by Megan Bryce
“Exactly. You don’t think being allowed to eat with the adults, with her prodigal uncle, is a treat for her? I assure you it is.”
“A treat, perhaps. Fun? Definitely not.”
Sebastian sat back in his chair and studied his brother. George studied him in return.
Eight years. The earl’s hair was streaked with gray, the lines around his eyes deeper. And while the earl would never be so undisciplined as to let his waist expand, there was a softness, a tiredness, that hadn’t been there before.
He looked so much like their father, George had to shake himself and remember that he wasn’t.
“It’s like looking at a ghost, you look so much like him.”
The earl nodded, knowing who George was referring to. The man had obviously looked in the mirror recently.
George took a drink. “Thank God I take after Mother.”
The earl closed his eyes, resting his head back. His mouth twitched, knowing he shouldn’t laugh at his silly brother but finding it hard to resist, and George realized there was more than one person in this family who needed him.
He felt the twinge, the regret, at leaving them. At letting his brother become old like this without him.
Not that his brother didn’t deserve it. George thought a houseful of squealing little girls who needed their dolls loved and who one day would be married off to undeserving men was exactly the right punishment for any man who insisted on doing everything right. A man who insisted everyone do everything the right way.
Sebastian’s girls had turned his hair gray and George laughed at him.
They drank and smoked and talked of nothing important, because then they could get along and they both wanted it to last as long as possible.
But finally they stood, heading for the drawing room and the countess, and Sebastian stopped him with a hand to the shoulder.
“We are glad you are home, George.”
George mimicked him, squeezing with affection. “And how long do you think that will last?”
“Knowing you, I’m surprised I haven’t changed my mind yet.”
They smiled at each other. Right now able to laugh at that truth.
Knowing them, that wouldn’t last long.
Sebastian said, “The ladies of the ton are glad you are home as well. Flora has had letter after letter asking about you.” Sebastian eyed his brother. “You must tell Flora about all the partners you deigned to dance with so she can give you her opinion.”
George sighed. “Give me a week, at least, before you marry me off.”
“Why? You didn’t wait a week to start socializing.”
“What you are asking me to do is work. Socializing is fun. Virgin debutantes are work.”
“I doubt you’ve worked a day in the last eight years; time to hop back on that horse. Or in your case, be introduced to it.”
George bit his tongue. Tightened his fists. Wanted to defend himself, wanted to share with his brother just what he’d been doing the last eight years in India.
He’d worked. He’d carved out a place for himself there. Not as the son of an earl, not as the younger brother of one.
He’d done it his way. It had been fun.
He wanted to share that with Sebastian. Share it, not defend himself with it.
But the earl said, “If you’ve had time to get embroiled with scandalous widows, you’ve had time to meet an eligible virgin or two.”
George narrowed his eyes. “Embroiled? Have you made St. Clair spy for you?”
“I saw him at White’s. Said I might want to know my brother has got distracted already.”
“What has happened to the two of you? Or I should say, what has happened to my good friend St. Clair because you’ve always been like this.”
George knew his friend St. Clair had always been like that, too. He’d forgotten; he couldn’t remember why they’d ever become friends in the first place.
“George. The woman has been married five times with no surviving issue. I know how you love a scandal. Play with the widow, I don’t care. Don’t get caught in her web. And don’t get so distracted that you forget what this season is for.”
“I know what this season is for. A wife, an heir. Shackles. Responsibility.”
“Duty. Family. Gr–”
“Don’t say it,” George said shortly and the earl said over him, “Growing up. Becoming a man.”
George sucked in a deep breath and let it out, long and slow.
They entered the drawing room in silence and when the countess looked between them, George swore he heard her sigh.
And then she smiled, coming to slide between them and distract them with stories of people George had known long ago.
Friends and acquaintances who’d grown up and started families.
Who’d become responsible.
And tired and tiresome.
And gray.
George listened, and thought of India.
After George took his leave, the countess leaned back against the sofa as much as her corset would allow, closing her eyes and allowing herself to relax.
All evening she’d joked and laughed with George. She’d smiled at her husband and patted his knee.
She’d steered the conversation to old times, to memories that were too far away to sting. Away from why George had been called home.
Away from eligible young ladies. Away from marriage and children.
Away from her children. Away from the nursery.
Sebastian had been his usual self. Focused on the problem before him, not understanding that tiptoeing could fix a problem faster than stomping.
The countess reminded herself that a man who was easy to lead would be boring and she was lucky enough to not have that problem.
And dear George sat there and laughed. He smiled and joked and pretended that every prick from the earl didn’t sting. He became sillier and less serious, and the earl didn’t see that George was doing his own pricking.
There was a lot that the earl didn’t see.
But tonight, at least, her work was done. And if it had taken more out of her than it had a decade ago, well, the earl was not the only one starting to show his age.
Age. Disappointment. Failure. It had all caught up with her.
She heard the earl making his way back from saying goodbye to George, and Flora sat up in her seat. She took a quick three breaths to refresh herself and smiled.
Sebastian stopped in the doorway and looked at his wife.
“You look tired.”
“Yes, my dear. I had forgotten how much energy it took to keep you and your brother civil.”
He grunted. “If it wasn’t my own mother I was insulting, I would seriously question whether she’d cuckolded Father. How can the same pairing produce two distinctly opposite men?”
“Because one was raised to be the earl and one was raised to be a younger son.”
Sebastian murmured. “The heir and the spare. I do feel for him, Flora. I do understand how, but for the vagaries of birth, he could have had everything and instead has nothing.”
She laughed because he didn’t see at all. “In that you are similar because he pities you as well.”
“Pities me?” His expression was so insulted she could only shake her head.
“I know, my dear. You don’t understand him; he doesn’t understand you. But George is glad he is not the earl and he is quite upset that it is now up to him to produce the next one.”
“He is not the only one,” Sebastian said and Flora didn’t flinch. She absorbed the blow into her straight spine, her uplifted lips.
And she knew it was hard for a man to see what a woman refused to show him. Knew that, and could still blame him.
“It’s his duty, Flora, and he’s acting as if he’s taking a one-way trip to the gallows.”
“I’m sure he is not the first man to react to marriage thusly.”
Sebastian would have laughed if he’d been that kind of man. Instead he looked at her fondly.
“Duty chafes everyone. We learn to accept it.”
Flora looked beyond the words that might hurt and to the intention sitting just behind it. At the fond smile on her husband’s face.
Duty did chafe. And most did learn to accept.
When she didn’t respond, Sebastian said quietly, “Go to bed, Flora. Rest. Until George has picked his bride, there will be little time for relaxation. I know I can count on you to keep the peace between us.”
She nodded, found the energy for a benevolent smile from somewhere, and waited until he was through the door and closing it behind him to say, “I’m sorry, Sebastian.”
The door paused an instant before clicking shut and she knew he’d heard her.
They were both sorry, and neither could do anything about it because she’d failed her duty.
She’d failed to give him a son.
Sebastian went to his library. He sat in the chair that had molded to the backsides of Sinclair men generations ago.
He just sat, looking at nothing.
I’m sorry, Sebastian.
He’d thought this chair would one day be passed to his son. Passed on for generations more.
And he guessed that it would be, but it wouldn’t be through him and his. It would be through his brother.
It almost made him laugh, the thought of George holding the title. George’s son raised to be the earl.
But he didn’t.
He rested his head back and closed his eyes.
I’m sorry, Sebastian.
He knew it was he who should be apologizing; he who’d committed the unpardonable sin.
He’d called his brother home. He’d given up.
Flora had been so sick after the birth. Women had many more children than four but not her. She would have no more; the earl wouldn’t risk it.
He wouldn’t return to her bed.
She was his. His countess, perfect in every way, and he couldn’t lose her.
If she carried another child, tried once more to fulfill her most important duty, he knew she wouldn’t survive.
Sebastian balled his fist and slammed it into his thigh, fought against the knowledge that producing an heir was his most important duty.
Because what if she died trying? There were maidens aplenty who would gladly become his countess, gladly give him more tries at a son.
It was his duty, and he’d passed it off to his brother. The moment he’d been told it was another girl, he’d known there would be no more children for him. Whether his countess survived or not.
He’d sat down at his desk and written. Come home, brother. I need you.
And George had come.
They might irritate each other no end but they were brothers.
His wife, apologizing when he should. Because she knew he wouldn’t.
All of them making his decision their own because he was the earl.
All because Sebastian knew his duty. And he refused to do it.
Megan BryceTo Wed The Widow
Three
Elinor Rusbridge Lemmon Gilberti Wooten Headley, Lady Haywood, sat side-saddle on her horse and trotted sedately down the mile. Looking, being looked at.
Her riding habit, black of course, made of light wool, her hat tipped precariously to the side and held in place by roughly a thousand pins jabbed into her hair and scalp. She supposed she could have worn a veil to achieve the same effect. To look without anyone knowing just where she was looking.
But she hated veils. Hated them with a passion and thought it the worst part of widowhood.
She watched the men. Watched their glances, watched to see who found the widow intriguing enough to venture closer.
Most were completely unsuitable and she moved on.
But she watched one unsuitable man, prancing happily and doffing his hat at any excuse to show off his streaked hair and darkened skin.
He smiled widely and laughed loudly, and Elinor wondered how long it would take for him to adopt the ennui so common in the men of his generation.
She knew when he saw her, when he turned his horse her way. She continued on, not changing her pace and let him chase after her.
She knew some men liked to chase and wondered if Mr. Sinclair was one of those men. And then wondered just what she was doing wondering about Mr. Sinclair.
His horse nosed even with her own and she didn’t look at him, didn’t wait for him to greet her.
“I can’t be seen talking with you. I’m a widow; I have to protect my reputation.”
He snorted. “Of course. You attend balls but don’t dance. You ride the mile but don’t converse. Forgive me for not understanding your mourning rituals.”
“I choose the parts of widowhood that suit me. I believe I’ve earned that right.”
He tipped his head. “If anyone has, I do believe it’s you, Lady Haywood.”
If anyone ever had, it was her.
Mr. Sinclair nosed his horse a little ahead, enough for him to be able to see her eyes when he spoke with her.
“My good friend St. Clair says you are on the hunt for husband number six.”
“And you came to ask me about it? How odd. Are you interested in applying for the position?”
He blinked. “Have all your previous husbands applied? Like a valet?” He gasped. “Do you ask for references?”
Elinor bit her tongue to keep from laughing and he said, “No wonder St. Clair is so uncharitable toward you. You have upset the order of his little world. References for a husband.”
She let a little of her laughter out in a small smile. “You can’t believe anything he says about me. He will always think the worst, I’m afraid.”
Sinclair nodded soberly. “I finally got the story from him. Dear Bertie. He was a sweet man, and I would have said that about him even when he was alive.”
“You knew him?”
“A school friend.”
“And you don’t blame me for his death, like St. Clair?”
“Grief affects everyone a little differently. St. Clair grieves by blaming you. I say, as someone who’s met your brother, that if you had the power to kill a man with putrid fever, you wouldn’t have picked Bertie.”
She looked down for a long minute, swallowing the lump that had lodged itself in her throat. Sinclair rode next to her, not saying a word for nearly a quarter of a mile.
And then he said philosophically, “Death is inevitable, and you might as well go out happy.”
When she looked at him, he held her eyes and said, “And I can’t help but believe that Bertie died as happy as any man can.”
And Elinor thought, Blue eyes. Not faded and washed out but blue as a warm summer’s day. Rare and wonderful.
Heat rushed through her body, warming her fingers and toes and all parts in between.
She swallowed and looked away. “You are wasting your time, Mr. Sinclair.”
“Am I?”
“I only make my husbands that happy.”
“Mm. Once they’ve paid the ultimate price.”
She tipped her head so that her hat covered her eyes and he could only see her mouth as she whispered, “Don’t you think it would be worth it?”
He choked out, “Yes,” and she couldn’t help her wide smile.
“You are too much fun, Mr. Sinclair. You must leave me at once. A widow can not be seen smiling so happily.”
“Or smiling so wickedly, either.”
She stopped smiling, happily or wickedly.
“Any kind of smiling.”
“Oh, yes. Your rules for widowhood. Laughing and smiling are out, then?”
“Completely.”
“Because you are looking for number six, like St. Clair says, and you don’t want to scare any prospects away?”
She didn’t answer right away. But then thought, why not? Everyone knew already.
She nodded. “I am. And I walk a very fine line between available and respectable.”
“Forgive my impertinence but I always assumed wid
owhood was a step up from marriage. If one had the blunt.”
“Perhaps that’s what I’m looking for then. A man with blunt.”
His eyes traveled down her very expensive habit. “I don’t think that’s what you’re looking for. Perhaps you’re simply one of those women who isn’t happy without a man at your beck and call.”
He murmured, so only she could hear on the busy road, “One of those women who isn’t happy without a man in your bed.”
She ignored the heat flushing away the cold she’d lived with for too long, ignored the pitter-patter of her heart as it raced to keep up with him, and said, “Respectable, Mr. Sinclair. Don’t forget.”
“You are as far from respectable as you can get, Lady Haywood, and still be welcomed by society.”
She wasn’t welcomed by society. She was tolerated. And she wouldn’t have even that if she chose poorly for her next husband.
“I’m as respectable as I have to be, Mr. Sinclair. And unless you have those references, I think our conversation is over for today.”
He doffed his hat, bowing to her over the side of his horse. He rode a little ahead of her, leaving her as she’d asked him to do.
And then he turned his horse and stopped, right in front of her. She pulled back on the reins and her horse stopped, didn’t fidget or prance, just stopped.
He watched her well-behaved horse and said again, “We all dance to your tune, it seems, my lady. But tell me one thing and I will leave you alone with your respectability. Do you truly mourn them? Bertie and the others?”
She didn’t stop to think. “Yes.”
And she didn’t lie to him. She mourned them all, if not because she’d loved them, then because she’d been as happy as she could be with them.
Because with them, she hadn’t been alone.
“Despite my particular rituals, I mourn them all.”
She steered her horse around his, walking away from sunny blue eyes that didn’t think she’d killed dear Bertie.
Who thought dying under her care was the best a man could expect in this life.
Flattery will get you everywhere, Elinor.
Her father’s words rang in her ears and she wondered who’d taught Mr. Sinclair that particular truth. She doubted it was his father. Earls didn’t need to learn flattery.