Romancing the Countess Read Online Free PDF Page B

smiled, then looked behind him in search of his mother.
    Sebastian blinked as a footman swung the entrance door wide and beckoned him inside. Giving his card, he said, “I believe Mrs. George is expecting me.”
    The footman bowed. “Of course, my lord. If you would follow me, please.”
    Instead of leading him to one of the more formal receiving rooms as he’d expected, the servant continued up the staircase to the second floor, toward the bedchambers. As they reached the landing, Sebastian could hear Leah’s voice, strong and clear, so different from Angela’s soft, dulcet speech.
    “That one to charity. No, not the striped one—the footmen can look over it first. And the hat—yes, the one with the red band. My God, how many hats does one man need?”
    The footman halted before what appeared to be the master’s bedchamber. “The Earl of Wriothesly, madam.”
    There was a noticeable silence, and Sebastian wondered whether she’d forgotten about the message she’d sent. Then: “Oh, yes. Please come in, my lord. It will be only a moment.”
    Pausing at the threshold, Sebastian peered inside. While the room might indeed have once been assigned the role of bedchamber, it now resembled little more than a storage closet. Waistcoats, jackets, top hats, trousers—every article of a gentleman’s wardrobe was separated into haphazard piles, with some thrown onto the bed, others embraced by the chairs in front of the hearth, and even more scattered on the floor. As he watched, a short line of footmen and maids exited the dressing room, each carrying another stack of clothing. These were dumped at the foot at the bed, which seemed to be the only space unoccupied in the room.
    Mrs. George came at the end, her arms wrapped around a tower of bandboxes, her head peeking around the side as she walked. After tumbling them into the center of the new pile, she turned around, dusted her hands together, then curtsied. “My lord.”
    He should never have told her to remove the veil. Her eyes were too bright—dear God, sparkling even— her cheeks flushed, her lips creased in an upward curve which appeared inclined toward permanence.
    Sebastian would have preferred tears. Torrents of them, in fact.
    “You’re not wearing a widow’s cap,” he said.
    She grimaced. “Yes, of course you would say something.” Gesturing toward the servants sorting behind her, she said, “I’ve decided it’s unnecessary. My clothes declare me to be in mourning, and the widow’s cap was only making me feel like a mare with blinders on. Besides, I’m in my own home, with no one to see me except the servants. And, well, you.” She paused, her lips tilting upward again in that annoying little manner. “I hope I haven’t offended you.”
    Of course, she wasn’t sincere. Nothing about her appearance or tone could convince him that his opinion mattered in the least.
    She was so damned happy , a novelty in his miseryshadowed world of the past three months. His servants, his brother, the other lords at Parliament—everyone tiptoed around him, careful not to speak too loudly or laugh in his presence. Only Henry dared to smile at him, his childish innocence leaving him oblivious to the despair which had settled over the house and all of its occupants.
    But Leah George wasn’t a child who didn’t know any better. And even if she’d known of the affair months ago—even if she despised Ian for it—she should at least have the decency to be miserable, too. If not for his death, then for the knowledge that she’d been betrayed. For the sudden change in the life that she knew. For not being able to wear anything other than black, for the balls and soirees and musicales it was now inappropriate for her to attend. God, for anything , as long as she didn’t smile like that.
    Sebastian responded with an emphatic frown, dismissing her as he glanced over her shoulder. “I see you’re cleaning.”
    None of his maids had been sent into Angela’s rooms;