing on the chair.

And the reason for her fragmented slumber had been the very husband who occupied the current residence as its effective owner. The previous night had wreaked disaster on her. From entering the premises on his arm to having the entire guest list stare at them, to the tumultuous reaction that touching him in the waltz had erupted in her.

During their dance, as he'd loomed before her tall with muscles cast in iron, the mere heat of him had almost made her gasp out loud. But she'd been a hairsbreadth from coming undone the moment her gloved hand touched his shoulder. The veritable granite she found there confirmed her estimation of the primal body he hid beneath the civilised layers of clothes. She'd caught herself before her palms flexed on that part of his anatomy to test its unforgiving sinew.

Her only choice had been to look away from him or make a fool of herself under everyone's scrutiny. She wished to say that she'd endured the dance, counting the minutes for it to end. But the very opposite had taken place. His hand on her waist had borne in her the need for him to pull her closer. The firm grip on her other gloved limb made her imagine it in other parts of her shameless body. His scent called for her to come closer and inhale deeper. The strain to lock her muscles to resist that onslaught of sensation was the real reason she fled the dancefloor as soon as the selection finished. She neared the refreshments table, but the lukewarm lemonade did not offer the cooling she'd needed. So, she'd made a beeline for the terrace, aiming at gulping several breaths of the night's cool air. It took a long time for her to feel ready again to enter and join her cousin and friends. Even so, she'd had to make a conscious effort not to look at the Earl as he flitted from one gentleman's group to the other while the men eyed him with awe and respect. As though he stood apart as some sort of hero.

Pish!

The day Ramsgate became a hero would be the day she would be the queen of England!

On the brief trip back, he'd kept his peace, and she took refuge in looking at the darkness outside. And then took refuge in her chambers to the broken night ahead.

Above all, what last night had taught her was that she wished not to remain under the same roof as him because she risked making a monumental fool of herself if she stayed here one minute more. He'd left her as though she meant nothing, as though she'd been no one deserving of a simple message of why and where he'd vanished. He did not deserve her time of day. And that would be the exact amount of attention she would give him.

The notion filled her with unshakable determination, and it propelled her towards his study. Upon her knocking and his reply, she swept into the inner sanctum she'd often used in these past years to manage the Earldom's affairs.

As she clicked the door close, her eyes fell on the Earl in rolled-up shirtsleeves, dishevelled hair, and open ledgers all over the massive desk.

He sent her a glance and returned his attention to the papers. "Good that you came." He scribbled on a paper on his right. "I was going to call you soon."

With his dark eyes down, her ninny self indulged in ogling him. The sun from the French windows by the desk fell on his tanned forearms, making the flexing muscles on them stand out. Without a cravat, the lawn gaped open, and the light made the most of it, sneaking over his chest and toying with the hair it found there. Upper still, it made a blatant show of the stubble shadowing his hard jaw. In these years of absence, the man had become a rough specimen. Sensing he might catch her unawares, she made her gaze wander to the shelves at his back. He'd read linguistics at Oxford, and books in what she learned to be Sanskrit stuffed those shelves full. By the looks of it, he'd specialised in the old language from India, along with the ones deriving from it.

A millisecond later, he returned his eyes to her as he spoke again. "You have made me a rich man."

Ophelia gave an inner scoff. His assessment sounded mild at best. When she'd accepted at last that the Earl would not be around to manage his assets, she stepped in to salvage what had been left of his precarious accounts. The footmen had carried piles of books on estate management, land and livestock care, and finances from the library to her chambers, where she'd devoured every single page. With the help of her solicitor, Mr Gresham, she'd made heads and tails of it.

That had been the simple part. The challenge that faced her resided in the men in charge of the dwindling funds. The Earl's solicitor, the estate's man of affairs, and everyone in between. No one regarded her as a widow without the Earl's unquestionable coffin seven feet under. And with no male heir in sight, she counted zero authority to have a say in any of these matters. Those men's very arrogance made her grow a thick skin, and she pushed herself hard to prove she understood a thing or two about increasing Ramsgate's wealth. Her sizable dowry had provided the necessary support to pull it through. With a tenfold return on top of that.

The result sat right in the ledgers. Today, the Earl of Ramsgate stood as one of the richest noblemen in Britain by far. As a widow of sorts, she'd allowed herself to enjoy a little of the fruits of her hard work in the form of fine clothes and fine household purchases. With no hassling husband to determine where she had permission to live, she'd travelled across the country to stay with friends and invited them over to offer the refined hospitality she'd become famous for. Or infamous, if one preferred. Speculation about her private life had become rife as she made the most of her circumstances.

Ophelia cast him a deliberately nonchalant look. "It is the least I could do." With the added benefit that it afforded her a sense of purpose she'd not experienced before. It helped her go through these rather lonely years with less bitterness.

He inclined his head, his obsidian hair falling on his brow. "You have my eternal gratitude."

The praise inflated her with the kind of pride she struggled not to show him. So, she settled on a grim reply. "Let us hope you do not squander it."

A sardonic grin pulled his sensuous mouth. "Unlikely." A large hand rubbed the ledger at his front. "I will follow in the same line of management."

Stillness surrounded them. The only thing that moved was the shadow of a tree branch bouncing with the breeze over the desk.

The Countess lowered her head with a deep inhale as she smoothed her skirts. Her head lifted to him anew. "I came here to tell you I am moving out of this house." It did not escape her that inside, hesitation almost got the best of her. She was making a decision that did not befit a meek wife whose husband chose where to ensconce her. And with her wise management, he listed more than one country house to hide her in, since she'd reinvested the surplus in real estate. But she'd fought too hard battles to take control of her destiny to flounder right at this point.

He cast her a suspicious look. "Move out?"

"I bought a townhouse not far from this one." She revealed the snippet of information in a matter-of-fact tone.

His brows crumpled; if in perplexity or contrariety, she could not say. "You did now, did you."

"The ledgers from two years ago will tell you I retrieved my dowry." By that time, she could not care less about the ethics of that. Her status had been as shady as the Earl's whereabouts. Alone and with no male child, her situation had been as far from safety as it got. When the estates started walking on their own legs, she took what had always belonged to her as a means of security. A distant heir to the Earldom might take over at any minute, putting her in muddy waters overnight. She'd promised herself she would not go there again. Ever. "My private solicitor advised me on profitable investments." Which meant that at present she saw herself in a stable financial condition. More than stable, in fact. But the man sitting at the desk did not need to learn that.

The Earl stood from his seat and propped his hands on the polished wooden surface. "You are smart; I will give you that."

His eyes fastened on her as he studied her from hair in a bun down to her rose morning dress, slippers, and back. Those dark irises acquired a gleam that originated a bloom of heat to go over her skin, her cheeks flushing with irrevocable colour. She could not pinpoint what caused this reaction, but it felt anything but innocent.

Air stalled in her throat as they remained locked in this staring contest. She forced her blank mind to kick into gear, her gaze clasping to his. "I will direct the servants to gather my belongings." She gave a step towards the door.

"Not so fast." His growl stopped her in her tracks. "I did not wish to talk to you only about my newfound outstanding finances." He straightened as his silence kept her on the edge.

She rummaged her mind in search of any other pending issues that needed attention but came up with nothing. "What else, then?" The question pushed itself out as her head tilted up.

His large hands hung on his tapered hips. "To whom I will leave all this money and lands."

Every drop of blood leeched from her face, and she had to lock her body so as not to sway. An urgent intake of air filled her lungs in a quest not to pass out.

Her stranger of a husband demanded an heir from her.