Excerpt from
His Compromised Countess© 2012 by Deborah Hale
London ~ April 1817
With a flourish, someone pulled back the blue damask curtain from the alcove of Almack's card room, as if it were the stage at Drury Lane. The scene it revealed might have come from any of a hundred sentimental plays—a pair of lovers stealing a passionate kiss. But instead of sighs and murmurs of approval that might have greeted such a sight at the playhouse, this one provoked scandalized gasps followed by brittle, breath-baited silence.
They were as handsome a pair as any actors, the man well built with a full head of auburn hair and fashionable attire that might have won the approval of Beau Brummell himself. The lady wore a silvery-blue gown of the finest silk. Though her face was turned away from the audience for that first instant, her beauty was as obvious to them as her identity. Golden curls were swept up off her long, graceful neck, adorned with the famous Sterling sapphires.
Everyone who caught a glimpse of her must have immediately recognized Caroline Maitland, Countess of Sterling, one of the most celebrated toasts of the ton. They must also have recognized that the man with his arms around the countess, and his lips upon hers, was not her husband.
Surrounded by several of the most voluble gossips in all of London, Bennett Maitland, sixth Earl of Sterling, stared into the alcove, fighting a rising tide of rage and humiliation that threatened to demolish his iron self-control.
He had stubbornly refused to heed Fitz Astley's sly barbs about his wife's fidelity, just as he had once tried to deny another of his enemy's sordid revelations. A revelation that had brought his whole world crashing down. Scoundrel though Astley was, he had not been lying then. Nor was he now. The evidence of Caroline's promiscuity was presently on display for all to see!
Catching his wife engaged in such wanton intimacy with his bitterest foe was like a jagged knife thrust deep into Bennett's chest.
The once-passionate physical connection between him and Caroline was the only thing that had held their crumbling marriage together. Now she had thrown it in his face and made him question how many other lovers she might have taken, making him the secret laughing stock of London. Yet he would rather have died in jaw-clenched agony than give the man he loathed, and the woman he had come to despise, the satisfaction of knowing how grievously they'd mortified him.
By the time the horrified silence shattered into poison-tipped shards of whisper, Bennett had clamped his gaping mouth into a rigid line. Battling back a suffocating wave of humiliation, he forced himself forwards to seize control of the situation.
By this time, his wife and her paramour had realized they were discovered. Though it was far too late to save her tattered reputation, Caroline pulled away from the scoundrel's embrace and shrank back, as if hoping she might somehow hide from her husband's righteous wrath.
Fitzgerald Astley had no such scruples. He continued to stand there in a lounging, insolent pose, his mouth twisted in a gloating smirk that Bennett longed to thrash off his face.
‘Bennett, I'm so sorry,' Caroline murmured as he stalked towards them. ‘I can explain if you'll only listen. Please don't make it any worse.'
Her face had paled to a hue of alabaster purity—most ironic, that. Her pallor might have given his wife a deceptively innocent look, except that it made her lips appear even larger and redder than usual, swollen perhaps from the kisses of that despicable cad!
Bennett wished the sight would quench the last stubborn embers of desire he felt for her. Instead he was doubly betrayed by the traitorous stirring of lust in his loins. Part of him longed to seize his errant countess and sear away any memory of Astley's kisses with the legitimate demands of his own lips.
He managed to resist the temptation.
‘Nothing I do,' he growled, ‘could make this any worse.'
That was not quite true, but he had no intention of acting as if nothing had happened, simply to spare her the shame she had brought upon both of them.
Astley's smirk curled into an outright sneer, making his too handsome countenance as loathsome as Bennett had long regarded it. ‘I suppose you will want to call me out, then, Sterling? Where shall we duel, then? St. James's Park? Hyde? I do think it rather unjust that I should be singled out when you have turned a complaisant eye upon all your lady's previous amours. '
‘What are you talking about?' Caroline cried. ‘I have never been unfaithful to my husband! I didn't even mean to… You took me by surprise. I only wanted…'
Astley chuckled and wagged his finger at her. ‘I sympathize with your desire to salvage your reputation, Lady Sterling, but I fear our secret is out. I doubt anyone who saw us kissing just now would ever believe you were unwilling. Quite the contrary. Another minute and I vow you would have had the buttons of my breeches undone.'
‘Viper!' A shriek of tormented rage burst from Caroline as she hurled herself at Astley.
Bennett would have loved to see her scratch the scoundrel's eyes. But such a spectacle would besmirch his cause even worse than it had been already. Perhaps irreparably.
As Caroline sprang towards Astley, Bennett caught her by the wrist and pulled her back, flaying her with his blistering glare. ‘If you cannot exercise a little discretion, madam, at least do me the courtesy of holding your tongue!
His words appeared to quench her defiant anger with a deluge of shame. Her body went limp and her free hand flew to her mouth as if to stifle a sob.
Unable to abide any further contact with her after what she'd done, Bennett let go of his wife's arm with all the revulsion he might have dropped a wriggling rat. He turned his attention back to Astley, to address his enemy's assumption that they would duel.
‘You expect me to risk my neck defending my wife's honour?' He infused his question with years of accumulated disdain for the pair of them. ‘I would sooner call you out for implying I am such a fool. Even for that, I prefer to strike where it will do you greater injury.'
Though Astley arched a contemptuous eyebrow, Bennett had the trifling satisfaction of glimpsing a quiver of alarm in his enemy's pale-blue eyes. ‘Indeed? And where might that be?'
‘In your purse, of course.' Bennett kept his voice low and menacing, but loud enough to carry to the roomful of breath-bated onlookers. ‘I hope this dalliance was worth the damages it will cost you.'
For a moment, the threat seemed to strike Astley dumb.
Instead it provoked a sound from Caroline. Her eyes widened in horror as if she had only now realized all she stood to lose. A whimper like a wounded animal's broke through the hand she still clamped over her mouth. Fortunately, his earlier warning kept her from trying to speak.
Astley found his voice at last. ‘Sue me for crim. con.? You wouldn't dare!'
Crim. con. meant a criminal conversation suit brought by a husband against his wife's lover for monetary damages—a necessary step toward obtaining a divorce. Bennett despised the vulgar colloquial term, which trivialized such a devastating betrayal.
Now it was his turn to sneer. ‘Pray what is to stop me? Given what you just confessed in front of all these witnesses, I believe it would be an easy case to win.'
Leaving Astley to reflect on just how deep a hole he had dug for himself, Bennett turned and strode away through a crowd that parted before him like the Red Sea before Moses. He was not certain whether Caroline would follow or remain behind with her paramour. Indeed, he was not certain which he would prefer. But when he heard the faint rustle of silk and the soft patter of kid slippers behind him, the sounds stirred a flicker of satisfaction from deep within the bitter ashes of his humiliation.
From the novel His Compromised Countess by Deborah Hale
Publication Date: March 2012 Imprint: Harlequin Historical®
Copyright © 2012 by Deborah Hale
® and TM are trademarks of the publisher.
This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.