Page 1 of The Chef and the Countess

Prologue

Northern England

December, 1898

Celia Gillingham, Countess Winterwood, the wife of Carlton Gardiner, the Earl of Winterwood, was acutely aware that this day was inevitable. Her husband, a man of sixty-five, had been ailing for the past six years, his health deteriorating with each passing week. Sitting outside the sick room, her hands folded in her lap, waiting for the doctor’s verdict, she couldn’t help but wonder about her future. What will become of me?

It was rather selfish to think of such while Carlton fought for his life, but Celia could not help it. Every time she raised the subject during their marriage, Carlton dismissed her concerns regarding her future with a wave of his withered hand, stating all was as it should be, whatever that meant. She wished now she had taken firmer control, demanding to see his solicitor and be shown the documents—if any existed. Not that a married woman could make such a request. Celia would possess more legal rights if she were single instead of married, a fact that she found profoundly unjust and disheartening. She had no idea of just how much a husband could legally control a woman, especially when it came to finances.

Sitting alone in the shadowy hallway, Celia admonished herself for allowing a topic as imperative as her future well-being to slide. What would she do? She had no family except for her Aunt Etta, the Countess of Darrington, and they had not been in contact for years. Celia still harbored a lingering hurt over her arranged marriage and the fact that when it counted, her aunt did not stand up for her. But then, the countess’s husband, William Buckingham, the Earl of Darrington, was not a man to refuse. There was something entirely sinister about Uncle William. And her loathsome cousin, Troy Buckingham, Viscount Shinwell, was worse. These earlier experiences left her with a deep mistrust and uncertainty about her future.

At least the past few years had been peaceful. Life in Marshall Meadows, a small hamlet in Northern England near the border with Scotland, meant isolation and a quiet existence. Especially now with snow blanketing the countryside. By the end of January, travel would become nearly impossible until spring. It gave her time to read and lose herself in fictional adventure and romance. Perhaps Celia had become too impassive and, because of it, she had stopped asking questions about securing her future. Well, that and Carlton had categorically refused to discuss it. The realization of her complacency filled her with a sense of urgency and regret, a burden she could not shake off.

As the door creaked open, the doctor’s solemn expression told Celia all she needed to know. The room was filled with the acrid scent of illness and the faint crackling of the fire in the hearth. This is it, then. Celia sat by Carlton’s bedside, a feeling of sadness washing over her. After all, he was her husband and, after a fashion, a friend.

“Forgive me, forgive me,” he muttered, his head tossing to and fro on the pillow. Sweat ran in rivulets down his pale, hollowed cheeks.

“Forgive you for what, Carlton?”

“He’ll look after you. He promised me.”

Celia’s blood chilled. She had heard those words before—from her uncle on the day of her arranged marriage. “Whom are you speaking of?”

Carlton coughed, and saliva dribbled from his mouth. “My heir.”

The shock of that declaration hit her hard, reverberating through her nerve endings. This was the first time Celia had heard of an heir. Carlton had entered into marriage for the specific reason of begetting an heir, and they had tried for the first five years of their marriage. At least, that was the reason he gave. Alas, she did not become pregnant. Soon after that, Carlton became ill.

“To your earldom?” Indeed, he had to be mistaken. It was the sickness talking. What else could it be? He hadn’t been well for years. The fever must have affected his mind. Celia knew deep down they should never have traveled to London last month. He’d taken a turn for the worse as soon as they arrived home.

“My late cousin’s boy. We haven’t written much.” Carlton started coughing again. “He said he will look after you. It is the way of things.”

The way of things? Celia did not like the sound of this. “What do you mean? What about your will?”

Carlton shook his head, struggling for breath. “None—recent.”

After more than a decade together, the revelation of an old will—a will that might not include her—left Celia in a state of shock. As a countess, wasn’t she entitled to a living from the estate? But that provision was from a bygone era, when aristocrats had tenants making money and paying rent. A feeling of dread crossed her soul. Then annoyance rose within her. Celia did not get angry often, hardly ever, but there was no holding back her rising aggravation.

“How could you? How could you not tell me of an heir? You lied when you said you needed an heir!” Celia’s sense of betrayal was overwhelming, a sharp pain that pierced her heart. She was tempted to grab and shake him, but what would be the point at this juncture? He had lied all those years ago regarding the title. Celia had even felt sorry for him and agreed to marry him—not that she had much choice. The depth of his duplicity left her feeling utterly deceived.

“I wanted my heir,” Carlton wheezed. “I did not want my cousin’s boy to have it, but it’s his now. Forgive me.”

No, she would not forgive him. For once in her life, fury overcame any compassion. “What’s his name? Where is he?” Carlton’s eyes closed. This time, she did shake him, though gently. “Do not die on me yet. Not until you explain how you could be so thoughtless and selfish. I thought we were friends. I thought you cared for me, at least a little.”

His eyes popped open, and his milky gaze slid toward her. “His name is Franklin Gardiner. From Canada. I wrote him two months ago. Here. Now.” Every spoken word was an effort.

Celia’s mind spun from the multiple tumultuous revelations. The anger vanished, and a deep hurt took its place. “You knew you were dying and never said a word. That’s why we went to London, so you could make arrangements. Oh, Carlton. How could you do this to me?”

“I went to see a doctor for a second opinion. Did not. Want. To worry you.” His breathing grew shallow.

Holy crow. Celia was in a fix.

“The heir will look after you. He promised.” Carlton gasped as his gnarled fingers wrapped around her wrist. “You were good to me.”

Perhaps too good. “You appreciated my company and care. But not enough to legally secure my future or be truthful. Instead, you placed me in the hands of a stranger.” Celia shook off his hand. “You failed me. You neglected your basic duties as a husband and a friend.” Celia snorted. “I failed myself. After being handed off to you by my family, I should have insisted on legal guarantees. But I was nineteen; what did I know? I became too content and comfortable with my life.”

“Forgive,” Carlton gasped. “Please.”

Forgiveness would be the decent thing to do, but just as she started crafting a response to do so, Carlton began coughing, sputtering, and gasping for every breath until he grew still.