Mistletoe and Mayhem - Cheryl Bolen Page 0,150

likely, until Restive sought the Contessa’s chamber.

Or until Miss Darsington ventured into this passageway again. But why would she? She didn’t want Restive; no, surely her denial was genuine on that score. She definitely didn’t want Wellough, and she’d shown no sign of more than polite interest in Dufair.

I’m a jealous fool, Cecil told himself. No doubt she really had become lost. He should concentrate on the job to be done—not easy, when all he wanted was to grab every chance to get to know her better.

He fetched a box of cigarillos and left his bedchamber in time to meet Miss Darsington at the head of the stairs. She carried a homespun bag with a skein of grey yarn and two wicked-looking knitting needles poking out the top.

“He won’t sit too close to me now,” she said.

He laughed, suspicion vanishing in the light of her astonishing smile.

When Dorothea arrived in the drawing room, Lady Alice and Mrs. Kelly were discussing gardening, with Mother a bored third participant. Dorothea sat next to the Contessa. The foreign lady—dressed all in white, save for black lace trim and a black woolen shawl—was engaged in crewel embroidery. They duly admired one another’s work.

“I cannot knit,” the Contessa said, “but it is a necessary accomplishment for English ladies. Your climate is so chilly—brrr! You are making a…muffler is what you call it, no?”

“Yes, for my father.”

“You are a dutiful daughter,” she said, a hint of sarcasm in her voice as she glanced at Dorothea’s mother.

Did everyone know about their earlier argument? Possibly, for servants heard everything and gossiped about their employers. Dorothea bent her head to her knitting. It would be wrong to discuss her mother with a stranger. She had already said too much to Cecil Hale.

The Contessa interrupted these cogitations with a chuckle. “Do not be too dutiful. That is not amusing for a young and beautiful girl.”

In what way was the Contessa advising her to be undutiful? She could hardly ask, so she pretended she had miscounted her stitches.

“Your papa could not travel with you today?” the Contessa went on blithely.

“No, alas. He is in London, busy with government work.” In what proved to be a vain attempt to turn the subject, she added, “Lady Alice mentioned that your father was one of her favorite suitors.”

“My dear papa is still a handsome man—and virile, too, judging by the testimony of many ladies.” She chuckled again; she had no shame! “Is your papa handsome and virile, too?”

Dorothea was sure she blushed crimson.

“I embarrass you; it is unkind of me, for you are a proper young lady.” The Contessa didn’t sound at all sorry. She smoothed her skirts. “I made the lace for this gown. The fashionable English ladies wear black mostly for mourning. What a waste of an exquisite color!”

Dorothea accepted the change of subject with relief. “It becomes you very well, particularly since you have such beautiful dark hair. You are from Italy?”

“I was born in Corsica, which is now part of France but nevertheless very much Italian. The estate of my husband, the Conte, is near to Roma, but he is dead now, so I may live where I choose.”

“Are you merely visiting England, or do you make your home here?”

She shrugged. “I came for amusement. As long as I enjoy myself, I shall stay.” She cocked her head to one side. “Lord Restive is a handsome and virile man.”

Dorothea gave up on propriety. “Is he your lover?”

“Not yet, but I arrived only yesterday.” She smiled like a cat at the cream pot. “By tomorrow morning, he will be.”

Dorothea sighed, wistfully thinking improper thoughts.

“You want him for yourself? I am sorry, but I cannot give him up yet.”

“No, no!” Dorothea said. “I do not covet Lord Restive. I don’t wish to marry at all, but…”

“You wish to experience the pleasures of the flesh. That is understood.”

“No!” Dorothea protested, and then whispered, “Yes, but not with Lord Restive. In any event, it is not wise for an unmarried maiden.”

“That is true, but if you never marry, what choice do you have? You must not shrivel into old age without the touch of a man.” She paused. “Why do you not wish to marry? Because of the stupidity of husbands?”

“Yes,” Dorothea said dejectedly.

“You must find a reasonable man. My husband was such a one.” The Contessa’s gaze flickered to the doorway. Lord Restive was ushering his odious cousin in ahead of him.

“You shall remain beside me,” the Contessa murmured, “so that old man