AtHisCountessPleasure
At His Countess’ Pleasure
Olivia Waite
This book is a sequel to Color Me Bad.
Anne Pym and Simon Rushmore are still reeling from the scandalous marriage of Anne’s cousin Hecuba to Simon’s brother John. But Simon’s position as Earl of Underwood has shielded him from the harshest criticisms. In a bid to repair Anne’s shattered family reputation, Simon proposes a most practical solution—he will make her his countess and they will set about the business of producing an heir.
But marriage is a beginning rather than an ending and scandal has a long life. Old hurts and new family crises threaten their burgeoning passion, even as Simon finds himself more and more eager to submit to his strong-willed wife’s every carnal command. When Anne’s bitterest secret emerges, destroying their hopes for the future, Simon must learn whether he is enough to bring Anne a lifetime of happiness—and just how completely he is willing to submit.
Inside Scoop: This book contains scenes of dominance and anal play.
A Romantica® historical erotic romance from Ellora’s Cave
At His Countess’ Pleasure
Olivia Waite
Chapter One
Miss Anne Pym kept her eyes fixed on Rushmore House as she stepped out of the carriage. The building in front of her was white with marble, gleaming in the pale winter sunlight like an ancient matriarch. Amazing how time could be so kind to a building, yet so unkind to a gown—Anne’s pale pink muslin had seen only three years to compare to the great house’s three decades, but where Rushmore House had silvered over with dignity, the gown had only faded and aged. Nevertheless, Anne strode bravely up the walkway while her maid Dorothy fluttered behind her like an errant handkerchief. The butler who answered Anne’s knock raised an eyebrow at her appearance, but admitted her and offered to show her to the parlor to wait.
“No, thank you,” said the lady, “I shall see the earl at once, please.”
Gently but firmly, the butler denied her.
Anne stopped listening to him and ascended the stairs. The butler abandoned the maid in the foyer and followed Anne, pleading in increasingly strident tones.
Her feet never faltered.
Though she had only been here twice before, Anne knew the way to the study. The door was open, so she sailed over the threshold without a pause and curtsied with all propriety to the man seated there.
Simon Rushmore, Earl of Underwood, rose from his desk and waved his butler into silence. “Thank you, Phillips,” he said, not without sympathy. “Would you have Cook send up some tea for our guest?”
“No tea, thank you,” said Anne.
The earl nodded acquiescence. Phillips bowed, spots of red staining his decorous cheeks, and the door closed whisper-soft behind him.
The earl tilted his head at Anne, clearly bemused. “To what do I owe the honor, Miss Pym?”
Anne had prepared herself for precisely this moment. She folded her hands in front of her and said, “I have come, my lord, for restitution.”
The earl’s eyebrows lifted.
Anne didn’t wait for him to ask her to explain further. “Your brother did a great injury to my family when he seduced my cousin Hecuba and painted her…en deshabille,” she said.
The earl sighed, not as though he’d forgotten the incident, but as though it weighed heavily on him. “He did indeed, Miss Pym, but they are married now. Surely honor has been satisfied?”
Anne had anticipated this denial and was determined to challenge it. “Your honor may be, but ours is still tarnished. John and Hecuba only married after the scandal had run its course. There was a full month of the Season when we were all quite thoroughly shunned—left isolated, disgraced and avoided by anyone of name.” And now that Hecuba had opened her shop and was selling paints to artists all over Britain, last year’s scandal had new life on the lips of society’s gossips this spring. A cousin in trade! Can you credit it? Who would want to invite her anywhere, if not to gawk? Anne realized her hands were twisting nervously together and put them into fists instead. “My cousin’s marriage to your brother may have made them both deliriously happy, but it has done nothing to restore my family’s social standing.”
The earl grimaced, but he nodded. Anne began to feel rather hopeful about her errand. “What do you suggest I do about it?” he asked. One corner of his mouth quirked up. “I assume you came here with a practical scheme in mind.”
She had—and she frankly admitted it. “It’s nothing so terrible,” Anne said. “All I ask is that you host a few dinners, maybe a party or two, and invite us as well as your usual circle. My younger sister is pretty and charming and perfectly capable of attaching some eligible gentleman. She had a few excellent prospects last Season—I’m sure it would not take long for one of those attachments to rekindle. If she were given the opportunity.”
His eyes were cool and considering. “And what of yourself, Miss Pym?”
Anne was equally pragmatic about her own capacity to allure. She had excellent posture and straight teeth and no noticeable blemishes on her skin, but no artist would ever beg to paint her portrait. She had eyes that could see well enough and a mouth that could form words and a nose that perched on her face as it was supposed to. As much as she had once wished otherwise, Anne Pym was as plain and serviceable as the brown woolen gowns she’d left behind her in the countryside.
She knew what she was and she knew what she wanted.
“I want a family,” she said. “I want a husband who is kindhearted and who gives me at least three children. I want to have money enough to keep fed and warm in the winter, and not to have to worry about how to pay the cook’s wages or buy new clothes for the children when they outgrow the old. I know something about money worries, my lord. My father has just enough funds left to give us one more Season in town, and I mean to make the most of it. It’s possible there are men I knew in the country with whom I could be happy, but I would prefer to spread as wide a net as possible, the better to increase the odds.” She caught her breath, having admitted more than she’d intended. It was hard not to when he was looking at her with such thoughtfulness. As if he were really listening. As if what she was saying were important. She was unused to the weight of true attention, and for the first time in her quest she hesitated. “This may strike you as being tawdry or mercenary, my lord, but I am an essentially practical person, and I suspect you value frankness highly enough to excuse any indelicacy of expression.” That’s enough, Anne, she told herself, and clamped her mouth shut.
He watched her for a while longer, then drew himself up, hands behind his back. “I am moved to wonder, Miss Pym,” said the earl, “if you would consider marrying me.”
Anne blinked. This she had not anticipated.
To give herself time to think about how to respond, she turned a critical eye upon the earl’s person. Lord Underwood was only a few inches taller than she was. He was neither fat nor thin—he was simply solid, a set of straight up-and-down lines like a tree trunk that had access to an excellent tailor. He had a square face, held in place by a lumpy nose and weighed down by a stern chin. His eyes were dark and his hair plain brown, with a moustache that could just be termed elegant. He stood patiently beneath her examination and waited for her conclusions.
She knew also, from his behavior after her cousin’s seduction and marriage, that he had a steely sense of right and wrong and preferred to deal with problems in a head-on, forthright manner. This was someone she could lean on, yes—but he was also someone she could quarrel with if there came a need.
She came to a quick decision. “I would indeed consider marrying you, my lord,” Anne said. “But I would also like to know why you should consider marrying me.”
“Ah.” Lord Un
derwood smiled and his shoulders relaxed. “Since my brother wed, I have been thinking it is time I started a family of my own. An earl needs an heir, and since John and Hecuba moved out, the house has had an empty rattle to it. I admire your character and the fact that you are moved to pursue what you want. It strikes me that this would be a fine quality in a wife and in the mother of my children. More personally, I think we would suit well enough—and I don’t feel particularly inclined to throw my heart upon the tender bosom of society and parade myself before a host of strange and pale young misses, gouty fathers and overeager mothers.” Anne, whose mother could well be encompassed by the term overeager, nodded in sympathy. “Allow me to make my case to you. My fortune more than meets the requirements you listed, and three children strikes me as an excellent number to have. Your gaining the title of countess would redeem your family’s reputation at once, particularly since you and I would not have an initial scandal to overcome. In short,” the earl concluded, “your problem and mine could be most speedily solved if we marry.” He nodded, as though the gesture might convince her if his arguments had not.
His logic appeared sound, but… “Are you always this…efficient?” Anne asked.
“No,” the earl admitted. “Nor always so nonchalant. I can be a little irritable at times. I have my whimsical moods, the same as any man.” He glanced away briefly, then brought those gray eyes back to meet hers. “But I feel very strongly that opportunities should be seized when they present themselves.”
Anne nodded in approval. This was entirely in line with her own philosophy. She had always listened to her instincts, and they were speaking quite loudly at the moment. “I think we may do very well together, my lord,” she said. “Would you care to call tomorrow at tea to propose formally? I can guarantee my father will be at home.”
“It will be a pleasure, Miss Pym,” said the earl, and held out a hand.
They shook and the bargain was sealed.
* * * * *
Simon walked Miss Pym to the door, admiring the way she held her head high and her shoulders straight beneath the pale-pink cloth of her dress. The immoveable Phillips reddened at once when he saw her—a minor miracle, which boded well for her future as mistress of the house—and both Miss Pym and her anxious maid were quickly shown into their carriage. Simon then ordered his own equipage readied, as he had a rather delicate errand to run.
If he was to be married, he would need to break with his mistress.
Perhaps it wasn’t something every gentleman would do, but it felt…well, impolite to divide his energies between the beds of two separate women. Especially since only one of them would be fully aware of the arrangement. Once he and Anne had produced a few children, he might begin another discreet liaison, but for at least his first two years as a husband, it seemed only correct to devote every iota of his marital attentions to his wife.
He would miss Fiona, though—her gold-blonde hair, her easy comfort, the warm lush weight of her in bed. She’d indulged both his physical desires and his intellectual ones—they’d had tea and conversation at least as often as they’d fucked. He decided to settle an annuity on her, to ensure she would have a source of income throughout her life even after her looks had left her. He’d heard of other men doing similar things, and it had always struck him as a particularly civilized gesture. He might stop by the jeweler’s on the way and pick up something shiny as a parting gift. She would like that. Diamonds were too pale to suit her—perhaps something in sapphires?
The coach was ready. Simon pulled on his gloves and hat and departed.
* * * * *
The ceremony had been performed and the register signed. Thanks to the warm-gold band on her finger, plain Anne Pym was now the Right Honorable Anne Rushmore, Countess of Underwood.
It had not been a lengthy engagement. Banns had been read and relatives informed. Anne was dressed in pale yellow, a color she loathed. But it had been the only dress in her wardrobe she hadn’t worn yet, and she hadn’t wanted to waste the money on a new one, not when her family still had one younger daughter to clothe. Anne would buy new gowns when she was a countess and could afford them.
The wedding breakfast was small but splendid. White soup and eggs and bread and bacon, lobster and potatoes and kippers and ham. Coffee, tea and chocolate warmed in gleaming silver vessels. The guests crowded into the Pym parlor were limited to family—though Anne wished Hecuba could have been there. Her mother had nearly had an apoplexy at the mere suggestion, however, and Anne had reluctantly bowed to propriety. Besides, if her mother found it shocking, others would too, and the purpose of this wedding was to dampen shock, not to excite it.
At least she was free to be intrigued by Simon’s aunt and cousin, both of whom were briefly home between lengthy tours of Italy. She gathered the two had been traveling together for several years, spending far more time abroad than in their native land. The daughter was scandalously tan, especially against the pale ivory skirt and black bodice of her gown. Her name was Imogen, and Anne suspected she was rather fast. “I always forget how cold it gets in London,” she said with a shiver.
“At least it’s warmer than Weymouth,” Anne replied. “The winds from the sea go right through a body.”
Imogen clucked. “You should make Simon take you on honeymoon to Sicily. Or Athens or Crete—anywhere in Greece, really. I’ve never made it past the Adriatic myself. It may be time to convince my mother to range farther afield.” Her smile turned sly. “But she’s so fond of Italian men, and I am not sure she’ll find Greek ones to be a suitable replacement.” Anne blushed and her new cousin laughed. “That’s better—you were far too pale for a bride on her wedding day,” she said. Her gray eyes were different from Simon’s. They glittered like sixpences, bright and hard. “Do you love him?” she asked.
Anne was taken aback but refused to be cowed. “I think I shall, in time,” she said. “There is much to love about him.”
Imogen shook her head. “That is precisely what he would have said.” She glanced at Simon, who was conversing affably with Anne’s father while Mrs. Pym beamed happily from beneath her riotously feathered headpiece. “You will have the most pragmatic children in the world. Promise me you will set them to solving serious problems—the Irish Question, the electoral system, abolition of slavery.”
“I shall read them Pitt’s speeches as bedtime tales,” Anne said archly.
Imogen’s lips quirked. “Well, at least they will sleep soundly.” She took a sip of her coffee, to which she’d added neither cream nor sugar. “Where are you honeymooning?” she asked.
“We aren’t,” Anne admitted. “London is quite exotic enough for me.” Also, though she wasn’t about to admit this to Imogen, now that her own future was secure she wanted to waste no time in arranging Evangeline’s marriage. The Season would be ending after summer and they could honeymoon then, if Simon felt the need.
At length the food was taken away, the guests made their farewells and the new bride and groom departed for home in a coach with the Underwood coat of arms. Anne was surprised by her exhaustion, considering she had done nothing more strenuous than sit in a room and talk to people. Simon tucked her gloved hand into his elbow. “Would you prefer to postpone the wedding night?” he asked.
She smiled at his courtesy and at the warmth of his arm beneath her palm, but shook her head. “I promise to be only a little skittish,” she replied. “Hecuba has given me a general sketch of the proceedings. Not an actual drawing,” she amended as he gaped. “Just more of the specifics than my mother offered. She was trying so hard to be delicate that I only understood one thought in ten.”
Simon laughed. “Well, the mystery will be solved soon enough.”
After dinner he gave her an hour to undress before coming through the connecting door. Her bedroom was right next to his, a cozy room decorated in rich burgundy with green vine accents on the curtains and counterpane. The act itself was a trifle awkward but not unpleasant, and when Simon had kissed her
goodnight and trundled back into his own room, Anne lay back beneath the covers and was soon asleep.
She took tea and toast in her private parlor the next morning—an indulgence she planned to make shamelessly frequent—and read with satisfaction the marriage announcement in the paper. Miss Anne Pym, to the Right Honorable the Earl of Underwood…
It was a very promising beginning.
Chapter Two
The first invitation arrived later that afternoon. Anne savored the contrast of black ink on creamy paper and the elegant hand, looping and slender and scrolled. The event itself was a small dinner given by Lord and Lady Heatherton. They had always been quite warm to the family Pym, so Anne was not surprised they were the first to reach out now that she was respectable again. She was delighted to find upon arrival that Mr. Bertram Egley was also present, and she managed to secure a promise for him to come by for tea the following Wednesday. Anne plotted to invite Evangeline as well, and see if that particular flame could be easily relit.
But alas, the rest of the party were not nearly as warm, as she found when she tried to talk to the gentleman seated on her left. “Are you enjoying the Season this year, Lord Asherton?” A rather obvious opening gambit, but Anne was out of practice with genteel conversation. At least it had the virtue of being polite, if disgracefully dull.
His lordship’s large brown eyes rolled her way, considering her question. “Quite.” Satisfied with this monosyllable, his lordship sawed off another portion of partridge and happily resumed chewing.
Anne paused.
His lordship chewed.
It seemed that was all she would get for a response. She cast a glance at Simon, but he and Lord Heatherton were deeply involved in talk of horses and bloodlines. There would be no help from that quarter. She waited until Lord Asherton swallowed, then tried again. “I thought yesterday’s weather was particularly fine.”