The Incomparable Countess. Mary Nichols

she had been given and taught young ladies to draw and paint, and was gratified when they did well. And, most important of all, she had her charitable work, the extent of which only John Harker and her banker were privy to. All in all it was a satisfying kind of life and she did not welcome anything that threatened to disturb it.

      While George had been alive, she had spent most of her time at Twelvetrees, the family estate in Essex, and, on those rare occasions when she had visited the capital for a few days, she had not come across Marcus. He had rarely come to London, preferring to divide his time between his country estate and his Scottish castle. Since his wife’s death two years before, so rumour had it, he had been something of a recluse. And now he was in Town. Thank goodness she had more sense than to fall in a quake about that!

      She finished her meal, then went up to her studio and completed the portrait of Lady Willoughby before retiring. She was going riding with Sir Percival Ponsonby the following morning and they planned to make an early start.

      Percy was a lifelong bachelor who rubbed along doing nothing in particular, but managed to be an amusing and undemanding companion and, in spite of the ennui he affected, was also wise and discreet. They had long ago come to an amicable arrangement to be friends and to ignore the matchmaking tattlers who did not see why they should be allowed to enjoy their lives unencumbered when everyone knows that a man with no wife and a widow with a small fortune must surely be looking for partners.

      The April morning was blustery but mild. The buds were showing on the chestnut trees and there were daffodils and gillyflowers nodding their heads in the gardens, though these would soon be replaced by the flowers of summer, the roses and delphiniums, and by then the Season would be at its height. Frances wore a blue grosgrain habit with silver frogging and had secured her riding hat with a spider-gauze scarf tied under her chin. According to Percy, she looked very fetching.

      They had been riding for perhaps an hour when she spotted the man she had known as Marcus Stanmore, Marquis of Risley, driving a park phaeton down the carriageway. Sitting beside him was a young lady with gleaming copper curls and a proud carriage.

      ‘Bless me, if it ain’t Loscoe,’ Percy said, putting up his quizzing glass. ‘And looking quite the thing too. I ain’t seen him these many moons. And who’s the filly, I wonder?’

      ‘I believe it is his daughter,’ Frances murmured.

      ‘Daughter. My life, the years have flown. Wonder what he’s doing in Town?’

      ‘According to the latest on dit, looking for a second wife.’ In spite of herself, she was curious. Would he recognise her? After all, she was no longer the gauche girl of seventeen he had known. Nor was he the stripling of twenty-three he had been.

      Although he was naturally heavier and his good looks had matured, the years had dealt very kindly with him. The faint lines around his eyes and mouth gave his face character which had not been there before. His jaw was stronger than she remembered it and jutted out a little belligerently as if he did not suffer fools gladly, but he was still excessively handsome.

      Percy looked sideways at her. ‘Would you prefer to avoid him? It ain’t too late to turn off the ride.’

      ‘Goodness, no,’ she laughed. Too many summers had passed, too many winters following one upon the other, for her still to bear a grudge. ‘That would look too much like the cut direct. And I have no reason to cut him.’

      ‘Water under bridges, eh?’

      ‘Yes.’ They were almost abreast of the phaeton and she knew etiquette dictated it was up to her to acknowledge him first. She reined in and favoured him with one of her famous smiles, a smile which lit up her whole face and had most of the male population of London in thrall. ‘Your Grace.’ She gave him a small bow from the waist.

      ‘My lady.’ He pulled his phaeton to a stop and doffed his tall hat. His extraordinary hair was as thick and vibrant as ever, she noticed. She also noticed his smile did not seem to reach his amber eyes and his mouth had a slightly cynical twist, which she was sure had not been there when he was young. ‘How do you do?’

      ‘I do very well, thank you. You are acquainted with Sir Percival, are you not?’

      ‘Yes, indeed. Good day to you, Ponsonby.’

      ‘And you,’ Percy answered. ‘What brings you to the village? It must be years since you were here last.’

      ‘Indeed, yes.’ He turned back to Frances. ‘Countess, may I present my daughter, Lavinia? Lavinia, the Countess of Corringham.’ His tone was cool and impersonal; there was nothing to suggest he remembered that hot summer when they had been everything to each other. Everything or nothing? ‘And this is Sir Percival Ponsonby.’

      ‘Lady Lavinia, how nice to meet you,’ Frances said, as Percy bowed in the saddle. ‘I do hope you enjoy your visit to London.’

      The only answer the girl managed was a mutter and a scowl which spoiled her prettiness and earned her a telling look from her father.

      Frances was startled but, having acknowledged her, turned her attention to the Duke. ‘Do you stay long in town, your Grace?’

      ‘I think I shall be here for the Season. I have business to attend to and Lavinia needs a little town bronze.’

      Frances certainly agreed with that. The child was extraordinarily beautiful and would have all the young bloods at her feet, if only she could learn to smile and be polite. Instead of attending to the conversation she was watching the horses riding past, as if the last thing she wanted to do was talk to her father’s acquaintances.

      ‘Then we shall perhaps see something of you in Society.’

      ‘Indeed, I plan to take Vinny to some of the less grand occasions, to give her a taste of what is to come when she makes her bow next year.’ He smiled suddenly and she felt the old tug at her heart and a flutter of nerves somewhere in the region of her lower abdomen and realised she was not as impervious to his charm as she had hoped. ‘Lady Willoughby has already invited us to take tea with her tomorrow afternoon.’

      Frances cursed under her breath. Trust Emma Willoughby to be first in the fray. And to choose the very day when she had promised to deliver the portrait. She could take the portrait in the morning and cry off the tea party, but that would be tantamount to cowardice and she had never been a coward. Besides, she could not hope to avoid him the whole Season, so she might as well begin as she meant to go on. ‘How nice,’ she said. ‘I shall look forward to seeing you both there. Good day, Loscoe. Lady Lavinia.’

      ‘Countess,’ he answered, with an inclination of his head and picked up the reins to drive on. Frances and Percy turned to continue their ride. As a meeting it had been nothing out of the ordinary; simply a greeting exchanged by acquaintances. Had she expected anything else? Fireworks, perhaps? She smiled at her nonsensical thoughts and turned to her escort who should, after all, have her undivided attention.

      It was only then, that she remembered what he had said before the encounter. ‘What did you mean, “water under bridges”?’ she asked.

      ‘I believe it indicates the passing of time, my dear.’

      ‘I know that. I meant, what was the context of the remark?’

      ‘Oh, Fanny, do not play the innocent. I know perfectly well there was almost a whole Season when everyone thought Stanmore was going to offer for you.’

      ‘So?’ she demanded, unexpectedly irritated. ‘The tattlers are sometimes wrong, you know.’

      ‘Yes, but I wondered how disappointed you had been.’

      ‘Not at all,’ she lied. ‘I knew we should not suit.’

      ‘And so you married Corringham.’

      ‘I was very fond of George, Percy. Now, let us forget this conversation. It is of no import whatever.’

      ‘I beg your pardon,’ he said. ‘Unless you wish it, I will never refer to it again.’

      ‘Thank