Merry Widows 02: Just One Of Those Flings

by Candice Hern

  "There is always something to see along the river," he said.

  "Yes, that is true. Perhaps, sir, you would give me your arm for a few moments and step outside with me. The view is better and the weather is fine."

  And there it was again, that half smile, a mere twitch of the lips. "It would be my pleasure." He offered his arm, and led her to the deck outside.

  There was not much of a deck, only a small area between the cabin and the oarsmen. These barges were built to carry passengers inside, not outside. But one small bench had been placed against the cabin wall, and Lord Thayne held her hand steady while she took a seat. He released her with unflattering speed, as though her touch burned him. She was mortified to think it may well have done so. Every time she was near the wretched man, heat pooled low in her belly. Had he felt it, even through the fine leather of her gloves?

  Thayne turned his face into the breeze, hoping to cool his blood. He wished he could control his reaction to Miss Thirkill's aunt, but he seemed helpless to do so. What was it about her that set him off like that? She was very attractive, of course. Even beautiful. Not in the way of her niece, whose beauty was fresh and fine and nearly perfect. Lady Somerfield's beauty was more . . . smoldering. Perhaps that was why his blood heated every time he saw her. Her beauty singed him.

  His only recourse was to impose whatever control was left him. He stiffened his spine and held his shoulders back and his head high.

  "You promised me a conversation," she said.

  It would be churlish to keep his back to her, so he turned to face her, lifting his chin a bit. "I am at your disposal, my lady. What questions do you have for me today?"

  She smiled up at him from beneath the brim of a fetching bonnet trimmed in the same shade of blue as her spencer jacket. The costume enhanced the color of her eyes, which twinkled merrily at him. "A whole list of them, I assure you."

  "Do you wish to know the value of my land holdings? The number of acres given to farming? A report of my investments?"

  She laughed. "That would certainly be interesting. But another time, perhaps. On such a day as this, I believe I'd like to hear more of your travels."

  "What would you like to know?"

  "Whatever you would like to tell me. Your favorite places. Your most interesting adventures. Anything."

  "There were so many places, it is hard to choose a favorite."

  She gave him an exasperated look. "Try."

  "Well, I spent a lot of time in Hyderabad. I liked it there a great deal."

  "Why?"

  And so he told her about the citadel of Golconda and Maula Ali's shrine, about the Chaumhala Palace and Purani Haveli, about the beauty of Hussain Sagar Lake and the Banjara Hills, about the new British Residency building and the parade grounds. About elephants and tigers, about gardens and gleaming white palaces.

  He stopped when he noticed her staring quizzically at him. "What is it?" he asked. "I have bored you."

  "On the contrary. I am quite fascinated, I assure you. It is just . . . well, you really did love it there, didn't you?"

  "Yes, I did."

  "Do you know that your eyes light up when you talk about it? That your face is transformed from the stern aristocrat into . . . something else? Something more—forgive me for saying so, but it is true— something more alive."

  He gave a start. "Egad. I had no idea you thought I was dead. No wonder you are concerned for your niece."

  She burst into musical laughter. "That was a poor choice of words, I fear. I must apologize for my impertinence, my lord. I seem to have turned into one of those care-for-nothing widows who says exactly what she feels. I never thought you dead. Just a bit . . . reserved. But you allow that reserve to slip away when you speak of India."

  "Do I?" He supposed he had got a bit carried away, lost in fond memories of Hyderabad.

  "Yes, and I quite enjoyed it. You must do so more often, my lord. With a wistful look in your eye and an abstracted smile on your face, you seem much more . . . approachable. I will make a confession to you. I have been deliberately provoking you. I have wanted to draw you out, to see what sort of man you are."

  He arched an eyebrow. "Or what sort of husband I'd make?"

  She laughed again. "You must forgive me, Lord Thayne. I am thoroughly transparent, am I not? Emily is a vibrant young lady, but also very innocent of the world. I am twice her age—dare I admit it?— and have seen all different sorts of marriages. Some are loving and affectionate, with equal partners sharing in all aspects of their lives. Some are quite unequal, with the wife totally subservient to the husband. Some husbands are bullies. Some are indulgent. Some are indifferent. Some are heavy-handed and autocratic—they do not allow their wives to make even the simplest decision, and do not ask for their input on any decisions the men make for their families."

  Her voice had become quite animated. Was she speaking of her own marriage?

  "Emily is a beautiful girl with a great many suitors," she continued. "I just want to make sure she is happy."

  "She is a very lucky young woman to have so caring a chaperone. But I do not know if I can tell you what sort of husband I would be. I rather suspect somewhere between overly indulgent and autocratic.

  I will have certain expectations due to my rank, of course. Beyond that, I cannot say."

  "You are very obliging to say as much as you have. And I am a shrew to be asking such questions." She gave a sheepish grin. "You must blame it on that look in your eye when you spoke of India. You made me think I could say anything to you."

  "I hope you will always feel so, Lady Somerfield."

  Devil take it, he really did like this woman. It would have been easier if he despised her. Then he might be able to control those damnable yearnings that crept up on him again as she spoke. He would have to try harder to suppress them. Then perhaps they could be friends. He hoped so.

  "Ah, look." She rose from her bench and put up her hand to shield her eyes. "There is Chiswick. We are almost at our destination."

  The rest of the party realized it, as well, and began to stir about in the cabin. A few wandered out onto the small deck. Lady Somerfield was called away by other guests, and Miss Thirkill took her place at his side. The pink ribbons of her bonnet fluttered in the breeze as she smiled up at him and began to chatter cheerfully about how much she looked forward to strolling through the gardens of Kew. He paid little attention to what she said, his mind still on the conversation with Lady Somerfield. Perhaps over time, Miss Thirkill would grow into the sort of woman her aunt was. He would be pleased to have such a wife.

  When the oars were lifted and the barge was pulled to the dock, the gentlemen handed the ladies out onto the Kew river stairs. Thayne helped Miss Thirkill to alight, but allowed Burnett to lead her up the stairs. He waited for Lady Somerfield, who, as hostess, was the last to leave. After giving instructions to the footmen, she was ready to disembark. She seemed surprised, though pleased, to find him waiting for her. He wanted her to know that he had not minded her blunt questions, and had enjoyed their conversation.

  She held out her hand to him. He took it, looked her square in the eye, and smiled broadly.

  He had to catch her by the elbow when her knees seemed to buckle and she lost her footing.

  Chapter 7

  The next Benevolent Widows Fund ball was held a week later at Hengston House. Beatrice had left an invitation with the Duchess of Doncaster, and tried to convince herself it was because she could expect a sizable donation to the charity from Her Grace. And that she had included the marquess in the invitation only for the sake of Emily. But if she was perfectly honest with herself, she simply wanted to see him again.

  It was not as if she did not encounter him often enough. They'd met at practically every social event she and Emily had attended. Since he now went about more frequently, he'd caused something of a stir among the ladies of the ton. Beatrice often observed the reaction whenever he entered a room. Handsome, rich, and with aristocratic arr
ogance oozing from every pore, he was a formidable presence. Women of all ages watched him with interest. Beatrice had begun to worry that Emily might face some stiff competition, as some of those interested ladies had pedigrees longer than her arm. But in the end, she trusted in Emily's determination and the girl's own brand of arrogance to win the day. In fact, Thayne had been most attentive to Emily, and expectations were running high. At each social function, however, Beatrice had grown to look forward to the few minutes she might have to share a word or two with the marquess. He had indeed loosened up his tight manner a bit. At least with Beatrice. He still behaved with strict formality around Emily.

  In the last week, since their conversation on the barge, a sort of friendship had developed between her and Lord Thayne. And Beatrice found she quite enjoyed it. There was still that little spark of something between them. She had finally concluded that it was definitely between them and not on her side alone. That had become clear when she had almost fallen into his arms when she stepped off the barge, his smile unsettling her, exactly as she'd predicted. She tried her best to extinguish that spark, and felt sure he was doing the same. Eventually, it would pass and they could be friends. Which would be the only proper thing if he married Emily.

  Until such time, however, that tiny spark still flared hot, and Beatrice was helpless to fight it.

  In fact, she had dressed with extra care for the evening, wanting to look her best. Beatrice always tried to look her best, but tonight he would see her in her own element, at her ball, and so she tried a little harder. Poor Dora, her lady's maid, must have thought she was mad as she discarded one dress after the other before settling on just the right one. It was a new dress of celestial blue satin scooped very low at the neckline, with very short, full sleeves finished at the bottom with knotted beading. The hem was ornamented with the same beadwork. Over the dress she wore a Polonese robe of gossamer net trimmed with lace and more knotted beading. Dora had fashioned her hair into an elegant twist at the back of the head, confined with a wreath of lace and pearls.

  Beatrice thought she looked quite splendid. Not at all like a middle-aged dowager.

  Later, as she and the other Merry Widows stood in line with Lord and Lady Hengston to receive their guests, Beatrice waited anxiously for Lord Thayne's arrival. But there was no sign of him. She was gratified when the duke and duchess came through the line. They had never before attended a Widows Fund ball, and their appearance was quite a coup for the trustees. Grace had looked ready to swoon at the size of their contribution to the Fund, but had quickly composed herself and accepted it with polite gratitude.

  "Will Lord Thayne be joining us, as well?" Beatrice had asked.

  "He would not miss it," Her Grace said. "If he has not yet arrived, I am certain he must be delayed. He will be here, Lady Somerfield. You may assure Miss Thirkill of it."

  Beatrice was pleased to be assured of it, as well.

  She joined the dancing toward the end of the first set, partnered with Emily's uncle, Lord Wallingford. She sat out the second set and acted the good patroness, mingling with the guests and making introductions. She found Emily in the center of a circle of admirers. Lord Thayne was not among them.

  Standing near Emily's court were Adam Cazenove and Lord Rochdale. Adam was frowning furiously, and Beatrice guessed why. Marianne was playing a dangerous game with him, and Beatrice hoped they would soon resolve their differences. Adam was so obviously in love with her.

  The notorious Rochdale, on the other hand, wore a roguish smile as he surveyed the room. He made no attempt to disguise his salacious scrutiny of certain women. Women whose charms were more abundantly displayed than others. Beatrice instinctively reached up to cover her own exposed bosom.

  Her blood ran cold, though, as she watched him choose his next object of interest. Emily, with her perfect beauty and her deceptive demeanor of sophistication. Rochdale was a cad of the first order, his seductions numerous and very public. There had been a terrible scandal the year before when he'd been quite public in his seduction of Serena Underwood, then just as publicly rejected her. The poor young woman had been ruined and no one had seen her since. And there had been rumors of a child.

  Beatrice would not let the scoundrel get within an inch of Emily, if she could help it. The girl had no notion of his reputation. Beatrice must be sure to warn her to avoid the man. She expelled a sigh of relief when he looked away and found another target of interest. But for the time being, Beatrice would keep a close watch on her niece. Just in case.

  She looked down to see her glove had come unbuttoned, and reached up to correct it.

  Thayne arrived later than he'd wanted, but he'd got caught up in a game of cards at his club and lost track of time. He missed the receiving line altogether, which was disappointing. He had especially wanted to express his thanks to Lady Somerfield for the invitation. Well, he would see her soon enough. All he had to do was locate Miss Thirkill and her aunt was certain to be nearby.

  He looked about for the famous guinea gold curls and easily found them across the room. As ever, Miss Thirkill was surrounded by a court of swains. He wondered if he had any serious competition. Unless one of them was a duke, he supposed it unlikely.

  He made his way toward her, and was stopped dead in his tracks.

  A woman in pale blue with her back to him was in the process of removing her glove. As she rolled it down her arm, baring the palest perfect flesh, his breath caught in his throat and his heart began to pound rapidly in his chest.

  Something about that arm.

  It could not be. Could it? It was definitely not Lady Vernon. This woman's hair was quite red, so perhaps he was wrong.

  And then he saw the bracelet. A gold serpent coiled about that pale upper arm. If he moved closer, he was almost certain it would have ruby eyes.

  He approached slowly, wanting to be absolutely sure. She made some adjustment to the glove and tugged it slowly back up her arm, driving him quite wild with desire. He watched that arm closely. Lithe and supple as a willow, almost boneless in its soft lines. Beautiful, and very, very familiar. A stab of white-hot passion speared through him with a ferocity that almost knocked him off his feet. He could barely breathe.

  exposed beneath the tiny puffed sleeve. Just enough flesh to contain the gold serpentine bracelet.

  This time he was absolutely sure. Those same arms had intoxicated him once before.

  As he moved closer, as he studied her hungrily, he became aware that it was more than just her arms that was familiar. The elegant column of her neck arching up from her shoulders. The way she held her head at a slight angle. The glorious red hair.

  Red hair? Could it be?

  He stopped mere inches behind her, then reached out and tentatively touched her arm. She turned, and his heart skipped a beat.

  Their eyes locked. The air between them shimmered with an elemental charge so potent it threatened to explode.

  "Artemis," he whispered.

  A look of pure horror came over her face, and Lady Somerfield spun on her heels and dashed away.

  Beatrice sped through the crowd, not caring who she pushed aside or what slippers were ruined as she trod on them. Her only thought was to get away. Away from him.

  Somehow she found the terrace doors and rushed outside. She leaned against the railing and the cold night air washed over her. She took deep gulps of it to calm her racing heart.

  Dear God. How could she have missed it? Dark hair. Dark eyes. A slight cleft in his chin. A connection to India. An uncontrollable attraction. Had she been blind?

  Her heart flip-flopped wildly in her chest. She tried to compose herself, as there were others on the terrace, but one thought kept spinning in her head. She had had sex up against a wall with the Marquess of Thayne. The same young man who, she was quite sure, would very soon make her niece an offer of marriage.

  Bile rose in her throat and Beatrice was seized with panic.

  Good Lord, what was she to do?

 
; Hurried footsteps sounded on the flagstones. He'd found her, of course.

  "Lady Somerfield." Even the voice was familiar, if she had but listened.

  "Go away."

  "No. We must talk. Please turn around."

  "I have nothing to say to you, Lord Thayne."

  "Do you not?"

  He touched her arm and she flinched as though scorched. "Go away. This is not the time or place."

  "We are quite alone, Lady Somerfield."

  She turned to look, and saw he had spoken the truth. The others had returned inside, leaving her alone with Lord Thayne. Her maharaja.

  "You cannot imagine how hard I have searched for you, Artemis. And to think, it was you all along. Did you know it was me?"