The Countess by Catherine Coulter

ten years old. I’ll never forget getting lost at least once a day for a good

three months.”

“It will take you awhile to learn your way around Devbridge as well. I’ve closed

off the north wing, so there will be fewer dark, musty corridors for you to

worry about.”

I have always loved Yorkshire. You know you’re in a special part of England when

you can see and smell the moors that seem to stretch on to Heaven. My husband’s

ancestral lands weren’t more than twenty miles southwest of York, one of my very

favorite cities. We spent nearly a half an hour in among rolling green hills

with thick wide forests of oak trees. Better yet, Devbridge Manor was only

fifteen miles from Deerfield Hall. I felt like I was coming home. Only

Grandfather wouldn’t be there.

When we rounded the last bend in the immensely long carriage drive, it was to

see Devbridge Manor still glistening beneath the dying rays of bright sun light.

It was as my husband had said, a motley assortment of architectural styles, but

all of them blended beautifully together, from the single crenellated tower to

the lovely Palladian arches.

I was in love before we even stopped in front of the huge front doors. They were

flung open by Moses. I will swear to my dying day that the Biblical Moses couldn’t

have appeared more impressive than the Devbridge butler, Brantley, with his

flowing white hair, his stark black costume, his pale eyes surely alight with

prophecies.

He snapped his fingers, and two footmen magically appeared, garbed in dark blue

and white livery. One of them opened the carriage door and the other set a stool

to step out upon.

Lawrence called, “Brantley, this, of course, is your new mistress.”

I expected a commandment to issue out of Brantley’s mouth, but when he spoke no

hillocks shook and no bushes burst into flames. He said in a rich voice as

smooth as brandy, “Welcome home, my lord, my lady. All the family is inside

waiting for you.”

I walked beside my husband into an ancient old hall that was dismal and smelled

faintly of lemon wax and decaying wood.

Brantley preceded us to a beautiful set of walnut doors off to the right. He

opened the doors, flinging his arms wide, and said, “The Earl and Countess of

Devbridge.”

The drawing room was long and narrow with a high-vaulted ceiling. Dark red

hangings and heavy mahogany furnishings dominated the room. There were three

lovely Turkey carpets dividing up the room, and the floor, showing between the

carpets, shone with a dark, rich patina. Everything glowed in the soft light of

at least fifty candles set all about the room in large ornate branches.

I saw three people in the room. They looked from Lawrence to me and back again.

They didn’t look very happy.

Chapter Six

“Into the ogre’s den,” my husband said near my ear, and then he chuckled and

squeezed my arm.

I tried to laugh, but it was difficult. I pulled myself together and swallowed

hard as I looked over at the three people who were still staring. They hadn’t

moved an inch toward us, but just stood there. I cleared my throat, and walked

forward.

Then I stopped cold. No, it simply wasn’t possible. It just couldn’t be him, it

just couldn’t. But it was. The man stepped out of the shadows at the far end of

the fireplace. It was John, the John George had adored, the John who had wanted

to meet me on three different occasions.

He was my husband’s nephew and heir. The sullen one, the one who did not deal

well with my husband, the one who was now home from the wars. To stay.

My step-nephew.

I decided then and there that I hated coincidences with all my heart.

Suddenly, without warning, I heard George’s mad barking behind me. He must have

spotted John, recognized him from the park, and broken free of dear Miss

Crislock’s arms. I didn’t know he had such acute eyesight.

George came dashing in, his tail waving so wildly that it was hard to see. He

barked and yipped and jumped as he ran full tilt at John, who quickly knelt down

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