Romancing the Countess by Ashley March Page A

staircase, and he rounded the corner to see her climbing to the next floor, the lamp swaying in her grip.
    She wore no widow’s cap or veil, and her cloak was a deep royal blue instead of black, but still he knew it was her. He’d spent enough time watching her today, searching to discover the secrets she refused to reveal. From their time at the lake, at dinner, and through two tedious hours of charades afterward, he’d studied her until he could have closed his eyes and envisioned her face, could have predicted the nervous habit she had of rubbing her third finger and thumb together on her right hand.
    And now Sebastian knew the truth. He should have realized it before, from the first time he saw Leah after Ian’s funeral. She’d been almost happy to see him, although at the time he’d attributed it to a sordid relief that Ian was dead.
    Again at the George town house, when she’d invited him to look through Ian’s things, she might have been in good spirits when he arrived, but she didn’t smile until she saw him.
    And earlier today, among her guests at the picnic, her face lit up when in conversation with the ladies sitting around her. She jested and laughed, offered her opinions and even roused the others to join her in what she declared was Ian’s favorite song. That is, when she wasn’t stealing glances at Sebastian, trying to see if he still stared at her.
    But he did stare—and he studied her. He was rewarded that evening during the charades, when he finally realized that Leah’s attentiveness to her guests was something he’d never noticed before. All the times in the past when he and Angela had visited the George residence for a party or dance, Leah had stayed in the background, only speaking when someone addressed her. But now she purposefully engaged others, and the quiet wallflower he’d once known shone like a rare diamond, newly polished and cleaned.
    Why would a recent widow who’d never before violated any rule of etiquette suddenly invite all manner of rumors by defying society’s unspoken rules? Instead of the expected flirtations and outrageous behavior, why would she invite respectable men and women to her country house party and try to justify it as a celebration of her dead husband’s life?
    The answer was obvious; Sebastian had simply needed to wait for her to reveal herself.
    Leah George was lonely.
    Three months spent isolated in her widow’s weeds, following a year of keeping the secret burden of Ian and Angela’s affair all to herself. No wonder she scoffed at his lecture on obedience being better than recklessness; she’d nearly been entombed in her own adherence to society’s expectations.
    He might have been inclined to feel sympathy for her, or to applaud her courage, if not for the fact that she threatened both Sebastian and Henry with her actions. But he understood her better now, which meant that as long as he could help assuage her loneliness, he might be able to keep her from further scandal.
    The only question that remained now was why she refused to admit it to him.
    Sebastian stepped forward, his foot landing on the first stair as Leah reached the top. He started to call out.
    But though his tongue touched the roof of his mouth for the first syllable of her name, no sound emerged. He let her escape without even demanding to know where she’d been, or where she was going. Instead, he remained frozen on the bottom step, the air where she’d just passed swirling around him, surrounding him.
    Taking another breath, Sebastian discovered not the scent of soap, slightly stringent and unapologetic, but . . .
    He inhaled again, and wondered.
    . . . roses.

Chapter 7
     
    Did she say anything to you? How can you be certain she won’t tell him?
     
    “Yesterday Lord Wriothesly informed me that he and Mr. George shared an affinity for painting. Watercolors, to be exact.” Leah gestured toward the five easels set up on the east side of the house and tried to hide any