Page 47 of Counting on a Countess
A servant reappeared immediately to refill Langdon’s glass.
As Kit watched his friend drink, he pondered what Langdon advocated. There was logic in his counsel. If he courted Tamsyn—properly—she’d soften toward him. Once favorably inclined, surely she would grant him the funds for whatever he desired. She might even do so with a smile.
Kit let out a breath. “Here’s an upside-down strategy. Usually a man seduces a womanbeforemarriage.”
“Yes, well,” Langdon said with a self-deprecating twist of his mouth, “when it comes to the nuances of actual courtship, I might not be the best mentor.”
Kit smirked. “What a marvelous gift of understatement you have.”
“Silence, you ass.” But there was no rancor in Langdon’s words. They had known each other too long to take offense at anything the other said. “You’re the military man. Use those gifts of strategy that kept you alive to do something much more difficult—namely, endearing yourself to your wife.”
Slowly, Kit nodded. It would take some work on his part, but then, nothing truly worth having came easily. In Portugal and Spain, he would lie awake at night listening to his men asleep, men he might have to send to their deaths. A reliable way he could get himself to sleep was to think of his plans for the pleasure garden. He’d go over every detail, every nuance, until he surrendered to unconsciousness. Now that he was home, whenever memories of death loomed close, he returned to that dream. It soothed him now as it did then.
Langdon frowned at him. “What are you doing sitting here?” He made a shooing motion with his hand. “Get thee home, miscreant, and charm your wife.”
“I will.” Kit rose quickly and smoothed a hand down his waistcoat. After giving Langdon a nod of thanks, he headed for the door. He had, in fact, survived a considerable amount of combat. Scars marked his body, though they were hidden by his clothing. He’d weathered so much, yet the prospect of making a woman care about him was far more intimidating.
Kit cautiously crossed the threshold of the town house. He’d made himself quite scarce since yesterday, and if Tamsyn waited for him with a fire iron clutched in her hand, ready to brain him, he couldn’t quite blame her.
Aside from a footman, who assisted him with his coat and hat, the foyer stood empty. No waiting, angry wife. Yet her absence spoke just as loudly as an aggressive assault.
“Where is Lady Blakemere?” he asked the footman. He didn’t want to have to search all over the house, seeking his wife in some kind of treasure hunt.
“In the study, my lord,” the servant answered.
Kit took two steps before stopping. “And where is the study?”
“Follow me, my lord.”
He trailed after the footman as they moved down a corridor, deeper into the house. They passed several chambers of different sizes, including two separate drawing rooms, before the servant stopped outside a closed door.
“That will do,” Kit said in dismissal. He didn’t relish the idea of the staff watching him when there was a distinct possibility he might have to grovel.
The footman bowed and disappeared. When Kit was certain he was alone, he knocked. Tamsyn’s muffled voice called, “Come in.”
It would be better to enter with confidence rather than timidly poking his head in and pleading for an audience. He opened the door and stepped inside.
The study was typically a masculine sanctuary, and this one had indeed been decorated for a man. Dark wooden bookshelves were set into paneled alcoves, and important morocco-clad tomes stood upright in neat rows. Leather chairs were arranged around the room in small groups, as if encouraging sober tête-à-têtes where men decided the fate of nations, if not discussing the turn of an actress’s ankle. Hunting scenes hung on the walls. The centerpiece of the room was a massive mahogany desk situated in the middle of the chamber, as though whomever sat at it was the sun and everyone else merely satellites.
As the lord of the house and holder of the title, by right Kit should find himself behind that desk—reviewing letters, petitions, or whatever pieces of paper that titled men read assiduously, wearing a pair of spectacles and being Important. Other than his years in the army, and the few months he’d been an earl, Kit had never been Important.
But he was the Earl of Blakemere now—it was about time he took on that mantle.
Except seated behind the desk was Tamsyn.
She cradled her head in her hands, a stack of those significant papers in front of her.
He hadn’t seen her in twenty-four hours. Hardly enough time for anyone to long for the sight of somebody. And yet his gaze moved over her with a restless demand, taking in the details of her.
Something quieted and stilled within him, and he realized that she was responsible. Being near Tamsyn seemed to calm the restlessness within him.
Her slim fingers threaded through the flames of her hair. He itched to touch that delicious curve where her neck met her shoulder and ease the knots that bunched there.
Why had he stayed away so long?
“Are our finances as bad as that?” he asked, breaking the silence.
She looked up abruptly. The arch of her brows lifted. “I thought you were Mrs. Hoskins.”
