The Countess by Catherine Coulter

in the soft lighting, and his brows were thick and slightly arched.
    â€œHow were you married?”
    John’s cold voice, so formal and thick with indifference, had me wanting to smack the rudeness out of him, but Lawrence said easily enough, “By Special License, of course. Bishop Costain is a friend of mine. He also knew your father, John. He was pleased to perform the ceremony.”
    Of course I couldn’t keep my mouth shut. I looked right at John and asked, “Did you think this was all a sham? Some sort of charade your uncle planned to entertain you?”
    John sat back in his chair, his wineglass held between his long fingers. “I have heard of men bringing their current mistresses into their homes and passing them off as their new wives. Naturally, such a pretense could never last very long.”
    â€œNo, I can’t imagine that such a charade would long fool anyone,” Lawrence said. “I remember all the gossip about Lord Pontly, an old roué of the last century, who brought five different brides home to his beleaguered family, only to be found out very quickly each time. The sixth time he tried it, his family refused to allow the supposed wife into the house. There was a huge ruckus.”
    Lawrence smiled at each of us around the table. “Naturally, number six really was the wife, the ceremony even performed by the local vicar.”
    â€œI’ve never heard of such a thing,” I said. “You’re not making that up, sir? A man really did that to his family? Five times? Why didn’t a member of his family just shoot him?”
    â€œI would think that there would be the temptation, but Lord Pontly died of just plain old age in his bed, his sixth wife, only a third his age, holding his hand when he passed, a peaceful look on his face, to the hereafter.”
    â€œI wonder,” Thomas said, and I thought even his voice was beautiful, so filled with unconscious charm even the blackest sinner would be tempted to repent, “if perhaps Lord Pontly was on to something, sir.”
    â€œWhat do you mean, Thomas?”
    â€œWell, if he died of old age, not some vile illness, then perhaps having all the sham wives kept him healthy. It must have added to his vigor, improved his outlook on his lot in life.”
    â€œAt least a sham wife could be tossed out the window when the man tired of her,” John said. “That would certainly go a long way to improve a man’s contentment.”
    Amelia threw her buttered roll at him, which hehandily ducked. “What a dreadful thing to say. You will take it back, John, right this minute, or I will think of something dreadful to do to you.”
    John raised his hands, splaying his fingers. “Acquit me, Amelia. Consider it unsaid. I apologize if you mistook my words.”
    â€œThere was nothing at all to be mistook,” I said. “If I had a roll I would be tempted to throw it at you, except that if I had one, I probably would eat it.”
    Thomas laughed, a delightful tolling of human bells, utterly charming to the ear. Did nothing the man do grate on one’s nerves?
    John said, “You must admit, Amelia, that occasionally women are fickle. Maybe more than occasionally.”
    I looked down to see that a roll had appeared on the edge of my plate. I looked to see Brantley removing himself once again to the dining room door. I picked up the roll and waved it at him, grinning. He had no expression whatsoever on his face. What was he thinking about all of us? Had he given me a roll so that I could throw it at John? Was he amused?
    â€œI have never met a fickle woman in my life,” Amelia said. “And your apology, John, rang as false as a sinner’s third promise to reform. No, I believe it is you men who are the fickle ones.”
    â€œThe reason Lord Pontly lived so long,” Lawrence said easily before Amelia could throw another roll at John, “is because he was such a