The Widowed Countess

by Linda Rae Sande

  “Like I’m with child?” Clarinda offered in a very quiet voice, hoping it was the sentiment the dowager countess was trying to vocalize.

  “Oh!” Dorothea said as she stepped back, a hand pressed against her bosom as her face changed from shock to joy. “Oh, Clare. This is ... this is ...”

  “Complicating, I know,” Clarinda said, not quite sure if it was what Dorothea was trying to say.

  “That wasn’t quite what I was going to say,“ Dorothea protested with an arched eyebrow. ”But ... Oh, Clare!“ She pulled Clarinda into a heartfelt hug. “How long?” There was a hint of a hiss, as if her mother-in-law suddenly clenched her teeth before asking. Clarinda wondered if David had mentioned her previous miscarriage to his mother.

  “More than three months,” Clarinda whispered, remembering how many times she had consulted a calendar in the eleven weeks since she’d missed her monthly courses. The hug got a bit harder.

  “That’s a relief, then,” Dorothea said as she pulled away again. “Or not,” she suddenly said as her face lost its joy. She took Clarinda’s arm in hers and steered them to the stairs.

  Clarinda rolled her eyes. “I don’t know how I’m going to tell Daniel,” she said as she descended the steps with Dorothea. They made their way to the parlor and Clarinda rang for tea. “I fear he already despises me, and I cannot imagine how this news will help his opinion of me.”

  Dorothea regarded Clarinda with another arched eyebrow before taking a seat in the chair her son usually used. “When do you suppose you lost his good opinion? I ask only because ...” She paused for a moment and regarded her daughter-in-law with furrowed brows. “I have not heard an unkind word of you from his lips.” She thought for a moment and bounced her head back and forth a bit. “Of course, that’s probably because he knows I would box his ears if he ever said an unkind word of you,” she added with a hint of humor.

  How can she be so damned flippant at a time like this? Clarinda wondered. But the woman’s words surprised her. “We have not spoken to one another for two years, my lady,” she said as she remembered the last time she’d ever even seen Daniel Fitzwilliam. At Christmastime in Bognor. He was there for a dinner party, but avoided Clarinda the entire evening, his seating at the table preventing them from conversing. And then he had departed before the men had finished their port and cheroots and joined the ladies in the drawing room. It was as if Daniel had deliberately avoided her that evening.

  Dorothea huffed, holding back her retort until the maid had set the tea tray on the low table between them. Once the girl bobbed a curtsy and left, the dowager countess leaned forward. “Why haven’t you two spoken?” she asked, taking over the tea pouring before Clarinda could reach over to do it. “And where’s the brandy? I do think something a bit stronger is called for, don’t you?”

  Stunned at the woman’s comment, Clarinda hardly knew what to say. She stood up and hurried to a cart set off to one side of the room. Grabbing a crystal decanter of amber liquid, she returned to her chair and set it down, a bit harder than she intended. “Your younger son thinks me a fortune hunter. He accused me of marrying David for his money and title.” At Dorothea’s surprised expression, Clarinda added, “I would have thought he knew I had some fortune of my own coming to me on my twenty-fifth birthday,” the comment suddenly reminding her that David had actually never claimed the money due her when she reached her majority. “And I could have afforded to live a very comfortable life as a spinster if I wished.”

  This last was delivered with enough venom that Dorothea arched that elegant eyebrow again. Clarinda thought that eyebrow a rather effective weapon. She imagined if it were made of iron, the woman could detach it and throw it like a boomerang, its pointed ends knocking out an opponent with one fell swoop before she would calmly reclaim it and reattach it above her eye.

  Clarinda closed her eyes and shook her head. “I apologize, my lady,” she said in a quiet voice. “I married David because ... because our fathers practically arranged a betrothal ...”

  “Which could have easily been broken,” Dorothea interrupted.

  “And because he asked me, and I ... I wanted to marry him,” Clarinda finished, ignoring Dorothea’s comment about the worthlessness of marriage contracts.

  The dowager countess regarded her daughter-in-law for a very long time before pouring brandy into a teacup and lifting it toward Clarinda. The younger woman shook her head, so Dorothea brought the cup to her lips and sipped delicately. When she set the cup down onto a saucer, she tilted her head to one side. “Even though you were in love with Daniel,” she said with a kind of certainty that wasn’t to be questioned. She leaned over to pour a cup of tea for Clarinda. The statement was almost a rhetorical question, but it caught Clarinda completely off-guard.

  “What? Yes. No. No!” Clarinda claimed as she shook her head, her jaw slack. “I was never in love with Daniel,” she claimed, her head shaking back and forth. She regarded the decanter of brandy for a moment, thinking perhaps she should add a dollop or two to her tea.

  Not looking the least bit convinced, Dorothea took another sip of brandy. “Could you be, do you suppose?” she wondered then, her manner quite matter-of-fact. “In love with Daniel, I mean.”

  Clarinda blinked. And blinked again. “Wh ...What?”

  Shaking her head, Dorothea set down her cup and saucer on the table and leaned back in the chair, looking every bit the aristocrat she was. “Really, Clare. It would make this whole situation so much easier if you and Daniel would settle whatever differences you have and marry. He’ll have to provide protection for you anyway, and should you carry a son, it will still be heir to the title,” she explained with a wave of her hand. “I can speak with him about it if you’d like ...”

  “No!” Clarinda countered, her mouth now wide open. “My lady,” she added on seeing Dorothea’s look of shock. “No. I cannot marry a man who ... who despises me,” she spoke in a much softer voice. “And I do not think you could compel him to consider such an arrangement.” David must be spinning in his grave! she thought in horror, his mother’s discussion of marriage quite improper considering a year was the proper amount of time for mourning a dead husband.

  And then she realized why this talk was really improper. David couldn’t be spinning in his grave. He wasn’t even buried yet!

  Dorothea drained her brandy, arching her eyebrow as if Clarinda had dropped a gauntlet at her feet. But the older woman’s countenance suddenly softened. She leaned back into the chair, as if her backbone was suddenly gone. Tears welled in her eyes. “I apologize. I ... You carry my grandchild. I want to be sure I am allowed to spoil it,” she whispered sadly.

  Clarinda dipped her head, wondering if Dorothea’s tears were real or if they were meant to elicit sympathy from her. “And you shall, of course, my lady. I promise. And I would offer a hanky, but mine are quite drenched,” she added as she pulled one out of the pocket of her gown and held up the damp linen.

  “Mine, too,” Dorothea replied, holding up her own damp hanky. She gave her daughter-in-law a wan smile before sighing. “We’re a pair, aren’t we?” she murmured with a sigh.

  Clarinda offered a wan smile in reply. Then her brows furrowed. “How is it you were able to get to London so quickly?” she wondered, thinking the dowager countess and Daniel would be arriving together the following day.

  Catching her lower lip with a tooth, Dorothea sighed again. “I was attending a house party in Kent. Daniel had a courier sent up with the news moments after it reached him. I expect he’ll be here on the morrow.” Her gaze settled on Clarinda again. “Do afford him all the courtesy you would your earl,” she said in a quiet voice. At Clarinda’s surprised expression, she added, “Well, except for the conjugal visits, I suppose.”

  Clarinda’s eyes widened even more. “You mean, have him move into the earl’s apartments?” she asked in surpr
ise. David had only been dead a couple of days. She was sure his belongings were still where he’d left them, although she intended to spend some time with his valet determining what should be done with some of his more personal things that probably wouldn’t be included in his will. There were paintings meant for David’s eyes only. And the bed. Well, David hadn’t slept in that bed for some time, she realized, remembering how wonderful it had been to have him sleep with her in her bed this past week.

  “Yes. Even if you carry David’s heir, Daniel will still have to run the earldom until the little bastard is old enough to take over.” At the sound of Clarinda’s audible gasp at her mother-in-law’s use of the word ‘bastard,’ Dorothea shook her head. “I meant that in the most loving way, I assure you,” she stated with a nod, not even bothering to apologize. When Clarinda’s eyebrows didn’t come down from their record heights, though, she added, “I almost called him a ‘little bugger,’ my dear,” she claimed, as if that would have been worse.

  Somehow, the comment, or perhaps just the tone of voice in which it was made, was absurd enough that Clarinda had to allow a smile. “I can hear you now, calling your grandson, ‘Bugger’,” she replied, her smile of amusement genuine. The smile slowly faded as tears began dripping down her cheeks. Before long, Dorothea’s cheeks were just as wet.

  Later that night, after a casual dinner with her mother-in-law and an evening in the parlor reviewing plans for David’s funeral service, Clarinda dismissed her maid and climbed into bed. Settling herself into one of the pillows, she was struck by the scent of David that suddenly wafted over her. She closed her eyes and breathed in the familiar fragrances; sandalwood and citrus, and the musk he gave off when they had just finished making love.

  “I always wondered if you liked that particular scent,” David said in a whisper. “I still can’t decide if I do.”

  Smiling, Clarinda reached up as if to cup her hand along his jaw, sure she could feel the rough texture of his unshaven face. “I do like it, David. I always have,” she answered in a whisper. “In fact, I’m thinking of forbidding the maid to ever wash these pillow coverings,” she said with a grin.

  “Ewww,” David replied with a frown. “There’s a bottle of cologne in my room. If you like it that much, simply sprinkle it on your linens ...”

  “I like it on you, silly man,” Clarinda interrupted him. They shared several moments of silence. “I saw you in the park today,” she said then, her voice quieter. The hand against his face moved up so her fingers could slide through his dark, silken hair.

  “Hmm. It was a nice day for a ride,” he said, leaning over to kiss her on the forehead. Clarinda closed her eyes and relished the sensation.

  “Your mother is here.”

  David nodded. “I saw.” After a time, he said, “She lacks subtlety, but she means well, Clare. If Daniel is stubborn, as I expect he may be, you may have to apply some ... feminine encouragement.”

  Clarinda blinked, her brows furrowing. “What? What do you mean?”

  David leaned over and kissed her on the nose. “I love you, Clare,” he said in a whisper.

  Clarinda’s eyes closed as his lips took purchase on hers, the kiss so gentle it was almost ethereal. When her eyes opened again, David was gone.

  Chapter 6

  Impending Fatherhood Makes for a Fool in Love

  Milton Grandby, Earl of Torrington, entered White’s at precisely seven o’clock. His arrival each night was so precisely timed, other gentlemen set their chronometers based on when he stepped into the men’s club. One of the club’s butlers was even spied resetting a mantle clock above a fireplace a moment after the earl took his usual seat.

  Grandby’s visits, usually finished in forty-five minutes so that he might arrive home at precisely eight o’clock for dinner with his wife, afforded him an opportunity to enjoy a pre-dinner drink and a cheroot. He spent the time conferring with other members of the peerage, taking a peek at the betting books, and listening to the day’s gossip. Ensconced in his favorite overstuffed chair, he sipped a brandy as he surreptitiously listened to the conversation of some gentlemen at a card table. Although Grandby wasn’t a gossip monger, he still rather enjoyed hearing it whenever he had the chance.

  “I have rather momentous news to share this evening,” Viscount Barrings was saying proudly as he finished shuffling a new deck of cards.

  “Did your horse finally win a race?” Jeffrey Althorpe, Baron Sommers asked, his elevated eyebrow suggesting his comment was made in jest. Lord Barrings frowned. He dealt the cards as if he’d been doing it since he was in leading strings.

  Lord Everly leaned in to pick up his cards, his lit cheroot sending tendrils of smoke in its wake. “Now, now, Jeffrey. Don’t be making fun of Barrings’ bay. That nag came in second last week,” the earl scolded. The adventurer had been in London only a fortnight, his most recent trip having been to the southernmost tip of Africa in search of tropical fish. His avocation – the study of natural sciences – had him traveling around the globe more often than he was home in London. The man could be forgiven his frequent explorations except he hadn’t yet seen to arranging a suitable marriage for his younger sister, Lady Evangeline. He promised himself he would see her settled before he took off on another trip. Grandby was quite certain a marriage was in the cards – as the girl’s godfather, he had made it clear to Everly that further delays would not be tolerated. If Everly didn’t have someone in mind soon and see to it a courtship was in the cards, Grandby would deck him.

  Everly took a look at his cards and was about to scold Barrings for his bad deal when he decided he might be able to bluff his way through this hand.

  “Thank you, Everly,” Barrings acknowledged the mention of his race horse’s recent success with a nod. “No, gentleman, my wife has seen to it I will be a father. Probably before Parliament reconvenes in the fall,” he stated proudly. He picked up his own cards, giving them a quick glance before looking up to accept congratulations from around the table.

  “Mary will be relieved to hear of it,” Sir Richard commented, his attention on his cards. “Only last week, she claimed your wife looked as if she was eating a few too many cakes at tea.”

  Grandby had to stifle a chuckle at the comment lest he be discovered listening. Just last week, he’d made a similar comment to Adele, although he was careful to add that he rather liked her with a bit more meat on her bones. She’d been far too thin when they married.

  Barrings gave Sir Richard a nod. “Well, she is, at that, but she is eating for two now,” he commented, his proud grin never leaving his face, even as he was forced to fold.

  “She’ll be in good company,” Sommers commented as he considered his hand and the growing pile of chips in the center of the table. “Seems there will be a crop of heirs born this fall.”

  Everly looked up from his hand, deciding he might not be able to bluff his way through this hand. “That would be due to that nasty snowstorm we had last December, just after Christmas,” he stated with some authority.

  Barrings made a sound that could best be described as a snort. “As I understand these matters, Everly, snow had nothing to do with it.”

  The other three gentlemen guffawed in response. “Oh, yes it does. What else are you going to do when you’re trapped in your country estate for three straight days?” Sommers asked, making a rude gesture with his hands.

  “And your wife complains of boredom and the cold?” Sir Richard added rhetorically, his eyebrows waggling suggestively.

  “I daresay, I remember wishing I was married during that long week,” Sommers murmured as he pretended to study his cards, thinking he still wished he was married. All his friends were. And now they were about to become fathers.

  In the middle to taking a sip of brandy, Grandby stilled his movements. Sommers wished he was married. Lady Evangeline Everly needed a husband.


  And there was that snowstorm.

  He held the brandy on his tongue for a very long time, finally swallowing when the alcohol threatened to burn a hole his mouth. He remembered that snowstorm quite clearly. Remembered where he was during the second and third days of it. Remembered where Adele had been – usually under him, although there had been those rather delightful times when she was on top of him – and he suddenly realized why it was she looked as if she’d been eating a few too many cakes at tea.

  Lord Everly, having taken a sudden interest in Jeffrey Althorpe’s quiet declaration that he wished he was married, decided his bluff definitely wouldn’t work and folded. He turned to the baron and lowered his voice. “If I might have a word with you when we’re done here tonight?” When Sommers gave him a noncommittal shrug in response, Everly piped up and said, “Be prepared to bed your wife more frequently, Barrings. Her appetite for your favors will be insatiable. At least, it is for most of the females of our species when they are breeding.” A hearty round of laughter erupted from the table as Barrings’ back was slapped and pounded.

  Grandby’s heart pounded in his chest. His pulse pounded in his head. How did Everly know such things? He wasn’t married. Grandby’s breaths came a bit too quickly. He stared at his cheroot as if he didn’t recognize it. I’m going to be a father. The words, barely formed in his mind, repeated themselves with a bit more certainty.

  Downing the rest of his brandy as if he’d spent a week in the desert, he stubbed out his cheroot and quickly made his way to his coach, his early exit from the club causing one of the butlers to pick up and study a mantle clock to ensure it still worked. The footman on the back of his coach did a double-take. “My lord?” he managed to get out as he moved to open the door and set down the steps.