by Megan Bryce
The third dog kept his head down, blinking between his mistress and her guest.
He said, “I thought you were always joking.”
“That’s you.”
He smiled, flicking his eyes to her long enough to see that while her face wasn’t laughing, her eyes were sparkling.
He looked back at the last dog. “You can call me George. Or Sin. That’s what my very good friends call me.”
She sat then, far too close, her skirts heavy on his leg despite their sheerness, her shoulder brushing against his. Her voice was low and smoky when she said, “If I called you George, I would then have to call my solicitors. If I called you Sin, I would then have to laugh.”
She surprised a chuckle out of him and all of the dogs lost interest, laying their heads back down.
Sinclair slid his arm along the back of the sofa and she turned her head toward him. Close. So close.
She said softly, “There is a certain type of gentleman who, if he accidentally stripped a maiden of her respectability, would run posthaste to her father to rectify the situation. I don’t doubt you are that kind of gentleman.”
He lifted an eyebrow. “Why do I not think that was a compliment?”
“That same type of gentleman wouldn’t even think of doing the same for a widow.”
“And there it is.” He pulled at a lock of her hair that was trying to free itself. “You’re really looking for marriage? Again? I don’t want to do it even once and here you are looking to throw your hat in for a sixth time.”
“Marriage means something different to women than it does to men.”
“Of that, I have no doubt. But I do sincerely doubt that it means the same to you that it does to every other woman.”
She laughed, humorlessly. “I think you’d be surprised, Mr. Sinclair, at how similar I am to other women.”
“I can assure you, Elinor, that you are nothing like other women.”
She shifted, her skirts rustling, the lock of hair Sinclair had wrapped his finger around springing free. He kept his eyes on it as he rubbed the hair between his gloveless thumb and forefinger. He kept his eyes away from her too close face, too tempting lips.
“Was that flattery, Mr. Sinclair? I couldn’t tell.”
He sighed. “I used to be good at this. Alas.”
She looked down at the note still held tight in her hand. “Is that what your reference says, that you used to be good at this and please give the man some lessons?”
Elinor smoothed it on her skirts, breaking the seal and angling it so she alone could read it.
It didn’t take long.
The smile she’d been fighting since he’d arrived unannounced bloomed across her lips and she leaned against his chest.
“Hm. That was exactly what it said.”
He chuckled, wrapping his arm around her shoulders and pulling her close.
“I’m going to kiss you, Elinor. It’s only a much-needed lesson so don’t call the solicitors just yet.”
She whispered, “Just a kiss, Sinclair. And you don’t need to worry about the solicitors; I haven’t called you George.”
He put his lips to hers. They were soft, but firmly closed, and the challenge of her made his blood roar.
And yes, the scandal of her. Why, just why, did men bet their lives for her?
He didn’t think, not for a minute, that she’d killed them, but it was a rather lot of bad luck. A man had to think twice about bringing all that bad luck upon himself.
He opened his mouth, tempting, pulling, sucking, and she leaned heavily against him, twisting in her seat to get closer to him.
But she kept her mouth closed.
Sinclair pulled back enough to slide his thumb between their lips, to gently wipe the moisture of his mouth from hers.
He murmured, “Why three?”
Her lips opened against his thumb. “I’ve had five. Husbands.”
She kissed his thumb and he cleared his throat.
“Dogs. One I can understand for protection. Two, even. But three?”
She said simply, “Two wasn’t enough. Dogs are happiest when they are in a pack. Two is not a pack.”
“Were your dogs lonely, Elinor?”
“Yes.”
He kissed her again, his lips light against hers, his thumb pushing gently at the corner of her mouth.
Open, he begged.
But they wouldn’t.
He didn’t pull away again. Couldn’t. He simply whispered against her lips, “What does marriage mean to you, Elinor? Why Bertie, and the old codger, and the paragon of manliness?”
“The Italian Stallion,” she corrected and he grunted.
She said, “And you forgot the merchant. And my poor young husband.”
“I didn’t forget them. The merchant is easy– beautiful young women must have something to live on, as well as the plain.”
She laughed against his mouth and he sucked in the sound. Sucked in her breath and warmth and wetness.
He didn’t lunge at her, didn’t assault her mouth with his tongue at the first chance he got. And he silently congratulated himself.
See, old boy, didn’t lose all your charm in India, after all.
He flicked his tongue to the corner of her mouth, then wiped with his thumb. And flicked, and wiped.
“And I know why you got your hooks into the young whippersnapper. You wanted a man easy to control.”
One of her legs wrapped around his calf, sliding up and down, and she whispered, “You don’t think I could easily lead any man around by his nose?”
“I’m dying to find out.”
That stopped her for a moment. Froze her in place, and Sinclair thought of all the men who had died once they found out getting led around by her was worth the price.
He slid down in the seat, getting the arm of the sofa against his back and Elinor across his chest.
She didn’t follow him with her lips, didn’t chase him with her kisses.
He didn’t know why his ardor hadn’t cooled at the thought of his death. But his words were certainly a bucket of cold water to her.
She pushed at his chest, trying to rise. “I don’t think you can give me what I want.”
“I think I can give you exactly what you want.”
She was nearly fully on top of him, he knew she could feel him prodding her, and one side of her mouth tipped up.
“To be fair, I think you can give me half of what I want.”
“And you’re set on that other half? No time for a little diversion before you find number six?”
She shook her head. “No time. There’s never any time for a diversion.”
She pushed herself off his chest, moved to the other side of the sofa and shook her skirts, smoothing them back in to place.
Sinclair took a deep, calming breath, pushing himself into a sitting position. Telling himself he hadn’t come today to be seduced in the lady’s drawing room, on the lady’s sofa.
He’d hoped. What was a man without a little hope? But he hadn’t expected, which meant he couldn’t be as crushingly disappointed as he thought he was feeling.
He sat forward, bracing his chin against his fist and looking at her dozing dogs.
“Marriage is your price and no substitutions. You drive a very hard bargain, madame.”
She laughed humorlessly. “Ah, no. That sacred institution has failed me but five times. I have no desire to give it a sixth try without being certain. Of the man, and his abilities.”
He was genuinely perplexed why any woman would find herself a sixth husband and he said softly, “What do you want, Elinor?”
“I want what was promised me.”
“Promised by who?”
“My husbands. All promised me the same thing, then failed to deliver.”
He was afraid to ask.
He turned to study her profile, then bit. “And what did they promise you?”
She met his eyes and this time there was no seduction, no laughter. No scandal.<
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He looked in her eyes and saw not madness but heartbreak and loneliness.
She said, “A child.”
One of her dogs came to his feet, padding over softly to rest his head in his mistress’s lap. Elinor petted his head and the dog looked at Sinclair as if to say, I would love to bite you.
Sinclair remembered his brother saying she’d been married five times with no surviving issue. And thought, Elinor had been right. She wanted what every other woman wanted from marriage.
He cleared his throat. “Has there been no. . .nothing?”
“The old codger.” Her lips parted in what could have been called a smile if you’d never seen her do it before. “He gave me a daughter, then died before she was born. She was so small. She didn’t even cry, not once. I held her in my arms and she died. I held her for that one day, and then I buried her.”
Sinclair didn’t know what to say to such pain, so said nothing. Just looked at the fire and wished.
That he hadn’t chased her. That just one of her husbands had done his duty by her.
She said softly, “I thought with dear Bertie. . .but no.”
Sinclair said, “He would have been a wonderful father,” and she nodded. And stared into the fire with him.
He couldn’t stand to see her so. . .wilted. As if all the air in the room had escaped, all the energy, and he said, “It’s only been a few weeks since the young whippersnapper. You can’t be sure yet that there is no child.”
She laughed then. “My poor young husband loved to drink. Let’s just say it affected his performance. There is no child.”
She pushed her dog gently away, standing up and letting George know he had overstayed his welcome.
“You see how I must choose wisely, don’t you, Mr. Sinclair? Before I marry again, I will be with child. And how can I make any man marry me when I’ve already given him what he wants?”
The damned thing was, she was right. He could imagine a great many men losing their mind with frustration and promising her the world in order to get himself into her bed. And a great many more men balking at the same price after he’d planted a child in her.
The horrible part was they wanted the same thing.
A child, an heir.
Marriage.
But Sinclair didn’t want to marry the widow. He wanted to bed her.
And if by some twist of fate, he did get her with child, she would demand marriage.
He couldn’t deliver. The earl would never allow it.
He closed his eyes, his chin still resting in his hand. “I think there is no hope for us, Lady Haywood.”
She left him sitting on the sofa, left her dogs to watch over him as she walked to the door.
“I think you’re right, Mr. Sinclair.”
Elinor instructed her butler to escort Mr. Sinclair out and walked calmly up the stairs. When she reached the top and turned the corner, she pressed herself against the wall. Listened to heavily booted steps as they exited through the front door.
Thought of blue eyes she wanted to drown herself in, and warm, hard arms that had wrapped around her so nicely.
She could have him. She knew it.
If she could play with her usual bag of tricks. If she could whip him into a fever and let him boil and bubble until he would do anything to have her.
But he would never marry her without that need. Never marry her if she let him into her bed first.
She almost thought about putting away her plans. Whip Mr. Sinclair into a frenzy, pit him against his brother, and rely solely on hope that this time her husband could give her what she wanted. What she needed.
But there was a hard knot of fear in the pit of her stomach, and she was afraid that it was she who couldn’t have a child. That her lack of child was not because of bad timing and terrible circumstance, and yes, bad choice in husbands.
She wouldn’t marry again without proof this time that there would be a child. Wouldn’t dare risk that she’d once again chosen poorly.
Because widowhood was a step up from marriage. She had freedom. And a lot less work to her day when there wasn’t a husband to move around.
The knocker on the door rang out again and she jumped. Her heart beat and her blood raced, and she couldn’t help her smile. Couldn’t help feel excitement and joy because he’d come back.
The butler answered the door and her brother’s voice dashed all that. Unsettled her stomach and made her want to hide in her bedroom.
She tipped up her chin and tightened her fists. She turned the corner and walked down the stairs.
The butler hadn’t let him in, wouldn’t ever let him in, and Alan was saying, “Give my sister my mess–” He smiled when he saw her. “Never mind. I’ll give it to her myself.”
He didn’t try and push past the butler. He’d tried that before but Jones was a man who’d seen war. Who knew how to recognize and deal with an enemy.
“And what is your message, Alan? I do hope it’s a short one.”
She opened the door to her drawing room and Alan said over the butler’s shoulder, “Sinclair, eh? A step up this time. But not an easy win.”
His eyes were feverishly bright and she knew what he would say before he uttered the words, “But what a prize for the daughter of a swindler. To be the mother of an earl.”
Elinor sicked her Mastiffs on him.
George Sinclair smiled at the woman who was blushing up at him. He took her hand lightly in his and pulled her closer. And then pushed her down the line to the next man.
And he smiled at the next woman who took his hand and blushed up at him.
The earl watched George dance with the happy eye of a man finally getting his way, and his wife idly waved her fan next to him.
George would have to ask her to dance, he thought. His brother wouldn’t.
“Mr. Sinclair, do the women in India really wear clothing that–” The young woman glanced at her mother who sat stiffly watching them and whispered, “–bares their middle?”
“Yes,” he said. And lost interest in the conversation.
“Yes,” he said to the next inane question she asked and no to the one after that.
And when he delivered her to her mother, went in search of a drink.
Flora followed him. “If you insist on acting the part of a bored and jaded aristocrat, and a slightly foreign-looking one at that, I will be forced to beat them off with sticks. Young girls can not stand to be ignored.”
He shuddered. “Do any of them have brains, Flora?”
“It is not a usual requirement for the gentlemen of the ton, although I’m sure there is one or two women here cursed with such an affliction.”
“I’m about ready to tell Sebastian to pick one and let’s be done with it.”
“That would certainly make him very happy. I wonder who he would choose; the young lady you were smiling down upon so vacantly but a moment ago?”
“He chose you; he can’t be all that bad at it.”
She smiled at him. “Sebastian didn’t choose me. Your father did.”
George stopped. “Never!”
He turned to narrow his eyes in the general direction of his brother, though he couldn’t see the man behind the wildly towering hair of nearly every woman in attendance.
George wondered if Lady Haywood was normally in the vanguard of fashion or if it had been his sudden interest in her that had piqued society’s fickle interest.
“My father chose you, and I’ll just bet Sebastian complained long and loud. Self-righteous, know-it-all son of an earl.”
“It didn’t even occur to Sebastian to complain. I had been raised to be the wife of a lord, what more did a man need?”
And perhaps Sebastian had been right. What more did a man need?
George thought it must be something, else any old girl would do.
Would any old, or entirely too-young and supremely boring, girl do?
He pushed the unpleasant thought from his mind.
“Shall we have
a go then?”
Flora looked where he was pointing at the dance floor, and she stopped waving her fan in shock.
“Oh, but. . .” She laughed. “It’s been too long for me, George. I am too old.”
“Doddering. I thought so the moment I put eyes to you. Why, there are spinsters lining the wall older than you.”
“Lining the wall, not the dance floor.”
George refused to take no for an answer.
“I’m older than you and I’m still kicking it up.”
“You have not borne four children, either.”
“Four girls, Flora. I have not forgiven you, and I shall not, until you dance with me.”
A sad, sad look crossed her face, and George held out his arm to her. “A dance. That is my price.”
“Would that the earl was so cheap.”
George shrugged as if he didn’t care at all about his brother and the wife he didn’t know loved him, and when Flora took George’s arm and allowed him to lead her to the dance floor said, “It wouldn’t even occur to Sebastian to ask. Better by far to not speak of it and let the disappointment fester.”
She smiled, shaking her head at him. “Where angels fear to tread, George.”
“I go barreling in, I know.”
They danced, not saying much, each lost to their own thoughts until Flora suddenly said, “You think I should talk to him about it.”
“There is no one more disappointed than you about this than him. Except me, of course. But I am quite tired of thinking about it, let alone talking about it.”
And, she was not his wife. There were certain punishments reserved for a husband, and listening to his wife prattle and quite possibly cry was one of them.
She said, “But what does one say? I’m afraid I simply can’t think how to bring it up.”
“If it were me, I’d say something wholly inappropriate like, Four girls, Sebastian? What poxy whore did you swive to deserve such a fate? This isn’t my doing.”
Flora coughed and tripped over her own foot, and when George caught her she was choking on her laughter.
He righted her, putting her back in place in the dance line, and she said, “I’ve so missed you, George.”
“Of course you have, Flora. You married Sebastian.”
She chuckled again and he said, “But if you can’t say that to him, you could always try, By gad, Sebastian, I wish we’d had just one boy. Don’t you agree?”