The Countess by Catherine Coulter

that delicious roasted meat yourself, my lord,” I called out over my shoulder as

I dashed from the parlor. Once in my room, I quickly washed my hands, petted

George, and thus had to wash my hands again, kissed Miss Crislock even though

her mouth was full of her own dinner and she couldn’t kiss me back, then ran

lightly back down the stairs.

I paused by a long, narrow mirror that was on the closest wall at the bottom of

the stairs. I looked at the pale girl and frowned. I had no reason to be pale.

I’d been dashing about in the outdoors for nearly a full hour. What was wrong

with me? I looked at the girl again. She looked very alone, very pathetic,

really. But that was equally silly, I thought. I was used to being my own

mistress and being alone. Now I was still my own mistress, but I was no longer

alone. No, now I had a very fine husband. I remembered what Lady Fremont had

said behind her hand to me when she’d come to visit the day after our engagement

had been announced in the Gazette. “What a sly chit you are, Andrea Jameson.”

Then she’d actually tapped her fan on my arm. It had stung, and I realized she

had meant it to. “Here you have trapped one of the most eligible gentlemen about,

and you refuse to tell anyone how you did it. But surely, my dear, it is too

soon for you to wed? Your dear grandfather only passed from his mortal coil not

six months ago? Isn’t that right? Shame on you. But I suppose since you have no

mama to tell you what is right and what is impulsive?”

The spiteful old bitch. But unlike Peter, no one had seemed to see anything

amiss with my marrying Lawrence. Except that we had married too soon. But I

simply couldn’t bear London any longer. I couldn’t. And it wasn’t as if I

planned to go to Almack’s, or dance away the soles of my slippers at balls and

wear low-necked gowns.

No, we were going to the country, and there we would remain. My dear Miss

Crislock had developed a nasty cough in London that still hadn’t gone away. It

was doubtless from all the burning coal smoke. The country was the best place

for both of us. And my husband, too, of course.

Lawrence sat again by the fire, still reading the Gazette. Pratt was busy

crowding our table with roasted beef, potatoes, stewed turnips, and peas.

Goodness, there was even a brace of partridge tottering toward the edge of the

table, and more side dishes than I cared to count.

My stomach growled, loudly.

Lawrence looked up and gave me a pleasant smile.

“I’m glad you only took the time to wash your hands, Andrea, no, it’s Andy.

Elsewise you might have collapsed in your bath from hunger.”

That good-natured speech didn’t sound like he was overly concerned about my

consequence. Everything would be all right. I’d married well. My decision was

sound.

Every dish was delicious. I couldn’t remember when I’d eaten so much. I didn’t

talk, just ate and ate. I tucked away some of the delicious roasted beef into a

napkin for George. I had a mouthful of some sort of partridge when I glanced up

at Lawrence. He was looking in some astonishment at my refilled plate. I stopped,

my spoon in midair. “Oh, goodness, I am eating more than you ever imagined a

young lady eating, aren’t I? Do you believe me to be a glutton? I really don’t

blame you for thinking that. It’s just that everything tastes so wonderful, and

riding all day, with nothing at all to do, hollows out my stomach?”

Lawrence raised an elegant hand to shut me down, which I did, instantly. “I don’t

mean to embarrass you by staring, Andrea?no, it’s Andy. I’d just forgotten the

extraordinary appetites of the young. As one grows older, one either seems to

expand or retract.”

“I’m very relieved that you chose to retract,” I stopped dead, disbelieving what

I had said. I clamped my hands over my still-open mouth, dropped my fork, and