The Countess by Catherine Coulter

Peter could have looked like an angel or a monster, it wouldn’t have mattered to

me. I wasn’t afraid of Peter. I’d trusted him implicitly since I’d been three

years old and he’d pulled me out of a sinking mud hole by a pond that was

dragging me under. I had worshiped him ever since, much to his disgust and

chagrin, since he’d been a strapping boy at Eton and had occasionally brought

his friends home, only to have his little cousin staring up at him with naked

adoration, her skinny arms held wide for him to pick her up.

“Tell me that it isn’t true,” he said at last.

“Is this why you came here? Is this why you’re angry?”

“Naturally. I knew nothing of this. I had to learn about it from Major Henchly,

who read it in a letter from his wife. You didn’t even have the nerve to write

me and tell me yourself what you planned to do. Tell me it’s a mistake, a bit of

unappetizing gossip, nothing more. Tell me.”

“I’m twenty-one years old. I am my own woman.

I don’t need anyone’s permission to do anything. You are not my guardian, Peter.”

“You’re wrong there. Not only am I the seventh Duke of Broughton, I am also your

guardian. You may be a grown woman, but you’re still a woman and that means that

as long as there is a male relative, it is his responsibility to see that you

come to no harm.”

“We’re not talking about protecting me from harm here, Peter, we’re talking

marriage, a simple, straightforward marriage.”

“Nothing in your life to date has been simple or straightforward. You have a

Machiavellian mind, Andy. Grandfather always told me you did. He marveled at the

way your mind worked, wrote me endlessly about how you would solve this puzzle,

come up with three options for the resolution of another problem, and dance

until dawn, all at the same time. He said you thirsted after conundrums.

“In my opinion, your mind is a woman’s mind, twisted and brilliant, all of it

mixed together, and many times you don’t realize which one is which.”

“Have you just insulted me?”

“No. You’ll know it well enough when I insult you. Like now. Prepare yourself.”

But he didn’t give me more than a second for any preparation. He shouted right

in my face, “You’re an idiot, Andy, if this nonsense is true. A blithering idiot

who needs to be locked away, something I might well consider.”

“You’re a man when it comes down to it,” I shouted back, and I heard my own deep

anger, the miserable bitterness lacing through my words. “I wouldn’t be

surprised at how low even you would stoop, if it pleased you.”

He backed up a step, reined himself in, and said more quietly, “I apologize for

yelling at you. No, we are not going to leap for each other’s throats or say

things that will do irreparable damage. I’m going to be calm about this. I am

your senior by nearly six years. I am a man filled with reason, overflowing with

common sense. I am now the Duke of Broughton. You are my responsibility now. I

love you. But now it’s time for you to tell me the truth.”

I watched, holding my tongue, fascinated at the fury I saw building up in him.

He drew in a deep breath, held it, then it burst out, and he shouted again at

the top of his lungs, “What the devil has gotten into you, you damnable twit?

And don’t try to sidetrack the issue, as you do so well. Tell me what the hell

is in that twisted mind of yours.”

I took another sip of my brandy, still silent. That caught his attention. He

frowned, then proceeded to sidetrack himself. “I gave it to you, damn me. You

shouldn’t drink that stuff. Only men drink brandy. Grandfather gave you the

taste for it. Curse him for not realizing you were just a thirteen-year-old girl

when he gave you your first snifter. Damnation, speak to me, Andy, and don’t you

dare tell me why you must needs drink brandy.”

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