To Woo a Wicked Widow

by Jenna Jaxon

  Elizabeth and Georgie, she would wager, were already snug in their own beds, alone. Elizabeth had seemed more animated and in better spirits than usual. She had talked and even laughed with several gentlemen this evening but showed no great partiality toward any one. Charlotte had not expected her to. Her devotion to Colonel Easton had been akin to that found in the fashionable romantic novels available from the Minerva Press, so her personal period of mourning might extend until circumstances forced her to marry. And knowing Elizabeth, she would certainly wait for marriage before indulging in bedroom pleasures once more.

  Georgina had finally been persuaded to dance a second time with Lord Fernley, although she had eventually cried off from dancing altogether, pleading fatigue. She had instead accompanied the others, seeming very accomplished and comfortable on the pianoforte. It might take several meetings of the club before Georgina became accustomed to dancing—and men—again.

  Charlotte paused before the library door, the muffled sound of voices straining through the polished oak door catching her attention. Some of her guests still stirred? She reached for the latch, then paused, hand on the handle.

  What if this was a tryst? Both Jane and Fanny were eager to resume the pleasures of the bed, although why they would wish to do so in a library she could not fathom. Leaning her head against the panel, she pressed her ear to the smooth wood, listening for voices. The denizens of the library chose that moment to fall silent. Drat! She pressed more intently, aware that if the door opened she would fall into whoever stood there.

  The murmuring resumed, in a register so low it could only be a man’s. Was there a woman in there also? Did she really want to know? Easing away from the door, Charlotte changed directions and headed for the stairs, her heart beating quicker at the thought of the assignations that might be going on all around her. She could have had one of her own if she’d accepted Mr. Garrett. She shivered at the prospect and sped up the stairs.

  Jane had warned her about him in March and the man’s reputed escapades would make any decent woman blush. Last spring alone, rumors had circulated regarding his pursuit of three different women. Two widows and a viscount’s wife, so the story went. She certainly didn’t want to be his next conquest. If only there was some way to make him leave the house party, but it would be rude to ask him to go if he’d done nothing except suggest an assignation. She would simply have to be on her guard. Surely he would not try to force her in a houseful of people. A sudden foreboding made her look over her shoulder, but the dark staircase remained empty. When she made the landing, however, she picked up her skirts and raced to her suite.

  Quiet reigned in the blue- and cream-colored room she had claimed as her own. A fire crackled in the grate, her gown and wrapper laid out on the tall bed to warm, a decanter and glasses twinkled on a side table.

  “There you are, my lady. I wondered why you hadn’t come up yet.” The door to her dressing room opened and Rose emerged, a pair of emerald-green suede shoes in her hands. “You have a full day tomorrow. You’ll be needing your rest. Let me put these down and I’ll help you get ready for bed.”

  She gave another brush to the shoes and set them back in the dressing room. “Now, stand still, my lady.” Deftly, Rose unbuttoned, unlaced, and untied Charlotte’s clothes until she stood gloriously naked and free.

  A sudden vision of standing thus before the Earl of Wrotham sprang to mind, his dark eyes full of approval, his rough hands caressing her body. She shivered and glanced down to see her breasts peaked into hard, pink points.

  “Are you cold, my lady?”

  Her maid’s voice dragged her back to the present. “A sudden draft. I’ll take a short wash only.” Perhaps the water would cool her down.

  Moments later, she emerged from behind the screen and the fine lawn and lace nightdress slithered over her head. She pulled her wrapper around her shoulders and sat, forcing herself to relax as Rose brushed out her hair. The soothing routine now rubbed her nerves like a cheese grater. The more Rose slid the brush through her hair, the more sensually aware she became of the touch of the bristles on her super-sensitive scalp. She could imagine Wrotham’s hands in her hair, raking his fingers through the length of her thick locks, cupping her head, drawing her closer until he engulfed her body with his.

  A sharp rap on the door sent Charlotte staggering up with a squawk on her lips. She stood swaying, every nerve tingling as she tried to calm her racing heart.

  “Who’s there?” Rose opened the door.

  “Fisk,” the butler replied, standing straight, completely unruffled. “I am sorry to disturb you, my lady, but one of the guests is leaving and insists on speaking with you before he goes.”

  Charlotte clutched her wrapper tighter. “Which guest?”

  “Mr. Alan Garrett.”

  Good Lord, an answer to a prayer. Or a ploy by a very clever rake? Well, she could be clever too.

  “Tell him I will meet him directly. Is he in his room?”

  “The drawing room, my lady.”

  “Thank you, Fisk.” Charlotte dismissed the servant and turned to Rose. “I’ll wear the dress I just took off but without the stays. Too much trouble for the ten minutes I will be with Mr. Garrett. I’ll use my nightgown in place of the chemise.” The quicker she could get this over with, the better off she would be.

  Rose nodded, disappeared into the dressing room, and reemerged with the pale blue silk gown. In moments she had dropped it into place and was fastening the back.

  “It’s a bit loose without the stays, my lady.”

  Charlotte could see that. The small puffed sleeves sagged onto her shoulders, revealing the top of her undergarment. Bother it. “Hand me the paisley shawl. I can cover up with that.”

  Draping herself as best she could, Charlotte stepped into her slippers, grabbed the candle from Rose, and hurried out the door.

  Shadows played up and down the staircase as she descended, distracting her as she fought to manage her skirt, her shawl, and the candle all at once. If she took a tumble she’d either break her neck, set the house on fire, or both.

  At last she reached the drawing room but found it dark. No sign of the man. Frowning, Charlotte peered into the blackness of the hallway. “Mr. Garrett?”

  Silence. What was the rake playing at now? Perhaps she had been correct in thinking this summons was a ploy to get her alone. He might even have thought she’d come to him in her nightgown. More fool him.

  She darted out into the hall, bent on returning to her room. Mr. Garrett could go hang. About to mount the stairs, she paused, a light beneath the library door catching her attention. Had the dratted man changed rooms? Even if not, Fisk should have extinguished the sconces long ere this. She whirled around and strode to the door, reaching for the handle, then stopped. There had been voices in the library earlier. Had those guests gone? Would she humiliate herself by walking in on a passionate scene?

  She took a deep breath, pressed her ear against the oak panel, and listened.

  Nothing. Drat it. Her shoulders slumped. She would have to take a chance. With a fervor born of desperation, she grasped the handle, shoved it down, and threw open the door.

  * * *

  Nash knocked back the last of the brandy in his glass and set it down on the sideboard. He should have left hours ago, but the company at Lyttlefield Park had been stimulating in a variety of ways. Lady Cavendish had been his dinner companion and they had enjoyed a surprisingly spirited conversation. About Lord Byron’s flight from England, of all things, and had discovered a common interest in his poetry. She had turned out to be a remarkably agreeable dinner partner and more of his distrust of her had eased.

  The gentlemen of the party were also a pleasant lot; he’d been acquainted with two of them already. He’d recognized Garrett, curse him, from their encounter at Almack’s. The earl had been right; Lady Cavendish played a dangerous game, flirting with scandal in the form of this rakehell. She’d declared to him at dinner, sotto voce, that she had not
invited the scoundrel. Something about Lord Fernley and a misunderstanding.

  Nash shook his head. Good thing she’d invited him to this party. He could keep an eye on her and Garrett while he wooed the lovely lady right out from under the rake’s nose.

  Should he indulge in another brandy? Strange he felt no compulsion to shove off home. Of course, he and Brack had fallen into a great discussion about Egypt, which they both had happened to visit. That had led them, eventually, out of the drawing room and in search of the answer to a question about the Great Library in Alexandria. Having settled the point, they had quite abandoned the ladies and fallen to talk of their cattle and the coming hunting season. The clock striking two had roused them from conversation and, after a final snifter, Brack had gone off to bed.

  Nash had lingered, however, sipping his brandy in the soothing darkness. The house had settled into a peaceful quiet. Restful, in fact. He was loath to disturb it by opening the door and seeking a servant to fetch his carriage. Too bad he hadn’t taken Lady Cavendish up on her offer of accommodation here. Now, dash it all, he couldn’t just bed down on the sofa. With a sigh, he turned from the sideboard and started toward the door. He was reaching for the handle when the door burst open.

  He staggered backward as a pale vision strode toward him. Gorgeously disarrayed, hair flying around her like a battle maiden of old, Lady Cavendish presented a formidable sight to behold. His mouth dropped open as the full effect of her dishabille struck him like a kick from an ornery horse.

  Her pale gown hung close to her body, outlining delicious curves, delineating shapely legs. Her shawl had slipped from her shoulders, exposing her chemise and a lot of very tempting skin. His gaze strayed lower, to the neckline of her low-cut gown, gaping away, showing off her voluptuous breasts. And her feet . . . were bare. Despite the shadowy light, his gaze riveted to the small white toes and his groin ached with wanting.

  “Oh, dear.” Her face paled to the hue of the moonlight streaming in the window. Recognition of him stopped her in midstride. She trod on her shawl, wavered for a long moment, then pitched forward, the candle flying from her hand.

  Here we go again.

  Nash grabbed her, his arms going around her as they had that evening at Almack’s. Once more each contour of her body pressed against him intimately, every inch of them seeming to touch. Her head landed on his shoulder and the sweet, exotic scent of tuberoses filled his head. Erotic beyond belief. His already aroused member stiffened as if by magic.

  Dear Lord, she had to feel his prodding presence. Yet she offered no resistance whatsoever. He expected her to recoil, to scream, to slap his face at the very least. Instead, she simply lay against him, panting. He relaxed his hold on her slightly, expecting her to ease away from him. To his astonishment, she nestled against him, as if at home there.

  What the devil did she mean by this behavior? Had she known he was still in the house and been seeking him out? Their earlier encounter suggested her more enthusiastic about him than he had believed, despite her abrupt departure from the veranda. But women had played hard to get with him before—at least for a short while. Dressed in her current attire, she might very well be in search of a rendezvous. He’d still heard no protest about being in his arms.

  Nash shifted her onto one arm. With his other hand, he brought her head up, her pale visage now inches from his. She searched his face, no fear in hers, only a question. He answered it the only way he could.

  Lowering his head to hers, he took the lips offered to him, sweet and smooth and soft. Her body trembled, but she didn’t struggle. He pressed harder, demanding surrender as a fire quickened in his veins. Slipping first one, then the other hand behind her head, he angled her mouth to his best advantage. A slight turn of her head and their lips melded.

  Emboldened, he opened his mouth and ran his tongue back and forth across the seam of hers. A low whimper emerged. When it turned into a guttural moan, he pressed more insistently against those soft lips. They opened like the petals of a rose in the morning sun, and he slipped between them, the silken gateway to paradise.

  Nash repressed a groan of need. At this moment he’d like nothing better than to lay her down on the thick carpet and sink his all into her. Too soon, too impetuous. Best move with caution lest he frighten his prize.

  Instead, he contented himself with a slow, thorough exploration of her mouth. He reveled in the sensuous feel of her—silky and smooth. The taste of her almost drove him wild, like a sweet liqueur of which he could not get enough.

  When she slid her arms up and around his neck, pulling him to her, he thought he would explode with desire. Every inch of him tingled with the need to touch her skin, enfold himself around her, possess her completely in every way. No other woman had ever moved him this deeply. Scary as hell, yet satisfying beyond belief.

  Still, he must move with caution. Despite her sweet responses, he couldn’t assume she wished to pursue an even deeper intimacy tonight. Best give her the opportunity to make her intentions known.

  Nash began to ease away from her when he became aware they were not alone.

  Damnation! At the worst . . . well, almost worst possible moment. Instinctively, he spun them around so she stood behind him, her identity shielded slightly at least. Too bad she was not a young miss. The earl could have them leg-shackled before the ink dried on the special license. Still, it would be enjoyable to spend some time wooing Lady Cavendish.

  Nash swung back around, frowning at the intruder, who should have been abed by now anyway.

  “My pardon, my lord. My lady. But if you desired more privacy I would have suggested you close the door.” The dark figure’s voice held a wry tone—respect tinged with knowing laughter.

  Before Nash could upbraid the man for his impertinence, the lady poked her head around his side. A sharp, indrawn breath.

  “Mr. Garrett?”

  Chapter 9

  If she could have sunk through the floor and deep into the ground, Charlotte would have praised God as a merciful deity. Of all the people to discover her in such a compromising position, it had to be this rake. Now he would think her a light woman and she’d never be rid of him. He’d just bide his time and wait his turn. She had no choice save to stand beside Lord Wrotham, guilty as sin.

  “My lady. Were you perhaps looking for me?” Mr. Garrett made no other utterance, God curse him. The wretch’s implication could not have been clearer.

  Wrotham jerked his head around and stared at her.

  “Yes, Mr. Garrett, I had come down to meet you.” God, that sounded badly. “You sent for me . . . I mean, you sent Fisk to tell me to meet you.” Worse and worse. “You said you were leaving?” Charlotte raised her head and wrinkled her nose. “Do you smell something burning?”

  Both men stared at her; then Wrotham, scowling like a gargoyle, stomped behind a chair and ground something into the carpet.

  “I suppose you two weren’t the only heat in the room,” Garrett said, grinning at Charlotte.

  She itched to smash something into that leering face. “I tripped, Mr. Garrett, and fortunately, Lord Wrotham caught me.” Heat crept into her cheeks as she thought of how they must have looked to him.

  “Again? He’s always there when you need him, isn’t he? I suspect you needed a great deal of comfort after such a tumble.” He seemed to enjoy mocking her. His gaze flicked over her appearance.

  Automatically, she pulled her gown up over her shoulders. She curled her toes on the scratchy carpet, at once aware she’d stepped out of her slippers somewhere along the way. Likely when she’d tripped and fallen into Wrotham’s arms.

  “I see no reason for insolence, sir.” The deathly calm of Wrotham’s voice drew her attention back to him. “This is really none of your affair whatsoever.” His glare would have made a sensible man shut his mouth and be on his way. She’d not want to see it turned on her. A warm wave of gratitude washed over her at his gallant defense.

  “You are correct, my lord. It certainly is
not.” He eyed Charlotte once more. “You are, however, correct also, Lady Cavendish. I must take my leave. I received word almost an hour ago that my uncle, Lord Kersey, is gravely ill and not expected to live past a day or two. I regret that I must immediately journey to his estate in the north of Essex.”

  “Oh, dear. I am very sorry for your uncle, Mr. Garrett.” She hoped her condolences hid her relief at his departure.

  “I as well, Garrett.” Wrotham spoke up, startling her anew. She had forgotten he stood next to her.

  “Is there anything you require for your journey, Mr. Garrett?” Charlotte forced herself back into her role of hostess, despite the bizarre circumstances.

  “No, thank you, my lady.” At least he sounded a bit more civil now. “I’ve ordered my carriage and it should be coming around front shortly. My valet is seeing to the packing. I had only to speak to you.” He stared at her, and a softening in his eyes made her heart leap with dread. “Therefore, I take my leave of you, Lady Cavendish. Will you be returning to London in the autumn?”

  Taken aback by this sudden change in attitude, she stuttered, “I . . . I had not thought about it yet. But perhaps Lady John and I will visit during the Little Season. However, I will likely be here most of the time. I had thought to have another party here at the end of harvest.” Why couldn’t the man just leave?

  “Good. When you are in town I would ask to call upon you. I may be in need of solace if the worst happens with my uncle.” He shifted awkwardly and tapped his hand against his leg.

  “I pray all is better than feared.”

  “I as well, my lady. Wrotham.” Garrett bowed and left.

  Charlotte watched him go, sighing in relief, alone once again with Wrotham.