The Countess by Catherine Coulter

of that, ever.”

“And if he has lied to you? If he changes his mind and tells you he wants you in

his bed?”

“I won’t do it. I have told him so. He will not cross that line. Unlike the

tolerant attitude of most men when a woman is adamant about something, when I am

resolute, he knows it. He believes me.”

Peter didn’t say anything for the longest time. He walked away from me. He

stroked his chin, a habit of long-standing. “Oh, my God,” he said, turning back

to me. “I wondered why you turned down young Viscount Barresford, an excellent

man and sincerely attached to you. And Oliver Trever?another very nice man who

worshiped you?you went driving with him once, Grandfather told me, then you

refused to see him again.

“You believe to avoid all unhappiness by running from life? By shackling

yourself to an old man who swears he won’t touch you as a man touches a woman?”

Blacking out of life, that was what John had said. I shook my head. I was silent,

there was nothing more to be said, but Peter didn’t realize that. “Andy, listen

to me. Not all men are like your father. I never heard that my father was

unfaithful to my mother. Believe me, Andy, I am not like your father. When I

take a wife, I will be faithful to her. Many more men are like me rather than

like your father.”

Silence lay deeply between us.

He shook his head, and there was such sadness in his voice I wanted to cry. “No,

I can see that you refuse to believe that.”

I said, then, for there was nothing else to say to reconcile him, “The wedding

is Tuesday next. We leave immediately for Devbridge Manor. You are, of course,

welcome to come if you wish.”

“This is dreadfully wrong, Andy,” he said, “and it breaks my heart.”

I did not reply, for my throat was choked with tears.

I heard him stride quickly from the library, the doors banging behind him.

Through the windows I saw Williams, the groom, bringing around Peter’s horse,

Champion. He swung a leg over the saddle and was gone.

I curled up in the window seat and stared out at the gathering fog. Peter’s

final words rang in my head. “This is dreadfully wrong, Andy.” Dreadfully wrong.

Was he right? Was I escaping life, afraid of repeating my parents’ failure? Was

I blacking out life? I dashed my hand across my eyes, trying to rub away the

tears. And he had said that it broke his heart. But men didn’t have hearts that

broke, even Peter, though I had little doubt that he believed what he had said.

I had no doubt either that he did truly love me. But he hadn’t come home when

Grandfather had died because he’d had other, more important things to do. And no

one had thought very much of it. No one blamed him?no one except me.

No, men took and took and did just as they pleased. They were to be tolerated,

perhaps even loved, but never trusted. Even cousins who were so close they were

like brothers, and you loved them and they loved you. I would never find myself

with child and thus dependent upon a husband.

Grandfather had been different. I prayed that my future husband would be as well.

There was a light tap on the door. Skinny Lord Thorpe, a name Peter had given

Thorpe the butler ten years earlier, entered the library, stood straight and

proud as any aristocrat in front of me, and announced the arrival of the Earl of

Devbridge. I blinked in rapid succession to make the tears recede. Rising from

the window seat, I quickly smoothed my gown and my hair.

“Andrea,” he said in his smooth, beautifully modulated voice. “Andrea.”

I jumped, startled, and looked quickly around me. I wasn’t in Grandfather’s

library in Cavendish Square, but rather sitting across from my new husband in a

gently swaying chaise.

Chapter Four

“Andrea,” he said yet again, smiling at me, “have you been bored to death, my

dear? Or mayhap dreaming a bit yourself? I do believe that I nodded off for a

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