To Woo a Wicked Widow

by Jenna Jaxon

  Nash returned his attention to Lady Georgina, still sipping her ale. “I see you like the Wrotham ale. ’Tis said those ladies who esteem it find a true husband.” Against his will, his gaze strayed to Lady Cavendish to find her staring back at him.

  “Indeed, my lord?” Georgie shook with mirth. “I suppose if they both liked the ale sufficiently, the wife wouldn’t care if the husband was true or not.”

  “I take your point, my lady.” Nash grinned, pleased at the way she had put herself forward today. Dash it, she was a winning little thing. Not at all like the prickly Lady Cavendish.

  Well, not always prickly of course. She had been soft enough last night. He shook his head and finished his ale. Enough of that. He needed to keep his wits about him. Perhaps some fresh air would be agreeable.

  With a small inclination of his head to Lady Georgina, he rose and turned to his hostess. Had she been staring at him the whole time? Her dusky green eyes, tip-tilted up at him, said she had indeed noted his conversation with Georgie.

  Splendid.

  “If you will have the party meet in front of the inn, we can start toward the church.”

  Lady Cavendish nodded and rose to stand beside him. A weariness in her face spoke of their late night, the strain of which lay at his door. Had she tossed and turned as he had, consumed with unfulfilled passion? He shook the thought from his mind.

  “There are several places of interest in the village in addition to St. George’s. I will be honored to act as guide for the afternoon. I’m certain I can keep the party sufficiently entertained.”

  The look of appreciation she sent him spoke volumes. “You are very kind, my lord.” Her soft voice sounded warmer than before. “If you will not be too inconvenienced? I am sure you did not come here with the expectation of leading our party.”

  “I am delighted to be able to show off our village to your friends.”

  “Our village?”

  He cocked his head. “Both our properties adjoin Wrotham Village. It is as much yours as mine.”

  She shook her head. “I am only just come into the neighborhood, my lord. It is your home, not mine.”

  He grinned. “Not as much as you might think, Lady Cavendish. But if you will excuse me?”

  Nash made his way toward the convenience at the back of the inn and in five minutes time stood in front of The Bull, talking to Brack as the rest of the party assembled around him.

  The little knot of women off to his right on the grass beneath a shady oak had their heads together like the witches from Macbeth. Perhaps deciding which gentleman they would like to escort them, for when Lady Cavendish emerged from the inn they broke apart en masse. Each one then engaged one of the men who stood in a staggered line in the dusty road.

  Lady John claimed Sinclair with a determined arm through his. Lady Stephen slipped her hand through the crook of Sinclair’s other arm. Mrs. Wickley sidled up beside Lord Fernley and began to speak animatedly to him.

  Nash wasn’t greatly surprised when Lady Georgina attached herself to his right arm.

  “Shall we be off now, Lord Wrotham? I am so excited to see the church tower.”

  Before he could answer her, to his amazement, Mrs. Easton appeared on his left.

  “We truly have a lovely day to see the village, don’t you think, Lord Wrotham?” she asked, her voice musical and low-pitched. “The weather has been so unseasonably cool.”

  Nash swallowed to moisten a suddenly dry throat. Two ladies at his side? Well, with Garrett gone, the party lacked more than one man.

  He shot an innocent look toward Lady Cavendish.

  She had stopped next to Lord Brack to stare back at him. Her shoulders squared as though pierced with a ramrod and after one wintry flash from those devastating eyes, she fell into conversation with her escort, as though she had taken no notice of Nash’s companions.

  With difficulty, he repressed a grin and turned to Mrs. Easton. “I quite agree, ma’am. A beautiful day for a walk with two lovely ladies.” His voice carried just far enough on the windless air.

  His lady twitched her shoulders, then continued to nod at a comment from Brack.

  Nash glanced at first one, then the other woman beside him, sighed, and started down the road toward St. George’s. This could prove to be an exceedingly interesting afternoon.

  Chapter 12

  Strolling down the dirt-packed lane to St. George’s, arm in arm with Lord Brack, Charlotte couldn’t help but think she should be a happy woman. Her disastrous outing had turned golden: The weather couldn’t be better—blue sky, a gentle breeze, the sun beaming down pleasantly warm for such a cool August. The company seemed to be enjoying themselves, though they changed partners with alarming frequency. The idyllic setting, with leaves rustling in accompaniment to the birdsong overhead, had put her party in good spirits. And best of all, a guide had appeared who knew everything about Wrotham Village. All in all, a splendid day to her credit as hostess.

  Then what had her so on edge? Her heart kept up a fluttery beat and the pit of her stomach ached from that blasted ale. No wonder ladies weren’t supposed to drink the vile stuff. She might have known Lord Wrotham would suggest a beverage that upset her digestion. Disagreeable man. Too cheerful by far for what he had been up to last night. The memory of lying still against his chest surfaced and her breath came in gasps.

  “Whoa, Lady Cavendish!” Lord Brack’s words checked her headlong flight toward the rugged gray building. He turned a quizzical gaze to her. “We’re not racing to the church, are we?”

  “Of course not, my lord. Please, do forgive me.” Charlotte immediately slowed down to a normal pace. They were now at the head of the group; when she and Brack had set off, they had been dead last. “I confess I was thinking about everything I need to do for tonight’s entertainment and got quite run away with the details.”

  The pleasant, ruddy-cheeked young man chuckled. “You almost ran away with me.”

  Charlotte had to restrain the urge to fan herself. The gentle breeze no longer cooled her sufficiently. “I do beg pardon. Georgina would never forgive me for stealing away her brother.”

  “I believe today you could kidnap me here in broad daylight and she’d not even notice.” He glanced back at Georgie, still on Wrotham’s arm. “I am so glad to see her coming out of her shell a bit.”

  “Yes, we were very concerned that she would not enjoy herself this weekend.” Charlotte winced at a high-pitched peal of laughter that wafted from behind them. “I am so pleased to find this not the case.”

  Lord Brack snorted a laugh, then apologized. “I’d say she’s finally on a fair way to recovering from Kirkpatrick’s death. A blessing I must lay at your feet, Lady Cavendish.”

  “Oh, but I—”

  He put a hand up to stop her protest. “Having friends she could grieve with, who were experiencing the same loss as she, proved a godsend, not only for Georgie, but for all you ladies, I suspect. She is so miserable in town with the Kirkpatricks. Your calls and at homes during her mourning were the highlight of her week. She wrote to me, you see, even though Father forbade it. She was so lonely until she met Eliza . . . Mrs. Easton. And through her, your little circle.”

  He glanced back at Georgie again. “I must say I am particularly grateful to Wrotham for his attentions to her. And thankful he’ll be at this evening’s party as well. Father might well approve of an offer from someone as steady and well-established. It would be a good match for everyone all around.”

  “Not everyone.” Charlotte gasped, appalled that the words had slipped out. Brack peered at her oddly.

  “You disagree, Lady Cavendish? Are you acquainted with Lord Wrotham?”

  Charlotte took a deep breath to compose herself. She wanted to say neither too much nor too little. “I fear I do not know him well. I know few particulars of his life other than what I gleaned last evening. He seems fond of dancing.” Of course she could not broach their encounter in the library to Brack. Or his rescue of Edward.
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  Her companion looked thoughtful. “I will make inquiries when I return to London. If Georgie has a genuine interest in the earl, I must make sure everything is as it seems. He appears an amiable gentleman, but one must be certain.”

  “Very wise, my lord.” Charlotte relaxed a trifle and continued her sedate stroll, although her stomach still lurched uncomfortably. It must have been the drink that upset her. She firmly squelched any thoughts to the contrary. The encounter with the earl last night, as wonderfully arousing as it might have been, would not do. He desired a wife. Even Jane had said so. And Charlotte’s resolve held firm: marriage was not for her.

  Brack opened the thick oak door of the church and Charlotte passed into the cool, dim interior. She turned to walk down the central aisle of the nave toward the brighter light near the pulpit. Once there, the windows in the northeast transept drew her attention. Beautiful stained glass illustrating scenes from the life of Christ in jeweled tones calmed her flustered nerves. The window depicting the adoration of the Virgin called to her especially. The brilliant Della Robbia blue robe, ruby red throne, emerald hangings all glowed, the sunshine appearing to light it from within. Unearthly beauty that sent an aura of peace through her.

  “This window dates from the fifteenth century. A generous donation by the then-major landowner, Thomas Wrotham.”

  Like a dash of cold water, the deep baritone voice sent a shiver down Charlotte’s back. She turned to Lord Wrotham, her momentary peace fled. He stood smiling at her, Georgina and Elizabeth on either side of him.

  “An ancestor of yours, my lord?” She tried to keep her emotions at bay, but the sight of him with her two friends sent a frisson of hurt through her, irrational though it might be. She had no designs on the earl. So why did his attentions to other ladies bother her?

  “Alas, no.” When he chuckled, the blue of his eyes deepened. “Our title only dates back to the sixteen hundreds and the family name is St. Claire. The Wrothams were here from the beginning. Richard de Wrotham gave his name to the village and parish in 964.” The impudent man had the audacity to wink at her. “It is rumored he is here still.”

  “Whatever do you mean, Lord Wrotham?” Georgina cocked her head prettily to the side.

  He widened his eyes innocently. “Come with me and find out, Lady Georgina. If you dare.”

  Elizabeth glanced from Wrotham’s mischievous face to Georgina’s eager one and put a hand on her friend’s arm. “I think I heard your brother call to you just now, Georgie.”

  “You did? I didn’t hear—”

  “I’m certain I did. You were likely distracted by Lord Wrotham’s explanation. Come. He’s there in the narthex.” With a long-suffering glance at Charlotte, she shepherded Georgie back down the center aisle.

  Wrotham turned to her with a wicked smile. “Do you dare, my lady?”

  He was teasing her unmercifully, reminding her about their encounter. Well, she’d be hanged if she’d let him get the better of her. “Of course I do, my lord. ‘Lay on, Mac-Duff. ’”

  “And damned be him that first cries, ‘Hold! enough!’” He finished the quote with a wry twist to his mouth and started down the near aisle, Charlotte following close behind. About halfway down, he stopped. Making a sweeping gesture up and down, he proclaimed, “This is the north aisle. Thomas Wrotham is buried somewhere along here, according to the rector. No one knows precisely where.” Close to her ear, in a deep voice that shook her to her core, he whispered, “Perhaps beneath our very feet.”

  Gooseflesh pimpled her arms and neck. Charlotte couldn’t help a slight squeal as she danced backward, imagining a phantom rose before her eyes. She had never enjoyed ghost tales and avoided contact with any ghostly places at all costs. She sidled toward Wrotham and the protection his solid frame provided. His arm went around her and her shudders stopped.

  “Not to worry, my lady,” he said, his voice normal once more, with a touch of amusement. “Spirits seem to rest well here in Wrotham. In the time I’ve been here, I’ve heard of no local hauntings.” He steered her toward a side door, then turned to address the company, scattered throughout the church.

  “If anyone would like to see the clock tower, please follow me. The stone staircase that spirals upward is narrow and steep, with only a rope to hold on to. But if you care to ascend, there is a fine prospect from the top.”

  Wrotham paused, eying her. “Are you game, Lady Cavendish? The climb is nigh vertical and the way extremely close.” He grasped her hand and held it.

  Charlotte looked at Georgina and Elizabeth, who had moved away from Lord Brack to stand with Jane. Georgie sent a glance to the earl, as if weighing her choices. In the end, she turned back to Jane and began to talk in a low voice.

  “Of course I am, my lord. As you said earlier, it is my village too. I should be familiar with all its sights and eccentricities, should I not?” She could not resist adding, “Next time I may not be so fortunate as to find you available to guide me.”

  “But I told you, my lady, if you are ever in need I am close at hand.” His voice became a liquid whisper in her ear. “And I mean what I say.”

  Charlotte froze. The church melted away until she stood half clothed with this man in the library. A deep desire to throw herself into his arms welled up inside her.

  Madness. She squeezed her eyes shut and gripped the strings of her reticule. A breath. She must take a breath. The man was merely flirting with her, as he had been with the other ladies in the party all afternoon. Nothing more than that. After her adamant declaration this morning, he could not still be considering her as a prospective wife.

  She dragged air into her lungs, determined to hide her disturbing feelings from him. With great effort, she managed to gesture easily toward the clock tower door. “Please, lead the way, my lord. I am eager to see what delights await us at the top.”

  A blatant lie. Next to ghosts, heights had always given her the whim-whams. She’d loathed high places, even as a child. Her mother had never had to worry about Charlotte becoming a hoyden—she refused to climb trees or ladders or walk on rooftops, as her younger sisters had done. But she could not give Wrotham the satisfaction of seeing her decline. Pray God she did not fall from the parapet.

  “Well done, Lady Cavendish. But I insist you go first. In case you lose your footing, I will be behind you to assist.” Wrotham opened the door and they allowed Jane and Sinclair and the rest of the gentlemen, except Fernley, to precede them up the staircase. That gallant had elected to remain as protector of the rest of the ladies.

  Charlotte took the moment of confusion to gather her courage. Just put one foot before the other.

  Lord Brack shoved his wiry frame through the narrow doorway and disappeared.

  Her breath sped up. Panic chased its own spiral path through her body. Pride be damned. She could not do this.

  Wrotham’s steady hand clamped her shoulder, warm and comforting. “Your turn, my lady.” He gently urged her through the opening. “Watch that first step. The rest are quite even.”

  She lifted the skirts of her gown, a fleeting prayer sent on high that it would not be ruined. The first step was very high, and Charlotte grasped the scratchy rope on her right, where a railing should have been, to keep her balance. Some light filtered down from above, but they remained in an uneven darkness. She must feel her way upward. Slipping her right hand along the rope, she resolutely stepped up.

  Immediately, Wrotham’s presence close behind her reassured her. The heat of his warm breath caressed her nape. The clean scent of his citrusy cologne calmed her nerves. Still, she could not help thinking if she fell they likely would both tumble to their deaths. Serve him right for suggesting this excursion.

  She took a deep breath and raised her foot to another step. This was torture. No view was worth this dangerous a feat.

  Another step, another inch higher. She might as well crawl up the blasted staircase. What if she missed a step? What if the rope broke free? At that terrifying thought, she j
umped and wobbled on the well-worn stone.

  A hand came out of nowhere to steady her.

  “Do not fret, Charlotte.” His whisper soothed her. “I have you safe.”

  The conviction in his confident words staved off her rising panic. But wait; he had called her Charlotte. The wretch had taken the liberty deliberately, knowing she could not upbraid him due to her distress. Of course he had saved her from taking a nasty tumble. So perhaps she could overlook the slip this once. His even breath touched her neck, his warmth so comforting. Yes, she would let it go. This time.

  Another step. Did she see more light now? She tried to hurry the last few steps, grateful to have the ordeal over. Her shoulder banged into the narrow passageway, unbalancing her. With a yelp of fright, she dropped her skirts and grabbed for the rope with both hands. Her ankle twisted and she screamed as she fell backward.

  Her back thumped against Wrotham’s chest and she expected them both to hurtle down the cold stairs and dash their brains out on the stones below. A moment of sheer terror passed before she realized she still stood upon the stairs. Wrotham might as well have been made of the same stone as the staircase. A solid pillar, he withstood her fall without so much as a grunt of surprise. His arms snaked around her waist, and a sense of security welled up in place of the earlier fright. Whatever else, she knew Lord Wrotham would not let her come to grief.

  “Steady, my dear. I have you.” His arms squeezed tight, and a stab of yearning shot through her, rendering her immobile. “Wait a moment and get your bearings.”

  Not with his arms around her. She shook the disturbing thought from her head and nodded. A moment later, she was able to lean forward, breaking his grip.

  “Thank you, my lord. I am sorry.” Charlotte sighed. “I seem to be forever falling into you.” She drew a deep breath to steady herself.

  A warm chuckle sounded loud in her ear. “My pleasure, my dear. Take your time and be careful.”