There had been very little pain. Utterly content, she shook her head and curled into the curve of his body with her eyes closed as sleep hovered close. She was quite taken with the fact that she was now truly a woman. That she was possessed with a womanly power which made John moan. It opened up all sorts of fascinating avenues of exploration. “How often does one make love?”
With a deep chuckle, he dragged the covers up over them, tucking them around her shoulders. “As often as possible and as soon as your body recovers.”
“I’m quite all right, really, just a little sleepy.”
He leaned over, ran a gentle finger down her cheek, and pressed a feather-light kiss on her lips. “Sleep then, darling.”
“Mmm. I love you, John.”
Almost asleep, a sudden thought brought her awake. She propped her head up with her elbow. “We arrive at Linden Hall the day after tomorrow?”
“Yes.” He opened his heavy-lidded gray eyes, so sensual she drew breath.
“Do you have a good staff at Linden Hall?”
“I do.”
“I’m glad.” She laid her head on the pillow. Another quiet moment passed as she listened to his even breathing. They would always share a bed, no separate bedchambers for them. “Are any rooms in need of renovation?”
“I’m sure you’ll discover them. Sibella, will you go to sleep? We have a full day of travel ahead. We can discuss this in the carriage.”
“I’ve always wanted a bedchamber papered in cerise moiré. Do you think you could bear it?”
He shut his eyes. “I suspect I may have to.”
Her lips curved in a smile and suddenly sleep deserted her. This gorgeous man lay beside her and she wasn’t done touching him. She leaned over him and traced the bump on the bridge of his nose. “How did you get this?”
He raised dusky lashes to reveal a gleam in his eyes. “A disagreement.”
“Pooh. What sort of explanation is that? And the scar on your thigh?” She lifted the blankets.
He gave a gasp of exasperation and pulled her atop him. She lay there, skin-to-skin, looking at him in surprise. “What?” His erection nudged her belly, and she smiled into his eyes.
Epilogue
Linden Hall, York
Late spring, 1819
Sibella descended the staircase to the marble hall where John waited, a hand on the banister smiling up at her, his dark evening clothes and crisp cravat a perfect foil for his fair hair. Their recent stolen moments still warmed her as she smiled back at him.
“You are beautiful, my love,” he said, tucking her arm through his. “Shall we await the arrival of our guests?”
“I am assured everything is ready, but you did distract me from making a final inspection,” she scolded.
“You weren’t complaining at the time,” he said with a wicked smile.
Sibella raised her eyebrows. “You are far too good at distraction, my lord.” A smile tugged her lips as she picked up her emerald green silk skirts and crossed the marble floor to Rhodes who stood in his black butler’s garb casting a stern eye over the footmen and the tittering maids.
The first to arrive were John’s sisters. Sibella kissed Georgina’s cheek. “How radiant you seem. You are well?” The exquisite cream lace gown perfectly concealed the early stages of her pregnancy.
“I am, thank you. You should always wear that shade of green to highlight your eyes.”
“A little too much artifice, perhaps?” She curtsied to Broadstairs. “Your Grace.”
“I quite agree with my wife, Lady Sibella. You’re stunning in green,” he said with his gentle smile.
Sibella greeted John’s older sister, Eleanor dressed in lavender. Sibella was pleased to find she’d cast aside her mourning clothes.
“How do you find Devon?”
“Suitably quiet,” Eleanor said. “I miss of the hubbub of London at times, however.”
Sibella was tempted to play matchmaker, for a woman as lovely and interesting as Eleanor should not languish as a widow forever.
The rattle of carriage wheels sounded on the driveway, and a moment later, bright chatter flooded into the hall as Hetty and her husband, Guy, Baron Fortescue, entered.
“How good to see you both,” Sibella said, as John shook Guy’s hand. “Congratulations on the birth of your daughter. What did you call her?”
“Genevieve, after Guy’s sister.” Hetty said. “Genny for short. I look forward to your company when you have a quiet moment, Sibella,” she said as more guests came through the door. “There’s Lady Eleanor. I simply must speak to her. I wish to convey my condolences for her loss. I missed Lord Gordon’s funeral.”
Sibella smiled to herself. The conversation would turn to poetry, for they shared an interest.
She walked forward to greet a new guest. “Althea, how exquisite is that gown. And how it suits you.”
Althea Brookwood smiled and hurried to kiss her. “Thank you. Marriage agrees with you. What a sly pair you two are marrying in secret.”
“We decided to marry and saw no reason for delay.” Sibella had been aware that the ton believed her to be pregnant at the time of their marriage, but as time passed, the gossip died away.
“How very romantic.”
The diminutive blonde widow was dressed fetchingly in midnight blue. Would she ever seek love in another man’s arms? Sibella certainly hoped so.
John was laughing with a tall handsome gentleman. He brought the elegant Irishman, Lord Montsimon to Sibella’s side, where he bent over her hand. “Charmed, my lady. Would you grant me a dance tonight?”
“Please don’t flirt with my wife, Montsimon,” John said with a grin. “There are many beauties here tonight.”
Montsimon glanced at Althea who had excused herself to speak to Hetty. “Indeed.”
An hour later in the ballroom, dancers formed graceful patterns as they weaved across the dance floor. The music of the orchestra lilting, Sibella was content to watch the dancers as she fanned herself in the warmth from the two huge fireplaces at either end of the room. She was very pleased with her efforts. She gazed around the elegant room, the columns, the chandeliers, the scents of early spring flowers on tables mingling with the ladies’ perfume. Beyond the tall windows the moon shone down, veiling the manicured gardens in a silver net.
Ladies chatted on sofas while men clustered together discussing politics and no doubt, planning a visit to the stables on the morrow with a ride across the moors. The guest suites were in readiness, the menus to her satisfaction. This would rival one of her mother’s parties, and she hoped her parent would approve. As she moved through the crush, she smiled at her mother where she held court among a group of dowagers. She seemed content with her life, but you could never be sure with her mother.
Maria waved as she danced past in Harry’s arms. They’d left their baby son, Adrian, at Lamplugh Abbey with the besotted grandparents.
Chaloner and Lavinia swirled past laughing at something. How content they now seemed.
John came to find her. “You did promise me the waltz. I hope no other gentleman has claimed it?”
“As if I would waltz with anyone else,” she scolded.
He shook his head with a grin. “I need to keep an eye on Montsimon.”
“No you don’t. And anyway, he has his eye on another lady.”
“Much good it will do him.”
She gazed up at him with a loving smile. “The ball goes well, doesn’t it.”
“It’s perfect.” His smoky blue gaze always made her tingle to her toes. “As you are, my love.”
The End
The Viscount’s Widowed Lady
Dangerous Lords Book Three
By
Maggi Andersen
Prologue
London, Mayfair, Late November 1819
Lady Althea Brookwood stood beside her brother, Frederick Purkins and his wife, Elizabeth, as they watched Althea’s Mayfair townhouse emptied of its contents. Her belongings were to be
moved to a rented property in a less attractive part of Town.
“I must say my poor opinion of Brookwood has been justified,” Freddie said gloomily. “And Brookwood’s heir seems no better. Has he offered you the dower house?”
“No. But he did allow me to remain here until he sold his other property. But now he has need of it himself.” She saw no point in telling Freddie that Brookwood’s heir had taken a set against her and charged her rent. Freddie was a farmer. He didn’t understand the ways of the ton. It would only worry him.
“But will his lordship not help you further?” Lizzie asked, her eyes filling with tears.
Althea hugged her sister-in-law. “You two must not worry. I shall manage. I look forward to it.” Althea tried to make it sound as if she embarked on a new adventure. In a way it was true, to shed herself of any connection to Brookwood was a great relief.
“You must come and live with us,” Elizabeth stated.
Although Althea loved to visit their farm in Dorset and their brood of children, she would never consider living with them. The children would be pushed out of their bedroom to make way for her, and the small village would buzz with gossip. No. She had lived the life of a lady, despite the awful manner in which Brookwood had treated her, and she had no desire to return to the country.
“You are sweet to offer, Lizzie, and I greatly appreciate it. But I still own Owltree Cottage.”
“But for how long?” Freddie asked, his mouth turning down at the corners. “I’m not sure a woman should live alone in London. It’s a den of iniquity. The ton can behave very badly if Brookwood is any example.”
“Brookwood died two years ago, Freddie. I have managed.”
“Yes, but your finances are dwindling. And now you’ve lost your home. How will you manage?”
“I didn’t lose it,” she said with a smile. “Brookwood’s heir inherited the property. I’ve no need of such a grand house. I shall manage perfectly well on my stipend. Growing up a farmer’s daughter, I learned how to be frugal. And if I must, I’ll leave London and live fulltime at Owltree.” She frowned. “The cottage was bequeathed to me. It never belonged to Brookwood. They can’t take that. They’ll have to kill me first!”
“You might marry again,” Lizzie said hopefully. “You’re awfully pretty, Althea, and still young.”
The prospect turned Althea’s blood cold. “I don’t wish to, Lizzie. But if worst comes to worst, I’ll become a companion to Aunt Catherine.”
“Oh yes, that’s an excellent idea,” Freddie said with obvious relief. “You will live in comfort and be safe.”
“Aunt Catherine has invited me to stay for Christmas.” Althea had no intention of moving in permanently with her strong-minded aunt, but it served to stop her brother worrying about her.
She held out her arms. “Let us go and wait for the furniture to arrive. My servants will be there. I shall turn this new house into a home in no time.”
Chapter One
County Wicklow, Ireland, January 1820
Kieran Flynn, 4th Viscount Montsimon, reined in his horse and stared ahead at Greystones Manor. His father was dead, the malevolent force of his nature gone from the house. Perhaps now, a loving family would fill the empty rooms. He eased his stiff shoulders. Some other family, not his. Let the cursed Montsimon name die out with him.
In the depths of winter, heavy clouds hung low over the house, a blunted dark shape stark against the sky, like a blemish on the beautiful land it occupied.
With a sigh which was half exhaustion, Flynn nudged the flank of his bay. He rode up to the house and dismounted. Blackened stone glistened wet in the misty air, the mullioned windows blank eyes gazing inward to shadowy corridors and empty rooms.
A grizzled-headed groom hurried from the stables.
Flynn nodded. “Gaffney, isn’t it?”
“You be the young master, Lord Montsimon. I remember ye,” Gaffney said and led the horse away.
Flynn crossed the south lawn to the shallow set of stone steps leading to a pair of solid brass-studded doors. The family crest sat above it, gold and green, a knight’s helmet, a stag, and a boar. From the top step, he turned to view the meadows stretching away to the east, where cliffs descended to the sea. Despite the lack of a breeze to carry the salty spray, he tasted it on his tongue. Memories came uninvited of his boyhood, climbing those cliffs above the thrashing waves in search of birds’ eggs.
He had quit this place and his father as soon as he was old enough to make his way in England. Flynn had believed he’d turned his back on his Irish roots, but found they ran deep to his very marrow. Almost against his will, his pulse quickened at the sight of the fertile land. Now all this was his, every brown trout in the stream, every deer in the forest, and every square of stone rising above him.
Annoyed by his unforeseen emotion, he reminded himself that his future lay in England where he would return as soon as he settled matters, long overdue. He’d raked up enough blunt to have repairs done and would seek a good tenant.
The door flew open. A wizened male servant dressed all in black with a smudge of dirt on his cheek stood beaming at him. “Welcome home, milord.”
“Thank you.” Flynn didn’t know the fellow from Adam. Their butler had died of old age some years ago.
He stepped inside the oak-paneled great hall and caught his breath at the memory of it decked out with flowers for a ball when he was a lad. The buzz of excitement in the air that not even his father’s vicious temper failed to dispel. Flynn had watched from the stairs as his mother danced with Timothy Keneally, a ringlet of violets in her fair hair matching her gown. A month later, she was gone.
He returned swiftly to the present, faced with the grayed and dusty timbers, the odor of damp pervading the air. “What is your name? You weren’t here when I came last.”
“Quinn, my lord. Your father engaged me just a few months before he died.”
Flynn handed him his hat, gloves, and greatcoat. The small man was younger and sprier than he had first thought. “You might tell me what servants I have here.” Clammy and stiff from riding all the way from Dublin, he was in need of a hot bath if one might be had.
The man’s narrow face split into a goblin’s smile. “You might call me the general dogsbody. There’s O’Mainnin, who helps about the place, out chopping wood while the rain holds off he is. And Gaffney, you would have met at the stables. The cook is Mrs. Shannon. We have only one maid at present and that’s Maeve.”
“One maid?” Flynn paused in the act of unbuttoning his expensive riding coat lovingly stitched by a Bond Street tailor while envisioning the state of the bedchamber he was to sleep in.
“We weren’t sure when you would arrive, to be sure, milord,” Quinn said. “But I’ve set Maeve to work upstairs for ye. I’ve given the drawing room a good set to. There’s whisky and a fire’s been lit.”
“Most welcome.” Flynn smiled. “I suspect you of having the An Da Shealladh.”
Quinn nodded, his eyes serious. “I believe I have been gifted with second sight, milord.”
The oak staircase with its grotesque masks carved in the banister had given Flynn nightmares when he was small. Halfway up it, he paused. “Send the groom with a note for the estate manager, will you?” he called down. “I wish to go over the books with him in the morning. The gamekeeper, too.”
“It will be done, milord.”
His mother’s portrait hung on the wall in the drawing room. Flynn wondered why his father had placed it here where she might reproach him every day of his life. Perhaps to spite her and ban her from her place amongst their ancestors in the great hall.
The room was sadly depleted of furniture. The most valuable items had evidently been sold before his father died. He supposed the massive, heavily carved pieces that remained were unfashionable. Shabby damask covered the bank of windows, hiding a splendid vista of the sea. He crossed quickly and pulled them open, sending a cloud of dust mites to ride the air, only to find the view obscured b
y dirty panes and fading light. Disappointed and chilled to his bones, he went to stand closer to the inglenook stone fireplace and placed his booted foot on the fender. The fire was well ablaze, a welcome circle of light and warmth in an otherwise depressing room.
Quinn came in and piled more peat on the fire, which burned steadily with a dull glow. “Mrs. Shannon has one of her tasty stews on the stove. Goes down a treat with a mug of Guinness, if you don’t mind me sayin’, milord.”
“I’ll have that whisky now, Quinn.” Flynn sat in the shabby brown leather wing chair by the fire—his father’s. With a grimace, he ran his fingers over the holes in the arms caused by his father’s cigars. His father had probably been drunk more often than not and tormented by the past. It was surprising that the whole pile hadn’t gone up in smoke. He stretched his legs toward the warmth. Well, he knew coming home would be difficult.
The next morning, a messenger rode up to the door to deliver a missive.
Flynn read it over his coffee in the unappealing breakfast room, its only redeeming feature, the view through the window. He threw it down and stood. “I must return to England in a few days, Quinn.”
“Yes, milord?”
“King George has died.”
Quinn bowed his head. “Ah. So, England has a new king, milord.”
“The Prince of Wales is to be crowned King George IV,” Flynn said soberly, rubbing the back of his neck. He expected King George to make outlandish demands. And Flynn to be the likely recipient. He must not forget that one harsh word from the king could destroy his career and send him back to this lonely place filled with bitter memories.
*
London, February
Mrs. Maxwell’s ball, despite being held so early in the season, was crammed with guests who all appeared to be talking at once. Althea Brookwood sat with Aunt Catherine while the musicians enjoyed a break.
“Two years have passed since Brookwood died.” Her aunt compressed her lips.
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