A Companion for the Count: A Regency Romance by Britton, Sally (story reading .txt) 📗

something in her sketch that Emma wasn’t certain she liked. An open, undisguised longing. Despite the peaceful pose—her form an idea rather than a finished concept—her detailed expression wasn’t one Emma wanted anyone else to see.

She swallowed and forced a smile when she met Alice’s probing gaze. “Thank you, Alice. I think your skill with portraits is comparable to your botany work. Perhaps better.”

Alice’s eyebrows raised. “Thank you.” Did she know what she had seen? Did she guess at what Emma’s true feelings were? Perhaps she had caught that expression upon Emma’s face in an unguarded moment, and her steady line of questions had been Alice’s attempt to puzzle out what it meant.

The men were marching to the short boat launch upon the lake. Emma stood with a deliberate movement. “Oh, look. I think the race will start soon.” She plucked her parasol from the ground and popped it open. “We had better attend to it.”

The other ladies playing with their mallet and balls had come to the same conclusion, as they put their equipment down and started walking toward the water. Alice and Josephine stood and brushed at their skirts, then Isabel and Rosalind joined them. The young girls took up bickering over the game as they fell into step behind the three adult women.

Sir Andrew stood at the forefront of one group of men, giving orders and gesturing to where he wanted each man to sit. Simon had his own small crew to direct, and it appeared Lord Atella had been conscripted into the earl’s boat. The third vessel was manned by the only married man in the group, young though he was, their neighbor Mr. Whitfield. Rupert Gardiner, Alice’s intended, manned an oar for that team.

Simon saw the ladies and chaperones gathering along the shore and waved at them, then shouted. “We are first going to get our boats to the other side of the lake. Once they are in line, we will race back to the dock. The first boat to draw even with the dock is the winning team.” He gestured to Lord Addington upon the dock with them. “Our friend, Baron Addington, will wait for us to signal we are ready. Then he will fire his weapon, signaling the race’s start.”

“Brave of them, to move a university river sport to a lake,” one of the matrons said quietly to her daughter.

Emma looked over the pastel dresses and ribboned bonnets, counting seventeen unmarried ladies. They were all neighbors, except for a few guests of the duke she had met the day before at dinner. The castle hosted many people when the duke was in residence. And every guest with single daughters was always certain to bring them, likely hoping to catch Simon’s eye.

As of yet, no one had accomplished such a thing.

“The earl is in fine form,” Miss Finchley, the baron’s daughter, murmured to her mama. “He is so handsome.”

Someone agreed, and Emma bit her tongue. Would they find him nearly so handsome if he wasn’t the heir to a dukedom? Miss Finchley ought to have given up her pursuit by that point. The previous summer, she had shown she possessed an unfeeling heart when a small boy—her father’s ward—had gone missing, and she’d thought it a waste of time to go looking for him.

The duke’s family, despite their high birth, were exceptionally compassionate toward others. Someone with a stony heart and an attitude dismissive of others could never impress Simon.

The men climbed into their boats and began rowing across the lake.

Emma picked out Lord Atella among them, rowing with as much vigor as his fellows. “I do hope the conte is all right,” she murmured quietly to her friends. “He said he didn’t participate in rowing as a sport.”

“If he elected to join them, I’m certain he will be well enough.” Josie shaded her eyes, having forgotten her parasol under the tree. “I only hope Simon trounces Sir Andrew. Your cousin is insufferable when he wins any sort of game.”

Alice pursed her lips and turned just enough to look at both of them from the corner of her eye. “I am surprised either of you care about the outcome of the race.”

Josephine colored. “I don’t care who wins, you understand. As long as it isn’t Sir Andrew. Though I suppose I ought to cheer for my brother.”

The men had nearly reached the far side of the lake, rowing in unison.

“Lady Josephine?” Lady Addington turned to peer at them. “Where did your brother find boats built for rowing teams?”

“My father had them made, but shorter and more suitable for a lake than the long boats used in the river races.” Josephine’s benevolent smile, the one she reserved for people for whom she had no personal affection yet knew she must treat with respect, seemed to please the baroness. And act as an invitation to more chatter.

“His Grace is always so thoughtful of others. The invitation for today’s event said it was meant to be a welcome for the new ambassador from Sicily. Though I know the baron met him, we have not yet had the opportunity to introduce my darling Elizabeth. Do you think—when the race is over—you might correct that oversight?”

Emma saw the way Josephine bristled, even if it was too subtle for others to notice the way the corners of her eyes and mouth tightened. Josephine’s polite smile widened. “I am certain we can arrange that, my lady.”

Directing her gaze away, Emma had to bite her tongue. It wasn’t enough for Miss Finchley to go after Simon, but she had to pursue a foreign count, too?

“He’s very dashing,” Miss Finchley said, and Emma could well imagine how the young woman would bat her eyelashes as she spoke. “Though quite old, I think.”

Why did everyone think him old? Emma huffed quietly.

“I thought so, too,” Josephine said, surprising Emma by agreeing with anything Elizabeth Finchley had to say. “My father informed me, when I asked, that he is eight and twenty. Nearly a decade our