Black Widow: A Spellbound Regency Novel

by Lucy Leroux

  Sir Clarence leaned back on the bench and watched her through slitted eyes. “Martin told you?”

  “Of course he told me,” she said from between gritted teeth. “It was my idea. You see I hoped—in vain—that my dowry would be enough to satisfy your greed.”

  He reached out to slap her again, but Amelia shot to her feet and dodged the blow. He followed suit, his finger pointed at her accusingly.

  “How dare you accuse me of greed? I gave you a home, fed and clothed you when you had no one.”

  Amelia shook her head. This was an old argument, but she’d never had a chance or the will to rebut it. She would do so now. “Even an orphan has options when they possess a fortune as large as mine. I know full well this was the reason you took me in. I also remember how angry you were when you learned my guardian did not have the right to touch my funds beyond the stipend provided to educate and clothe me.”

  She folded her hands in front of her. “My father thought of everything when he realized your claim to be my guardian would be strongest. He didn’t trust you an inch.”

  Sir Clarence’s glare was hot enough to blister her skin, but he said nothing.

  “I told Martin to give you the entire sum of my dowry in the hopes you would leave us alone,” she said. “Did you already spend all ten thousand pounds?”

  Her eyes swept over him, taking in the fine cut of his coat. Even if he’d purchased a hundred like it, he couldn’t have spent the entire sum. “Was the money lost in some wild scheme? Poor investments? Or is ten thousand simply not enough for you? Did Cannonburry agree to turn some portion of my funds to you? Or do your solicitors believe they’ve figured out some sort of legal trickery to break the terms of my father’s trust? Is this why you are pushing for this farce of a marriage?”

  Sir Clarence’s hands shot out, taking her arms above the elbow in a tight painful grip. “You owe me more than money. You owe me your very life.”

  “No, not you,” she said. Her throat was so tight she could barely get the words out. “My debt was to Martin. And I paid him back by being a loving and devoted wife—a wife who kept his secrets.”

  She pulled away so abruptly his nails marked the delicate muslin cloth of her sleeve. “As his widow, I will continue to keep those secrets, but this is the last time I will meet you in private. In public, I will acknowledge you as my father-in-law with all the respect and courtesy that tie demands. But you no longer have any rights over my person or my fortune. Accept this now or…”

  “Or what?” Sir Clarence spat. “Do you expect me to believe you would really desecrate his memory?”

  Amelia suppressed a shudder. “He’s gone. Through some twist of fate, my reputation went with him. I have nothing left to lose.”

  She turned, forcing herself to walk away at a normal pace.

  “You’re wrong Amelia,” Sir Clarence spat after her. “You still have quite a bit to lose.”

  She ignored him, refusing to turn around to look at him. It took every ounce of willpower she had but managed to keep walking until she was past the first corner, beyond his sight.

  Then she ran.

  Chapter 5

  “You should have told me about this confrontation sooner!” Crispin grimaced as he examined the bruises on her arm.

  “I’m fine,” Amelia assured him, pushing his hand away and readjusting the sleeve of her gown so the marks would not be visible.

  “Amelia, the bastard threatened you.”

  “And I threatened him.” She sniffed, trying to pass herself off as unaffected by her recent encounter with her former guardian, but Crispin saw right through her.

  He tsked. “Darling, you couldn’t deliver a threat if your life depended on it.” She scowled at him, and his mouth compressed. “I’m sorry, that was a poor choice of words. But you know I’m right. Sir Clarence won’t stop pushing you into another marriage. Not if it can benefit him in some way.”

  She knew where this conversation was leading. It took Crispin another few minutes of hedging before he finally came to the point.

  “Amelia, you know Martin wanted me to watch over you in case anything happened to him. I think we should revisit our discussion about that. Sir Clarence can’t force you to marry anyone if you are already wed to another.”

  She sighed and shook her head. “Crispin, I can’t marry you.”

  “Why not? It’s the most reasonable solution. We’re close friends, and we understand each other’s needs.”

  “I’m aware of all this. But…I don’t want to live in England.”

  He snorted softly. “And yet, you’re still here.”

  “What does that mean?” she asked in annoyance.

  “Just last week I was actively dissuading you from traveling abroad. But now you seem ensconced in town. And something tells me it has little do with my scintillating company or the perils of travel abroad.”

  He appeared about to say something else when the coach stopped. In another moment, the coachman had opened the door. “We’ll finish this discussion later. We’re here.”

  Here was the Ashton’s bash. Though smaller gatherings often proceeded it, this annual event was considered the official start of the ton’s social season.

  “Are you sure I should even be here?” Amelia asked. “I wasn’t invited.”

  The Duke of Ashton was part of the old guard, a paragon of propriety and social decorum. His party was attended by everyone and, to date, Amelia had avoided large crowds, particularly when she was unsure of her reception.

  “Well, I was invited. By now, everyone knows I am your escort to all the ton’s functions. Everyone expects you to be on my arm, so have no fear. Just stay close to me. No more private conferences with dashing earls or despotic former guardians,” he said exiting the carriage and turning to hand her down. “By the way, you never mentioned how Sir Clarence lured you to the maze, only that he used some form of trickery.”

  She took his arm and leaned into him. “He had Mrs. Spencer write me a note. Sir Clarence caught me by surprise. I did not expect him to attend such a function,” she replied, omitting one salient detail.

  Come to think of it, I really should not have expected Gideon there either. She had been foolish.

  Crispin hummed, continuing to eye her suspiciously before resuming his assurances that all would be well. In the same breath, he warned her against straying from his sight. “Don’t worry. We’re making a fashionable entrance—the receiving line should be long over. We will simply slip inside and blend in with the crush.”

  Amelia took his warnings to heart once they were circulating through the crowd inside. She had no desire to leave the shelter of his side.

  La belle monde was gathered in all their finery, their sly glances and little barbs as polished as any weapon. Amelia smiled stiffly and tried to ignore the attention they were garnering, but the whispering started almost immediately. A few of the less discreet women of the ton pointed at her from behind the safety of their fans. Men looked down their noses at her. A few stared at her so lasciviously she felt exposed even though her gown’s neckline was far more modest than most others in the room.

  Feigning gaiety as best she could, she ate, drank champagne, and conversed with those polite enough to give her and her champion a civil greeting. Eventually, she forgot the crowd as the novelty of her appearance wore off, allowing her to feel the tedium of such events.

  Despite Crispin’s enthusiasm for them, Amelia detested balls. The conversations were all superficial, pointless discussions on fashion or the weather.

  At one point, Crispin was compelled to dance by a particularly aggressive young miss in her second season, Cecily Chisholm, the daughter of an impoverished baron, who nevertheless had impeccable family connections.

  “Go,” she ordered, accepting the glass of punch he had just fetched her. She rather liked Cecily, who was refreshingly forthright. “I will not stir from this spot, I promise.”

  “Very well,” he relented, offering his arm to
Cecily with a charming, if somewhat forced, smile.

  Amelia hovered at the edge of the dance floor, her eyes fixed on the whirling figures. Looking neither right nor left, she studiously avoided making eye contact with anyone. However, her refusal to engage only prodded her detractors to action. A figure swathed in lilac satin barreled into her.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry!” the smug-looking matron who had spilled the contents of her wine glass on her exclaimed loudly. Several heads turned in their direction.

  Amelia’s lips parted as she stared down at the stain spreading across the front of her dark blue skirts. Clamping her teeth together, she schooled her expression into one of bored serenity. She racked her brain for the woman’s name.

  “Think nothing of it, Lady Everly. I have hundreds of gowns like it,” she exaggerated.

  The flash of annoyance that crossed Lady Everly’s face was the only satisfaction Amelia was likely to get. Normally she did not flaunt her wealth, but reminding the ton she possessed it might help to shield her. At the least, it might silence some of the tongues whispering she killed her husband for his money, as he had none outside of what she had provided him.

  Before Lady Everly could think of a reply, Amelia moved away. She retreated to the ladies’ withdrawing room, repairing her appearance as best she could.

  Lingering, she took advantage of the relative emptiness of the inner chamber to shore up her emotional defenses. Amelia had been aware that these parties would be a trial of endurance. She’d thought herself prepared, but, in truth, she was barely coping. At times like these, she wondered why she was subjecting herself to the slights and slurs of society, despite Crispin’s opinion.

  The viscount was adamant Martin would not want her to lock herself away. He faulted her for her solitary nature. Crispin insisted she needed to mix with others, assuring her once the ton grew accustomed to her presence they would stop entertaining such dark suspicions. She merely needed to brazen it out.

  There was a logic to his advice, but given Crispin’s repeated offers of marriage, she wondered at his motive. She knew he did not love her…but he did need to marry and produce an heir. Under the circumstances, it was quite natural he would want to marry her.

  In this light, forcing her social rehabilitation served a dual purpose. His was not a large estate, but his title was old and venerable. His future wife could not be a social pariah.

  “Did you see her?” A loud nasal voice interrupted her thoughts.

  “I saw what Lady Everly did. I could not believe it!”

  “I can, and wonder she did not do worse. She is Mapleton’s cousin, after all.”

  Amelia turned, pressing herself against the wall next to the doorframe. Who was Mapleton and why was Lady Everly tormenting her on his behalf?

  Peeking through the opening, she spotted two females in white muslin. Both appeared very young. She would have pegged them as green girls in the midst of their first season if not for the venom spewing from their lips.

  The taller hawk-nosed girl leaned down to her shorter rosy-cheeked companion. “Mapleton is planning on confronting her. He thinks it’s shameful she’s invited to all the functions. I can’t wait to see the look on her face!” A nasty giggle followed.

  So Lady Everly’s attack would not be all she had to endure this night. And to think, the season is just beginning. How much of this would she be subjected to? Hadn’t losing Martin been bad enough?

  Ignoring the tremor that ran through her, Amelia inhaled deeply and picked up her skirts. She counted to a beat of three and then glided past the two debutantes, nodding at them coolly as she passed. Their mouths dropped open and the shorter one gasped, but she didn’t stop to speak to them.

  Amelia hoped Crispin had finished his dance with Miss Chisholm. They needed to leave. She was officially at the end of her tether.

  The crowd prevented her from reaching the dance floor with any speed. By the time she reached the spot where Lady Everly had accosted her, sweat was trickling down her spine. She felt as if she had pushed her way through a hostile mob. The stares and sneers had followed her across the entire ballroom. Any minute now, they would start throwing their champagne glasses in lieu of stones.

  Her composure hanging from a thread, Amelia scanned the dance floor for Crispin’s blond head. There were several men of that description, and she was having trouble identifying him. Her small stature worked against her there. Pivoting on her heel, she was turning to head toward the balcony when a hand grabbed her arm—the part bruised by Sir Clarence.

  The unfamiliar black-haired man seemed to take satisfaction in her wince, although he had to be aware his hold was not tight enough to be painful.

  “Madame, allow me to introduce myself. My name is Mapleton,” he said coldly.

  Smiling sweetly, she jerked her arm out his grip. “I would say it’s a pleasure, but you are a stranger to me, sir.”

  The corner of his mouth curled up. “I was acquainted with your husband at Abingdon.”

  Amelia hummed, her temper flaring. “Really? He spoke warmly of his schoolmates, but he never mentioned you.”

  The skin above Mapleton’s snowy-white cravat began to redden. “We were friends.”

  “Is that so? How odd. Your name is completely unfamiliar to me, and he spoke often of his friends from school.”

  It was the truth. Martin had never mentioned anyone of that name or this man’s description.

  The man shuffled his feet. “Yes, well, the fact remains I did attend school with him. I was in the year ahead,” he said, the self-righteous tone losing a little steam.

  Mapleton was clearly annoyed at having his public set-down interrupted by little details, like having to explain who the hell he was.

  “But you were not close friends,” Amelia asserted, cocking her head. “Or I would have received a note from you when he passed,” she added.

  The skin above Mapleton’s cravat was a dull shade of purple now.

  “Why would I write to a—”

  “Nor did you write earlier to congratulate us on our marriage or I would have seen the letter,” she interrupted, snapping her fan open. “You see, I took care of all my husband’s correspondence and I never forget a name, so no, you were not very good friends at all, were you?”

  Mapleton’s entire face was purple now. Around them, heads turned. Everyone seemed to be holding their breath as the man raised a finger and waved it in her face.

  He opened his mouth to speak—or shout—but he snapped it shut when someone collided with him.

  “Amelia, here is the punch you asked for. Oh, sorry Mapleton. Didn’t see you there,” Crispin said hurriedly as he upended a glass of fruit punch all over the man’s bright yellow waistcoat.

  Apparently, Crispin had decided to take a page out of Lady Everly’s book. Mapleton sputtered, his hands going to the damage. The viscount took advantage of his distraction to whisk her away. However, their escape was blocked by the crush of people who’d gathered close to witness her humiliation firsthand.

  The strains of a waltz almost drowned out Mapleton’s vicious swear. Crispin continued to smile as if nothing was amiss. He bent and loudly asked her to partner him on the dance floor.

  “No,” a deep voice interrupted. “This dance is mine.”

  Amelia whirled and looked up. Her heart leapt at the sight of Gideon, his golden-brown head haloed by the candlelight.

  She blinked and smiled, finding it necessary to remind herself Gideon was not an avenging angel coming to her rescue.

  Although he resembles one. Compared to the other men in the room, his clothing was cut plainly and severely. His black coat and pants set off a crisp white shirt. A single pin adorned his breast, but with his height and the breadth of his shoulders, bright colors or more jewelry would have been overwhelming.

  Gideon stood a full head taller than Mapleton, but he didn’t need to use his superior size or strength to intervene. One cold glare was sufficient to stop Mapleton in his tracks.

>   Cutting in front of Crispin, Gideon swept her onto the dance floor before either man could react.

  The people blocking the floor were forced to move in the face of the earl’s authority. He guided her through the throng until enough space was cleared for them to dance. After a few turns, other couples joined them.

  It no longer mattered that everyone was staring at them. She was in Gideon’s arms. She held on tight, the familiar lines of his face blurring with her tears.

  He tsked. “Here now, we’ll have none of that,” he murmured, his thumb caressing her waist in a small show of comfort.

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  “For what?” He seemed amused. “From what I could see, you were doing a credible job of defending yourself.” He whirled her through a tight turn before continuing. “But I’m sorry you were subjected to that scene with Mapleton and his busybody of a cousin, Lady Everly, in the first place. Had I been closer, I wouldn’t have allowed it.”

  He trailed off, suddenly distracted. “Or this…”

  Amelia glanced down. Somehow during one of the turns, her sleeve had shifted, revealing the dark line of bruises Sir Clarence’s grip had left on her white skin.

  For an instant, rage burned in Gideon’s deep brown eyes, but it was gone the next second.

  Amelia blinked, confused. If she hadn’t been studying him so closely, she would have missed the flash of emotion. Now his face was a mask, one so perfectly controlled most others wouldn’t have noticed anything amiss.

  However, she was not most others. “Gideon?” she asked, suddenly apprehensive.

  It was not fear she was feeling. She could not possibly be afraid of him, but she was suddenly unsure. The youth she had known was open, guileless. Gideon had changed.

  “Who did that to you?” he asked softly, his head tilted to indicate her bruises.

  Amelia racked her mind. Though Gideon and Sir Clarence did not precisely enjoy an amicable relationship there was no sense in borrowing trouble. “Mapleton took my arm just now.”

  “No.”