Her countess to cherish, p.1
Her Countess to Cherish, page 1
Her Countess to Cherish
Synopsis
Miss Beatrice Everson has managed to marry the Earl of Sinclair, solving
her family’s disastrous financial problems for good. She should be the
happiest woman in London, but a less than satisfactory wedding night has
Beatrice fleeing her husband and planning an affair with the dashing Mr.
George Smith.
Lady Georgina Smith has a secret she must keep at all costs: she divides her
time running a bluestocking salon as Gina, and carousing across London as
George. Captivated by Beatrice’s wit and charm, Georgina realizes that her
secret is in danger—along with her heart.
When Beatrice discovers that her wedding night has resulted in an
unexpected pregnancy, she sees an opportunity to have it all by divorcing
Sinclair and marrying George. However, Georgina isn’t sure that a lifetime
spent as a man is staying true to herself. Beatrice and Georgina must risk
giving up their secrets to finally have their heart’s desire. But is the risk too
great to take?
Praise for Her Lady to Love
“If you are looking for a sweet, cozy romance with grounded leads, this is
for you. The author’s dedication to the little cultural details do help flesh
out the setting so much more. I also loved how buttery smooth everything
tied together. Nothing seemed to be out of place, and the romance had some
stakes…Highly recommended.”— Colleen Corgel, Librarian, Queens
Public Library
“Walsh debuts with a charming if flawed Regency romance…Though
Honora’s shift from shy curiosity to boldly stated interest feels a bit abrupt,
her relationship with Jacquie is sweet, sensual, and believable. Subplots
about a group of bluestockings and a society of LGBTQ Londoners add
depth.”— Publishers Weekly
“What a delightful queer Regency era romance…Her Lady to Love was a
beautiful addition to the romance genre, and a much appreciated queer
involvement. I’ll definitely be looking into more of Walsh’s works!”—
Dylan Miller, Librarian (Baltimore County Public Library)
“[I]t’s the perfect novel to read over the holidays if you love gorgeous
writing, beautiful settings, and literal bodice ripping! I had such a brilliant
time with this book. Walsh’s novel has such an excellent sense of the time
period she’s writing in, and her specificity and interest in the historical
aspects of her plot really allow the characters to shine. The inclusion of
details, specifically related to women’s behaviour or dress, made for a vivid
and exciting setting. This novel reminded me a lot of something like Vanity
Fair (1847) (but with lesbians!) because of its gorgeous setting and
intriguing plot.”— The Lesbarary
Her Countess to Cherish
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By the Author
Her Lady to Love
Her Countess to Cherish
Her Countess To Cherish
© 2021 By Jane Walsh. All Rights Reserved.
ISBN 13: 978-1-63555-903-3
This Electronic Original Is Published By
Bold Strokes Books, Inc.
P.O. Box 249
Valley Falls, NY 12185
First Edition: August 2021
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the
product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any
resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments,
events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without
permission.
Credits
Editor: Cindy Cresap
Production Design: Stacia Seaman
Cover Design: Tammy Seidick
eBook Design: Toni Whitaker
Acknowledgments
Many thanks to Radclyffe, Sandy, Cindy, and everyone on the Bold Strokes
team for everything they do. I am thrilled that my Regencies have a home
with BSB.
I am particularly grateful for the time and effort that my sensitivity reader,
Kai, spent on my work to review the bigender representation.
My wonderful wife’s thoughtfulness and support carried me through writing
this book. Thank you, Mag, for your advice and encouragement, and for all
the bouquets of flowers that adorned my writing room as I worked. Your
love means the world to me.
This book is first and foremost about family, and community. I am forever
grateful for the friends and family that I am lucky enough to have in my
life.
For Mag, my endlessly curious bluestocking
CHAPTER ONE
England, 1813
The party to celebrate the upcoming nuptials of Miss Beatrice Everson
and the Earl of Sinclair was sadly below average. At least, that was
Beatrice’s opinion. For all she knew of the earl, maybe he considered it to
be a smashing success. She took a deep breath, smiled at the guests who
didn’t wish to be wishing her well, and wondered how gauche it would be if
she were the first to leave the party thrown in her own honor.
It wasn’t as if she didn’t like parties. In fact, she should be in her
element tonight as the center of attention. Long ago, she had perfected her
arts: a throaty laugh for the fun-loving gentlemen with little means, a doe-
eyed simper for the older men with their vast estates and bank accounts, and
witty banter with a droll roll of the eye for the fashionable set. For the
women of the ballrooms, however, she employed but one sort of look: a
snide judgmental sneer. An all-encompassing expression that spoke
volumes. They’re all mine. Come no closer. I daresay, isn’t your hemline
terribly last season?
Bea hesitated to use any of these practiced efforts on the company
tonight. None of them were friends, but as it was her own engagement
party, none of them were rivals either. In fact, most were strangers to her.
The Duchess of Hawthorne had arranged the event—and had made it clear
to her that it was for the earl’s benefit. Presumably because she considered
Beatrice to be no more than a vulgar upstart.
Her parents were present, but she had no desire to endure their
conversation.
Her dearest friends in the whole world were absent, barred from the
guest list.
And her fiancé, who had ignored her during the entirety of their two-
week engagement, continued to do so tonight in the company of his former
men-at-arms. Sinclair had been a captain in the army for the past half dozen
years before inheriting the earldom from his late brother. No doubt he was
having jolly good fun with his friends, with the promise of billiards and
brandy later.
Beatrice’s jaw clenched. But a tight jaw would lead to a pinched lip and
a furrowed brow, and she was too young to court wrinkles, so she smiled
instead. Blinking to brighten her eyes with false merriment, she glided over
to a stranger and cried, “Is this not the most glorious party?”
The woman looked at her with reproach. “Indeed,” she said and turned
away.
As she scanned the room for someone— anyone—who would talk to her
despite the scandalous nature of her engagement, she failed to notice her
father approaching until it was too late.
“The Eversons always come out on top,” he said in her ear. “You’ve
done us proud at last.”
Her father was a small man, dapper and sharp and showy. Silver glinted
at his temples, and rubies shone from the pin stuck in his cravat. Fake
rubies, Bea knew. More than a few interested matrons were eyeing him, and
she hoped her mama couldn’t see them. They weren’t faithful to each other
but would seize any opportunity to have a screaming match. Bea wasn’t
convinced that being guests tonight at the ducal residence would prevent
their theatrics.
He clinked his glass against hers. “Haven’t you one of your little
witticisms to add?” He smirked, then frowned at his wine. “There’s a speck
in this.” He thrust it at a passing footman, who stumbled with his tray of
glassware.
Beatrice gave the footman an apologetic look, then glared at her father.
“There is not much to be proud of, is there?”
“A girl has to get marr
spinsterhood. But it was a good thing in the end that you frittered all those
years away, because you had a fine use. We don’t breed weaklings, after all.
Strong hardy stock, we are.”
“And yet so much of our stock has been lost to the banks of the gaming
hells,” she snapped.
“We’re out of the thick of it now, my girl. Thanks to the deep pockets of
your betrothed.”
He grinned at her, and she had a flash of memory of living for those
smiles when she had been a child. His confidence had always been
infectious. Financial ruin had done nothing to affect his buoyancy.
There had been years in her youth when they had survived on the
generosity of distant relatives, interspersed with years where her father
gambled coins he didn’t have at a shocking rate. But this had been one of
the lavish years. She had been delighted when her dressmakers’ bills had
been paid promptly and in full, a first in her six London Seasons.
Three months ago, the luck turned south. Again. Letters were followed
by creditors who knocked on their door day and night, this time with the
threat of debtor’s prison. Her father decided to use one final ace up his
sleeve—Beatrice. Her mission from that instant had been to find the
wealthiest man on the market to wed.
Despite his impressive military career, the Earl of Sinclair hadn’t stood
a chance against the onslaught of Beatrice’s desperation.
Beatrice looked her father in the eye. “Whatever Sinclair gave you, keep
it in your pocket and away from the tables.”
He smirked. “My luck will run better than ever, girl. Just you wait and
see. You think you’re so fancy with your titled husband now, my lady? I
will have my own house to rival this one when this year is through.”
“You will take what was given and you will ask for no more,” she said.
Sinclair had already saved them once. Bea refused to see him bankrupted
for her father’s pleasure.
“Your husband is a good man. Now he’s family. Family looks out for
each other, don’t they?”
Tension crackled between them.
“I say, this is a splendid party, is it not?”
Beatrice started. Mr. George Smith popped up beside her, beaming. He
had a face full of freckles and sported a copper red pompadour. “Miss
Everson, I must offer you my congratulations on your engagement.”
She had the pleasure of meeting him once or twice during the Season
and had always appreciated his style and boyish charm. Now she could add
excellent timing to the list. Oh, why could she not have had the choice of a
man like Mr. Smith to marry?
She knew the answer, of course. The Mr. Smiths of this world might
have real rubies in their cravat pins, but they would never wield the power
of a title.
Mr. Everson eyed the bright colors of Mr. Smith’s waistcoat, which
stood out from the crowd of fashionable black and navy, and dismissed him
from notice.
“I will leave you to your guests, my dear,” he said to Beatrice, and he
strode into the gaggle of matrons who had been flirting with him with their
fans.
“Did I appear to be a damsel in distress?” she asked Mr. Smith. He must
have overheard the argument with her father. She waved her fan to cool the
flush of embarrassment from her face, glad that it was an expensive one
with ostrich feathers. “I assure you, I can take care of myself.”
“I have no doubt,” he replied, and his blue eyes twinkled at her. “But
your father seemed to have an aggravating effect on you.”
“I’ve been told I’m very like him,” she drawled. “We both take what we
want and live only for pleasure.”
“Forgive me, I thought you might need some cheering up. You looked
miserable at your own party.”
“When it is one’s own party, doesn’t one have the right to misery?”
“Ah, but why court misery when one could court pleasure instead?”
Beatrice raised a brow. “I’m a woman to be wed, Mr. Smith. Some
might say I ought never to court pleasure again.”
He frowned. “And others may say that’s enough of a strike against the
institution to abolish it. I know many such ladies who would agree.”
“I’m sure you do,” she said. She touched her fan to her cheek, thinking
of the women he would have brought to bed. Probably a merry widow or
two. Nothing like herself.
He looked at her, and the pulse in Beatrice’s throat picked up speed. It
was a pity that she had no room in her life for sincere men. There was
something about him that felt comfortable, like a cozy pair of wool socks in
winter. She shook her head clear. She was strictly a silk stocking type of
woman.
He bowed and gave her a little wink as he straightened. “I have
monopolized you enough, Miss Everson. I hope to see you out and about in
London as Lady Sinclair soon.”
Beatrice sighed as she realized that she was standing alone again. She
flicked her curls over her shoulder and sauntered over to her future
husband. The Earl of Sinclair was easy enough to locate in the crowd. After
all, the guests who had ignored her all evening almost fell over themselves
to congratulate him.
He was a big blond man with an imposing presence and a face that
belonged on a classical painting. He could not have been more blessed in
society’s eyes—young and handsome, wealthy and titled, war hero and
gentleman.
Beatrice had to call upon a decade of practice to keep a bright smile on
her face as she slipped into his circle, taking up space as if she could ever
belong among them.
Sinclair’s military friends looked at her with appreciation, and their easy
flirtation heartened her. One leapt to her side, asking if she would like
another glass of wine. Another kissed the tips of her gloved fingers and
declared that Sinclair was the luckiest of devils to have landed her. A third
swept into a bow and told her with a sly grin that he would be happy to be
of service if Sinclair was ever not up to the task.
Sinclair growled and moved to her side. “Gentlemen, you forget
yourselves,” he said. “Is this any way to greet my soon-to-be wife?”
“I know how I’d like to greet such a wife,” one of them muttered with a
laugh.
“Enough,” Sinclair snapped, and his fingers dug into Beatrice’s upper
arm. “I need a moment to speak with Miss Everson.”
Sinclair only released his grip after he marched her up the stairs and
down a long hallway, stopping just outside her bedroom.
“Are you looking to anticipate our wedding vows, my lord?” she cooed
with false enthusiasm. She was seething inside. “It would be no more than
anyone would expect, as we are supposed to have done so already.”
He glowered. “This behavior is abhorrent,” he said. “You cheated me of
a demure, innocent wife. A woman who would be respected, who my sisters
could look up to. But instead of respect, you invite passion, Miss Everson.
Everyone downstairs could see it. They couldn’t help but to lust over you.”
She glared at him. It was always so, wasn’t it? Men like him celebrated
their sexual adventure. Women like her were expected to be desirable—but
untouchable. Her behavior downstairs had been nothing more than the usual
flirtation that she had enjoyed with any number of men over the years. In
fact, she had flirted like that with Sinclair before the engagement. He hadn’t
chastised her for it then.
“If you are speaking of your military friends, you are being ridiculous,”
she snapped. “They were gibing you and welcoming me, as the bride-to-be
