To Wed The Widow

by Megan Bryce

  Sinclair had come to visit Elinor every day, she’d been told. Her staff had kept him out, and she was a little sorry she’d told them not to let him in unless she was able to receive him.

  He’d come every day and been turned away every day, and she was afraid he would stop coming.

  Elinor said, “If the earl made Miss Westin forbidden, Sinclair would be off to Gretna Green with her in a flash.”

  Flora sat quietly, looking at Elinor and parsing her words. She finally said, “Would he?”

  “He would think it romantic. And likely the girl is young enough that she would, too.”

  “George would never do that to her. Or to their children. Leave them with nothing for some romantic gesture.”

  Elinor shook her head. “Not a gesture if it was the only way he could have her.”

  Flora tapped her foot. “And should I tell the earl to do this?”

  Elinor tried. Tried to say yes. Tried to give up what she wanted for someone she lo–

  For someone she liked.

  For someone she could love. If she could love at all.

  Elinor said, “No.”

  And then the knocker on the door rang out before either of them could say anything more. And when Jones opened the drawing room door and let in Sinclair, Elinor thought again, No.

  Miss Westin couldn’t have him. Not so easily as that.

  Sinclair bowed to his sister-in-law, his hair bouncing wildly, his smile too sincere. He was too uncivilized, and Elinor couldn’t take her eyes from his face. So happy he’d come again.

  He said to the countess, “I thought I recognized your carriage.”

  Had he always been like this, open and happy? Or is this what India had done to him?

  Elinor thought she would never know.

  He turned to her and bowed over her hand, his eyes catching hers and then searching her face. She wished she’d waited until the bloom was back in her cheeks, the sparkle back in her eyes. Lovely and splendid and all a man could want in a woman.

  Her worry that he would stop visiting because of being repeatedly turned away twisting into the thought that now he wouldn’t return because he could see with his own eyes what her body put her through.

  He smiled at her, his eyes crinkling, his hand squeezing hers, and she smiled back.

  He settled on the sofa beside her, not touching, and said, “You are looking better.”

  Flora guffawed. “She looks like she’s on death’s door.”

  “You should have seen her yesterday.”

  Elinor turned her head slowly to look at him and raised her eyebrows. He smiled again at her and Elinor tried to be mad. That they’d let him in, that they’d lied to her about it.

  She couldn’t seem to muster the emotion. Who could keep him out when he wanted in?

  Flora said, “I came to tell her about the dinner she missed but if you’ve already been to see her, she’ll know.”

  Elinor and Sinclair didn’t reply, and Flora smiled, rising. “Perhaps you had more important things to talk of. I hope you’ll be feeling yourself again soon, Elinor.”

  Sinclair rose, putting a hand to Elinor’s shoulder when she began to follow. “The countess will forgive you the slight.”

  Elinor stayed sitting, and again tried to be miffed at Sinclair. For taking over her household, for his high-handedness.

  But all she could do was hide her shaking hands beneath her skirt and sit quietly.

  When the countess had left, Elinor said, “Jones let you in.”

  Sinclair sat down next to her, this time close enough to touch, close enough to kiss her lips lightly. “Of course he let me in. You look tired.”

  She was tired. Tired and happy. Stupidly happy.

  He lifted an arm, sliding it around her shoulders and tugging her against him. And she went, sliding down in her seat to lean her head against him.

  He murmured, “The countess visits you. She’s your if.”

  When Elinor nodded, he asked, “Is she breeding?”

  “Not yet.”

  Not yet.

  If.

  The same could be said of her. Not yet. If.

  Possibly never.

  A depression settled over her and she sat quietly, tucked tightly in the arms of a man she’d give everything to.

  If she loved him.

  Flora had gone to visit the widow, not sure at all how to share her news. Her conquest. Only knowing that if she didn’t, it would burst from her chest.

  She’d seduced her husband.

  And she’d had such fun, she was planning on doing it again tonight.

  She smiled, alone in her carriage, and tried to stuff her secret back down where it couldn’t escape.

  But she smiled. Because she loved, was in love. There was passion and fire and something new.

  Smiled because there was hope.

  She smiled as she remembered George and Elinor together, at that first flush of love. When nothing and no one else existed.

  She smiled when the carriage pulled up to her lovely home, smiled at the footman who helped her down, smiled as she swept through the waiting door.

  Smiled when she was told that his lordship had requested her presence as soon as she was able.

  Flora’s stomach flopped and she tried to stop smiling. But she simply couldn’t help it as she wondered about seducing her husband in broad daylight. Wondered if she could lock the library door behind her, and wondered if he wanted her for the same reason she wanted him.

  She floated to the library, entering without knocking and then breathing deeply when she saw Sebastian at his desk, working.

  She watched him as his pen scratched across paper and she leaned back against the door.

  He didn’t look up at her.

  She said softly, “You summoned me?”

  His pen paused, and then resumed writing. He cleared his throat.

  “I wanted to speak with you. At your leisure, of course. I’m sorry if that wasn’t clear.”

  She said nothing, waiting for him to look up. When he didn’t, she pushed herself away from the door and went to sit in the chair across from his desk, her smile gone, the tingles in her belly turning to lead.

  He still didn’t look at her and they sat in awkward silence until she leaned over to put her hand over his, to stop the scratching.

  “Sebastian.”

  He looked up then and he was angry. His eyes hard.

  She pulled her hand away at his look and her mouth fell open when he said harshly, “I underestimated your. . . needs.”

  She had nothing to say to that.

  “If there is a child, can I be certain it will be mine?”

  She choked, her own anger building. “I have lain with only one man my entire life; I have loved only one man my entire life. I dare say you can not say the same.”

  She stood, ready to leave, her entire body shaking.

  “Flora–”

  She whirled on him. “You need a son. It is my duty to give you one and you refuse me!”

  “Flora–”

  “A year! Alone in my bed, wondering who my husband is loving now that he is done with me!”

  “Flora–”

  “I loved you, Sebastian. No one luckier in all of London, that’s what I told myself. A countess, four beautiful children, saved from death itself by God’s hand. And for what?”

  “Only God could have saved you, Flora. That’s how close you were.”

  He said it so quietly that it cut through some of her anger.

  She held her hands out wide, showing him her whole body. Alive.

  “I didn’t die, Sebastian. And you’re the only one who makes me wish I had.”

  He sucked in a breath. “Who are you, Flora? Ten years and I still don’t know who my wife is. You flirt and laugh with George–”

  “And now what are you accusing me of?”

  “Nothing. It’s just. . . With him, you laugh.”

  “Everyone laughs with George.”

&nbs
p; “It makes me wonder. Who is the real you? She who laughs with my brother or she who stands by my side as the perfect countess.” He said, softer, “Or she who stands in front of me right now, angry.”

  She was angry, all right. Ten years and he didn’t know her at all. Ten years and he hadn’t even looked.

  Her voice was hard and unforgiving when she said, “If you don’t know who your wife is, then you haven’t been listening. And for your information, I don’t have to be just one of those women. I am all.”

  She swept out of the room, ignoring as he called her name one last time.

  Ignoring how her anger covered the hurt.

  Perhaps she didn’t love him, perhaps she never had. Perhaps what she’d thought was love was simply circumstance and she would have loved any man she’d been married to.

  She left the house, stomping down the stairs and sending the footman running for the carriage that had just been put away.

  She waited for a split second, then turned and began walking. She’d waited and waited, and she was sick of waiting.

  Ten years and he didn’t know her at all.

  Ten years.

  What good could come from waiting any longer than that?

  Miss Westin was hanging on George’s arm, being led around the room and chatting happily at him while they waited for the next set of dances to start.

  She was diverting. And beautiful.

  And he’d decided he would be tracking down her father tonight. George felt as good about it as any man who’d left another woman’s bedroom this morning could feel.

  And he didn’t know what would happen between him and Elinor when he told her.

  He was only slightly worried about what would happen to Miss Westin. Surely, Elinor wouldn’t. . .

  Surely, she wouldn’t do anything to either of them. Right?

  George shook his head. She’d got into his head this morning when she’d pecked his lips lightly and told him to have fun with his two dances.

  She’d said it so calmly and dispassionately that the hairs on the back of George’s neck had stood up.

  He didn’t think it said anything good about him that the thought of his two women scratching each other’s eyes out excited him.

  But he hadn’t seen Elinor all evening. He knew she was here, somewhere. He could feel it, could feel the prickles and the sense that she was watching. Watching him woo Miss Westin.

  Miss Westin, along with everyone else, had got the message. She’d shooed off her entourage and hung on him and his every word.

  She was lovely, and bloody hell, he’d keep telling himself that until it was engraved on his heart.

  Couples began lining up and George was steering Miss Westin toward the floor when he saw the countess sweep into the room.

  George stopped and stared. Her hair hung loose and her dress was wild. A dark green heavy velvet that left her shoulders bare but draped down both arms long enough to hide her hands. There was enough exposed bosom to make him, her brother-in-law, keep his eyes glued to her face, and there was enough length to the dress that it pooled behind her like a regal train.

  George thought she looked like an ethereal head floating over a wild forest. A wild and angry forest, and even Sebastian was eyeing her, clearly not knowing what to do with his suddenly ferocious wife.

  George cleared his throat, trying to figure out how to tell the woman beside him that he was needed, that there was a pressing problem that looked potentially explosive.

  “Er, Miss Westin–”

  And then he stopped, because there was Elinor, heading straight for the countess and the earl. Her eyes met his briefly and he relaxed. She would take care of the countess, whatever was wrong with her.

  He would dance his second dance with Miss Westin and then go get his brother a stiff drink. It really was the only cure for a man with woman trouble.

  Elinor bowed to the earl, ignoring how the confusion in his eyes turned to anger at the sight of her. She was an easy target, an acceptable scapegoat, and she didn’t wait for him to attack. She slipped her arm through Flora’s and led her away without a word to either of them.

  When they’d got away, Elinor said, “What a dress. You must tell me the name of your dressmaker.”

  “Her name is hate. Her name is broken dreams. Her name is bitterness.”

  Elinor laughed, saying, “How very poetic,” and Flora pinched her lips.

  “You do not know, Elinor, how a man can destroy a woman just by being his obtuse self.”

  Elinor said nothing because she did know it. Every woman learned it eventually.

  “It does make one wonder how they manage to rule the world when they are so blind.”

  “Blind! And stupid!”

  Flora’s bottom lip wobbled and even if Elinor wished she could hug her friend and tell her that this would pass, she said, “Tears will ruin this look completely. Avenging goddesses do not cry.”

  Flora sniffed, then tipped her chin up. “Not in public, at least.”

  No, not in public. Did they cry when they were alone?

  “Besides I’m proving to my husband that I am still alive. I’m proving it to myself, and tonight I will laugh.”

  Flora closed her eyes and tipped her head to the ceiling, laughing like her life depended on it.

  For a moment, Elinor froze, feeling head after head turn toward them and then she thought, How scandalous.

  She tipped her head up as well and laughed, and thought that if the sound of two women madly laughing didn’t scare every man in here, she didn’t know what would.

  Drinks were drunk, dances were danced, dice were rolled.

  The countess won and lost, and laughed and lived.

  And Elinor pretended not to notice when her friend would surreptitiously glance around the room, looking to see if someone in particular was paying attention to how much fun she was having.

  Sinclair took his sister-in-law out for a quadrille and when they returned, breathless and laughing, Elinor refused the same from him.

  “It’s only a dance, El– Lady Haywood. To thank you.”

  “No thanks are necessary. She is my friend.”

  “And I’m still wondering how that happened.”

  “If I knew, I would tell you.”

  He held his hand out. “One dance with the widow. Let’s be scandalous, Lady Haywood.”

  “What of your two with Miss Westin?”

  “Done and done.”

  Elinor knew. Knew it was all done for. Knew she was holding on to the last fleeting moments.

  Avenging goddesses do not cry. Not in public, at least.

  She looked at Flora, tipsy and glowing with exertion from the dance, and thought she had the right idea.

  Tonight, I will laugh.

  She put her hand in Sinclair’s and let him lead her out on to the dance floor. He never took his eyes from her face, she never noticed the other couples twisting around them.

  They danced; they smiled. He laughed too loud; she smiled too wide.

  Miss Westin watched, her lovely face trying to stay lovely.

  The countess watched, still tipsy. Still angry, and she wanted to walk up to her husband and shout, “See! Can you see this?!”

  The earl watched, and saw his irresponsible brother getting seduced by an impossible woman.

  St. Clair watched, and saw another friend dead in his grave.

  Alan Rusbridge watched.

  And saw everything he’d ever wanted in life, everything anyone could ever want, being handed to the sister he hated.

  Sinclair didn’t go home.

  He was tired but restless.

  He’d had a plan tonight, involving Lord Westin and a suitable proposal.

  And a glass of cognac. Mustn’t forget the cognac.

  And instead, here he was at his club, looking for a distraction.

  Because he could not reconcile where he needed to be with where he wanted to be.

  And when he stepped into the loud, smoky room a
nd saw Lord Westin chatting with some cronies, he sighed.

  He said to no one in particular, “Yes, I see him,” and then headed to a different room.

  St. Clair was there, smoking in a quiet corner and talking to no one, and Sinclair made a beeline straight for him.

  “A friendly face in the crowd. And here I thought the fates were giving me a clear sign.”

  St. Clair puffed. “That you’re buggered?”

  Sinclair laughed. “That obvious?”

  “To the world.”

  Sinclair sat, breathing in the fragrant tobacco smoke of a fine cigar and listening to muted chatter. He nodded vigorously at the offer of a drink.

  He put his hands behind his head and leaned back. He counted the nooks and crannies in the ceiling, only abandoning the task when a drink was finally placed in his hand.

  St. Clair watched him take a healthy sip and said, “Is she breeding?”

  Sinclair choked. “. . .No. If she was, there would be less trouble. Sebastian would have less to object to if there was at least a child.”

  “There is still plenty to object to.”

  “I think. . . I think that I love her.”

  St. Clair closed his eyes in pain and sighed so long and so loud that Sinclair started laughing.

  “My friend–” Sinclair laughed again and shook his head. “Tell me how you really feel.”

  St. Clair kept his eyes closed and said, “I’ve sat here before. Listened to one of my friends tell me he loved Elinor Rusbridge. And then I buried him.”

  “He died of putrid fever. You can’t deny that. You can’t think that she killed him, that she killed any of them.”

  “She’s unlucky.”

  Sinclair shook his head. “I don’t know how the most rational men I know, you and my brother, can be so. . . irrational.”

  St. Clair’s eyes opened and there was impatience and anger in them. “Fine. She’s trouble, then. She makes men lose their minds. She’s not a mistress pulling strings, Sin. She’s a dangerous woman playing a game.”

  Sinclair’s free hand had tightened into a fist and he looked down into his drink. “And if she wins? What’s the cost, George, because I can’t see it.”

  “Everything. You will lose everything. Do you think that the earl will welcome her with open arms? He will cut you off.”