by Megan Bryce
“I’m about ready to tell Sebastian to pick one and let’s be done with it.”
“That would certainly make him very happy. I wonder who he would choose; the young lady you were smiling down upon so vacantly but a moment ago?”
“He chose you; he can’t be all that bad at it.”
She smiled at him. “Sebastian didn’t choose me. Your father did.”
George stopped. “Never!”
He turned to narrow his eyes in the general direction of his brother, though he couldn’t see the man behind the wildly towering hair of nearly every woman in attendance.
George wondered if Lady Haywood was normally in the vanguard of fashion or if it had been his sudden interest in her that had piqued society’s fickle interest.
“My father chose you, and I’ll just bet Sebastian complained long and loud. Self-righteous, know-it-all son of an earl.”
“It didn’t even occur to Sebastian to complain. I had been raised to be the wife of a lord, what more did a man need?”
And perhaps Sebastian had been right. What more did a man need?
George thought it must be something, else any old girl would do.
Would any old, or entirely too-young and supremely boring, girl do?
He pushed the unpleasant thought from his mind.
“Shall we have a go then?”
Flora looked where he was pointing at the dance floor, and she stopped waving her fan in shock.
“Oh, but…” She laughed. “It’s been too long for me, George. I am too old.”
“Doddering. I thought so the moment I put eyes to you. Why, there are spinsters lining the wall older than you.”
“Lining the wall, not the dance floor.”
George refused to take no for an answer.
“I’m older than you and I’m still kicking it up.”
“You have not borne four children, either.”
“Four girls, Flora. I have not forgiven you, and I shall not, until you dance with me.”
A sad, sad look crossed her face, and George held out his arm to her. “A dance. That is my price.”
“Would that the earl was so cheap.”
George shrugged as if he didn’t care at all about his brother and the wife he didn’t know loved him, and when Flora took George’s arm and allowed him to lead her to the dance floor said, “It wouldn’t even occur to Sebastian to ask. Better by far to not speak of it and let the disappointment fester.”
She smiled, shaking her head at him. “Where angels fear to tread, George.”
“I go barreling in, I know.”
They danced, not saying much, each lost to their own thoughts until Flora suddenly said, “You think I should talk to him about it.”
“There is no one more disappointed than you about this than him. Except me, of course. But I am quite tired of thinking about it, let alone talking about it.”
And, she was not his wife. There were certain punishments reserved for a husband, and listening to his wife prattle and quite possibly cry was one of them.
She said, “But what does one say? I’m afraid I simply can’t think how to bring it up.”
“If it were me, I’d say something wholly inappropriate like, Four girls, Sebastian? What poxy whore did you swive to deserve such a fate? This isn’t my doing.”
Flora coughed and tripped over her own foot, and when George caught her she was choking on her laughter.
He righted her, putting her back in place in the dance line, and she said, “I’ve so missed you, George.”
“Of course you have, Flora. You married Sebastian.”
She chuckled again and he said, “But if you can’t say that to him, you could always try, By gad, Sebastian, I wish we’d had just one boy. Don’t you agree?”
“It would be very hard to disagree with that.”
He nodded, and the room suddenly quieted, then burst into chatter. George breathed in air suddenly invigorated, a night suddenly scandalous.
He didn’t look to see her. He still had that image of her in her sheer gowns, the feel of her hair between his fingers. He didn’t need to look.
Flora did, and the widening of her eyes told him that the widow had outdone herself.
He didn’t look.
Flora said, “You’ve stopped chasing her then?”
He had. Unfortunately, he hadn’t stopped wanting her and he didn’t need any more memories to fuel the fire.
He escorted Flora off the dance floor, thanking her for subjecting her old bones to such physical distress simply to entertain him.
She laughed and shook her head at him, swatting him with her fan playfully.
She looked ten years younger and George heartily congratulated himself on a job well done as he tried to sneak off before he got a glimpse of her.
He didn’t think he deserved fate’s kick to the bollocks when he stepped right into her path. He’d been watching for tall blond hair held up by fairy dust and gold tinsel, and he nearly mowed her down because she stood a foot shorter than he remembered her.
Her hair hung completely unbound, no adornment in it, the waves of blond ending in little ringlets that begged to be twirled around his fingers and hands and any appendage they cared to.
Her heeled shoes must have been replaced with flat slippers because even her eyes were lower than he remembered.
He gasped, “You’re wearing dancing slippers.”
“It’s been five weeks. I thought I could ease the constrictions a bit.”
His lips smiled of their own accord, his heart danced at her outrageousness.
He said, “Do you know that in India the women wear clothing that shows their midriff?”
She cocked her head, leaned toward him.
“How scandalous.”
And then she turned and walked away.
The door to Sebastian’s library opened without a knock and he pushed his papers away, knowing it was Flora.
She never knocked, not at night when he would be alone. The household quiet and abed except for them.
She hadn’t visited him in his library late at night since Isabel had been born.
He smiled at her and she sat in the chair across from his desk and cleared her throat.
“By gad, Sebastian, I wish we’d had just one boy. Don’t you agree?”
“Er, yes.”
They sat in silence because, well, what could one say to that?
She cleared her throat again. “George is quite put out with me. With us.”
At that, at least, Sebastian had something to say.
“I will have to remind him that it is extremely unlikely he will outlive me. He will most likely die over some silly fisticuffs and never have to adorn the mantle of earl.”
“He will be relieved to hear it.”
More silence.
And then she said softly, “We could try agai–”
“No.”
She blinked and looked down at her hands folded in her lap. “May I ask why?”
Why? Why?
“You nearly died, Flora.” And even Sebastian jerked back at the gruffness of his tone.
She nodded.
He thought the subject closed, death ended all debate, but she looked back up.
“I’m only thirty. I didn’t realize until tonight just how…tired I’ve been feeling.”
“You are still recovering.”
“I’m not, Sebastian. I’m not still sick. I’m not still on death’s door. Isabel is healthy, just like all our girls. It is our duty to try agai–”
He pushed back his chair hard, the scraping of the heavy feet against the wood silencing her.
“I know. I know my duty; I know what the world expects from me. I am sorry to disappoint it and you and everyone.”
Her eyes were wide as she stared at him and her mouth opened once again to disagree with him.
He cut her off with, “I will not touch you again.”
Her chin raised. “I have needs, Sebastian.”
&nbs
p; “Excuse me?”
“Needs. I assume you have them; I assume you are meeting those needs somehow. With someone. It’s not very fair that I will be denied the same since I haven’t given my husband his heir yet.”
He choked and sputtered. “Fair? Fair!”
“May I ask who?”
“Who what?”
“Who is meeting your needs. A mistress I am unaware of, a lady I sip tea with? I think a wife should know just who is satisfying her husband. To avoid awkward situations.”
He sat back down with a thud, thinking he would have liked to avoid this awkward situation.
He cleared his head with a quick shake. “You’ve been spending too much time with George.”
She bit her lip, then stood slowly. She nodded.
“Yes. He’s the only Sinclair who wishes to spend any time with me at all.”
She walked to the door and when she opened it, stopped. “Please just warn me if I am being overly friendly with a lady you are dallying with. It would be very embarrassing for me, Sebastian.”
She closed the door and Sebastian sat there. He was fairly certain his mouth was hanging open and that he looked like he’d been whacked one too many times in the head.
This must all be George’s fault. Flora had been spending too much time with him and he brought chaos wherever he tarried.
Sebastian looked at the closed door and thought, his wife had needs?
Megan BryceTo Wed The Widow
Five
Elinor flirted and teased and smiled and fluttered her way through another week, another set of dinners and balls.
But not too much.
She was beginning to understand that less was more when there was actually the possibility of going through with the seduction.
She was beginning to understand that she might never find a suitable gentleman.
Mr. Framingham had smiled at her too widely, and she’d crossed him off her list.
Mr. Dorchester had accidentally touched her bottom, and she’d laughed and pinched his cheek hard enough to leave a mark. And she’d crossed him off her list.
She hadn’t seen Mr. Sinclair since she’d run in to him accidentally, and…he’d never been on her list.
She couldn’t cross him off, even though it would have made her feel better.
She wasn’t quite sure why she would have felt better.
Elinor took out a piece of paper and a pen from her desk. She dipped and she wrote.
A list of widowers this time, and she sighed to herself. Was she really getting that desperate?
Apparently, yes.
Widowers with children of their own already, of course, and that came with problems. Lots of problems.
Husband number one had had children. But they’d been older than her. There had still been problems but she hadn’t had to live with any of them.
But a widower young enough to give her children would already have young children.
Young children who’d lost a mother, young children who would be worried they would lose their father to his new wife.
But she wrote down all the names she could think of. Ten widowers.
And if that wasn’t enough she would think of something else. Someone else. Perhaps go to the continent and find herself a Frenchman. Or another Italian…
Perhaps not.
But she could always, if all else failed, find herself a Scot.
A cranky, tightfisted, skirt-wearing hater of everything English.
Because even that would be better than the last name she’d written down on her short list.
Surely she’d only put him there so she could cross him off.
George Sinclair.
Or perhaps she’d written him down because he would be her last choice…he was at the bottom of the list.
Mrs. George Sinclair.
…that wasn’t good. She’d never done that before.
Elinor, Lady Ashmore.
…Wellington, we have a problem.
She blinked and blinked, staring at the paper and that title. She’d been Elinor, Lady Haywood, for eleven years. Through husband after husband, keeping her title.
She wasn’t searching for a new and better title but there was a certain pull to being George’s countess.
But then she laughed. Sebastian Sinclair, Earl of Ashmore, would live forever just so Elinor Rusbridge would never take that title.
She ripped off the bottom of the page, throwing Mr. George Sinclair and his Mrs. and his perhaps-one-day countess into the fire.
She watched the paper burn. Watched until it was just a pile of ash.
She turned back to her widowers and said to the empty room, “I’ve burned you off my list, Mr. Sinclair.”
Retribution raised his head to stare hopefully at her and she called him over to scratch his head lovingly.
“No, I wasn’t speaking to you. I was talking to an empty room.”
A cold, empty, boring, lifeless room.
“I won’t do it again.”
Retribution sighed like only a dog could and she petted him, his warm head heavy in her lap.
“London is squeezing in on us, isn’t it? This house is becoming too, too small.”
Her country house, the Earl of Ashmore would call it a cottage, was a four-day ride away but it tugged at her.
The dogs could run around, she could take long walks. And perhaps dispel this gloom that was beginning to weigh on her.
“We’ll go tomorrow. Out of the city for a fortnight and you can catch as many rabbits as you like.”
He wagged his tail at her, and at rabbits, and Elinor nodded.
A fortnight was all she could spend away from the Season, was all she could stand in the country. But it might do her some good, might be enough of a change so she could come back to town with a better plan than a Scotsman.
She rose, all the dogs stretching and following her out of the room, to tell the housekeeper they would be leaving tomorrow for the country.
The rest of the day would be panicked packing; the staff rushing about, no room quiet or empty or boring or lifeless.
The cold she couldn’t get rid of.
But she could fill those long hours that tempted her into talking to herself. Or to an imaginary Sinclair.
The long hours that tempted her into chasing down the flesh-and-blood Sinclair and throwing away her plans and her dreams for one night of warmth…
Perhaps a week. Or a month.
A year, if she was lucky.
But she wasn’t, and she knew no matter how warmly his love burned her, he would leave her.
They all did.
Sinclair stood opposite Elinor’s townhouse and chided himself. Just what was he doing here, bothering her, bothering himself?
This was a bad idea. But he’d come here to show her his new purchase, to see the fire light up her eyes. To see that smile slowly pull her lips up, to hear the laughter she couldn’t stop.
A voice at his shoulder said, “She is not at home.”
Sinclair looked the man up and down, and then remembered.
“The brother?”
Alan Rusbridge nodded his head and stuffed his hands into his pockets. “She’s run off to the country.”
Sinclair blinked and pointed to the house. “Lady Haywood?”
When her brother nodded again, Sinclair could only think to say, “Why?”
Why go to the country in the middle of the Season when you were hunting a husband?
Unless you’d found that husband and were gone to his country home. Perhaps to meet an ailing mother?
Perhaps to have an easier time sneaking around at night, to start that family she so desperately wanted.
Surely he would have heard if she’d attached herself to someone. Surely.
Rusbridge shrugged. “Why does any woman do anything? To make as much trouble for the men in her life as possible.”
Sinclair turned to face the man. “Are you in her life, Rusbridge? And why would her going to the co
untry trouble you?”
Rusbridge turned to face Sinclair, the belligerent set to the man’s chin making Sinclair want to introduce his fist to it.
“Are you in her life, Sinclair?”
Yes. No.
Why did her going to the country trouble him so?
Sinclair’s greatcoat pocket wiggled and he stuck his fingers inside to tickle and to be playfully bit.
“I am not, and I rather thought you weren’t either. It is a mystery why two men not in Lady Haywood’s life are standing outside wishing they were in.”
“All this should have been mine.”
Sinclair looked at the house. “This?”
Rusbridge swung his arms wide. “Everything. This home, these servants. Her country estate.” He snarled, “Her jewels. Her freedom.”
Sinclair said mildly, “Her dogs?”
“Everything. Everything that was once mine, she stole. What was mine by right, by birth. Damn women, taking what wasn’t theirs. Sisters!”
“I don’t know anything about sisters. Now brothers, those I could do away with.”
Rusbridge sneered. “You are just like her. Taking what is your elder brother’s. Did your parents love you more? Did your mother cuddle you on her lap while pushing her firstborn away? Did your father pet and love you when he yelled and smacked around his son?”
Unhinged. The man was obviously unhinged. His breath bellowed and his fists clenched.
Sinclair shuffled a little distance away.
Rusbridge didn’t notice. “And here you are to take his title. To stop his wife from producing the rightful heir.”
Sinclair would have liked to ask just how one went about that but was afraid Alan Rusbridge would actually have an answer.
“Right. I’ll just leave you then to salivate after a house, shall I? I’ll be sure and let Lady Haywood know to watch for you.”
Sinclair hadn’t taken more than two steps before Rusbridge called after him.
“She will take everything from you. Everything, and leave you nothing. Including your life. You think her husbands are the first people to get too close and then die?” He laughed. “When she’s beneath you, making you forget about everything, remember that she won’t forget. Know that she’s calculating how much you’re worth, how much she can get out of you. And the best way to get rid of you.”