The Countess and the Commoner, page 1
Published by EVERNIGHT PUBLISHING ® at Smashwords
www.evernightpublishing.com
Copyright© 2024 Matilda Madison
ISBN: 978-0-3695-0989-5
Cover Artist: Jay Aheer
Editor: CA Clauson
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
DEDICATION
To Tex
THE COUNTESS AND
THE COMMONER
Reluctant Rogues, 1
Matilda Madison
Copyright © 2024
Prologue
London, 1838
Sarah Cummings, the Countess De Marchand was unsure if attending a masquerade ball thrown by the lascivious Duke of Ainsworth was wise or not. Ladies of her pedigree did not attend parties like this. It was a demimonde soiree, which meant those of first society mixed with those from lower social classes, such as courtesans and men of money who lacked a prominent societal position. It was certainly not the type of event she would have ever considered attending while her husband was alive… but then, Sarah had changed after Robert’s death. She was not the same woman.
Sarah had been inconsolable by the loss of her husband three years earlier. Robert had died of a fever after he was thrown from a horse and broke his leg at their country estate. It was unfair that he had died so young, and that they had lost what would have been decades of loyalty and love between them. Still, after the sting of his death eased, she discovered that the true misery had been the unrelenting solitude.
As she entered the crowded foyer of the Duke of Ainsworth’s Mayfair home, Sarah hoped to finally shed the cloak of isolation she had worn for three long years. While she had found solace in her son, Daniel, as well as her sisters who would visit with her mama from time to time, it wasn’t the same. Having had the kind of companionship she had experienced with Robert and knowing what it felt like to be truly and wholly loved, she had suffered greatly in her seclusion.
At thirty years old, Sarah wasn’t exactly young, but neither was she old enough to commit herself to a life of solitude. She had promised her husband, in his final moments that she would never love another, but Sarah had come to realize that marriage and companionship were vastly different things. If anything, she was mature, worldly even, in her own opinion, and tonight she hoped to find someone she could share her time with and alleviate the loneliness that consumed her. This way she could forever remain faithful to Robert, without breaking her promise.
Sarah wanted to find someone with whom she could share similar ideas or common interests, and what better place to do so than at Ainsworth’s masquerade ball? Here she could speak freely about her opinions, yet remain anonymous, all while searching for someone that she could hopefully connect with, or maybe even care for if she were lucky enough.
Gazing over the crowd as she entered the ballroom, she was glad for the anonymity her feathered mask provided. Tonight, she was determined to stave off the growing loneliness that haunted her, as if solitude were her own shadow. A great darkness was threatening to swallow her up if she didn’t fight her way back to life to society. She would not let herself wither and fade away because of heartbreak.
She couldn’t.
As she made her way into the ballroom she saw a great many people, all wearing elaborate dominos and elegant costumes. She was worried that the black and gold dress she wore was too reminiscent of her mourning gowns. While this evening gown was cut far lower at the neck than her other gowns and was made of rich velvet with a decidedly jester-like diamond pattern, she worried that someone would recognize her in the dark color. Thankfully, her maid Polly had opted for a completely different hairstyle than she usually wore. Instead of her perfect, dark curls piled on top of her head, Sarah wore her hair pulled back with a cascade of ringlets forming at the back of her head, falling to her mid-back. It might have been a daring style, considering no woman of substance would wear her hair down in public, but this was a masquerade and Sarah felt an unyielding need to be daring tonight.
“I don’t quite know why you insisted I accompany you tonight, my lady. I’m not sure you belong here,” a handsome young man with wheat-colored hair whispered into her ear as he escorted her around the room. “Why not ask Canton to escort you?”
Sarah smirked at Viscount Clifton. He was tall like her and devilishly handsome, which matched his wicked reputation. The viscount was well-known at events like this, even if he usually attended solo.
“Canton wouldn’t approve of this sort of party,” she replied. “And I wanted to attend. Plus, I’m not so unwise as to come to an event like this without a friend.”
“A friend?” he asked, eyebrows raised. “Are we friends?”
“I think so.”
“As you and Canton are friends?”
Sarah tried not to roll her eyes. For several months Sarah and the Earl of Canton had been assumed by most of London to be in a serious affair. Of course, it was all a hoax, one written very expertly by Sarah herself.
The countess had a secret that she had shared with no one. Only her publisher knew that Sarah Cummings, Countess de Marchand was a gossip columnist. Not a terribly virtuous career, but when her name had been linked to the Earl of Canton after Robert’s death, she had jumped on the opportunity to be connected to the earl. He had been a very dear and loyal friend to her husband and when the earl had called on Sarah several more times than was socially acceptable, the wagging tongues of London decided that they were having an affair. Sarah soon realized it was beneficial to have a lover, if only in writing.
Robert had left her a generous sum of money, one not linked to the earldom that her son would inherit when he came of age. Unfortunately, Sarah’s wealth was well known, and no sooner than her husband had been buried did she begin to be hounded by fortune hunters. Of course, all those men buggered off the instant her name had been linked to the earl. Knowing an opportunity when she saw one, Sarah wrote a letter under an assumed name, Paula Pry, that she was indeed linked to the earl and sent it off to the London Sentinel newspaper.
Much to Sarah’s surprise, the paper had published her letter word for word, including her pseudonym. The people of London had gone absolutely mad over it. Everyone wanted to know who Paula Pry was and how she had obtained her information.
At the request of the publisher of the London Sentinel, Sarah had written another article, and then another, until she was writing a weekly gossip column and had accidentally begun something of a career.
Sarah was aware the good earl would not approve of a hedonistic ball like the ones the Duke of Ainsworth was known to throw. He had even warned her, a full-grown woman, that she might lose her social status and become déclassé if she attended such an event. His arrogance had annoyed her. Sarah was her own woman and would do as she pleased.
“As you know the genuine nature of my relationship with the earl, I would say yes, since he and I are friends.”
“Rather a poor sport if he won’t bring you to something like this,” he said, leading her through the crowd. Elegant women dressed in revealing, gem-colored gowns, were being visibly leered at by smiling men in black and white masks all around them. “You should throw him over and take me on as your new faux lover.”
Sarah shook her head, smiling.
“I’d sooner marry you,” she said, enjoying the way the viscount stumbled. “He affords me a freedom you wouldn’t, my dear.”
“Oh? And what’s that?”
“The freedom to be unattached,” she said as a voluptuous woman trilled with laughter as they passed. “The earl makes no demands of me, nor I him, and yet we benefit from using each other as a sort of concealment. Society ignores us because we’re already having a torrid love affair,” she said, wiggling her eyebrows.
The viscount chuckled.
“So, you’re free to act wickedly because the rest of us believe you both are having an affair?” The viscount asked as he reached for two champagne flutes from a passing servant’s tray. He handed one to Sarah, who nodded her thanks as she took the glass. “That’s rather devious of you.”
“What’s devious is how this place is decorated,” she noted, taking a sip of the champagne. The strings section of the orchestra began to pluck at their instruments, indicating the music would soon start. “It’s so dark. Hardly any of the chandeliers or candelabras are lit.”
“That’s the point, my lady,” Clifton said, searching the room. “Ainsworth’s parties tend to fall into debauchery rather quickly.”
“Yes, it looks like that lot over there are about to descend into an orgy,” she said, nodding towards a group of two men and two women, leaning against a wall as they spoke with wandering hands and stolen kisses.
The viscount choked into his glass. Sarah watched him, worried for a moment until she saw the mirth in his countenance.
“It is unfair that you are so determined not to throw over your earl,” he said, humor heavy in his voice. “We should be brilliant together.”
But Sarah only smiled. While the viscount was handsome and well known to facilitate affairs without attachments, Sarah couldn’t help but think he was too familiar. In truth, nearly every man in the peerage reminded her of Robert and she couldn’t, wouldn’t, find a companion that compared to her dearly departed husband. It would be a cheap imitation of what she had once had. Knowing what true love had been like and what it had eventually cost her, Sarah was certain that she would never fall in love again.
Just then a very romantic waltz began to play, and buzzy excitement shot through her. She had not danced in public since before her mourning period. It had been a favorite activity of hers and she had been slow to rejoin polite society. She bounced on the balls of her feet. It was as if she had been waiting to dance for years.
Noting her excitement, Clifton bowed as he took her hand and led her to the center of the dance floor. They twirled and moved with ease, following the line of dancers as the music filled the cavernous room. The soft hum of people’s voices as they spoke, the tinkling of champagne glasses, and the sweet smell of peonies filled Sarah’s senses. She let herself be swept away by the moment and genuinely enjoyed herself for the first time in years.
Moving on would be emotional, and this felt like the first night of the rest of her life. She was finally ready to let go of Robert, and though he certainly would not approve of the present company she kept this evening, she hoped he would have at least been happy for her.
All too soon the song ended. Sarah was smiling, trying ridiculously hard not to let herself become a watering pot when a deep, unpolished voice sounded from behind her.
“May I cut in?” the masculine voice asked.
Sarah spun around quickly to see a man nearly a head taller than her, staring at her with stone gray eyes through a black mask. His face was partially hidden, but his mouth, good heavens, his mouth was beautiful. It was a silly, startling thing to notice as his full lips quirked and he smirked down at her.
“Hello,” she said softly.
Her pulse jumped as she noted the enormous size of his shoulders, his expansive chest, and his arms, bulging beneath the finery of his black evening jacket. With short-cropped hair the color of fallen oak leaves, he was massive, and his stature seemed more fit for a laborer than a gentleman.
“Archer. How the devil did riffraff like you get an invitation to this?” Clifton said, smirking.
It was an insult, but to Sarah’s surprise, the man’s smile widened, as his gaze traveled back to Sarah. Turning to Clifton, he reached out and patted the viscount forcefully on the back, knocking the wind out of the man and ignoring etiquette.
“I thought the whole point of these balls was that you weren’t supposed to know anyone’s name?” Archer said, his accent thick and low. He sounded like a dockhand. A dockhand dressed in fine, expensive fabric. What an oddity. He was nearly clean-shaven, save for the hint of stubble that shadowed his face. Sarah was becoming increasingly intrigued by this man. “Besides, if they were going to keep out anyone, it’d be the likes of you, Clifton.”
“All right, all right,” Clifton said, gazing around. “Truce.” He faced Sarah. “As I am not allowed to introduce you, let me assure you, you’ll never meet Archer at any of the balls in Mayfair. He’s not exactly first society.”
“I’m not even third society.”
“Is that so?” Sarah asked.
“Aye,” the man said, shaking her from her thoughts.
Clearing her throat, she instead decided to focus on the man before her. His full mouth quirked up and she swallowed. “And yet you’ve secured an invitation to one of the Duke of Ainsworth’s parties?”
“I’m rich,” he said without a hint of shame. “Obscenely so.”
Clifton scowled while Sarah laughed. What a ridiculous declaration, especially to someone he just met. But he had made her smile.
“I do believe you aren’t of first society,” she said. “What an outrageous thing to say.”
“Beware, my lady,” Clifton said, appearing bored. “He’s trying to shock you with his lack of manners.”
“Is he?” she asked, her eyes on Archer.
“Aye,” he said after a moment, the term decidedly unschooled and for some reason, deliciously irresistible to Sarah. “I am.”
She stared at him as she felt herself become both flustered and unexpectedly brave. As if something primitive within her was answering something deep within him.
“Shall we?” she asked, offering her hand to him. Why she was suddenly so determined to be in his company she did not know, only that this man made her feel strange. Not giddy, she had experienced too much of life to be giddy, but something close to it. She would dance with him and who knows what else, as he took her waiting hand that he observed with curiosity. “You asked if you might cut in. You may.”
Intrigue flickered in his expression.
“Be careful, Archer,” Clifton said as he led her away. “She’s under protection.”
But the two were so infatuated with each other that they barely registered Clifton’s warning as they moved to the dance floor. The music started slowing and Archer held her too close, but they were hardly the only couple to be seen doing so. The entire dance floor was covered with partners, their sultry stares and barely hidden groping made it seem that some may be likely to start tearing clothes off instead of finishing the waltz. Sarah only saw Archer, who appeared equally as enchanted with her as she was with him.
“Are you?” he asked, his tone lower than it had been before. “Under someone’s protection?”
She grinned and dipped her chin.
“In a way, yes.”
“In what way?”
“In the way that affords me protection,” she said, smiling. He laughed and Sarah felt a thrill go through her at the sound. “Your name is Archer?”
“It is.”
“Not one of the Archer brothers? The lumber barons?”
“The very same,” he said, smiling with mischief. “Simon Archer, at your service. And you are?”
“I don’t think I should tell you,” she said, teasing. “I’d prefer to keep my identity a secret.”
“Ah. Are you someone important, then?” He fished. “Would your reputation be damaged if society knew you were here?”
“Possibly.”
“And with someone like me?”
“Someone rich like you?” She parried.
“I’m rich now,” he said, cocking his head. “But I was poorer than dirt for a long time and society won’t ever let me forget it.” Though she had not wanted to, a sudden pang of guilt shot through her. Her smile faltered slightly and he must have noticed, because he smirked, adding, “Don’t worry, my lady, I do not concern myself with what others think of me. Besides, I’m far too wealthy to care.” He winked and she smiled shamelessly. “You know, I could keep you in such riches you would never want for anything ever again.”
“I don’t want riches,” she said, careful not to explain. Her own voice became huskier than she had wanted it to sound. “Money means very little to me.”
“Spoken by someone who has never been hungry.”
Challenged, she decided to question him.
“And are you hungry still? Now that you’re a wealthy man?”
The mischievous glint in his stare told her he was, even before he answered.
“Always.”
Sarah’s heart fluttered at his response.
“My,” she said as the danced. “You seem determined to shock me. Mr. Simon Archer.”
“You must tell me who you are,” he insisted, as he twirled her out of his arms. “You’re too soft to be a courtesan, but too smart to be an innocent. Are you married?”
“I was.”
“But not anymore?” She shook her head. “Then you are either a divorcee or a widow. I hope it is the former.”
“Why is that?”
“Because a divorced woman would likely despise her former husband, which would make my plans of seduction a lot easier.”
“Do you plan to seduce me?” she asked, smiling, surprised that he would be so forthcoming.
