Coming January 2010
How I Met My Countess
The first in a new series from New York Times bestselling author
Elizabeth Boyle
When Lucy Ellyson, the improper daughter of an infamous spy, saves the Earl of Clifton’s life, he decides to make her his countess. But then the irresistible chit vanishes and Clifton is certain he’s lost her forever…until he discovers she’s living in Mayfair, as scandalous as ever and in the sort of trouble only a hasty marriage can solve. But before Clifton can step in, secrets from the past emerge, threatening to ruin them both.
While the Earl of Clifton had been expecting a scullery maid or even a housekeeper to respond to Mr. Ellyson’s shouted orders, the gel who arrived in the man’s study left him taken aback.
Her glorious black hair sat piled atop her head, the pins barely holding it there, the strands shimmering with raven lights and rich, deep hues. They were the sort of strands that made one think of the most expensive courtesans, the most elegant and desirable ladies.
Yet this miss wore a plain muslin gown, over which she’d thrown an old patched green sweater. There were mitts on her hands, for the rest of the house was cold, and out from beneath the less than tidy hem of her gown, a pair of very serviceable boots stuck out.
This was all topped off with the large splotch of soot decorating her nose and chin.
She took barely a glance at Clifton or his brother before her hands fisted to her hips. “Whatever are you doing shouting like that? I’m not deaf, but I fear I will be if you insist on bellowing so.”
Crossing the room, she swatted Ellyson’s hand off the map he was in the process of unrolling. Plucking off her mitts and swiping her hand over her skirts—as if that would do the task and clean them—she caught up the map and reshelved it. “I doubt you need Paris as yet.”
There was a presumptuous note of disdain in her voice, as if she, like Ellyson himself, had shelved their guests with the same disparagement that she had just given the errant map.
And in confirmation, when she cast a glance over her shoulder and took stock of them, it was with a gaze that was both calculating and dismissive all at once. “Why not begin with ensuring that they know how to get to the coast,” she replied, no small measure of sarcasm dripping from her words.
Ellyson barked a short laugh, if one could call it a laugh. But her sharp words amused the man. “Easy girl, they’ve Pymm’s blessing. We’re to train them up.”
“Harrumph,” she muttered, putting one more stamp of disapproval on the notion.
Clifton straightened. It was one thing to be dismissed by a man of Ellyson’s stature, but by a mere servant? Well, it wasn’t to be borne. He opened his mouth to protest, but Malcolm nudged him.
Don’t wade into this one, little brother, his dark eyes implored.
“I need to start with Lisbon,” Ellyson said. “But demmed if I can find it.”
“Here,” she said, easily locating the map from the collection. “Anything else?” Her chapped hands were back on her hips and she shot another glance over her shoulder at Clifton, her bright green eyes revealing nothing but dismay, especially when her gaze fell to the puddles of water at his feet and the trail of mud from his boots.
Then she looked up at him with a gaze that said one thing: You’d best not expect me to clean that up.
Clifton could only gape at her. He’d never met such a woman.
Well, not outside of a public house.
Bossy termagant of a chit, still he couldn’t stop watching her, for there was a spark to this Lucy that dared to settle inside his chest.
She was, with that hair and flashing eyes, a pretty sort of thing in an odd way. But she held herself so that a man would have to have a devilish bit of nerve to tell her so.
Then she shocked him, or at least, he thought it was the most shocking thing he’d ever heard.
“Papa, I haven’t all day and I’ve a roast to see to, as well as the pudding to mix.”
Papa? Clifton’s mouth fell open. This bossy chit was Ellyson’s daughter?
No, in the world of the Ellysons, Clifton quickly discovered, such a notion wasn’t shocking in the least.
Not when weighed against what her father said in reply. “Yes, yes, of course. But before you see to dinner, I have it in mind for you to become Lord Clifton’s new mistress. What say you, Goosie?” he asked his daughter as casually as one might inquire if the pudding was going to include extra plums. “How would you like to fall in love with an earl?”
Lucy glanced over her shoulder and looked at the man standing beside the door. Very quickly, she pressed her lips together to keep from bursting out with laughter at the sight of the complete and utter shock dressing the poor earl’s features. He had to be the earl, for the other man hadn’t the look of a man possessing a title and fortune.
Oh, heavens! He thinks Papa is serious. And in a panic over how to refuse him.
Not that a very feminine part of her felt a large stab of pique.
Well, you could do worse, she’d have told him, if the other man in the room, the one by the window, the earl’s brother from the looks of him, hadn’t said, “Good God, Gilby! Close your mouth. You look like a mackerel.”
The fellow then doubled over with laughter. “’Sides I doubt Ellyson is serious.”
Lucy didn’t reply, nor did her father, but that was to be expected, for Papa was already onto the next step of his plans for the earl and his natural brother, and therefore saw no polite need to reply.
“Sir, I can hardly…I mean as a gentleman…” the earl began.
Lucy turned toward him, one brow cocked and her hands back on her hips. It was the stance she took when the butcher tried to sell her less than fresh mutton.
The butcher was a devilish cheat, so it made ruffling this gentleman’s fine and honorable notions akin to child’s play.
Clifton swallowed and took a step back, which brought him right up against the wall.
Literally and figuratively.
“What I mean to say is that while Miss Ellyson is…is…that is to say I am…” He closed his eyes and shuddered.
Actually shuddered.
Well, a lady could only take so much.
Lucy sauntered past him, flicked a piece of lint off the shoulder of his otherwise meticulous jacket, and tossed a smile up at him. “Don’t worry, Gilby,” she purred, using the familiar name his brother had called him. “You don’t have to bed me.” She took another long glance at him—from his dark hair, the chiseled set of his aristocratic jaw, the breadth of his shoulders, the long lines of his legs, to his perfectly polished boots—everything that was wealthy, noble, and elegant, then continued toward her father’s desk, tossing one more glance over her shoulder. “For truly, you aren’t my type.”
Which was quite true. Well, there was no arguing that the Earl of Clifon was one of the most handsome men who’d ever walked into her father’s house seeking his training to take on secretive “work” for the King, but Lucy also found his lofty stance and rigid features troubling.
He’ll not do, Papa, she wanted to say. For she considered herself an excellent judge of character. And this Clifton would have to set himself down a notch or two if he was going to stay alive, at the very least, let alone complete the tasks he would be sent to do.
No, he is too utterly English. Too proud. Too…too…noble.
And Lucy knew this all too well. For she’d spent a good part of her life watching the agents come and go from her father’s house. She knew them all.
And she also knew the very real truth about their situation: They may never come back. As much as she found it amusing to give this stuffy earl a bit of a tease, there was a niggle of worry that ran down her spine.
What if he doesn’t come back?
Well, I don’t care, she told herself, crossing the room and putting her back to the earl. She opened a drawer and handed a folder to her father, who through this exchange had been muttering over the mess of papers and correspondence atop his desk. “I think you need these,” she said softly.
Her father opened it up, squinted at the pages inside, and then nodded. “Ah, yes. Good gel, Goosie.” He turned back to Clifton. “Whatever has you so pale? I don’t expect you to deflower the gel, just carry her love letters.”
“Letters?” Clifton managed.
“Yes, letters,” Lucy explained. “I write coded letters to you as if I were your mistress and you carry them to Lisbon.” She strolled over, reached up, and patted his chest. “You put them right next to your heart.” She paused and gazed up at him. “You have one of those, don’t you?”