Dammit all to hell!
How terribly inconvenient Robert, Earl of Ritchfield, should be at Ritchfield Park the very same time as she!
Well, she would just have to make the best of it. Pretend all was well. Behave in a manner befitting a countess. Be respectful. Attempt an air of friendliness.
Act as if the past ten years hadn’t left her feeling bereft and alone.
They might be estranged, only seeing one another on occasion when he was in London for Parliament, but they were not enemies. Nor were they divorced.
Seeing him like this, though—his harsh features softened in the dimmer interior lighting of the country estate—had her inhaling softly. Ivy was reminded of their second meeting in London. At the time, the enigmatic earl had been on the list of every Mayfair mother with a daughter of marriageable age—her own mother included. Although Ivy hadn’t found Robert Strathford, Earl of Ritchfield, particularly handsome, her body had reacted in a most unusual manner.
Much as it was still doing now, damnation.
How was it he could so easily have her stomach filling with flutterbies and her body begging for his touch? Her nipples tightening into hard buds and frissons skittering beneath her skin? Without so much as saying or doing anything but standing there? Looking all perfectly clothed and far too calm?
Whatever chill she had felt from the winter weather outside quickly succumbed to the fever she seemed to be suffering on the inside.
Determined to be on her very best behavior, Ivy pulled back her shoulders and made sure she displayed a pleasant expression.
Before she could say or do anything else, though, Robert disappeared into the study and shut the door.
Ivy let out the breath she had been holding in a huff. Deciding she wasn’t going to allow his presence to change herplans for the upcoming Christmas holiday, she placed her hat on the shelf, pulled off her gloves, and wriggled out of her redingote. After hanging it on one of the pegs, she wiped her feet and followed Perkins’ tracks up the stairs and to her bedchamber.
She was the Countess of Ritchfield, after all, and nothing—not even her husband—was going to ruin Christmas.
