The Countess by Catherine Coulter

It really didn’t touch me as I just stood there looking at the man who was my

father, the man I had hated for so very long, the man who had made my life a

nightmare of bitter, emptying fear, and had made me a coward. John had been

right. I had blanked out life, and it was all because of this man. I saw him

reach out a hand to me. A strong hand, well shaped, steady. I didn’t move.

I thought how very much alike we were. It was like looking in a mirror, seeing

myself in another thirty or so years. My poor mother, I looked not a bit like

her. I heard myself say in a calm, very distant voice, “You wrote me a letter

that made no sense at all. You wrote nothing of any real substance, just

melodramatic drivel about being in danger. No, I am lying, and it is too late

for deception of any kind now. I planned to leave very soon, but it wasn’t just

because of your warning letter. This monster terrorized me, and that is why I

was going to leave. I just didn’t realize that he was the one responsible for

all of it until yesterday.”

Lawrence tightened his grip on my arm. It hurt, but I kept quiet. “I, a monster?

Look at him, my dear wife, that is the monster, and well you know it.”

And then I really looked at the man who lay on that mean narrow bed, the man

whose blood I carried, the man who had given me his features, the man who had

come to England to rescue me, the man who, I realized finally, was in dreadful

pain only because he had come to save me, and I whispered, “Father. You are hurt.”

I saw the horrible stain-caked blood on his right shoulder, saw the raggedness

of his clothes, the mud and the filth.

I made a move toward him, but my husband once again tightened his grip on my arm

and held me still.

“Does this mean that you wish to forgive him for all he did to your mother? All

that he did to you? Oh, I see the pity in your eyes for him. Don’t worry, I

placed the bullet well. He won’t die just yet.”

I began rhythmically petting George, who had pressed himself hard against my

chest. I said to my husband, “What did he do to you that you have hurt him? That

you lured him to England and shot him and made him a prisoner?”

Lawrence laughed. “Well, Jameson, do you want to tell her of your despicable

lechery or shall I?”

My father said, “It does not concern her, Lyndhurst. Leave it between us, where

it belongs.”

“I don’t think so, Jameson. After all, it was only through using her as

delicious bait that I could get to you. Even then I wondered if you would come,

if you had any feeling at all for her. How I prayed that you did. I decided the

best way to get you back, probably the only sure way, was to marry her. Then you

would accept that she was completely in my power. But I tell you, when I sent

the announcements to every newspaper I could think of, I was praying that you

would discover what I had done soon. If you had not, then I would have been

stuck with her until I could think of something else. Ah, but you did read my

beautifully phrased wedding announcement. You wrote her that letter to warn her,

and then you came, her white knight to rescue her. But, of course, it didn’t

matter. I controlled everything. Yes, everything I planned has worked out

perfectly. You, her, even my miserable nephew.

“Ah, my dear nephew John. Now, that was a treat. I watched him fall in love with

her. Indeed, I believe my poor nephew fell in love with her even before I had

arrived in London to woo her. But she was so damaged by you, made so wary of men

by the example of your blatant lechery, that she saw my nephew as nothing more

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