“What is funny?” Hugo asked.
She took a deep gulp of air and turned her gaze back to him, only to be caught by the passion in his face. His lips were curved, their well-defined outline begging to be traced by her finger…by her tongue.
“Funny?” he reminded her.
“You. Me. The feelings you create in me.” The words tumbled from her mouth, making no sense. “Both safe and yet scared.”
“As though this is completely new?”
She nodded. Was he going to kiss her? Would he stop with just a kiss? Did she want him to? She no longer knew what she wanted.
“I am going to kiss you, Annabell. If you don’t want that, then tell me now.” His voice was low and urgent.
Her eyes fluttered shut. Fool that she was, she wanted his kiss, his touch. “Please…”
Georgina Devon has a Bachelor of Arts degree in social sciences with a concentration in history. Her interest in England began when the United States Air Force stationed her at RAF Woodbridge, near Ipswich in East Anglia. This is also where she met her husband, who flew fighter aircraft for the United States. She began writing when she left the air force. Her husband’s military career moved the family every two to three years, and she wanted a career she could take with her anywhere in the world. Today she and her husband live in Tucson, Arizona, with their teenage daughter, two dogs and a cockatiel.
An Unconventional Widow features characters you may have already met in The Lord and the Mystery Lady.
GEORGINA DEVON
AN UNCONVENTIONAL WIDOW
Available from Harlequin® Historical and Georgina Devon
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Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter One
Annabell Fenwick-Clyde, Lady Fenwick-Clyde, stood up, clenched her hands, pressed them into the small of her back and stretched. She looked skyward as she enjoyed the loosening of muscles made tight by bending over the shards of tiles found in this destroyed Roman villa she was excavating.
Clouds scuttled across the late April sky, promising rain later today. She would have to be sure the exposed portions of the villa were well covered before she left.
‘Ah,’ a raspy baritone voice said. ‘A nymph, and a very interestingly dressed one.’
Annabell started, dropped her hands and whirled around. She had been caught up in her work and not heard anyone approach. A man stood not ten feet away, studying her. A very attractive man.
Tall and lean with long legs and broad shoulders, he let his gaze run over her in a way that made her blush. His brown hair was longer than the fashion and dishevelled, as was the brown jacket and white shirt that opened at the collar to reveal a light curling of brown hair. His eyes were a startling clear green and seemed to see through her clothing.
She took a step back, irritated at the heat suffusing her face, but unable to stop it since he continued to look at her as though she were a tasty morsel he intended to devour. ‘I did not hear you approach,’ she said, her voice breathless, which added to her discomfort and ire.
He smiled and her knees nearly melted. His mouth was wide and well formed, the lips sharply delineated. His teeth were strong. He radiated a predatory interest.
‘You were engrossed in something in the dirt. I was engrossed in something much more appealing.’ His gaze dropped to her hips.
Her blush deepened. ‘I beg your pardon, but a gentleman would not stare as you do.’ Thankfully her voice was cold and pointed instead of the breathiness of seconds before. ‘Nor would a gentleman continue to do so,’ she added when his attention moved to her torso.
He shrugged. ‘A lady does not wear clothing that is very similar to that worn by the women in an Arab sheik’s harem.’ He cocked his head to one side. ‘Although it is a delightful contrast to the chip straw bonnet that is so very English and the starched and buttoned-to-the-ears shirt. Which, unless I mistake the tailoring, is a man’s garment.’ His gaze moved to her face. ‘Altogether charming.’
Her skin flamed, the heat spreading down her neck. Drat the man and drat her response to him, a reaction she could not explain. She was used to meeting men head on and holding her own, even dressed as she was. Her two brothers, Guy, Viscount Chillings, and Dominic, had first been scandalised by this mode of dress, then vocally adamant that she was to wear the clothing of an English lady and then, when she continued to go her own way, nearly indifferent. A smile curved up one corner of her mouth. Now, when they saw her dressed this way, all they did was glare.
This specimen of the species, however, was doing much more than glaring. He was mentally undressing her, unless she missed her mark, which she did not think likely. Her deceased husband had taught her what it felt like to have a male undress you with his eyes. But instead of the nausea the previous Lord Fenwick-Clyde had always made her feel, this man made her as unsure as a Miss just out of the schoolroom.
‘I have had better compliments,’ she said tartly, the words out before she considered them.
He took several strides towards her, his well-muscled legs encased in buckskin breeches eating up the distance. ‘I am sure you have,’ he murmured.
She clamped her lips shut before she said something else suggestive. Her eyes narrowed as he took another step in her direction.
The sun chose that moment to break through the clouds and shine down on them. She noted that his eyes were deep set and heavy lidded, with lines of dissipation radiating from the outside corners. He looked to be in his late thirties, a man who had lived a hard life. And noting the gleam in his eyes as he watched her study him, he had enjoyed every minute of his dissipation. Most likely, he was a rake of the highest magnitude. Well, that was nothing to her and nothing she had not encountered before. In fact, her younger brother was a libertine and she handled him quite well. Of course, Dominic’s interest was never aimed at her.
‘Now that you have studied me like one would a specimen pinned to a board, please be on your way. I,’ she said pointedly, ‘am busy.’
His eyelids drooped over speculative eyes and his mouth turned sensual. ‘I warrant you are.’ He closed the distance between them. ‘But you are busy on my property, and I think, what with life’s trials, tribulations and…’ his voice turned husky ‘…temptations, you owe me a forfeit for trespassing.’
‘I owe you nothing,’ she said indignantly, moving to one side. ‘If you are Sir Hugo Fitzsimmon, your steward has given me permission to be here.’
His smile lost none of its anticipation as he moved to block her. ‘Then he did not ask me before granting you leave.’
‘That is your problem,’ she said sharply. ‘Not mine.’
She dodged to one side as he continued to close the distance between them. Sir Hugo or not Sir Hugo, she did not know him. No matter that her body screamed she did know him and wanted to know him better, her mind was adamant. She did not know this man.
She was too slow. He caught her and drew her inexorably toward him. Her face inches from his, she noted that he had the swarthy complexion of a man who spent much of his time outdoors. The muscled strength of the arm holding her pinned to his chest suggested that he was a sportsman, possibly a Corinthian.
All of this observation, she knew, was a wild attempt on her part to ignore the tension that started in her stomach and was spreading outwards through her body in waves. There was something about this man that ignited sensations she had never known she possessed. But no matter what that something was, she did not appreciate her body doing things her mind did not want it to do.
His smile widened as though he could read her thoughts and found them amusing. With his free hand, he caught the cherry-coloured satin ribbon tied into a bow beneath her chin and pulled. Her wide-brimmed bonnet toppled off the back of her head.
‘How dare you.’
His grin turned wolfish. ‘I dare a lot. As you shall see.’
Then his mouth was on hers. She expected him to be rough. She was prepared for rough. He was persuasive.
His lips moved provocatively over hers as his free hand burrowed into the hair at her nape, and held her still for his exploration. His arm around her waist tightened so her breasts pressed against his chest, making her aware of him in ways she had never experienced before.
When his tongue glided along her bottom lip, skimming her skin so lightly that he was like a treat held just beyond reach, she wondered if she would disgrace herself by following his oh, so clever tongue with her own. He saved her that indignity by taking her small gasp of surprise and using it to slip inside her mouth.
Sensation coursed through her, sensual and warm and arousing. Her eyes closed slowly, as she sank into his embrace. A shudder of delight rippled down her spine.
She gave herself over to his seduction without conscious thought. Her body reacted as her mind slid away.
‘Ahh…’ he breathed, taking his lips from hers, his voice a rasp. ‘You have rewarded me well.’
Her eyes snapped open, and her mind seemed to get back into working order. What had she done? She had acted like a wanton, like a loose woman. And she did not even enjoy the carnal relationship between a man and woman. Her past husband had told her that frequently enough—and she had agreed wholeheartedly with him.
She splayed her palms against this stranger’s chest and pushed. Hard.
‘Let me go.’ Her former blush returned with a vengeance.
He laughed, but did not release her. ‘And what will you give me if I do?’
Her eyes sparked. ‘What will I give you if you do not, is the better question, sirrah!’
His laugh deepened, so that lines carved into the skin around his mouth. His hair, too long and too long from a razor, lifted in the breeze.
‘Threats or promises?’ He leaned back and gazed down at where their bodies still met. ‘I choose to believe promises.’
‘You are no gentleman. Nor are you very intelligent.’ Annabell tried desperately not to sputter in her anger at his arrogant assumption of her willing compliance. Although, in all honesty—and she always tried to be honest with herself—he had every reason to think she would succumb to him.
‘No?’ he drawled, his eyes narrowing dangerously, all hint of humour gone. ‘I think I understand you perfectly. Shall I prove it again—to your satisfaction and mine?’
‘You have gone too far already.’ She sputtered in her fury. ‘I may have let you kiss me—’
‘Let me? You kissed me back.’
‘Let you kiss me, but I was not willing.’
He laughed outright. The sound was full and rich with resonance. It sent shivers cascading down her spine. But enough was enough. She pushed hard at him and hooked her lower leg behind his knee. He released her waist just before he fell to the ground like a stone. Surprise widened his eyes seconds before they narrowed.
Instead of jumping to his feet as she had expected, he rose up on his elbows and studied her with an insolence that made his countenance cold. ‘I see you are a woman who can defend herself.’
She returned his appraisal, hands on hips. ‘I learned early with two brothers that sometimes fighting unfairly is the only way a woman can protect herself.’
A twinge of guilt narrowed her eyes. Guy and Dominic had never abused her as her husband had. If truth be told, the late Fenwick-Clyde had taught her more about unfair fighting than either of her brothers. But that was something only she knew or needed to know.
The man who called himself Sir Hugo got to his feet in one lithe movement that told her clearer than words that, if he really wanted to do something to her, he could. Instead, he carelessly straightened the handkerchief knotted at his neck, similar to those worn by prizefighters.
‘Women are not the only ones who often need an advantage to protect themselves. But that is neither here nor there.’ He slid out of his loose-fitting jacket and shook it to get off some of the dirt from the excavation. Instead of putting it back on, he folded it across his arm. ‘You are on my land without my permission. I could have you arrested for trespassing.’
Annabell’s deep blue eyes sparked in a way both her brothers would recognise as the first warning of a verbal attack. ‘If you are unaware of my presence then it is the fault of your steward, who agreed to our excavation.’ Her mouth thinned. ‘Perhaps he could not reach you. And furthermore, you could try to arrest me for trespassing, but you would be unsuccessful. Everyone around here knows who I am and that I am invited.’
‘Perhaps.’ His voice grated.
She smiled sweetly while venom dripped from her words. ‘I assure you, Sir Hugo, I have a letter from your man authorising me to be here.’
His jaw sharpened. ‘I am sure you do, Miss—’
She notched up her chin. ‘Lady Fenwick-Clyde.’
For an instant only, his pupils dilated. He made a curt, mocking bow. ‘Lady Fenwick-Clyde.’ He waved his long-fingered hand to encompass her work area. ‘Until I check into this further, please feel free to do with my land as you please.’
She ignored the sarcasm in his voice. ‘I shall do just that, Sir Hugo.’
He gave her one last, long look. This one did not go below her neck. It was as though he were reassessing her. Then he spun on his well-shod heel and strode to where a chestnut mare stood patiently waiting, eating the vibrant spring grass.
It was not until he walked away that she noticed his limp. The catch in his gait was so minor as to be nearly indiscernible. Nor did it mar his natural predatory grace.
She watched him mount the horse and disappear into the smattering of trees separating the site from the nearby dirt path that substituted as a road. He rode with the same easy grace that he moved. No wonder he had a reputation with women.
He was one of the handsomest men, albeit in a disreputable way, she had every seen. Her brothers were considered very good specimens, but to her mind Sir Hugo surpassed them.
Unconsciously, her fingers went to her lips. She could still feel the tingle of his mouth on hers. Ridiculous.
She had things to do. This was a valuable site of Roman occupation. Her goal was to preserve it for posterity. She had thought she had months to do so. With Sir Hugo in residence, she had very little time. Not even a widow’s reputation was safe when linked with the Wolf of Covent Garden.
A rueful grin twisted her mouth. Funny she should remember that name for him. Her younger brother Dominic had thrown it at her in one of his tirades when he discovered exactly where the Roman villa she was excavating was located. He had called Sir Hugo dangerous. He was probably right.
She unconsciously rubbed her still swollen lips.
And the way the man had looked at her. It had been nothing short of indecent. She might be dressed unconventionally, but she had every right to wear what she chose. Men did.
But, perhaps, with him in residence, it would be better to dress more conservatively. Much as she had denied the attraction he exuded, she had been unable to resist him. What if he chose to take advantage of her again?
Her body heated and she sank to the ground.
Tomorrow she would wear a proper English skirt. Her spine stiffened and she pushed herself back up to her feet.
No, no, she wouldn’t. His bold disregard for the proprieties would not make her skittish. She would do as she wished and was practical. As she always did. No man, and especially not one as disreputable as he, would alter her actions.
That settled, she bent back to her work, forgetting that her bonnet lay in the dirt several feet away where it had fallen.
Hugo moved easily in the saddle despite the twinge in his left thigh and the sharp pull that radiated to his groin. He was not a man to pity himself. He had taken a musket ball during Waterloo. Many others had taken worse.
He had even been given a knighthood for bravery. His mouth twisted. He had only done what needed to be done. Still, he had accepted the knighthood for his father’s memory. His father had spent his life trying to get a title bestowed on his only child and failed. Hugo knew logically that his father was gone and the knighthood bestowed too late to make his father feel better, but his heart had told him to accept and trust that somehow his father knew.
He resisted the temptation to look back at Lady Fenwick-Clyde. He was not sure if he would feel desire or pity, and did not want to find out. Instead, he urged Molly into a canter.
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