by Megan Bryce
“It would be very hard to disagree with that.”
He nodded, and the room suddenly quieted, then burst into chatter. George breathed in air suddenly invigorated, a night suddenly scandalous.
He didn’t look to see her. He still had that image of her in her sheer gowns, the feel of her hair between his fingers. He didn’t need to look.
Flora did, and the widening of her eyes told him that the widow had outdone herself.
He didn’t look.
Flora said, “You’ve stopped chasing her then?”
He had. Unfortunately, he hadn’t stopped wanting her and he didn’t need any more memories to fuel the fire.
He escorted Flora off the dance floor, thanking her for subjecting her old bones to such physical distress simply to entertain him.
She laughed and shook her head at him, swatting him with her fan playfully.
She looked ten years younger and George heartily congratulated himself on a job well done as he tried to sneak off before he got a glimpse of her.
He didn’t think he deserved fate’s kick to the bollocks when he stepped right into her path. He’d been watching for tall blond hair held up by fairy dust and gold tinsel, and he nearly mowed her down because she stood a foot shorter than he remembered her.
Her hair hung completely unbound, no adornment in it, the waves of blond ending in little ringlets that begged to be twirled around his fingers and hands and any appendage they cared to.
Her heeled shoes must have been replaced with flat slippers because even her eyes were lower than he remembered.
He gasped, “You’re wearing dancing slippers.”
“It’s been five weeks. I thought I could ease the constrictions a bit.”
His lips smiled of their own accord, his heart danced at her outrageousness.
He said, “Do you know that in India the women wear clothing that shows their midriff?”
She cocked her head, leaned toward him.
“How scandalous.”
And then she turned and walked away.
The door to Sebastian’s library opened without a knock and he pushed his papers away, knowing it was Flora.
She never knocked, not at night when he would be alone. The household quiet and abed except for them.
She hadn’t visited him in his library late at night since Isabel had been born.
He smiled at her and she sat in the chair across from his desk and cleared her throat.
“By gad, Sebastian, I wish we’d had just one boy. Don’t you agree?”
“Er, yes.”
They sat in silence because, well, what could one say to that?
She cleared her throat again. “George is quite put out with me. With us.”
At that, at least, Sebastian had something to say.
“I will have to remind him that it is extremely unlikely he will outlive me. He will most likely die over some silly fisticuffs and never have to adorn the mantle of earl.”
“He will be relieved to hear it.”
More silence.
And then she said softly, “We could try agai–”
“No.”
She blinked and looked down at her hands folded in her lap. “May I ask why?”
Why? Why?
“You nearly died, Flora.” And even Sebastian jerked back at the gruffness of his tone.
She nodded.
He thought the subject closed, death ended all debate, but she looked back up.
“I’m only thirty. I didn’t realize until tonight just how. . .tired I’ve been feeling.”
“You are still recovering.”
“I’m not, Sebastian. I’m not still sick. I’m not still on death’s door. Isabel is healthy, just like all our girls. It is our duty to try agai–”
He pushed back his chair hard, the scraping of the heavy feet against the wood silencing her.
“I know. I know my duty; I know what the world expects from me. I am sorry to disappoint it and you and everyone.”
Her eyes were wide as she stared at him and her mouth opened once again to disagree with him.
He cut her off with, “I will not touch you again.”
Her chin raised. “I have needs, Sebastian.”
“Excuse me?”
“Needs. I assume you have them; I assume you are meeting those needs somehow. With someone. It’s not very fair that I will be denied the same since I haven’t given my husband his heir yet.”
He choked and sputtered. “Fair? Fair!”
“May I ask who?”
“Who what?”
“Who is meeting your needs. A mistress I am unaware of, a lady I sip tea with? I think a wife should know just who is satisfying her husband. To avoid awkward situations.”
He sat back down with a thud, thinking he would have liked to avoid this awkward situation.
He cleared his head with a quick shake. “You’ve been spending too much time with George.”
She bit her lip, then stood slowly. She nodded.
“Yes. He’s the only Sinclair who wishes to spend any time with me at all.”
She walked to the door and when she opened it, stopped. “Please just warn me if I am being overly friendly with a lady you are dallying with. It would be very embarrassing for me, Sebastian.”
She closed the door and Sebastian sat there. He was fairly certain his mouth was hanging open and that he looked like he’d been whacked one too many times in the head.
This must all be George’s fault. Flora had been spending too much time with him and he brought chaos wherever he tarried.
Sebastian looked at the closed door and thought, his wife had needs?
Five
Elinor flirted and teased and smiled and fluttered her way through another week, another set of dinners and balls.
But not too much.
She was beginning to understand that less was more when there was actually the possibility of going through with the seduction.
She was beginning to understand that she might never find a suitable gentleman.
Mr. Framingham had smiled at her too widely, and she’d crossed him off her list.
Mr. Dorchester had accidentally touched her bottom, and she’d laughed and pinched his cheek hard enough to leave a mark. And she’d crossed him off her list.
She hadn’t seen Mr. Sinclair since she’d run in to him accidentally, and. . .he’d never been on her list.
She couldn’t cross him off, even though it would have made her feel better.
She wasn’t quite sure why she would have felt better.
Elinor took out a piece of paper and a pen from her desk. She dipped and she wrote.
A list of widowers this time, and she sighed to herself. Was she really getting that desperate?
Apparently, yes.
Widowers with children of their own already, of course, and that came with problems. Lots of problems.
Husband number one had had children. But they’d been older than her. There had still been problems but she hadn’t had to live with any of them.
But a widower young enough to give her children would already have young children.
Young children who’d lost a mother, young children who would be worried they would lose their father to his new wife.
But she wrote down all the names she could think of. Ten widowers.
And if that wasn’t enough she would think of something else. Someone else. Perhaps go to the continent and find herself a Frenchman. Or another Italian. . .
Perhaps not.
But she could always, if all else failed, find herself a Scot.
A cranky, tightfisted, skirt-wearing hater of everything English.
Because even that would be better than the last name she’d written down on her short list.
Surely she’d only put him there so she could cross him off.
George Sinclair.
Or perhaps she’d written him down because he would be her last choice. . .he was at the bottom of the list.
Mrs. George Sinclair.
. . .That wasn’t good. She’d never done that before.
Elinor, Lady Ashmore.
. . .Wellington, we have a problem.
She blinked and blinked, staring at the paper and that title. She’d been Elinor, Lady Haywood, for eleven years. Through husband after husband, keeping her title.
She wasn’t searching for a new and better title but there was a certain pull to being George’s countess.
But then she laughed. Sebastian Sinclair, Earl of Ashmore, would live forever just so Elinor Rusbridge would never take that title.
She ripped off the bottom of the page, throwing Mr. George Sinclair and his Mrs. and his perhaps-one-day countess into the fire.
She watched the paper burn. Watched until it was just a pile of ash.
She turned back to her widowers and said to the empty room, “I’ve burned you off my list, Mr. Sinclair.”
Retribution raised his head to stare hopefully at her and she called him over to scratch his head lovingly.
“No, I wasn’t speaking to you. I was talking to an empty room.”
A cold, empty, boring, lifeless room.
“I won’t do it again.”
Retribution sighed like only a dog could and she petted him, his warm head heavy in her lap.
“London is squeezing in on us, isn’t it? This house is becoming too, too small.”
Her country house, the Earl of Ashmore would call it a cottage, was a four-day ride away but it tugged at her.
The dogs could run around, she could take long walks. And perhaps dispel this gloom that was beginning to weigh on her.
“We’ll go tomorrow. Out of the city for a fortnight and you can catch as many rabbits as you like.”
He wagged his tail at her, and at rabbits, and Elinor nodded.
A fortnight was all she could spend away from the Season, was all she could stand in the country. But it might do her some good, might be enough of a change so she could come back to town with a better plan than a Scotsman.
She rose, all the dogs stretching and following her out of the room, to tell the housekeeper they would be leaving tomorrow for the country.
The rest of the day would be panicked packing; the staff rushing about, no room quiet or empty or boring or lifeless.
The cold she couldn’t get rid of.
But she could fill those long hours that tempted her into talking to herself. Or to an imaginary Sinclair.
The long hours that tempted her into chasing down the flesh-and-blood Sinclair and throwing away her plans and her dreams for one night of warmth. . .
Perhaps a week. Or a month.
A year, if she was lucky.
But she wasn’t, and she knew no matter how warmly his love burned her, he would leave her.
They all did.
Sinclair stood opposite Elinor’s townhouse and chided himself. Just what was he doing here, bothering her, bothering himself?
This was a bad idea. But he’d come here to show her his new purchase, to see the fire light up her eyes. To see that smile slowly pull her lips up, to hear the laughter she couldn’t stop.
A voice at his shoulder said, “She is not at home.”
Sinclair looked the man up and down, and then remembered.
“The brother?”
Alan Rusbridge nodded his head and stuffed his hands into his pockets. “She’s run off to the country.”
Sinclair blinked and pointed to the house. “Lady Haywood?”
When her brother nodded again, Sinclair could only think to say, “Why?”
Why go to the country in the middle of the Season when you were hunting a husband?
Unless you’d found that husband and were gone to his country home. Perhaps to meet an ailing mother?
Perhaps to have an easier time sneaking around at night, to start that family she so desperately wanted.
Surely he would have heard if she’d attached herself to someone. Surely.
Rusbridge shrugged. “Why does any woman do anything? To make as much trouble for the men in her life as possible.”
Sinclair turned to face the man. “Are you in her life, Rusbridge? And why would her going to the country trouble you?”
Rusbridge turned to face Sinclair, the belligerent set to the man’s chin making Sinclair want to introduce his fist to it.
“Are you in her life, Sinclair?”
Yes. No.
Why did her going to the country trouble him so?
Sinclair’s greatcoat pocket wiggled and he stuck his fingers inside to tickle and to be playfully bit.
“I am not, and I rather thought you weren’t either. It is a mystery why two men not in Lady Haywood’s life are standing outside wishing they were in.”
“All this should have been mine.”
Sinclair looked at the house. “This?”
Rusbridge swung his arms wide. “Everything. This home, these servants. Her country estate.” He snarled, “Her jewels. Her freedom.”
Sinclair said mildly, “Her dogs?”
“Everything. Everything that was once mine, she stole. What was mine by right, by birth. Damn women, taking what wasn’t theirs. Sisters!”
“I don’t know anything about sisters. Now brothers, those I could do away with.”
Rusbridge sneered. “You are just like her. Taking what is your elder brother’s. Did your parents love you more? Did your mother cuddle you on her lap while pushing her firstborn away? Did your father pet and love you when he yelled and smacked around his son?”
Unhinged. The man was obviously unhinged. His breath bellowed and his fists clenched.
Sinclair shuffled a little distance away.
Rusbridge didn’t notice. “And here you are to take his title. To stop his wife from producing the rightful heir.”
Sinclair would have liked to ask just how one went about that but was afraid Alan Rusbridge would actually have an answer.
“Right. I’ll just leave you then to salivate after a house, shall I? I’ll be sure and let Lady Haywood know to watch for you.”
Sinclair hadn’t taken more than two steps before Rusbridge called after him.
“She will take everything from you. Everything, and leave you nothing. Including your life. You think her husbands are the first people to get too close and then die?” He laughed. “When she’s beneath you, making you forget about everything, remember that she won’t forget. Know that she’s calculating how much you’re worth, how much she can get out of you. And the best way to get rid of you.”
Sinclair’s own fists tightened at the ugly words from her brother but he kept on walking.
“Ask about her mother! Ask about my father!”
A rough hand fell on Sinclair’s shoulder, turning him forcibly. “And you can tell her I will have what is mine. What’s left of it, at least.”
Sinclair whipped out a furry puppy the size of his hand. The dog, already having learned this one trick, barked and yapped excitedly and with great furor.
Rusbridge hopped back, tripping and falling to the pavement. The fear on his face amusing, and pitiable, if Sinclair hadn’t remembered how Lady Haywood had favored her arm after talking with her brother. At the hard cold voice she used when talking of him.
At the ugly words he was shouting here in front of her house.
Sinclair said, “I know she’s not a Mastiff. But still. Gets the job done.”
He fed Anala a small meat treat and scratched beneath the pink bow tied intricately around her neck. A duty his valet had never dreamed he would be required to do, and yet Sinclair had heard the besotted man call the pup Mistress Anala.
And who could blame him.
Sinclair held his pup up to his face, letting her lick his cheek excitedly and saying in a high-pitched croon, “What a good girl you are. Yes, you are. You chased that bad man off.”
He put her back into his pocket, wondering how to make it more comfortable for the dog and how big one could realistically make it.
He left Rusbridge cursing on the dirty ground and turned away from the widow’s empty house. Thinking he would have to come back later and warn the staff that their mistress was not safe. Perhaps pay a boy to watch for her arrival and come warn her himself.
No wonder the woman had three Mastiffs. Because they were lonely, his arse.
And even though Sinclair was reevaluating just how bad his brother was compared to a few others, he said to his new pet, “Come, Anala. Let’s go introduce you to the earl.”
Elinor hated the country.
She hadn’t exactly forgotten, she simply hadn’t remembered the extent of it. But when the carriage pulled back up to her townhouse a fortnight later, the lights blazing welcoming, the pedestrians passing quickly in the street, she sighed with relief that she was home.
The dogs bounded from her carriage, they at least refreshed and revitalized from the rabbit hunts. And duck hunts. And pheasant hunts.
From rolling around in mud and tracking it everywhere.
The mud. Oh, the mud.
She greeted Jones with a tired smile and was ushered inside to the drawing room where the housekeeper waited with warm tea and sweet biscuits.
And she swore to herself that the next time she needed long walks she would go to the Regent’s Park. Surely there were rabbits there.
But she did feel less gloomy. And had given herself a good talking to. Not out loud.
Mrs. Potts asked if she would like a dinner made up and when Elinor shook her head, the woman hesitated.
Elinor sighed and drank her tea and said, “What has my brother been up to.”
“Well, yes. He was here, but it was that Mr. Sinclair. He was worried about you.”
The cup shook in Elinor’s hand and she set it down carefully.
The housekeeper continued. “He said he’d run into your brother one day outside and didn’t feel good about it, and he was worried about you coming home to find your brother here.” The woman rung her hands together. “He’s waiting for you down in the kitchen.”
Elinor blinked and opened her mouth. And then blinked and closed her mouth.
“Mr. Sinclair is downstairs in my kitchen?”
Mrs. Potts blushed. “I know it is irregular but he was so insistent. And he didn’t want to put us to no trouble. Never met a gentleman like him.”