Free A Notorious Countess Confesses (PG7) by Julie Anne Long Page A

footman?
    “Reverend?” she said, a bit uneasily, after a moment.
    He realized he’d stopped breathing. He exhaled carefully.
    “Of course. Thank you, Mrs. Dalrymple. I’ll just see what it might be, shall I?”
    She extended her arms, and he took the package and the message from her. She waited. Presumably she could cast it into the fire with great haste.
    “Thank you, Mrs. Dalrymple,” he said, gently but firmly.
    She backed away, apparently loath to leave him alone with it.
    He wanted to be alone with it.
    He examined the handwriting, as if it would provide clues to her. He in fact wanted to postpone the moment of opening it, the moment when he learned more about who she was. To prolong the unexpectedly pleasurable shock of its arrival. For what he read might undo all of it.
    He finally broke the seal.
    Dear Reverend Sylvaine,
    While I’m assured your cravat is beyond salvaging, I’m certain our horse would thank you for the gift of it he could. I hope you will accept the enclosed by way of thanks for your kindness. It belonged to my husband, but since he is no longer alive and since he possessed forty-seven of them if he posessed one (I am never certain of the number of s’s that ought to be in that word, I hope you will forgive me that and my spelling in general), I cannot think it’s an inapropriate gift, though mind you I am no expert on what is apropriate. I hope we may begin our aquaintance again over tea on Tuesday next at Damask Manor, where I will attempt to demonstrate that I do have manners, contrary to what you likely currently believe. I understand it is the custom of Pennyroyal Green natives to feed the vicar as often as possible, and when in Rome! I shall endeavor not to bore you.
    Your neighbor,
    Countess of Wareham
    He was charmed motionless by the poor spelling and the apology.
    He read it again. His thoughts ricocheted between suspicion and sympathy. She was a professional enchantress, after all.
    He’d read it three times before he realized he’d been smiling nearly the entire time he’d read it.
    He slowly unfurled the cravat and ran it through his fingers. Silk, it was, and spotless as the soul of a saint.
    It had once belonged to a man who’d won the right to marry her in a card game.
    No, not at all an appropriate gift for a vicar. And this was part of its charm, too, and part of its danger.
    He had a duty to all parishioners; he’d dined with nearly all of them. And if she intended to become one of them, he could hardly decline the invitation.
    She never does anything without a reason, Colin had said.
    A strategist, his cousins had described her. Who knew how to get what she wanted and always gotten it. Clearly, she wanted something from him.
    God help him, he couldn’t wait to find out what it was.
    “NO JEWELRY,” HENNY had advised adamantly. “He’s a vicar. He’ll likely already know you’ve been a kept woman, and you needn’t remind ’im of it by decorating yerself overmuch.”
    In the intervening days, Henny had discovered that Reverend Sylvaine was related to the Everseas— a cousin on their mother’s side. And that the sister of Mrs. Wilberforce, their housekeeper, kept house for Pennyroyal Green’s doctor. Which likely solved the mystery of how the entire town had learned exactly who had taken Damask Manor.
    So Evie wore no jewelry, apart, that was, from the St. Christopher’s medal she always wore. It hung warmly between her breasts, and her hand went up to touch its reassuring shape as she stood in the drawing room and craned her head to see Reverend Sylvaine hand off his hat and coat to her footman. Who seemed puzzled, as if he’d never before seen a coat that hadn’t been brushed and groomed within an inch of its life by a valet.
    And then the vicar turned and took a few steps into the room. He halted when he saw her standing against the hearth, right below a gigantic portrait of a glowering, bearded, ruffed fellow, likely one of the earl’s