She batted her eyelashes at the young men, touching her fan to her lips and making them blush.
She wasn’t set on any one man, yet.
A certain kind of man, certainly.
George St. Clair would have fit the bill if he wasn’t so. . .George St. Clair.
And you could call Elinor Rusbridge any kind of woman you liked but she was a realist. George St. Clair would never fall for her or her plan. He would be work for an uncertain reward.
His tanned friend there, fresh from India, was a possibility. He wanted some fun. The kind of fun Elinor had never given to any man she hadn’t been married to before, though she’d certainly been offered it.
She’d been married five times, and she knew the easiest way to get to that state was to make a man dizzy with desire. And not let him get undizzy until after the wedding.
Husband number two had been flabbergasted that a widow could be as tight-legged as a blushing virgin. Had, really, lost his mind in his pursuit of her.
A merchant, his money made from
trade
, his desire for a wife of
title
, a woman of lineage even if it was only a step up from his, the lovely man had given her everything he’d owned.
She’d made his reward well worth the wait. And they’d been happy for that one year.
Husband number two had also been honored with a full year of mourning. He’d choked on a soup bone and left her his fortune, after all.
After his death and her subsequent inheritance, she’d had the pick of the
ton
.
It was a lesson Elinor had learned well. It wasn’t a title that granted respect, it was
money
.
She supposed she could have stopped with the husbands after number two. It was number three that had turned her into a caricature for the society columns.
But she’d wanted more.
She always wanted more.
This husband, this time, required a different plan than a pretty face and knowledgeable eyes and tight legs. More than a beautiful woman whipping a man into a frenzy. It would require skill and timing. And luck.
She was not entirely certain she could pull it off, and the uncertainty of it was making her extremely picky.
A cup of punch was suddenly thrust at her, a hand cupped her elbow.
“Looking for me?”
She turned, a smile on her lips and steel in her voice. “I wasn’t.”
Golden blond hair a shade less lustrous than her own and blue eyes a smidgen less sparkly looked back at her.
“Father is turning in his grave at the spectacle you’re making.”
“I doubt it.”
“
Subtlety, Elinor. Subtlety,
” he said, and her brother sounded so much like their father that Elinor nearly shuddered.
He kept his hand on her arm, tight enough to hurt. “If you’re not looking for me, who are you looking for?”
“Who do you think
the widow
is looking for? Why are
you
here?”
“I was invited. As a special guest.”
“That seems unlikely.”
He waved behind her and when Elinor turned, there was the hostess frowning at them.
“You should go reassure her that your attentions aren’t straying, brother dear.”
“Oh, she knows about you. She has her own family ghosts; she knows about embarrassing relations.”
Elinor didn’t even feel the dig. “And her husband? He doesn’t care about special guests?”
Her brother put a fist on one cocked hip and said in a sing-song voice, “Not this special guest.
This
special guest is helping her redo her wardrobe to outshine Lady Westin.
This
special guest has no interest in the
boudoir
except what pattern the wallpaper is.”
Her brother was very good at choosing what
kind
of special friend would most suit his purposes and Elinor didn’t doubt he would keep himself out of the lady’s bed.
She said, “And how much his commission is when he gets her to replace it.”
Alan squeezed her arm tighter, trying to get her to flinch, to drop the cup.
“You’ve chosen your path, my lovely sister. I’ve chosen mine.” His eyes flowed up her hair and he said, “Not all of us have such beauty to sell to the highest bidder.”
She quoted her father, even if the words left a bad taste in her mouth. “
Beauty and brains. The deadliest combination.
”
Alan’s face tightened. “Never forget, Elinor, which of us got the lion’s share of brains.”
The rage and jealousy that flowed from her brother was old, a wound that could never heal. A wound her father had picked at and spit on until there was no love to lose between the siblings.
It didn’t help that poor husband number three had come between them. Had chosen her over her brother.
The Italian Stallion. Marcus. And Elinor still mourned him, her first friend, in her heart.
He’d been beautiful. Tall and manly and fashionable. Everything a gentleman should be.
And everything a gentleman really was.
A completely different man when he was in the comfort of his own home than he was out in society.
Elinor had fallen for it, all of it, and it was only her excellent solicitors who’d kept her from losing her hard-earned money to her brother and his lover.
Their year of marriage had consisted of one shock and lie discovered after another. One year of scheming and fighting, and then gradually clinging to each other in the storm of her brother’s rage and hate and jealousy.
Husband number three had been the only man who’d seen inside her, who’d known who and what she really was. The only man who’d snuck into her heart, and she into his.
And then, a fall from his horse, a broken neck, and
the widow
had been born.
She’d mourned him in public for only six months and she’d tightened in the waist of all her dresses, fashion be damned, to prove there was no posthumous child. She’d used those extra six months to choose more wisely. To be more sure of her next husband.
Elinor patted her brother’s cheek with her free hand. “You got the lion’s share of something, my loving brother.”
His hand jerked around her arm, the feeling in her fingertips getting fainter the longer he held on and she smiled wider at him. Proving just who was getting to whom. Hoping she could prove it before her hand went all the way numb.
George Sinclair sidled up to them, then stopped suddenly when he saw Alan. He looked between them, then down at the hand still gripping her elbow and the cup of punch in her hand.
He looked down at the two cups in his hands and then back up into her eyes. “Oh. I thought you wanted punch. Isn’t that what you said?”
He sounded simple and lost, and Elinor smiled at him wide enough to make him blink and really lose the use of his faculties.
“Here he is! And he’s brought me punch, how sweet. Toddle back to our hostess, brother, before she finds someone else with impeccable fashion sense.”
Elinor smiled brightly at Mr. Sinclair, forcing herself to hold on to the cup until her brother was gone and out of sight. Pins and needles raced down her fingers as the blood came rushing back and she switched hands quickly before she dropped the confounded punch.
George Sinclair watched her and took a sip from one of his cups. He made a face, then said, “Brother?”
Elinor took a cautious sip, turning it into a healthy gulp when it tasted just fine to her.
“You can pick your husband, you can pick your dog. You can’t pick your brother.”
He thought about that for a long moment. “Yes. I have my own brother. They should be outlawed.”
She snorted, a very unladylike and punch-filled sound that turned into a short coughing fit.
Mr. Sinclair watched her, still sip-sip-sipping, and when her coughs subsided said, “I don’t have a dog, though.”
She cleared the remaining cough from her throat. “I have three. Mastiffs.”
“Mastiffs! In London?!”
Everyone within a ten-foot radius turned at his shout and when Elinor had recovered from her involuntary jump, she started laughing at the red tinge to his face and sheepish look.
He muttered, “It’s much louder in India. I haven’t yet acclimatized myself to the quiet.”
Elinor chuckled, listening to the loud laughter of the crowded room and wondered just how loud India could be. She sipped her punch, forgetting her brother and her arm and thinking it was too bad about George Sinclair.
He was. . .intriguing.
An intriguing husband would certainly be different than her normal fare.
Except she’d met his brother. And she agreed, he should definitely be outlawed.
And there was his friend St. Clair who would keep a calm head under pressure.
They could both foil her plan. She needed someone more certain.
She turned her head away from George Sinclair and scanned the crowd.
He drew her attention back with a somewhat quieter, “How do you keep three Mastiffs happy in London? I was thinking of a Pomeranian. Keep him in the pocket of my greatcoat.”
Elinor tried not to smile at the image. Tried to give him the cold shoulder, chase him off, but he leaned in and whispered, “And then when my brother gets too close, let the dog loose.
Yap yap yap yap
.”
He laughed and Elinor laughed with him. “I would love to see you do that to the Earl of Ashmore.”
“I see you’ve met him.”
Elinor sternly insisted to herself to stop laughing. “I have. Are you quite sure you’re related?”
He sighed, heartfelt. “I would give anything to be proved I am not. Alas.”
He tipped his cup up, finishing it and starting in on the next one, and she tried again to look away. To stop wasting time with him.
But she said, “My brother wouldn’t be scared off by the yapping of a spoiled Pomeranian. I assure you it is quite as funny when you open the door and let loose three Mastiffs.”
She snickered at the memory. Mr. Sinclair didn’t join her, and there was a little less laughter in his eyes when he looked at her. He looked down at the arm she was still favoring.
“Brothers. Should be outlawed.”
She turned her head away at the tone in his voice. At the outrage and understanding.
She caught the gaze of George St. Clair, off in a corner watching them. She stared unblinking at him, and he her, until finally she nodded imperceptibly.
George St. Clair had already lost one friend to the widow. Elinor knew he wouldn’t let her have another.
No matter how intriguing he was. No matter that she
hadn’t
been the cause of husband number four’s death.
Hadn’t been the cause of any of their deaths.
But the rumors circulated, and the whispers were too delicious to be sullied with the truth.
That Elinor Rusbridge was simply supremely unlucky.
One could say it was her husbands who had been extremely unlucky, but she liked to think that all of them had had the best year of their life before their untimely deaths.
Husband number four, and the reason for George St. Clair’s supreme dislike, had been a quiet, kind man.
No one had thought she’d been serious about him, including the poor man himself.
But Elinor hadn’t wanted anymore drama.
She’d wanted quiet. Peace. Children running under foot and a husband who was easy to please.
They’d settled in the country and Elinor had resolved to herself to be the perfect country wife. Not too adventurous in bed, just solicitous enough out of it.
Her staid, conscientious husband had taken it upon himself to visit a sick neighbor in the rain and had left this world courtesy of putrid fever.
Elinor had decided she was none too fond of the country. Her mourning had lasted two months.
Mr. Sinclair looked to where her attention had gone to.
“Friends. Should be outlawed, as well.”
“That friend, absolutely. Have you ever seen him smile?”
“Too serious for it. Too much responsibility.” He closed his eyes, shuddering. “A responsible man.”
“You don’t seem to suffer from the affliction.”
“Thank you,” he said and she laughed. Again.
He said, “May I stand firm against the lure of responsibility despite all attempts at recruiting me.”
Elinor decided she must put a stop to this at once. He was far too entertaining.
She said, her voice cold and disapproving, “Friends are rare, Mr. Sinclair. You should treasure yours.”
“I do. Especially the kind that lets me enjoy my mistakes first and then saves me from them after.”
She lifted an eyebrow. “Mistake?”
“His word, not mine. And obviously I was not talking about you.” He ducked his head into his empty punch cup and muttered, “And obviously I have become as
uncivilized
as you have accused me.”
“Obviously.”
But her lips wobbled with the effort it took to keep from smiling.
She turned abruptly away from him, deciding that verbally sparring with him would simply never work and physical distance was required.
He followed at her elbow.
“But what about my reward?”
“. . .For?”
“Chasing away a brother. I think a dance should do it nicely.”
“I’m in mourning, Mr. Sinclair.”
He looked at her dress, sliding his eyes leisurely down, down, down.
“I can see that.” His eyes roamed back up, clearly enjoying the view. “I’ve never seen mourning look quite so beautiful.”
The reality was she’d been in mourning for the last ten years. Owned nothing but black clothing, black veils, black gloves and fans.
She looked down at the dress that was beautiful and striking despite the color, and lifted the hem of her gown just enough for her black heeled shoe to peek out.
She smiled. She did look good in black.
She said, “I shall simply have to return the favor someday and chase away
your
brother. I would hope I could be as off-putting as a Pomeranian.”
Mr. Sinclair came to a full stop and Elinor turned when she realized she’d lost him. He stood stock still, his eyes far away and unseeing, a smile lighting his whole face.
She wouldn’t have called him a beautiful man. Somewhat ordinary looking, except for the blond streaks in his light brown hair. His eyes an indiscriminate blue, faded and washed out.