To Wed The Widow (5 page)

He just sat, looking at nothing.

I’m sorry, Sebastian.

He’d thought this chair would one day be passed to his son. Passed on for generations more.

And he guessed that it would be, but it wouldn’t be through him and his. It would be through his brother.

It almost made him laugh, the thought of George holding the title. George’s son raised to be the earl.

But he didn’t.

He rested his head back and closed his eyes.

I’m sorry, Sebastian.

He knew it was he who should be apologizing; he who’d committed the unpardonable sin.

He’d called his brother home. He’d given up.

Flora had been so sick after the birth. Women had many more children than four but not her. She would have no more; the earl wouldn’t risk it.

He wouldn’t return to her bed.

She was his. His countess, perfect in every way, and he couldn’t lose her.

If she carried another child, tried once more to fulfill her most important duty, he knew she wouldn’t survive.

Sebastian balled his fist and slammed it into his thigh, fought against the knowledge that producing an heir was his most important duty.

Because what if she died trying? There were maidens aplenty who would gladly become his countess, gladly give him more tries at a son.

It was his duty, and he’d passed it off to his brother. The moment he’d been told it was another girl, he’d known there would be no more children for him. Whether his countess survived or not.

He’d sat down at his desk and written.
Come home, brother, I need you.

And George had come.

They might irritate each other no end but they were brothers.

His wife, apologizing when he should. Because she knew he wouldn’t.

All of them making his decision their own because he was the earl.

All because Sebastian knew his duty. And he refused to do it.

Elinor Rusbridge Lemmon Gilberti Wooten Headley, Lady Haywood, sat side-saddle on her horse and trotted sedately down the mile. Looking, being looked at.

Her riding habit, black of course, made of light wool, her hat tipped precariously to the side and held in place by roughly a thousand pins jabbed into her hair and scalp. She supposed she could have worn a veil to achieve the same effect. To look without anyone knowing just where she was looking.

But she hated veils. Hated them with a passion and thought it the worst part of widowhood.

She watched the men. Watched their glances, watched to see who found the widow intriguing enough to venture closer.

Most were completely unsuitable and she moved on.

But she watched one unsuitable man, prancing happily and doffing his hat at any excuse to show off his streaked hair and darkened skin.

He smiled widely and laughed loudly, and Elinor wondered how long it would take for him to adopt the ennui so common in the men of his generation.

She knew when he saw her, when he turned his horse her way. She continued on, not changing her pace and let him chase after her.

She knew some men liked to chase and wondered if Mr. Sinclair was one of those men. And then wondered just what she was doing wondering about Mr. Sinclair.

His horse nosed even with her own and she didn’t look at him, didn’t wait for him to greet her.

“I can’t be seen talking with you. I’m a widow; I have to protect my reputation.”

He snorted. “Of course. You attend balls but don’t dance. You ride the mile but don’t converse. Forgive me for not understanding your mourning rituals.”

“I choose the parts of widowhood that suit me. I believe I’ve earned that right.”

He tipped his head. “If anyone has, I do believe it’s you, Lady Haywood.”

If anyone ever had, it was her.

Mr. Sinclair nosed his horse a little ahead, enough for him to be able to see her eyes when he spoke with her.

“My good friend St. Clair says you are on the hunt for husband number six.”

“And you came to ask me about it? How odd. Are you interested in applying for the position?”

He blinked. “Have all your previous husbands applied? Like a valet?” He gasped. “Do you ask for
references
?”

Elinor bit her tongue to keep from laughing and he said, “No wonder St. Clair is so uncharitable toward you. You have upset the order of his little world.
References
for a
husband
.”

She let a little of her laughter out in a small smile. “You can’t believe anything he says about me. He will always think the worst, I’m afraid.”

Sinclair nodded soberly. “I finally got the story from him. Dear Bertie. He was a sweet man, and I would have said that about him even when he was alive.”

“You knew him?”

“A school friend.”

“And you don’t blame me for his death, like St. Clair?”

“Grief affects everyone a little differently. St. Clair grieves by blaming you. I say, as someone who’s met your brother, that if you had the power to kill a man with putrid fever, you wouldn’t have picked Bertie.”

She looked down for a long minute, swallowing the lump that had lodged itself in her throat. Sinclair rode next to her, not saying a word for nearly a quarter of a mile.

And then he said philosophically, “Death is inevitable, and you might as well go out happy.”

When she looked at him, he held her eyes and said, “And I can’t help but believe that Bertie died as happy as any man can.”

And Elinor thought,
Blue eyes. Not faded and washed out but blue as a warm summer’s day. Rare and wonderful.

Heat rushed through her body, warming her fingers and toes and all parts in between.

She swallowed and looked away. “You are wasting your time, Mr. Sinclair.”

“Am I?”

“I only make my husbands that happy.”

“Mm. Once they’ve paid the ultimate price.”

She tipped her head so that her hat covered her eyes and he could only see her mouth as she whispered, “Don’t you think it would be worth it?”

He choked out, “Yes,” and she couldn’t help her wide smile.

“You are too much fun, Mr. Sinclair. You must leave me at once. A widow can not be seen smiling so happily.”

“Or smiling so wickedly, either.”

She stopped smiling, happily or wickedly.

“Any kind of smiling.”

“Oh, yes. Your rules for widowhood. Laughing and smiling are out, then?”

“Completely.”

“Because you are looking for number six, like St. Clair says, and you don’t want to scare any prospects away?”

She didn’t answer right away. But then thought, why not? Everyone knew already.

She nodded. “I am. And I walk a very fine line between available and respectable.”

“Forgive my impertinence but I always assumed widowhood was a step up from marriage. If one had the blunt.”

“Perhaps that’s what I’m looking for then. A man with blunt.”

His eyes traveled down her very expensive habit. “I don’t think that’s what you’re looking for. Perhaps you’re simply one of those women who isn’t happy without a man at your beck and call.”

He murmured, so only she could hear on the busy road, “One of those women who isn’t happy without a man in your bed.”

She ignored the heat flushing away the cold she’d lived with for too long, ignored the pitter-patter of her heart as it raced to keep up with him, and said, “Respectable, Mr. Sinclair. Don’t forget.”

“You are as far from respectable as you can get, Lady Haywood, and still be welcomed by society.”

She wasn’t welcomed by society. She was tolerated. And she wouldn’t have even that if she chose poorly for her next husband.

“I’m as respectable as I have to be, Mr. Sinclair. And unless you have those
references
, I think our conversation is over for today.”

He doffed his hat, bowing to her over the side of his horse. He rode a little ahead of her, leaving her as she’d asked him to do.

And then he turned his horse and stopped, right in front of her. She pulled back on the reins and her horse stopped, didn’t fidget or prance, just stopped.

He watched her well-behaved horse and said again, “We all dance to your tune, it seems, my lady. But tell me one thing and I will leave you alone with your respectability. Do you truly mourn them? Bertie and the others?”

She didn’t stop to think. “Yes.”

And she didn’t lie to him. She mourned them all, if not because she’d loved them, then because she’d been as happy as she could be with them.

Because with them, she hadn’t been alone.

“Despite my particular rituals, I mourn them all.”

She steered her horse around his, walking away from sunny blue eyes that didn’t think she’d killed dear Bertie.

Who thought dying under her care was the best a man could expect in this life.

Flattery will get you everywhere, Elinor.

Her father’s words rang in her ears and she wondered who’d taught Mr. Sinclair that particular truth. She doubted it was his father. Earls didn’t need to learn flattery.

She didn’t look back at him. Didn’t need to because she knew he was still stopped in the middle of the road watching her.

Forcing traffic to flow around him as he simply sat. And watched.

Another ball, this time George was accompanied by the earl and the countess.

His chaperones.

And he knew he was looking at one long night of twirling this young girl and that not-too-old spinster around the dance floor.

Virgins
. Who wouldn’t know how to dance that fine line between fun and scandal. Who wouldn’t even know there was a line.

The earl scanned the room, the same light shining in his eyes that he got at the horse market.

The countess, a little more discreet in her perusal but still cataloging every girl in the room like she was trying to find herself the perfect hat.

Bloody hell.

George headed to the card room, wondering how long his brother would let him hide. And then deciding the earl would probably let him hide until it was time to stand in front of the vicar.

George’s spirits rose abruptly when he entered the card room and saw blond hair and rich black. Blue eyes that rose to meet his from her cards.

He made his way to Lady Haywood’s table and watched silently as play went round.

He wasn’t surprised that she played as disciplined as she’d trained her horse.

He wasn’t surprised that she was playing high.

“Quite a game, gentleman. Lady Haywood.”

She swept in an armful of fish and said, “Are you going to join us, Mr. Sinclair?”

George watched another round before answering to the negative.

“You don’t like to gamble?”

“Not when I’m going to lose.”

She liked that and her eyes glittered at him. Her opponents seemed oblivious to their imminent ruin and George made his way around the table and bent his head to whisper in her ear.

“I prefer to be watching when a lady bankrupts her opponents.”

Lady Haywood brought her cards up to look at them, allowing George a glance since his chin was still resting just above her shoulder.

George looked down, breathing in the scent swirling from her hair and rising from her bosom, and he told himself he was looking at her cards and not her chest.

And when another round had gone by without him having any idea who had taken the tricks, he realized how silly that had been. Of course he’d been looking down her dress.

“Mr. Sinclair?”

“Hmm?”

“You’re distracting me,” she said as she took another trick.

“I don’t know how I’ll ever make this up to you, my lady. Distracting you like this.”

“Is there perhaps another game you might like to join in on?”

“Perhaps a game of dice. Will you join me?”

She finished the game first before leaving the table but Elinor’s heart raced, and she told herself it was from the thrill that came from winning. Told herself that it came from the effort of paying attention to a quick moving game.

And when she slipped her arm through Sinclair’s, felt his solidness beneath her fingers and the heat radiating from him, she couldn’t have said how much she’d just won.

They meandered through the tables, watching others win and lose, and Sinclair said, “Remind me not to play cards with you, Lady Haywood.”

“Won’t be necessary. You are entirely too distracting to even bother with.”

He chuckled. “Obviously.” He shook his head. “Ye gads. You must have touched a bun before sitting down.”

“I don’t count on luck when skill is more reliable.”

In Elinor’s experience, skill was always more reliable than luck. She couldn’t count on what she’d never had.

Sinclair stopped at a Hazard table, though he seemed as uninterested in the game as she.

“Do I have any hope in persuading you to dance tonight? Or will we be stuck in here watching men sweat as they gamble away what they can ill afford to lose.”

She shook her head, pretending she had no desire for dancing.

He said, “But I distracted you and must make up for it. Or you distracted me. I do feel a bit at sea.”

She doubted he was distracted or befuddled but she explained to him again.

“I’m still in deep mourning, Mr. Sinclair. Of course.”