The Countess by Catherine Coulter Read Free Book Online Page B

Andrea—no, it’s Andy. I’d just forgotten the extraordinary appetites of the young. As one grows older, one either seems to expand or retract.”
    â€œI’m very relieved that you chose to retract,” Istopped dead, disbelieving what I had said. I clamped my hands over my still-open mouth, dropped my fork, and stared at my husband, so horrified and embarrassed I wanted to take George’s roasted beef pieces and slink away. To add more sticks to the fire, I very nearly said that I was feeling matronly now that I’d married him, and hoped I wouldn’t expand, but at the last minute I realized how precariously close to insulting that was, and so managed to keep my mouth shut.
    He stiffened up. I saw that clearly enough. I hadn’t meant an insult, I hadn’t. I had not meant to slight his age. I began shaking my head wondering how I could get out of the hole I’d just dug beneath my feet.
    He rescued me. The splendid man actually lifted me out of the hole and cut me free. “My dear Andrea, no, Andy, don’t apologize. No harm done. You speak what is on your mind, and for the most part, that is a charming thing. Not always, to be sure, but sometimes. Perhaps moderation is not a bad thing to consider, occasionally. Now, would you care for one of Pratt’s delicious pear tarts?”
    Naturally I was too full now for the pear tart, and so shook my head.
    When Pratt showed himself again with the bosomy Betty to remove the dinner remains, he bowed low again, then poured Lawrence a glass of rich red port. Lawrence raised the glass to his lips, rolled the wine around in the crystal glass as I’d seen Grandfather do, then nodded his approval. Unthinking, without a pause, I held up my own glass.

C hapter Five

    P ratt looked like he had just been pinned down by a hunter with a very big gun. He didn’t move a muscle. I doubted he even breathed. He stared at my glass, still held toward him, and that bottle of port, like it was a serpent to bite him. He sent an agonized look toward my husband.
    I realized in that instant that I had done something a lady would never do, not even on her dying day. I waited, for there was nothing else I could do. Lawrence looked at me and saw that I was perfectly serious. He started to open his mouth, to blast me, I figured.
    But then he surprised me. He merely nodded that Pratt fill my glass. He didn’t think I was a trollop or whatever you would call a lady who enjoyed drinking port and brandy. I smiled to myself as Pratt, not meeting my eyes, gave me approximately three skinny dollops.
    I remembered my distaste when Grandfather had first poured me a bit of his port. He’d looked down his long nose at me when I had dared to make adisgusted noise. “What is this? You turn up your nose at my excellent port, Missy? My excellent port that has journeyed all the way from the Douro region of northern Portugal?”
    â€œPerhaps it spoiled on the long trip?”
    â€œEnough. It is the most excellent port in the world. Port, since you are so ignorant, is named for the town of Oporto. Listen to me, Miss Prude with no taste buds worth speaking of, this is part of your education, a very important part. You will develop a sophisticated palate. I will never watch you drink that nauseating ratafia that some idiot deemed proper for ladies to drink the good Lord knows how long ago. Drink up and don’t you dare frown or make noises again.”
    I’d drunk up. I now quite liked a bit of port after my dinner, but it had taken a good three months to train my poor sensitive palate.
    For nearly eight years I had been admitted to that male tradition of good drinking and men’s talk after dinner. Would it continue?
    I waited.
    When Pratt and Betty had left the parlor, loaded down with platters and silverware and dishes, my husband sat back, his glass of port gracefully held between slender fingers, and regarded me from beneath those thick