Free The Runaway Countess by Leigh LaValle Page B

concoction, the gown felt light as a maiden’s sigh and the shy curl of a rose petal at once.
    Mazie darted a glance at Trent. He watched her as he sipped from his glass, his neutral expression restored. An odd nervousness settled in her belly at the sight of him dressed in his formal black-and-white attire. His dark hair gleamed in the soft light from the windows, brushed back it brought out the hard angles of his cheekbones and lips. The scratch on his cheek had paled considerably and was hardly noticeable. She hated that he looked so good all the time, that his appearance had such an effect on her.
    She refused to let her emotions show on her face and reflected back his mask of polite disinterest. But then he slid his gaze from hers, let it stray over her in a lazy perusal. He lingered on her décolletage before returning to her burning face.
    Catherine laughed. “Oh, what fun this shall be.”
    Mazie tried to smile but her muscles pinched rather than lifted. Alice had badgered her into wearing a corset—of course Trent had sent her an argumentative maid—that dramatically lifted and shaped her breasts so that the white tops pressed above the neckline of her gown. The effect left her feeling startlingly provocative, nervous in a new way, and tingling in the oddest places. And it seemed Trent had noticed.
    “Shall we go in to dinner?” He walked across the room, putting an end to the pleasantries, and offered both ladies an arm. Mazie placed her gloved hand on his jacket and a thrill ran through her at the touch.
    It was naught but exhilaration. The thrill of surprising him, that was all.
    Trent led them into the dining room and a footman pulled back Mazie’s chair at the absurdly long and elaborate table. Decorated in shades of blue and silver, the room was lovely enough to worry her. The dress was one thing—who wouldn’t love it. But to be seduced by an entire estate? She did not want to enjoy the beauty of her surroundings. She did not want to sigh over the silver embroidery on the drapes or the rococo floral and leaf ornamentation around the ceiling. She certainly did not want to feel a pang of homesickness for the dining room at Rodsley Manor, where her mother had served the most delicious French food.
    In a strange way, this was the worst sort of punishment Trent could inflict upon her. This was Lady Margaret’s world. Mazie could not afford to grow accustomed to the comfort and luxury of the lifestyle. After her parents’ deaths it had taken her years to accept a future of lumpy mattresses and ill-fitting dresses. She hardly wanted to face that sense of loss again.
    A footman placed a bone china tureen in front of her. The fragrance of dilled cucumber wafted up and her mouth watered. Really, was it too much to ask that Trent’s cook be bland and boring?
    She sipped her soup. Delicious. The flavor was delicate and fresh and brought to mind summer gardens and morning dew. She glared at the bowl.
    “Is the soup not to your liking, Lady Margaret?”
    She glanced up at the absurdly handsome man sitting at the head of the table and sighed. She could not dislike her soup, no matter how she tried. “It is delectable.”
    He tilted his head to the side. “You say that as is if it were a tragedy.”
    “I am not so irresolute as to be felled by a bowl of soup.”
    A slight smiled played about his lips. “I thought this was dinner. I was not aware we waged a battle.”
    Everything was a battle between them, he must know that. She sipped her soup, aware that he watched. The long, absorbed looks he sent her way brought to mind the hunger of the underfed. She hoped the presentation of the second course would diminish the intensity of his gaze.
    No such luck.
    A mousse of whitefish was placed before them and neither Catherine nor her brother seemed inclined to carry on conversation. He continued to stare between bites, his focus lingering on her longer than was comfortable. She wished his attention was directed