An Unconventional Widow

by Georgina Devon

  He cleared his throat so that his Adam’s apple bobbed. ‘My pleasure.’

  I don’t doubt that, Annabell thought, watching him leave without closing her bedchamber door. If they stayed here too long, she might lose her companion. She and Pennyworth had been together a long time. They met on Annabell’s first trip to Egypt, on the ship coming back from Gibraltar. Miss Pennyworth had been escorting a young girl from India back to England for school. Annabell had offered her the position of her companion when her commitment to the girl was finished. Miss Pennyworth had accepted. Now Tatterly, unless Annabell missed her guess, was interested in offering Miss Pennyworth a new position as wife. If that was what Pennyworth wanted, she would not begrudge her the chance for happiness, even though she would miss her sorely.

  But for the immediate future, she had other problems. She was not travelling an hour each way every day in order to excavate the Roman villa. And longer if the weather turned bad.

  She started unpacking.

  Hugo breathed deeply of the cool air, filled with the hint of moisture. The scent of live things permeated everything. He heard the sound of movement in the underbrush and saw the flip of a wing overhead. He had missed England. He had missed Rosemont. He had not expected to miss either.

  His hands tightened on the reins so that Molly shied. ‘Easy, girl,’ he murmured, leaning forward to stroke her glossy neck. ‘Nothing is wrong. Not really.’

  He reined Molly to a stop. The remains of the Roman villa stood in stark contrast to the green grass and trees surrounding it. He could make out bright shards and pieces of earthenware pottery. She had done a good job of preserving the site. Antiquities had interested him since his Oxford days. It was intriguing that she was fascinated by them as well.

  He might not want her in his home because of all the problems her presence would create, but he did want to see this villa preserved. If possible, he would like it restored to its former glory, or as near as possible without compromising its integrity.

  That was why, when Tatterly had written to tell him one of the farmers had dug up a Roman antiquity while ploughing near the orchard, he had told his steward to arrange for someone qualified to come and excavate the site. He had thought the expert would be male.

  His mouth quirked. Never in his most fantastical dreams would he have imagined a woman interested and qualified to do what Lady Fenwick-Clyde was doing.

  This interest was a strange thing to have in common. But his concerns over the excavation were not enough to allow her to remain in his home, given the possible ramifications. She could easily be ruined, or he could be pressured to marry her. Neither possibility was acceptable.

  Unless she chose to stay, understanding that, no matter what happened, marriage was not an option.

  Annabell found him once more in the library, his legs propped on an ottoman, a book in one hand and a brandy in the other. He looked perfectly content. For a man of his reputation, he seemed to spend a lot of time in a quiet room. She would have thought he would be gambling or wenching in the nearby tavern, the one he had wanted her to relocate to.

  When the footman moved to announce her, she waved him away. Better to have the advantage of surprise. It had always worked when dealing with her brothers—no matter that it had not been effective with Fenwick-Clyde. Somehow she thought Sir Hugo was more like her younger sibling than her previous spouse.

  ‘Sir Hugo,’ she said firmly, entering the book-shrouded room. ‘I need to speak with you.’

  He said something she could not make out. He did not bother to stand or to even look back at her. He ignored her.

  ‘I said I have something to talk to you about.’

  She stopped to the side of where he sat and scowled down at him. It was a mistake.

  His hair was tousled from his ride, the heavy curls falling across his wide forehead. His eyes were greener than she remembered and held a hint of emotion she could not name. His mouth, that generous yet firmly moulded mouth, caught her attention.

  She knew what his lips felt like pressed to hers. She knew his mouth was as skilled at kissing as it was beguiling to look at. The urge to reach out and trace the curves of his lips nearly undid her. She curled her fingers into fists and held them securely at her sides. Better to look anywhere else than at his mouth. It made her remember sensations better forgotten.

  Her gaze dropped. His shirt was loosened at the neck and the handkerchief that had been knotted around his throat earlier was gone.

  He was a very disturbing man.

  He laid down the book he had been reading, one of Jane Austen’s. ‘I thought you would be gone by now.’

  ‘The inn is full.’ She made it a flat statement of fact, unarguable.

  ‘That is too bad.’

  She waited, but he didn’t say anything else, just sipped his brandy. ‘You drink a lot of that.’

  She was trying to be deliberately provoking. For some reason he brought out the worst in her.

  He nodded. ‘Yes, but not as much as others. Where are you going to stay now?’

  Her mouth opened to tell him in no uncertain terms that she was staying here. She clamped it shut so hard her teeth clicked. This was his house. He could order her out even if she had nowhere else to go. She had been on her own and answerable to no one for too long when her manners went begging like this.

  ‘May I have a seat?’ She kept her voice mild and reasonable.

  He waved a negligent hand at the nearest chair, a big, stuffed chintz she often sat in. There was nothing nicer than sitting in here before a roaring fire, having tea and reading a good book. Sometimes eating buttered toast. He had an extensive collection, everything from the classics to Jane Austen. She wondered if he had read them all, but doubted it because there were so many.

  She sat down and ran her hands down her lap, smoothing the skirt of the high-waisted kerseymere she had changed into. ‘The next closest inn is at least an hour’s ride each way. That will make it very difficult for me to have a productive day.’

  He turned to watch her, but said nothing. She found his perusal unsettling, to say the least. It made her flush and her stomach twitch. She wanted him to look elsewhere—anywhere but at her, which made her uncomfortable.

  ‘Have I a smudge on my nose or chin?’ Her voice was more tart than she had intended.

  His mouth curved into a rakish grin. ‘Not that I can see, and I am looking very hard for flaws.’

  Her eyes widened and she leaned away from him. ‘I beg your pardon, Sir Hugo.’ Embarrassment was a wonderful cure for self-consciousness, she found. All thought vanished of trying to talk reasonably in order to convince him to let her stay here. ‘I did not come here to be flirted with.’

  His smiled widened. ‘No, I imagine you didn’t. You came to wheedle me into letting you stay here at Rosemont.’

  ‘I didn’t come here to wheedle you. I came here to explain why I need to stay here at least until the village inn has room, which should be early next week after everyone who has come for the prizefight has left.’

  ‘Ah, I understand now.’ He took a long drink of his liquor. ‘You don’t much care about your reputation. You think that being a widow with a chaperon will protect you from the gossips. You are more concerned about your convenience and comfort.’

  She eyed him with dislike. Her body might respond to him and her eyes might take pleasure in looking at him, but she did not have to like him as a person.

  ‘I am an adult woman. I can do as I choose. Men do it all the time. I choose to stay where it is convenient for me to accomplish my work.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Were you in my position, you would do exactly that.’

  He laughed outright, but it wasn’t a mirthful sound. ‘You are either naïve or delusional. Women, like men, should value their good name. For you, much of your good name is locked up in your reputation. Nothing would protect your reputation—or any other woman’s for that matter—from the gossip-mongers. Particularly since my conduct among the fairer sex is
disreputable to say the least, as you so willingly informed me this afternoon.’

  ‘You were insufferable,’ she retorted without thinking. When his smile became self-satisfied, she knew she had played right into his hand. ‘Not that I can’t handle you.’

  A different look moved over his face. ‘I am sure you can.’

  Now she’d made the situation worse. And he did have a valid point. In many ways, she knew him to be right, which only increased her irritation with the entire situation. It was the way of their world to constrain women and to put name and background before individual happiness. She had done that once by entering into an arranged marriage. Never again. She was tired of the world she came from. She wanted freedom to be herself, hard as that might be.

  Her voice was waspish as a result of her thoughts. ‘Let us not mince words, Sir Hugo. You are a rake and a libertine. I know that, and I am prepared to take the risk of ruining my reputation.’

  He shook his head and set the empty glass down. ‘Is this excavation so important that you can’t wait a couple of days? Move to the distant tavern or go back to London until the village inn has room.’

  She raised her chin up and squared her shoulders. What he said had merit, but not for her. ‘I could do that, and that would be the reasonable thing to do. But I don’t choose to do so.’

  ‘May I ask why?’

  ‘You may, and I will even tell you.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I choose not to do the respectable thing because I am sick of what society says is acceptable for a woman. Men may do as they damn well please, but women must do as they are told. Well, I will do as I see fit. If that ruins me in the eyes of the ton, then so be it. It is a small price to pay for being able to decide what I do, when I do it and with whom I do it.’

  She stopped, realising she had very nearly launched into a tirade. Ever since Fenwick-Clyde had dominated her in every way possible, she had taken every opportunity to defy anyone and anything that tried to dictate to her. And, truth be told, she had always been rebellious. That trait had just worsened after her marriage.

  He refilled his glass, picked it up and saluted her. ‘I believe I understand perfectly. You are a bluestocking and a revolutionary. I congratulate you on your courage. Make yourself at home. It does not matter to me if it does not matter to you.’

  She gaped. Her victory was too easily won. But then they had not been in battle.

  ‘Why have you changed your mind? Earlier today you were adamant that I was to leave.’

  ‘Earlier today I felt like following society’s dictates. Now I see you do not care, so I leave the responsibility for your welfare to you. I came home to rest and recuperate, not fight with a woman I don’t even know.’ He drank the brandy in one long gulp, his Adam’s apple moving just above the white collar of his shirt. ‘Besides, I admire your courage.’

  She nearly fell over from shock. ‘Admire my courage?’

  He nodded, a mysterious gleam in his green, green eyes. ‘Yes, courage. That is a rare commodity in any person and one to be preserved. If you are not afraid of anything, then so be it.’

  ‘You are letting me stay because you think I have courage?’ He nodded and she blinked. ‘I also have stubbornness.’

  He shrugged. ‘That too. Besides which,’ he added, ‘my stepmother has written to inform me that she and my brother and sister will be here shortly. She started from London as soon as she heard I was in the country.’

  ‘Ah.’ That explained his change. ‘An impeccable chaperon.’

  He shrugged. ‘Perhaps to some.’ He slanted a speculative look at Annabell, his gaze traveling from her smooth hair, which she had pulled primly back into a bun, to her lap where her hands lay still. ‘I believe she is your age or younger. My father married late in his life.’

  ‘Hah! Yes, she will be the perfect protection for my honour. How like society to determine that your stepmother, even though she may be younger than me, can be depended upon to be a buffer between your lascivious urges and my widowhood. That is exactly what I meant about freedom.’

  ‘You are right, but that is the way of things.’

  He continued to watch her as he said the irritating words. Annabell wondered if he said them merely to goad her, to see what she would say. Her brothers would have. But she had been on her high horse long enough, and it was late and she wanted to take one last look at the site before finishing for the day.

  She stood abruptly. ‘Well, now that we have resolved everything, I will leave you to your pleasures.’

  He nodded. ‘Yes, I do like my pleasures.’

  She gave him a narrowed look, suspecting him of innuendo, but saw his countenance was noncommittal. ‘Yes, you do, Sir Hugo.’

  She looked pointedly at a nearby brazier that added its warmth to that from the fireplace. Then there was the fine cashmere rug he had over his legs and the supple leather slippers he wore that seemed soft as a second skin.

  He smiled up at her, not in the least discommoded. ‘Life is short. I live it to the fullest and the devil take the hind-most.’

  ‘A hedonist.’

  He smiled, thinning his lips. ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Someday you will tire of living only for pleasure.’

  ‘I doubt that.’

  ‘Wait and see.’

  She was always one to give as good as she got and she never backed down from anything. She had often confronted Fenwick-Clyde, usually to her regret in the long run. But she had been determined to stand up for herself, even when performing the duties expected of a wife. She shivered.

  ‘Are you feeling unwell?’ Sir Hugo stood so that he was nearly touching her. ‘You suddenly paled.’

  She blinked and realised her hands were clenched. It had been ages since she thought of what Fenwick-Clyde had required of her. Why now?

  ‘I am fine. Just old memories.’ She would have sounded more convincing if her voice hadn’t trembled. Sometimes she disgusted herself. ‘Perfectly fine. I must be on my way. Thank you so much for allowing Miss Pennyworth and myself to remain here.’

  He watched her, the look in his eyes telling her as clear as spoken words that he didn’t believe her. But he said nothing further about that.

  ‘One last thing,’ he drawled, his voice stopping her. She looked back at him. ‘If your reputation is shredded, Lady Fenwick-Clyde, don’t look to me to remedy the situation.’

  She stared at him, not sure she understood. ‘Exactly what are you trying to say?’

  He sipped his brandy. ‘That I won’t marry you to preserve a name you are determined to sully.’

  The urge to stalk across the room and slap him for his arrogance was strong. Somehow, she managed to resist.

  ‘Be assured, Sir Hugo, I won’t require that sacrifice from you. Ever.’

  Annabell made her exit before he could reply. Goodness only knew what he would say given the opportunity. And goodness only knew what she would do if he continued to goad her.

  Sir Hugo watched her go and wondered if he had made a colossal mistake by allowing her to stay. Her slim hips swayed in spite of how stiffly she held her shoulders. Wisps of her blond, nearly silver hair escaped the severe bun and wafted behind her like moonbeams. He scowled. He was not a poet and had no aspirations to be one, yet here he was describing her in flowery words. Sometimes his libido got the better of him.

  He sank back into his chair.

  Juliet might be coming and bringing his half-brother and half-sister, Joseph and Rosalie, but he doubted they would make good chaperons. Still, society would be appeased. He would nearly have a house party.

  His mouth curled into a sardonic grin. The perfect setting for a seduction.

  And he had warned her that he would not marry her, no matter what happened. His conscience was clear.

  Chapter Three

  Hugo sprawled leisurely in his chair and watched the other three people at the dinner table. Lady Fenwick-Clyde sat on his right, Miss Susan Pennyworth on his left. Beside Miss Pennyworth was Tatterly, s
till as a church mouse as he listened attentively to every word Miss Pennyworth uttered, which was many. The man was transparent, but Miss Pennyworth seemed unaware of his infatuation. Of course, Hugo decided, Miss Pennyworth was a ninnyhammer and very likely unaware of many things.

  ‘Lady Fenwick-Clyde, was your archaeological site safe when you checked it earlier?’ He had to find conversation of some substance or banish the nattering companion from the room.

  She looked at him as though she suspected him of teasing her, which he was. He found her interest in scientific matters fascinating. He also enjoyed watching the emotions flit across her face. She was totally unaffected. For an instant, he wondered how she had ever survived Fenwick-Clyde. Then he pushed the thought away. It was none of his concern.

  ‘Yes, Sir Hugo. Tomorrow I shall start removing the top layers of dirt and debris in the area I was exploring today. I believe there is a nearly intact mosaic.’

  ‘Really,’ he drawled, more interested in her than her words.

  The play of enthusiasm and interest across her delicate face caught him, made him wonder how she would look beneath him, with him buried inside her. An interesting possibility.

  ‘What do you intend to do with your find? It is, lest you forget, on my property.’

  She blinked and bit her bottom lip. The actions made her eyes sparkle and her mouth blossom a deep, rosy hue that beckoned to him. He doubted she realised how enticing she was. But she would know if he stood up. His reaction to her was strong and intense, unlike anything he had experienced in these last ten to twenty years.

  ‘Well, I had thought you would preserve it. It is a fine example of Roman life here. A wonderful bit of history. Otherwise, why would you have commissioned the dig?’

  He wondered what she would do if he continued to bait her. The urge to find out was irresistible. He had always been curious, even as a child. The trait had often ended with him covered in mud or dirt, or finding himself in a situation that was potentially dangerous. Like the time he had found a colony of bees and decided to get a piece of their honeycomb on his own. At ten, he had considered himself nearly a man. Instead, he had got badly stung, but he had also got the honeycomb. He always got what he wanted.