Tempting Mr. Townsend (Dashing Widows)

by Anna Campbell

  "Brand could stay here," Carey chipped in.

  His uncle subjected him to the sardonic eyebrow. "And where the deuce will you be while Brandon's settling into the Beeches, my lad?"

  "You can't send the poor mite back to that nest of heathens," Mrs. Penn protested, looking unconvincingly piteous.

  "Poor mite?" Mr. Townsend said drily. "A few minutes ago, you called him an imp of Satan."

  "Can't I stay here?" Carey fixed burning dark eyes on his uncle. "Please?"

  Mr. Townsend's lips flattened in frustration. "There's nobody to supervise you."

  "You could get me a tutor."

  "Not good enough. This latest mess only confirms that you need a firm hand."

  "You've got a firm hand."

  "I live in London."

  "You could live here."

  "Aye," Mrs. Penny said. "The house needs a master. And you must be sick of traipsing around all those foreign places."

  "You think so?"

  "You've got a boy to raise. His father wouldn't want the lad unhappy."

  Mr. Townsend went ashen under his tan. It had been a telling blow—and the canny old woman knew it.

  Carey still hadn't given up. Fenella admired his persistence. It reminded her of his guardian. "Will you at least think about it, sir?"

  Mr. Townsend nodded shortly. "I'll think—but that doesn't mean you've swayed me."

  Carey's brilliant smile reminded Fenella of his uncle's charm when he forgot his sternness. "Capital, Uncle. And can Brand stay, too?"

  "Brandon's mother won't like that."

  Carey looked crestfallen, then cast Fenella a glance under his eyelashes. "Will you think about it, too?"

  "Please, Mamma," Brand said.

  "You can't saddle poor Mr. Townsend with the care of two unruly ruffians," she said helplessly. "Be reasonable, Brand."

  An uncharacteristically mulish look settled on her son's face. "I won't go back to school without Carey."

  "Brand…" she began in a warning tone.

  "Apologize to your mother," Mr. Townsend snapped. "And while you're at it, tell her you're sorry for dragging her all the way to Hampshire in the middle of a freezing night."

  Remorse filled Brand's face and he stepped forward. "I'm sorry, Mamma. I hope you'll forgive me."

  "I'll forgive you as long as you promise never to do it again."

  "I promise," Brandon said solemnly.

  Carey approached his uncle and awkwardly stuck out his hand. "Will you forgive me, too, sir? I regret causing so much trouble, but my intentions were good."

  When the two Townsends briefly shook hands, the tension drained from Carey's thin shoulders. For one resonant moment, the two stared at each other. Then the man tugged the boy into his arms.

  "Come here, you appalling brat. Of course you're forgiven. Although when I found out you'd taken off from school, I wished you to Hades."

  Fenella's eyes misted up at this awkward, heartfelt rapprochement as Carey gave a choked laugh and wriggled free. "I'll wager you did, Uncle." He turned to give Fenella a creditable bow. "Lady Deerham, I apologize to you, too. The scrape was totally my fault."

  Fenella cast Brand a mocking glance. "My son was perfectly capable of saying no. But as nothing too dire has happened, we'll let bygones be bygones."

  "Thank you, Mamma," Brand said with a quick smile.

  "Nicely done, my lads," the old lady said from the bed. Fenella knew her praise included Mr. Townsend.

  "We should leave you to rest," she said, noting Mrs. Penn's pallor.

  "It's been grand to see the youngsters. But…"

  "But they're a handful. I know." Fenella turned to the boys. "Collect your winnings and come downstairs."

  As the boys said goodbye to Mrs. Penn and rushed ahead through the door, she couldn't help smiling. Despite hints of future maturity, they were still such babies.

  "They're good bairns. I'm right glad you're not going to punish them," Mrs. Penn said, collapsing back with a rattling gasp. Fenella crossed to close the curtains before the old lady stopped her. "I'd rather see the sky, my lady."

  "Very well."

  "Dr. Brown will be here this afternoon." Mr. Townsend bent to kiss his nurse's lined cheek with a touching lack of self-consciousness.

  "He's an old fool," she grumbled. "Always prying and prodding."

  "He speaks right highly of you."

  Mrs. Penn gave a weary grunt of laughter. "Get away with you, lad, you and your nonsense. And make sure you show this bonny lady over the house. It's a fine place and if you impress her, she might decide to take you on."

  Mr. Townsend burst out laughing and kissed Mrs. Penn again as Fenella, furiously blushing, said, "Mr. Townsend and I only met last night. You misunderstand."

  Mrs. Penn's eyes fluttered shut, but a faint smile curved her mouth. "Forgive a doddery old woman. My mind's not what it used to be."

  Mr. Townsend took Fenella's arm and led her from the room, closing the door after him.

  "She's a troublemaker," Fenella said.

  He cast her an amused glance, and she marveled yet again how much more approachable he looked when he was laughing. "She is, at that."

  "Does she try to marry you off to every unattached female she sees in your company? That must wear out its welcome."

  He regarded her thoughtfully. "You know, this is the first time she's done that. You're special."

  Fenella's dismissive snort would have shocked her swains in London, all of whom were convinced of her fastidious nature. "It must be her illness."

  He raised that speaking eyebrow. "So you're brave enough to see through the house?"

  Fenella responded with a speaking look. "I dare you to show me. I'll struggle to resist the temptation to drag you before the nearest vicar."

  He gave a theatrical sigh. "You know the risks. On your own head be it."

  Only as they descended the stairs did she realize that Mr. Townsend hadn't scoffed at Mrs. Penn's matchmaking. She hadn't realized he was so tactful.

  Chapter Seven

  * * *

  After dinner, Anthony sipped his brandy and studied the lovely woman drinking tea on the other side of his drawing room. The lads had eaten with them, then retired with surprising docility which meant they were probably upstairs hatching mischief. Anthony couldn't get too exercised about the possibility when he had a bonny lass to look at, a blazing fire to sit beside, and a belly full of an excellent dinner.

  Like everything else at the Beeches, the room was shabby, but with the potential for magnificence. A room in need of a woman's touch, in fact.

  He wanted that woman to be Fenella Deerham.

  He'd built an extravagant fortune on following his instincts. In this case, his instincts verged on madness. Her family pedigree stretched back to Adam. All his money couldn't match her aristocratic refinement.

  And the highest barrier of all between them: she was still in love with her late husband.

  For years, Anthony had kept a mistress, a widow of mature years, cheerful temper, and intelligent conversation, in a small house in Kensington. Eighteen months ago, she'd sent him on his way kindly but firmly, and had since married a ship's captain. He thought of Flora fondly, but without regret.

  After Flora's departure, his bed had stayed empty. Too much else occupied his attention. His crushing burden of grief. His duty to Carey. A government clamoring for advice. Not to mention the demands of running a worldwide enterprise.

  Then he'd found himself in a gallant lady's company, racing through the night in search of two runaway rapscallions. And his life had turned in a dazzling new direction.

  Last night Fenella had cuddled up to him in the carriage's close confines. All day, tormenting little contacts had kept his blood at a constant simmer. If she was the sort of woman he was used to—earthy, practical, familiar with desire—he'd think she indicated interest.

  But she was a blasted lady. He had no experience with that exotic species.

  He couldn't im
agine her fancying a hulking brute like him. And after they'd established such harmony, he balked at destroying their rapport with an improper proposition.

  Dear Lord above, how he burned to make that proposition. There she sat, drinking tea and dreaming of sugarplums and daisies, or whatever the hell gentlewomen thought about. And all Anthony wanted was to drag her down onto the worn carpet and thrust inside her until she sobbed with release.

  He'd had one victory at least. She'd suggested returning to London this afternoon, although she'd been white with exhaustion. Shamelessly he'd used Brand's need to rest after all the excitement to convince her to remain. Now she was here, he didn't want her to leave.

  "Please, stop scowling at me, Mr. Townsend," she said lightly, freshening her tea. "Is the brandy not to your taste?"

  He smiled. He'd smiled more in her company than he had since William died. She had magic, this ethereal creature. "What the devil are we to do with these two rascals?"

  He kicked himself when his question brought a troubled light to her blue eyes. "I had no idea Brand didn't like school."

  "He didn't want to worry you."

  "But if I knew, I could do something about it."

  "Will you send him back?"

  "Not this term, at least. And that's assuming the school will overlook him running away. I'll have to bring him to London. But that's only a temporary solution."

  "You could leave him here. At least until the holidays."

  "You're not sending Carey back?"

  "No. Like you, I'd rather he was here and content. At least for the moment. He's had enough sadness in his young life."

  "I'm so glad."

  Her approval made him happier than he'd felt when he'd banked his first thousand pounds. "Penny's right. Now I've got the lad, things need to change. Perhaps I'll retire and become a lazy country squire who rides to hounds all day and drinks half the night."

  She released a short laugh. "Not you. You'll set to modernizing the house. Then the gardens. Then the estate. Your poor tenants won't get a moment's peace without you pounding on their doors, forcing new roofs and the latest plumbing upon them."

  Anthony responded with a huff of amusement. "I've got a powerful fear of boredom, Lady Deerham."

  "Are you seriously thinking of moving to the country?"

  "Aye. I can run my business from here if need be—London is in easy reach, as we proved last night. That's one of the reasons I bought this house—it's close to Southampton and Portsmouth, too. I just didn't imagine I'd move in until it was up to scratch."

  "It merely needs a little work."

  "More than a little. And I don't fancy living here with the builders in."

  After stewing over his nephew's welfare for months, it was satisfying to share his thoughts and plans with a sensible, warmhearted woman. The sort of conversation one would have with a wife.

  Fenella would make a damned fine wife. If some chap could persuade her to look beyond her first husband.

  She shrugged. "Everyone says you're as rich as Croesus. You could travel, or rent somewhere else, or go back to London."

  "And Carey?"

  "He could go with you." She paused. "Or stay with me, wherever Brand and I end up. Right now, I have no idea where that will be."

  "You're brave to the point of recklessness to offer to take him on."

  She made a dismissive murmur. "Brand would like it."

  "So would Carey, but I don't want to saddle you with my family problems. Carey's already caused a world of trouble. You must curse the name Townsend."

  An enigmatic smile hovered around her full, pink mouth. Her full, pink, kissable mouth. "I certainly cursed it when a great bear of a man ripped his way into my drawing room and howled abuse."

  Heat prickled his cheeks. "I haven't apologized adequately. My behavior was unforgivable."

  The smile deepened without really taking hold. "You've grown on me since then."

  "Like mold on cheese," he said gloomily, setting his empty glass on the spindly table at his elbow.

  She laughed, as he'd intended. "More like ivy on a wall."

  It was his turn to laugh. "So will you let Brand stay here until you decide his future?"

  She frowned. "I'm…I'm not sure that's a good idea."

  He jerked as if she'd struck him. She'd have hurt him less if she had. He should have expected this—after all, hadn't the differences between them been as plain as a bloody pikestaff from the start? Even so, his voice was humiliatingly rough when he spoke. "I'm sorry, my lady. I presumed where I had no right."

  Astonishment widened her eyes. "What on earth are you talking about?"

  "There's no need to put your objections into words."

  "There jolly well is. What do you think I mean?"

  The moment he began his awkward explanation, he realized he'd jumped to unwarranted conclusions. His uncharacteristic sensitivity was another sign of how important she was becoming. "Carey is a working man's son, whereas Brandon's blood is bluer than your bonny eyes."

  He'd glimpsed her anger before. Now it blazed like fire, fixing him in his chair as she rose, a tiny, gorgeous bundle of blistering fury. "I resent that. Carey is a fine boy, and I'm overjoyed Brandon has found a friend who is loyal, true and brave. Carey risked a lot to see Mrs. Penn, perhaps for the last time. Yet still he did it. If that's an example of a working man's son, the country needs more of them." Her tone turned freezing. "I have my doubts about Carey's uncle, however."

  Anthony stood up and loomed over her. "Most women in your position would—"

  "I'm not most women," she said curtly, cutting him off as nobody these days dared. And bugger him if he didn't like it. "How dare you say I'm too blinded by privilege to note a man's genuine worth? And I'm not talking about how much money you've got stashed away in Child's Bank, Mr. Townsend."

  He caught her arms before he remembered he had no right to touch her. "Then what the hell did you mean when you said Brandon shouldn't stay?"

  She stared up at him, eyes blue as the sky. This time, it was her turn to blush. "Don't make me explain."

  His grip tightened. "If you approve of Brandon and Carey's friendship, why shouldn't the lads stay here? I'll keep an eye on them. For God's sake, if you're unsure of my guardianship, you could stay, too. I'd certainly like that."

  With a muffled sound of frustration, she pulled free. "So would I. Can't you see that's the problem?"

  Guilt stabbed him. He'd felt bad enough when he thought she scorned his humble background. This was worse. He straightened. "You're afraid I mean to act dishonorably. You have my word, Lady Deerham. You're safe under my roof."

  She exhaled with impatience. "Oh, how can a clever man be so stupid?"

  "If I've made you feel uncomfortable, I can only apologize—again. I won’t bedevil you with my attentions."

  She made a nervous gesture. "I don't fear that. I'm not…averse to your attentions—and there lies my dilemma."

  His mouth gaped in shock as she flushed with embarrassment. Her slender body vibrated with tension—or was it excitement?

  "What…what did you say?" he finally summoned voice to ask, while his busy mind wrestled to make sense of her astonishing confession.

  Because the obvious meaning couldn't be true in any universe Anthony Townsend inhabited.

  She closed her eyes and sucked in an audible breath. "I'm not saying it again."

  He spoke very clearly to avoid further misunderstandings. If he got this wrong, the consequences would be disastrous. "You're giving me to understand that…that you wouldn't object to a kiss or two?"

  She stared at the floor and her hands twined over each other in a dance of uncertainty. "It's impossible."

  "Why?"

  "Why?" Her eyes flashed up. "I'm a virtuous woman. And the scandal will be bad enough already, with me taking off into the night and staying unchaperoned in your house."

  He smiled slowly. "We may as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb."

  She back
ed away. "You don't understand."

  Actually he did. Finally. "You haven't had a lover since Sir Henry died, have you?"

  "Of course not," she said hotly.

  Vast tenderness flooded him, sweeping away hesitation. He'd wanted Fenella Deerham from the first. Discovering that she wanted him, too, emboldened him to meet all opposition head on. Even from a dead man.

  "Fenella," he said gently, "you've been on your own for five years."

  Distress turned her eyes glassy. He didn't underestimate the obstacles between them—the prospect of desiring someone new threatened to tear her apart. Let alone going on to do anything about it. "I love Henry."

  "That's well and good. But you're a vibrant, attractive woman and, forgive my bluntness, you're here and he, God rest his soul, isn't."

  "So I should leap into the bed of the first reprobate who shows an interest?" she asked bitterly.

  Anthony couldn't help smiling. "I very much doubt I'm the first man in five years who's expressed his admiration." He inspected her thoughtfully. "But that's not the real problem, is it? The real problem is that I'm the first man who has aroused your interest in return."

  "That's…that's why I think we should try and avoid one another."

  He commended her courage—and honesty. His laugh was wry. "That will be difficult if those two hellions continue to be best friends."

  "We could try." Desperation edged her soft voice.

  When he caught her trembling hand, the contact of skin on skin made her start as if he'd burned her. "Or we could see where this takes us."

  She made a halfhearted attempt to pull away. "You mistake me. I don't want a lover."

  "Why?"

  She stared at him in helpless confusion. "I have a son to consider."

  He smiled faintly and brought her hand to his lips. She gave another of those starts. "You're a woman with needs and feelings. Aren't you lonely, Fenella? Don't you miss a man's kisses, the touch of his hand, a warm body to cling to in the night?"