by Megan Bryce
He chuckled. “Obviously.” He shook his head. “Ye gads. You must have touched a bun before sitting down.”
“I don’t count on luck when skill is more reliable.”
In Elinor’s experience, skill was always more reliable than luck. She couldn’t count on what she’d never had.
Sinclair stopped at a Hazard table, though he seemed as uninterested in the game as she.
“Do I have any hope in persuading you to dance tonight? Or will we be stuck in here watching men sweat as they gamble away what they can ill afford to lose.”
She shook her head, pretending she had no desire for dancing.
He said, “But I distracted you and must make up for it. Or you distracted me. I do feel a bit at sea.”
She doubted he was distracted or befuddled but she explained to him again.
“I’m still in deep mourning, Mr. Sinclair. Of course.”
He laughed, low and long, and his chest reverberated against the back of her hand.
“The only people in this room who are in mourning are your poor opponents. I hope you made the game worth their while, Lady Haywood.”
She murmured, “I always do,” and he turned his head to look into her eyes.
“Yes. That’s the impression I get.”
He turned back to the game. “Of course, hard to know since I can’t really go ask. If only they’d left references.”
Elinor flicked her fan open and covered her mouth.
She should shoo him away, distance herself from his irreverent humor, because it was a truth universally acknowledged that a man in line for a title did not marry a scandalous widow
And Elinor was starting to think it a shame she didn’t play games she couldn’t win.
When her face was back in line, she murmured, “Will you take a turn tonight throwing the dice?”
“I may throw the dice but you will never see me sweat over how they fall. I’m afraid I’ve always thought these games were for fun.”
“These games are for winning.”
“I am getting the distinct impression that you do not know how to have fun.”
“Winning is fun.”
“Playing is fun.”
She thought with him it would be. But she pushed at him to go throw the dice until he stepped from her side, making a big show of taking the dice and blowing on them, and holding them to every lady watching and asking for the same.
He held his hand out to her. “For luck.”
She laughed. “You don’t want me blowing on them, Mr. Sinclair.”
“Says the woman who left her opponents too poor to shed tears but a moment ago.”
She closed his hand over the dice. “Yes, I did.”
His grin grew wider and he stepped back to the table, rolling the dice with a flick of the hand and never taking his eyes from her.
“Am I your opponent, Lady Haywood?”
A cheer went up at the table and Sinclair looked down. He rolled again and again, his attention snagged from her.
He laughed loudly at his good fortune and the table laughed with him. A crowd grew around the table until her view was nearly blocked and she wondered if they came to watch because he won or because he laughed.
When at last his streak ended, he made his way back to her breathless and excited.
“See. Playing. Fun.”
She laughed. “I am certain the winning had something to do with it.”
He nodded, twining his arm with hers and leaning on her heavily. “Winning. Fun.”
The room was hot, he was too much fun, her smile was too wide, her laughter too loud.
She tried to pull her arm from him and he hung on. Used every excuse to brush against her, used every movement of the crowd to pull her closer.
“And now, you,” he said, dragging her toward the table.
She shook her head and dug in her heels.
“You forget, I’ve already had my fun tonight.”
He stopped. “Too true. Dancing it is, then.”
“If somehow you could talk me into it, I doubt we could make it past your brother standing guard at the door.”
Sinclair froze for an instant, then let out a heavy sigh and leaned close enough to whisper in her ear. “Is he looking at us?”
“Yes.”
“Does he look angry?”
“Does he ever look anything but?”
“Not when I’m in the same room. The countess assures me she has seen him smile. I don’t know whether to believe her or not.”
“It must be true if the countess says it. It may be that she is the only one who’s seen it.”
The Earl of Ashmore stopped standing by the door and slowly made his way toward them through the crowd.
Elinor didn’t take her eyes from his glowering face. She said, “If I was the kind of woman who just liked to play, this would make you very nearly irresistible.”
Sinclair pulled back from her enough to see where she was looking, to see the earl bearing down on them, righteous fury in his eyes.
“Yet another someone who just can’t play but has to win. Lord, I am surrounded.”
She dropped her hand from Sinclair’s arm as the earl arrived and Sinclair finally let her go. She curtsied as much as the room allowed and said on the way down, “I can’t win against an earl.”
She was sure she heard Sinclair swear.
She was sure she heard the earl say the exact same word.
When she rose back up, the earl was glaring at her and Sinclair was glaring at the earl.
Sinclair said, “Here is your chance, Lady Haywood.”
Ashmore said, “Her chance at what?”
“To prove she is as off-putting as a Pomeranian and chase you off.”
Elinor sternly insisted to herself that Mr. Sinclair was not that funny, and when she saw Ashmore turn his glare to his brother, she stopped being entertained.
She’d seen this before. A man who wanted, fighting those who stood in his way.
Of course the last time she’d seen it, it had been between dear Bertie and George St. Clair.
She hadn’t thought then that losing a good friend had been too high a price for Bertie to pay. Had thought that eventually St. Clair would see how happy she would make his friend and yield.
They hadn’t had the chance. St. Clair had lost his friend before they could reconcile and Elinor felt, perhaps, a smidgen of sympathy for a man who couldn’t forgive himself quite as easily as she could.
She thought all this as the brothers fought their silent war. Imagined Mr. Sinclair lifeless and his brother weeping over the body.
Her heart clutched, and before the image could evaporate from her mind was curtsying again and saying to her feet, “It seems I am not.”
Elinor nearly made it out the doors. Had thought she wouldn’t even care if she was left standing out in the cool night air as her carriage was brought around if she could just get away.
But no.
Lady Ashmore positioned herself just so and called her name just a little too loud, and Elinor was forced to stop. And curtsy. And curse the whole family.
The countess smiled. “I thought that was you my husband was talking to. I can tell by the spark in your eye.”
Elinor did not smile back. “The earl speaks and we all listen.”
“Oh? Is that why you were running off?”
Elinor had been running because she’d seen laughing blue eyes turn milky white.
The countess cocked her head. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you look so distraught, Lady Haywood. Please forgive my husband whatever it was he said. He can be quite brash. Especially when his brother is involved.”
“His brother can be just as. . .irritating.”
The countess fanned herself and sounded genuinely sad when she said, “Oh. This will never do, I’m afraid.”
Elinor agreed with her. The widow would never do for Sinclair; Sinclair would never do for her.
“I agree with you heartily, my lady. I’
m not the one who has to be told again and again.”
“Perhaps we must tell you because my brother-in-law won’t listen.”
“I’ve noticed.”
The countess laughed at Elinor’s tone. “Younger son. They learn to ignore what they don’t want to hear.”
“You would think he could hear that I’m in mourning.”
The countess looked down at Elinor’s dress. “Yes, your husband. My condolences.”
In her tone was the question of whether condolences were appropriate to offer but Elinor didn’t care. They could think of her what they liked. They would think of her what they liked.
She huffed out a breath when she saw the earl barreling toward them, rage in his eyes. The countess turned to see and said, “Oh, dear.”
Elinor thought her interjection was too mild for the death shining from the man’s eyes but perhaps the countess didn’t feel it quite as acutely since it wasn’t directed at her.
Elinor stood her ground and raised her chin. Surely the earl wouldn’t kill her right here, in the middle of a crowded ballroom. . .
The countess stepped in front of Elinor, halting her husband’s head-long rush with a smile and a lazy wave of her fan.
“Look who I ran in to, my dear? Lady Haywood. You do remember her, don’t you?”
The earl snapped out, “She is exceedingly hard to forget. Especially when as soon as she leaves one member of my family, she attaches herself to another.”
“That was my fault entirely. I chased her across the room,” the countess said and Elinor wisely decided not to point out that she hadn’t attached herself to any member of his family.
She unwisely said, “You mean as soon as I am chased away.”
The earl squared his shoulders. “I am not a Pomeranian, Lady Haywood.”
No. She knew a Mastiff when she saw one.
“I have no interest in your brother, my lord. Or your wife.”
“Why do I find that hard to believe?”
“I think it a familial affliction. None of you seem able to believe it.”
The countess turned around, though she managed to remain standing in front of her husband.
Elinor appreciated the gesture. She’d never had anyone try to protect her before. But then realized as soon as she thought it that the woman wasn’t protecting her. The countess was protecting her husband from himself.
The earl snorted. “We have a hard time believing what is patently untrue.”
Elinor saw Mr. Sinclair pushing his way to them, his mouth hard and the rage building in his eyes. But this rage wasn’t directed at her, and she thought he would stand next to her as the battle lines were drawn. He’d stand in front of her.
Good thing she didn’t need anyone to do that for her. Didn’t want anyone to.
“I don’t want him at all,” Elinor said, looking right at him, and the countess raised her eyebrows.
“Oh, dear.”
Flora watched the woman’s blond hair exit through the doors, thinking that it had to weigh a ton. Thinking of the woman’s straight neck unbowed under the weight.
Thinking of the want in the woman’s eyes when she was saying she didn’t want George at all.
She watched George throw a furious glance at them and follow Lady Haywood out the door.
Flora nearly threw herself into her husband’s arms to keep him from chasing after his brother and said softly, “Are you trying to push him into the widow’s arms?”
Sebastian looked utterly taken aback. “Of course not.”
“Do you not realize that by telling him no you are effectively waving a red rag at him? Forcing him to run off after her?”
“She’s the widow, Flora. Can you think of anyone less suitable for him? No children, five husbands.” He put her bodily away from him and flung his hands in the air. “Hundreds of women here, and he goes straight to her.”
“And I assume you have already had this conversation with him?”
“Of course I have. She’s been after him since he got home.”
“I don’t know, my dear. He is not exactly her usual fare.”
“She doesn’t have a ‘usual fare’. Five husbands, all different from the last.”
“Five husbands, and none with a future to protect.”
“A future he has no interest in protecting. I do,” he said and his voice was hard.
Flora knew he was thinking that the widow wouldn’t get her mitts on his brother.
She said, “That’s right. George has family and connections. She can’t lure him with her money.”
“She has other lures, I assure you.”
“Does she?” And if it was her voice that was hard that time, it was only because he’d surprised it out of her. She wouldn’t have been so gentle with the woman if she’d known the widow had tried to lure the earl.
But Sebastian blinked at her tone. “Well, I mean, she is very beautiful, Flora. And experienced.”
More hardness. “Is she?”
His eyebrows pulled together in slight confusion and he paused like a deer scenting danger. Lifting his head to wonder just where it was coming from.
“Flora? I’m talking of what George would think of her.”
Flora slowed her fan down and took a deep breath. Reminded herself that she was a countess, reminded herself just what kind of woman she was.
A woman whose husband hadn’t looked at her, hadn’t touched her, in over a year.
She said, “Not what you think of her?”
“Well, of course not. We all know what I think of her.”
“As marriage material. But perhaps she’s not looking for another husband.”
He barked out a laugh. “And you think she’d go about that business by infuriating me?” He shook his head. “Even if she was, I wouldn’t want her.”
What woman do you want, Sebastian?
Then she chided herself. She was a woman who’d been married for ten years, had four children.
That she still loved her husband, still wanted only him, was her own silly fault. She should do as others of her standing did when their duty was done.
Take a discreet lover and leave her husband to his.
Except there was the rub. She hadn’t given him his heir.
And she didn’t want a lover.
She looked away from her husband. At the door, where George was stomping his way back in.
Sebastian said, “And if that’s what she was looking for, I’d turn George over to her and let him get tired of her. But she wants another husband.”
He motioned George over to them, and the earl’s brother turned on his heel and headed back to the card room.
Sebastian grunted with impatience and Flora once again took hold of her husband’s arm before he went chasing after his brother.
“You can’t force him, Sebastian. To dance with the women you want him to dance with, to come when you command him.”
“To look for a respectable woman? To not go haring off after the most unsuitable woman he could find? To not throw a tantrum like a spoiled child when he doesn’t get what he wants?”
“He knows his duty. He’s here, isn’t he? And if you let him find his own wife, he’ll be much happier.”
“If I let him find his own wife. . . You did just see who he ran after, did you not? I can not leave it to him. He is attracted to the outrageous and the entertaining. We are looking for the mother of an earl, Flora.”
“I think you underestimate him. And I think if you pick his wife for him, you will choose a wallflower. Some girl who is quiet and obedient and–”
“You mean a girl like you?”
She smiled. “We’ve been married ten years, my dear. A woman can be quiet and obedient for only so long.”
He smiled back at her and patted the hand still resting on his arm. And then he sighed. “If only one of your sisters was still unattached. George loves you; he wouldn’t have chafed against your calming influence.”
“Yes, he would have. A
woman like me is not what George needs. He needs someone vivacious and high-spirited.”
The earl blinked. And blinked. “Flora. I’m looking for his wife.”
She laughed, sliding her hand from his arm. “I know, dear. But someone entertaining will ease the sting.”
Four
George Sinclair knocked on the door of a terraced townhouse at the fashionable hour the next day.
And when he was shown into the lady’s drawing room to find her three, three!, Mastiffs flopped in front of the fire he scowled at them and said, “I am utterly disappointed in you, Lady Haywood. I thought you ferocious like one of your dogs. But you ran from my brother the moment he descended on us.”
She’d run, and he’d chased after her. Was still chasing after her.
“Perhaps I was using him to make my escape, Mr. Sinclair.”
He turned to her then, his breath catching at the simple black day gown she wore. Simple and plain and so thin he could see the layer underneath. And the next layer and the next. He thought she must be wearing nearly ten sheer layers, and while he couldn’t see anything but material, he couldn’t seem to stop trying.
He looked back up into eyes that knew exactly what he was thinking, and Sinclair handed her a scrap of paper. “My reference.”
She took it and looked down at it. “Just who did you get to write a reference? Have you been married before?”
“My mistress. It’s been a few good years since I partook of her services but she remembered me.” He grinned. “That must be a kind of reference all its own.”
She crumpled the note in her hand. “Not the particular kind of reference I was looking for.”
He sat down uninvited on her sofa, making himself comfortable and looking around the room. At the dogs sprawled in front of the fireplace.
He nodded toward them. “Are they as well trained as your horse?”
“Yes.”
“Will you give me warning before I overstay my welcome?”
“Consider this your warning.”
One dog picked up its head at her tone.
Sinclair patted the sofa beside him. “Come and sit beside me before he gets the wrong idea, Elinor. Dogs can’t tell when you’re joking.”
She stared at him and another dog picked up its head.
“Can you tell when I’m joking, Mr. Sinclair?”