To Woo a Wicked Widow by Jaxon, Jenna (6)

Chapter 6

 

Pacing the confines of his study, Nash read Lord Grafton’s letter once more, grinding his teeth as irritation built with every word.

He tossed it on his desk and picked up the small, elegant cream-colored card.

The invitation had arrived only two days ago, after languishing at his London town house, where it had been sent over a month ago. If he were to go through with this charade, the house party offered a perfect opportunity to woo his wicked widow.

Lady Cavendish. The woman rose before his eyes: her yellow gown showing off the swell of her bosom, her smooth white arms, and her long regal neck. The sweet, warm bundle she made pressed against his chest after her graceless fall. If only the memory could stop there. But then she was snatched from him, absconded with that insolent rakehell. Nash closed his eyes against that last sight of her, hair mussed, lips swollen but smiling, hand in hand with the blackguard. The image exploded, leaving his body tense, his mind cold.

Damnation. He would rather walk through a sea of crushed glass rather than pay a call on that wanton woman, much less attend her party, but he had given his word to the earl. The only thing that made any such visit even slightly palatable was the thought of his bill, now languishing in the House of Lords.

Nash sighed and laid the invitation on his desk. He consulted the calendar. Had the woman arrived in Kent? He pulled the bell, summoning the butler.

“Acres, have you heard anything about Lyttlefield Park being occupied?”

“Yes, my lord. Mrs. Lockhart met the new cook from the Park yesterday at the market.”

“Ah.” So the widow was in residence. “Did Mrs. Lockhart mention anything about our new neighbor?”

“No, my lord. Only that she had advised her cook not to buy chickens from Harnett’s.”

“Hmmm.” Tomorrow was the eighth. “Thank you, Acres. That will be all.”

The clock on the mantel struck three as the butler closed the door. Half the afternoon gone and he still had to ride out to see to that tenant issue near Pliny Woods. He’d leave the decision about Lady Cavendish’s party until tomorrow. He’d put that meeting off until the Second Coming if he could.

Nash quit the study and headed to his suite. He’d change into riding clothes and, with luck, make it out to the Woods and back by dark. Thayer entered his dressing room, polished Wellingtons in one hand, brown tweed coat in the other. Nash nodded and gave himself over to the man’s ministrations. It would be a long afternoon but eminently more pleasurable than one spent wooing Lady Cavendish.

* * *

Compelled to inspect each room one last time, Charlotte strode down the first-floor corridor, stopping at each doorway to assure herself everything stood in readiness for her guests.

It had been a hectic seven weeks of whirlwind activity, but she had managed to complete the move well before Edgar’s birthday. She hoped he enjoyed himself however he had celebrated his majority and heartily wished never to see the wretch again.

She popped into the morning room to straighten a red rose in a vase of flowers. Perfect.

Nervous tingles shot down her arms and gave way to flutterings in her stomach. Only a few more hours and the gentlemen should be here. But would Lord Wrotham? She’d had no reply from the earl, which boded ill for her plan to become better acquainted with him. Even in the midst of the move, this house party had always been in the forefront of her mind.

Their meeting at Almack’s had occurred almost two months ago, yet she still vividly recalled the feel of his hard chest, his arms around her body.

If only Alan Garret had not intervened. Then the rogue had had the gall to call on her the next day, a mercifully brief interlude owing to an unexpected and unsatisfactory visit from her father. He had put in an appearance after years of absence from her life to upbraid her for her actions the night before. Charlotte had dismissed his concerns and him rather abruptly.

Of course his concerns were all for himself and his reputation—the Fownhope reputation rather—though why this was so she had never been able to fathom. She’d never heard of a man so proud of his name, nor so determined to rule his family with an iron fist to keep it spotless. When she’d eloped with her groom, she’d opened the possibility of public scandal to the family. His retaliation had been to silence her using Sir Archibald.

Sometimes, however, in the past six years, she hadn’t known whom to pity more, herself or her mother. Mama had been married to the tyrant for almost thirty years. At his insistence, she had relinquished control of all the children to him while they were growing up. Rather like Patient Griselda from the Canterbury Tales. Charlotte had seen her mother rarely, though she’d been fond of her sisters growing up. That had ended with her attempted escape with Edward. Father hadn’t wanted them contaminated by her unhinged behavior, so they had been forbidden to write her as well, even after Agnes had married and moved to Durham. Old chains still bound.

But Father couldn’t control her life any more, thank goodness.

After his visit, she had focused her attention on supervising the packing and moving and therefore been unable to attend the few remaining social functions of the Season nor received any callers.

Including Edgar, who she chose to avoid whenever possible.

Fortunately, her stepson had elected to lodge with his uncle in St. James’s rather than live under the same roof as her. Unfortunately, for a brief period, he had come every day to oversee her progress. She could not forbid him the house but made every effort to keep to her rooms or manage to be out whenever she thought he might show up. With the thankfulness of a pardoned prisoner, she had learned in mid-July he had repaired to Brighton. His absence lightened her burden considerably, and she had continued her move as planned but with brighter spirits.

Now the day had arrived; it remained only for the guests to appear. After assuring herself the morning room met her standards, she continued on to the drawing room, where Fisk would bring her company. She stepped through the doorway and stopped, her heart giving a little leap. A guest had already arrived.

He stood at the window, looking out at the front lawn, his broad back encased in an excellent blue superfine. From this vantage point Charlotte did not recognize him, although she had a passing acquaintance with most of the gentlemen invited. The man hadn’t heard her enter, so she took the opportunity to study him, puzzling over who he could be.

Georgie had shown her a portrait of Lord Brack, who had blond hair; this gentleman was dark. Lathbury and George Abernathy had sent regrets. Lord Sinclair, who she knew, had accepted in Abernathy’s place. Lord Fernley had asked to bring his cousin, Henry Marsh, whom she did not know, but at that point Charlotte, desperate to keep her numbers even, had agreed. This wasn’t Fernley—who had a shock of red hair—but his cousin might have come separately. Gathering her courage and smiling her most gracious hostess smile, Charlotte said, “Good evening.”

The man spun toward her, his expression wooden, his mouth pinched. “Good evening, Lady Cavendish.” His voice, though stern, fell pleasantly on her ear.

A memory tugged at the edges of her mind. Something about his intense blue eyes . . . “Lord Wrotham.” Charlotte’s smile widened as she curtsied. He had come after all. Her heart gave an odd little beat.

He nodded and his mouth pinched tighter. “We have been formally introduced, albeit briefly.” Something in his eyes flared. “I received a letter from your father, asking me to call on you.”

“My father?” Strange news indeed. Other than that brief, curious visit in June, she had not seen him at all in six years. Her smile slipped. “Why would my father do that? I thought you had come in response to my invitation.”

She scowled, at once wary. Any time her father tried to involve himself in her welfare, she ended up the worse for it. If the earl had come from her father, she’d have nothing else to do with him.

* * *

The transformation of her face from lovely to outraged took all of two seconds. Damn, if she had such animosity toward her father, he’d better find a way to explain the man’s interest and do it quickly. “I beg your pardon, my lady. What I mean is, I received word from the earl that he wished me to see about your property. If you do not know, we have a band of robbers in the area. Neither your father nor I would wish to see you harmed.” Well, that was true as far as it went.

Her eyes flashed green fire. “I see. Well, thank you, Lord Wrotham. You may report to my father that I am perfectly safe here on my estate.”

“I certainly hope so, my lady, for the threat is real.” He stared sternly at her, waiting for her to break her gaze first.

She raised her chin and continued to glare at him.

Damnation. When the earl had said she was stubborn, he’d meant it. “Because I bear an action to discharge for the earl, does that mean I am not welcome at your house party?”

“That depends on how involved with the earl you are, my lord.” Lady Cavendish stepped backward, her cool stare chilling his innards.

Not a good sign.

“I wish for no contact with my father whatsoever, my lord.” Her eyes bore straight into him, as if searching out his secrets.

“I believe he said he would not be in the county until the hunting season, so you need have no fear that he’ll come knocking on your door in the near future.” Nash forced a pleasant smile and tone. Grafton hadn’t mentioned her animosity toward him, curse the man. One more hurdle to overcome.

“How do you know him, if I may ask?” Her eyes narrowed, a calculating gleam flaring there.

“The Lords, for the most part. Although—” Nash paused. Redemption in her eyes lay close at hand if he dared take it. Well, faint heart never won fair lady. “I believe we met originally six years ago.”

She cocked her head, her brow still puckered in a frown.

“At the tollbooth in Whetstone.”

It took a moment for the words to sink in. Her head straightened and her brows rose to an impossible height on her forehead as her eyes widened alarmingly, the green dots swimming in a sea of white. Blood drained from her face, leaving it as white as uncooked pastry and she staggered toward him. She grasped his arm, fingers digging into him with a death grip.

“You?” The word came out a croaked whisper.

“Yes, my lady.” Damn, he didn’t want her to faint. “Here, you must sit.” He slid his arm around her shoulders and sat her gently on the chaise. “I wondered if you had recognized me before, but I suppose not.” The warmth of her against him felt amazingly familiar and disconcertingly pleasant.

She shook her head, but her gaze searched his face. “It was dark and you had a hat pulled over your eyes.”

“I was a naval officer at the time. A mere lieutenant does not want his commander informed of his more unsavory activities. A discreet shadow over the face works wonders.” Nash removed his arm, suddenly aware of the impropriety. The loss of contact left him unaccountably sad, although she still clutched his arm.

“Your voice.” She sat straighter and leaned toward him. “It sounded familiar at the ball, but I didn’t quite recall. . .” Her hand clamped down on him. “Oh, God. What happened to him? What happened to Edward? Please, for pity’s sake, you must tell me.” Then she burst into tears.

Nash fumbled for his handkerchief and thrust it into her hand, then returned his arm to her shoulders. Dash it all, he hadn’t meant to upset her so. “Hush, my lady. It’s all right. He is fine; at least he was when last I heard from him.”

Her sobs intensified. “Thank . . . you,” she hitched out at last. “I lived in . . . fear this last six years that my father had followed you and managed to kill him anyway.”

Her body shook with weeping and he tightened his hold.

“I promise you, I believe he is well and happy.” He settled her more comfortably against his chest, her warmth seeping through his jacket. Touching his heart. “I would have kept him with me, as servant to my captain, although he was a bit old for it. I thought it best he stay away from London and your father. Unfortunately, Thrush proved an appallingly bad sailor.”

Her crying had ceased and she gazed up at him, drinking in every word.

“To this day, I cannot describe the shades of green he turned when we made a short run into the Channel.”

She smiled at that and charmed him all over again. “Then where did he go?”

“I sent him to Devonport, near Stoke in Devon. My mother’s family is there and he became head groom at her brother’s stable.”

A light shone in her eyes, although she tensed as if expecting a blow. “Did he marry?”

“Yes. With three sons now, I believe.”

She raised her chin and swallowed, then leaned away. “I am glad he found the happiness he deserved.” Her face took on a fierceness found in mother animals defending their young. “He was the best man I ever met. Kind, gentle, loving. What did it matter that he was a groom?”

“Nothing at all, my lady.” Nash could imagine the insults she had endured regarding her affection for a stable servant. Her defense of the man, even now, spoke volumes to him. Had he misjudged her at the ball and fete? “I knew him but briefly, but I saw in him all you claim. I am very happy to have been of service to him. To you both.”

She bit her lip and nodded, her gaze now on the floor. “I cannot thank you enough, Lord Wrotham, for your kindness that night. Many would simply have paid the toll and been on their way.”

“But they are the ones with no taste for adventure, I’ll wager.” That particular adventure continued still, with surprises all along the way.

The clock on the mantel chimed three and Nash reluctantly rose. “I should be going, my lady. I have discharged my duty to your father, although if I can render you any service regarding these plaguey robbers, please send to me at once. At times they seem more a nuisance than a danger, although I do not like that they have lingered here in Kent so long.”

She turned those sea-green eyes on him and he caught his breath.

“Will you not stay for the house party, Lord Wrotham? There is ample room here at Lyttlefield Park and I would consider it an honor to have you as my special guest.” She grasped his hands and heat danced along the tops of his forearms. “I can never repay you for the kindness you did for Edward. But please allow me to offer some entertainment to you this weekend. I am sure you would like a rest before returning to London.”

Nash couldn’t repress a chuckle. “Not quite so far, I’m afraid. Your invitation followed me from Town to Wrotham Hall, scarcely a mile down the road from your estate.”

“Oh, dear, yes, of course.” She released his hands and her cheeks pinkened prettily. “The village is Wrotham. Why did I not realize it was you?”

“I am sure you had many other things on your mind, my lady, than my name.” He missed the warmth of her hands. “And I was situated in London when we met in June.” Nash recalled that evening and some of his lightness dimmed. “I understand you are widowed?” There must be a story there. Why marry if she had been in love with another man?

“Yes. My husband died just after Waterloo.”

“My condolences.”

“Thank you.” She nodded curtly, although her countenance did not seem grieved.

“Was Almack’s your first venture into society after your mourning?”

“Yes.” Her hands tightened in her lap. “My cousin and I thought it fitting to emerge from mourning at the ball to commemorate the anniversary of that dreadful battle.” She sent him a fleeting smile, then dropped her gaze back to her lap.

“I was sorry not to have had the benefit of your company longer that night, Lady Cavendish. I had hoped to partner you for one of the dances.” Nash waited, keen for her response.

“Oh, Lord Wrotham.” She clasped his hand once more, and Nash was hard put to stand still. “I am truly sorry for that inexcusable breach. I assure you I had given Mr. Garrett no cause to believe I had promised him that dance.” She hung on to his hand as though it were a lifeline. “I would never have accepted you if I had. Please, I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me, especially as we are to be neighbors.”

He raised her hand and kissed it, the soft, rose-scented skin intoxicating. “Consider it forgiven and forgotten, my lady. I will therefore live in hope of another opportunity to claim you for a dance.”

She nodded, another brilliant smile lighting her face. “I will look forward to it, my lord.”

As would he.

“Look forward to what, my dear?” Lady John Tarkington’s voice startled them both. Nash jumped back and Lady Cavendish rose to greet her cousin.

“Jane! May I present the Earl of Wrotham?” Her eyes sparkled, darting her gaze from him to her cousin.

Overly excited for a mere introduction. Had his confession made such an impression on her?

“I have just discovered his lordship is our neighbor.”

“Indeed? His lordship and I met at Almack’s in June, my dear. How do you do, my lord? I am so glad you have turned up after all. Dear Charlotte was quite in a dither that she had not heard from you. It is excellent news that we have you close to hand if we ever require assistance.”

“Jane!” Lady Cavendish gasped and blushed for a third time. The lovely color in her cheeks was even more becoming, although he feared she might overheat at any moment.

“I was just telling Lady Cavendish I hoped for another chance to dance with her.”

“Splendid, Wrotham. You shall get your chance at the party this weekend.”

“Indeed I had hoped so.”

“So you will attend, Lord Wrotham?” Lady Cavendish’s face glowed with happiness.

How could he deny that face? “It will be my pleasure, my lady. Although I beg to be allowed to reside at home, for tonight at least. I have several matters that must be seen to first thing tomorrow.”

“It will be as you wish, my lord.” Lady Cavendish took his arm, steering him toward the entrance hall. “I enjoy keeping country hours, therefore dinner is at six.”

“Lady Stephen will be in directly,” Lady John called after them. “She insisted on repairing herself before her entrance.” She peered around. “Is she the first to arrive other than Wrotham?”

“Yes.” Lady Cavendish leaned toward him, conspiratorially. “We are celebrating our move to the country, you see.”

“So let the celebration begin. Oh!” Another young woman, a trifle older than Lady Cavendish, had flounced into the room and stopped dead, obviously not expecting his presence.

Nash bowed. “Indeed, my lady, a joyous sentiment that all can agree with.”

Lady Cavendish dropped his arm and reverted to the role of staid hostess. “Lady Stephen Tarkington, may I present the Earl of Wrotham? The earl is my neighbor, Lady Stephen. Lord Wrotham, Lady Stephen is my cousin’s sister-in-law.”

The lady curtsied as he bowed and remained standing. There was no telling how many more women might come bounding into the room.

“If I am to return in good time, I fear I must say au revoir for the moment.” Odd, but he suddenly felt reluctant to leave. Lady Cavendish had surely beguiled him this afternoon. Perhaps he had misjudged her at Almack’s. Who was to say Garrett hadn’t dragged her off against her will?

“Until then, my lord. We will look forward to it.” Her generous smile sent a warm thrill through him.

“As will I, my lady.” Nash bowed again and left, relieved, excited, and puzzled at the turn of events. Such an intriguing woman. Dinner tonight should prove enlightening indeed.