by Megan Bryce
“You don’t seem to suffer from the affliction.”
“Thank you,” he said and she laughed. Again.
He said, “May I stand firm against the lure of responsibility despite all attempts at recruiting me.”
Elinor decided she must put a stop to this at once. He was far too entertaining.
She said, her voice cold and disapproving, “Friends are rare, Mr. Sinclair. You should treasure yours.”
“I do. Especially the kind that lets me enjoy my mistakes first and then saves me from them after.”
She lifted an eyebrow. “Mistake?”
“His word, not mine. And obviously I was not talking about you.” He ducked his head into his empty punch cup and muttered, “And obviously I have become as uncivilized as you have accused me.”
“Obviously.”
But her lips wobbled with the effort it took to keep from smiling.
She turned abruptly away from him, deciding that verbally sparring with him would simply never work and physical distance was required.
He followed at her elbow.
“But what about my reward?”
“…for?”
“Chasing away a brother. I think a dance should do it nicely.”
“I’m in mourning, Mr. Sinclair.”
He looked at her dress, sliding his eyes leisurely down, down, down.
“I can see that.” His eyes roamed back up, clearly enjoying the view. “I’ve never seen mourning look quite so beautiful.”
The reality was she’d been in mourning for the last ten years. Owned nothing but black clothing, black veils, black gloves and fans.
She looked down at the dress that was beautiful and striking despite the color, and lifted the hem of her gown just enough for her black heeled shoe to peek out.
She smiled. She did look good in black.
She said, “I shall simply have to return the favor someday and chase away your brother. I would hope I could be as off-putting as a Pomeranian.”
Mr. Sinclair came to a full stop and Elinor turned when she realized she’d lost him. He stood stock still, his eyes far away and unseeing, a smile lighting his whole face.
She wouldn’t have called him a beautiful man. Somewhat ordinary looking, except for the blond streaks in his light brown hair. His eyes an indiscriminate blue, faded and washed out.
Add to that his too-tanned skin, so unfashionable.
But he was one of those people. One of those people who became more beautiful with each moment they were in your company. The kind of people you looked forward to meeting with, the kind of people you missed when they were gone. The kind of people who were so happy and delightful that there was no hope in being anything but the same when they were near.
Elinor was not one of those people.
She was the kind of people you saw more and more of and liked less and less. She was the kind of people who became what she needed to get what she wanted. Showing the world what she wanted them to see and keeping the real her locked up tight.
She was the kind of people whose husbands found absurd ways to die after a year of her company, no matter how she tried to be what they wanted.
Two weeks.
She’d been widowed two weeks ago and here she was, hunting again.
Husband number five had been young. Three years younger than herself. Hearty and hale, the third son of a baron whose family had disapproved of her, of course, but hadn’t seen any better for the boy.
She’d been tired of her husbands dying and had thought his age would protect him. Had thought his age would protect her.
She’d been wrong. His age had only made him silly and careless. Had made him think he was invincible when all it took was a prodigious amount of liquor, falling asleep in his favorite chair with his chin to his chest, and never waking back up.
And here was her current predicament.
She couldn’t be distracted by a man who made her laugh when she couldn’t get what she wanted from him.
This husband had to prove himself before the marriage, and then be gentleman enough to still go through with it.
Mr. George Sinclair might have been that man. If he didn’t look at responsibility and shudder. If he didn’t have a brother who would laugh at her demands when she made them. A friend who watched him like a hawk, to swoop in and yes, save him, in her moment of triumph.
She had to find just the right man, and she would use whatever she had to get what she wanted.
Want was all she had.
This husband would give her a child. This husband would not leave her alone should he tire of her company after a year.
She would find her last husband.
And it wasn’t this man smiling brightly at her and saying, “I’m imagining you yapping at my brother.”
George Sinclair came to the conclusion sometime after the lovely Lady Haywood had swept away from him that he had indeed left any sort of charm he’d once depended on on another continent.
His friend St. Clair had been no help when he’d gone to complain at his lack of progress with the woman.
St. Clair had only continued to watch her and say, “Don’t bet on it. She’s simply playing a different game this time.”
“The ‘I’m not interested’ game?”
St. Clair turned his head just enough to note the frustration on Sinclair’s features. “Is her lack of interest making you want to chase after her like some lovesick ninny?”
Sinclair tracked the woman, not hard to do with that hair standing a foot above every man in the room and the black dress snagging everyone’s attention amidst all the brightly colored frocks.
“I object to the description but see your point, old friend.”
“I should write to the earl and tell him what kind of woman has grabbed your attention.”
Sinclair shook his head sadly and patted his friend on the shoulder. “I don’t know what has happened to you, George.”
St. Clair pushed himself off the wall he’d been propping up and said, “I grew up.”
He walked away to find some other entertainment now that the widow was leaving his adopted ward alone.
Sinclair watched him and thought no three words had ever sounded so sad.
Megan BryceTo Wed The Widow
Two
One week later, Sinclair’s brother, along with his countess and four daughters, arrived in town.
Sinclair gave the benefit of the doubt to his friend and decided it wasn’t because St. Clair had sent that letter as he’d threatened.
No, the earl came because it was the season. And the countess loved everything about the season.
Sinclair was ordered to appear at the earl’s London residence, and Sinclair obeyed.
Everyone obeyed the earl.
Except the countess.
Sinclair would enjoy that about her, had in the past loved the countess unreservedly for it, but she’d recently become the source of all Sinclair’s problems.
Why couldn’t the woman simply obey her husband and pop out an heir?
Four girls. Ye gads.
The earl had sent a missive to his wayward brother shortly after the birth of the latest, informing him that he needed to come home. What with travel times and finishing up business, it had taken Sinclair over a year but here he was bouncing his youngest niece on his knee and saying over her squeals, “Why couldn’t you have been a boy?”
She showed him her gummy smile and shoved a wet and well-loved fist into her mouth. And squealed so loud that Sinclair stopped missing India.
His oldest niece, just turned eight and so serious and such a little version of the earl that he wanted to throw her into the air and make her squeal to prove she was still a little girl, scolded him.
“Uncle George. Even if it’s the truth, some things shouldn’t be said out loud.”
Camilla looked at her littlest sister with a worried expression. “I don’t want her to feel bad.”
George stopped bouncing but it did nothi
ng to stop the squeals so he shouted, “Do you feel bad that you weren’t a boy?”
Camilla took her time thinking about it. Then raised her chin. “No. Although I know it would have been easier, Papa says he doesn’t need a son. That’s why he has you.”
George’s lip curled and he flopped against the back of the sofa.
The earl had him.
And that’s why he’d left India to come back to this chilly, bland country.
The earl needed him. The earl had ordered him home. To start learning his duties, to help with the responsibilities.
George shuddered.
To find a wife who could produce the next generation’s heir. Or rather, to be there when the earl found one for him.
Everyone obeyed the earl, even if they had run halfway across the world to escape him.
George hated his brother, and he loved him. Didn’t, under any circumstance, want to become him.
But George Sinclair was the earl’s heir, up to and until such time as the countess produced the real one, and with every passing year, the chance of that happening grew smaller and smaller. Damn the woman.
The countess swept into the room, no doubt following the squeals still erupting loudly from her offspring, and smiled warmly when she saw George entertaining his nieces.
He glared at her, at her still trim figure, the smile that shone in her eyes despite a decade married to his brother, the love and pride that showed on her face when she looked at her children. Even the youngest, who was supposed to be a boy.
She pecked George’s cheek warmly before settling next to him on the settee.
She glanced at the nursemaid, hovering nearby, ready to swoop in the moment Mr. Sinclair grew tired of squeals and pink, cherubic cheeks.
The woman had a long wait coming. George remembered bouncing Camilla on his knee when she was this age. He remembered spending an unfashionable amount of time with her tucked in the crook of his arm, spending an unseemly number of dinners at his brother’s dining table.
Happy being a part of the family. Happy to bask in the reward and none of the responsibility.
The countess said loudly, “Let the nurse take her, George. She is too much.”
“I like too much. I like too loud.”
“Then you may retire with her to the nursery.”
He sighed, gave the baby one last bounce, and handed her off to the nursemaid.
The nurse shut the door behind her and the room filled with peace and quiet. George hated it, but the countess settled back into her seat happily.
“I don’t know why every child gets progressively louder. Camilla was a mute in comparison.”
“This Camilla? The one sitting right here so nicely, not saying a peep? I thought she was a mute.”
Camilla scolded him again. “Uncle George.”
He’d obviously left the poor child to the earl for far too long. She sat quietly in her chair, her back straight, her hands folded in her lap. Her long brown hair was tied back with an oversized blue bow and her pretty dress was spotless.
He remembered her loud baby squeals and her fat, pink cheeks.
Remembered the earl quietly mourning on her first birthday that she hadn’t been a son. But there was always the next child. And there was always his brother, George, eh? Wasn’t that what the spare was for?
There was always his brother, the spare.
Who’d booked passage to India the next week.
The countess had written to him unstintingly during his self-imposed exile, and George knew his warm welcome home was all because of her. She’d refused to let the girls grow up not knowing their uncle. Refused to let the uncle not know every little detail about the girls.
He loved his sister through marriage despite the fact that him being here was all her fault. Didn’t know how his brother had got so incredibly lucky.
The countess smiled at her oldest daughter. “She is on her best behavior. On account of our guest.”
“Papa said if I was good I could eat dinner with you. In the dining room.”
She sounded so incredibly excited about it that George had to bite his cheek to keep from laughing. Or crying.
“And who is this lucky guest to be graced with Lady Camilla’s presence? Oh, gad! Don’t tell me it’s started already. What horribly suitable vir–” The countess jabbed him in the side. “–lady have you invited for dinner?”
“You are our guest, Uncle George.”
He sputtered, “But I’m not a guest! Would a guest travel halfway across the world to eat at your table? Would a guest bring gifts and presents and hold your baby sister on his knee despite the drool? A guest!”
Camilla’s eyes had got wider and wider at George’s diatribe and when he was done, she said quietly, “I’m sorry.”
He jumped to his feet, sucking in a breath. “Flora! Haven’t you told her anything about me?”
“You mean to not believe anything you say, and that when you are talking the loudest is when we should listen the least? Yes, I did tell her but, like the earl, she doesn’t understand you at all. Like you didn’t understand when I wrote telling you she was just like him.”
She said to her daughter, in a sweeter tone of voice, “He’s playing, Camilla.”
“It wasn’t funny, Uncle George.”
He knelt at her feet, pulling a small packet from his pocket and handing it to her.
“Not funny at all, Lady Camilla. I apologize. And you should listen to your mother. Don’t believe anything I say.”
She looked down at the plain packet sitting in her hands. “Does that mean that this gift isn’t really for me, then?”
He choked and laughed. “No hope for us, is there? The gift is for you. I have one for all your sisters.”
She unwrapped it carefully. Slowly.
He glanced back at the countess and she nodded in commiseration at the speed her daughter unwrapped her gift.
Camilla finally pulled out a small ornate hair comb. Dark and oriental in color, and the small butterfly hovering at the top covered in gold leaf.
Flora clapped her hands together. “Oh, my goodness! It’s beautiful, George. Be very careful with it, Camilla.”
The child was already holding it cupped in the palm of her hands like it was a real butterfly and George scowled at the countess.
He stood, pulling another packet from his pocket and handing it to Flora as he sat back down. “Careful! For every one she breaks, I’ll give her two more.”
And he already knew, he’d never need to order another comb for his serious little niece.
He said, “That does not stand for your other daughters, though. Or for you.”
“Wise,” she said as she unwrapped it. She smiled at the small bouquet of flowers at the top of her comb, again covered in gold leaf. “They are truly quite beautiful, George.”
She went to help put the comb in her daughter’s hair and then knelt gracefully on the rug so Camilla could return the favor.
Camilla studied her mother’s coif, held the comb up here and then there, and George finally closed his eyes.
“You have infinite patience, Flora.”
“Some people like to do things right, George.”
He knew. And was starting to understand what she’d told him about her daughter. Just like the earl, indeed.
When Camilla had the comb positioned just so, George helped the countess back up, and Camilla thanked him gravely for her gift.
Her eyes came together in concern and she said, “Isabel is too little for a hair comb. And she has no hair.”
He laughed at how serious she was. “Lucky that is not what I brought for her, then.”
He waited for her to ask what she’d brought for her sisters, he could see she wanted to, but she simply sat back down and smoothed her impeccable dress.
George would have teased and prodded her to ask but just then his brother came in. Camilla jumped from her chair, then halted her head-long rush and walked calmly to her father. She showed him
her new hair comb, told him about putting the flowered comb in her mother’s hair.
The earl gave her a quick smile. “Shh, Camilla. Let me say hello to our guest.”
Her eyebrows flew together and she scowled at George for tricking her. He was a guest!
The countess laughed, pulling her daughter aside to explain the difference between guests and guests.
The earl, oblivious as usual to the reason his countess was laughing, nodded at George. George nodded back.
And they were both relieved when the butler came in to announce dinner. To save them from the awkwardness of meeting again after eight years and two continents.
Camilla’s little voice asked quietly, “Papa? May I?”
George and the earl looked at her, at her hands gripped tightly together, at her hopeful-but-not-too-hopeful expression, and George silently vowed that if his brother said no there would be fisticuffs. Pistols at dawn.
But the earl looked at her pristine dress and unruffled hair and smiled at her, nodding.
Camilla flushed with pleasure, and when George offered her his arm, when she took it with wide, excited eyes, he thought for the second time that he was glad to be home.
He’d neglected his duties for far too long. He was needed here, at home.
He needed to teach his niece how to have some fun.
The countess and Camilla left the men after dinner. The child was drooping with fatigue and hadn’t even protested when her mother told her she couldn’t wait for the gentlemen.
George wasn’t sure she would have protested anyway.
She curtsied to him. “We are glad you are home, Uncle George.”
He bowed to her, so low and so long that when he came back up her forehead was puckered in confusion. He winked, and her expression turned from confusion to exasperation.
“Oh, Uncle George” she said, and she left the room, her head still shaking at his foolishness.
His brother was watching her, the pride hard to miss, and George said, “She’s only eight, Sebastian.”
“Her first adult dinner. She handled herself admirably. And she’s nine.”
“Nine? Well, then, that’s fine that she’s so quiet and well-behaved.” He huffed in annoyance. “She said two words.”