Counting on a Countess. Eva Leigh

Kit appreciated the elevation of his status from marquess’s third son to earl, it had done little to alter the course of his life.

      But he was grateful to Lord Somerby, just the same. Kit’s parents loved him dutifully, yet only Somerby had truly believed in him, even when Kit himself did not.

      “So you and Lord Somerby were close,” Flowers noted.

      Kit nodded. “He was a lieutenant general on the Peninsula for most of the War, so our paths crossed many times. He had a fondness for pastel de nata, and we’d have them in his tent, chasing them with strong whisky and talking about our favorite public houses back in London.” Kit smiled wryly. “We talked strategy, too, and the welfare of our men.”

      Some of the senior officers Kit had met during his time in the army had been cruel or heartless, concerned only with upholstering themselves with glory. Not Lord Somerby. He remained steadfastly focused on the human cost of war.

      “Did his lordship ever discuss marriage?” Flowers asked. “Specifically, yours?”

      Kit frowned, the question catching him by surprise. “Occasionally.” In truth, Lord Somerby had often harangued Kit about taking a wife, particularly when discussion turned toward life after wartime.

      “You need a woman,” Lord Somerby had often declared. “And not one of those actresses or demimondaines you insist on keeping company with. A proper wife. Someone who’s got the backbone and sense to keep you in line. A man’s got to have a woman of strength by his side.”

      Once, Kit had dared to retort, “I don’t see you writing letters to an adored helpmeet.”

      A look of such profound sorrow had crossed Lord Somerby’s face that Kit had immediately regretted his rash words. “I am married, my lad,” the older man had replied quietly. “She and the babe she carried were brought to the Lord. I’ll not replace Lizzie.”

      Kit swallowed hard. Lord Somerby and his wife were together now.

      “Why do you ask about marriage, Mr. Flowers?”

      Instead of answering, the solicitor set his portfolio on the edge of a low table. “I do not want to take up too much of your time, my lord.” He opened the folder and removed several documents covered in tiny, precise handwriting. “It is regarding Lord Somerby’s demise that I requested a meeting with you today.”

      Kit set his glass aside and sat up, unease plucking along the back of his neck. “You’re his executor.”

      “Precisely so.” Flowers glanced at the papers in his hand. “This is a copy of his will, and it concerns you.”

      “I cannot see how. We were not related by blood or marriage.” His mind churning, Kit rubbed at the stubble along his jaw.

      “Perhaps not,” the solicitor allowed, “but Lord Somerby named you as one of his beneficiaries.”

      “He what?” Kit demanded.

      Flowers pulled a pair of spectacles from his coat’s inside pocket and set them on his nose. His eyes moved back and forth as he perused the will. “While it is true that the majority of his considerable fortune has gone to relatives, the marquess earmarked a portion for you upon his death. You are to receive an initial sum of ten thousand pounds and an annual allowance of one thousand pounds for fifty years.”

      Kit’s heart seized before taking up a fast rhythm. “Surely not.”

      The solicitor drew himself up. “I, myself, transcribed Lord Somerby’s words as he lay on his deathbed. There is no mistake, my lord. The money is yours, and should you decease before the fifty years has elapsed, then your issue shall be the recipient or recipients.”

      “I . . .” Words had always been Kit’s ally. They were reliable and came to him easily. Yet now, they were nowhere to be found.

      His pulse hammered as though he had just liberated a town from enemy forces. Was it true . . . ? Could he believe it?

      His allowance as a third son was, at best, modest, and seldom lasted long. The selling of his commission had provided a small increase—but it was short-lived. Like many men of his class, he lived on credit. His rooms, his clothes, his wine. God only knew what he owed at the gaming hells. But he returned to them again and again, staking too much money on steep odds, praying for the win that would secure his dream. A dream he’d held close throughout the War and that kept him sane when the world had turned to mud and madness.

      He’d never truly believed he could make it happen. Until now.

      “The news is welcome, I wager,” Flowers said, glancing up over the rims of his spectacles.

      “Quite welcome,” Kit answered softly. “I have . . . plans.”

      He hoped those plans would chase away the darkness that haunted him ever since his return from Waterloo. Shadows lurked in silent corners and whispered to him in the quiet moments, joyless thoughts that brought him back to the hell of war and the omnipresence of death. He ran from pleasure to pleasure, trying to outpace the wraiths. If he could accomplish his one goal, he might not have to face those ghosts again.

      As the War had ground on, his life consisting of boredom and battles, blood and loss, Kit had turned again and again to thoughts of a world where nothing existed but pleasure. Where every day was filled with happiness and beauty.

      He’d always loved going to Vauxhall, with its pavilions, gardens, lights, and music—an unending parade of joy. What if he could create a place like that, a pleasure garden entirely of his own design? He’d oversee it, immersing himself not in the business of death but life.

      It would be his. Finally.

      “Show me what to sign.” He stood and paced around the chamber. “There’s got to be a pen around here. I’ll ring for one.”

      “Hold a moment, my lord.” Flowers got to his feet.

      The grave expression on the solicitor’s face froze Kit in place. His instincts had kept him alive on the battlefield for more years than he cared to remember. Those same instincts rang like a bell, resonating through him.

      “There is a condition,” Flowers explained. “It’s rather unusual, but Lord Somerby was most insistent.”

      “Tell me.”

      The solicitor cleared his throat once more. “Lord Somerby was, as you are aware, a widower, and spoke most effusively about the holy state of matrimony.” He paused. “Might I suggest you have a drink of wine, my lord?”

      Kit strode instead to a decanter of brandy perched on a small table. He poured a generous amount into a glass and drank it all down in one swallow. He felt the warm burn in his throat and the softening of reality’s sharp edges.

      “What must I do to claim my bequest?” he demanded.

      “As of today,” Flowers announced, “you have thirty days.”

      Kit narrowed his eyes. “Thirty days to do what?”

      “Wed,” the solicitor answered. “Then, and only then, will you receive your portion of Lord Somerby’s fortune. If you do not, then the money goes to the late marquess’s distant relative in Bermuda.” Flowers tried to smile, but it resembled a grimace.

      Blood rushed from Kit’s head like deserters fleeing combat. The room tilted, but it had nothing to do with the brandy he’d consumed. “Good God damn.” He clutched the neck of the decanter as though it could support the weight of his shock.

      The chamber righted itself, but Kit’s world had been completely upended. “It appears that I’m getting married.”

      Staring into the narrow, dark alley, Tamsyn Pearce calculated her odds of surviving the next ten minutes and determined they weren’t good.

      “Did you bring a firearm?” Nessa asked as she peered over Tamsyn’s shoulder.

      “I