What a Widow Wants

by Jenna Jaxon

  “Have you told your aunt ‘thank you,’ Ella?”

  The child bent her head, then shook it.

  “That is the polite thing to do when someone does something nice for you.” She really must find time to work on Ella’s manners a little before she had to leave for Kent.

  After a long pause, Ella whispered, “Thank you, Aunt.”

  “You are welcome my dear.” Lavinia’s voice had not warmed.

  Fanny glanced sharply at the woman she’d always considered distant and aloof toward her and Ella.

  Fresh tea arrived with a plate of fairy cakes.

  Fanny’s mouth watered. She’d not had this children’s treat in a very long time. Newly baked, too, as the smell of the sweet glacé topping was thick in the air. She reached for one of the petite cakes she remembered with such fondness from her childhood.

  “Wait, Mama.” Ella grasped her hand before she could take a cake. “Aunt must always pour the tea and take her cake first.”

  “Very good, Ella. That is correct.”

  Raising her eyebrows at Lavinia, Fanny eased back in her seat. “I am sorry, Lavinia. I had no idea.”

  “Ella must be taught to be respectful of her elders. She has made excellent progress over the last few weeks.” Lavinia poured tea. “You take sugar but not milk, is that correct, Frances?”

  “Yes, thank you.” A glance down at Ella showed her daughter sitting with her back straight as a poker, hands folded neatly in her lap, eyes staring straight ahead. The tension in her small body seemed to roll off her in waves.

  Lavinia handed her the cup. “Ella takes sugar and milk, just as I do.” She dropped two lumps into the third cup, and poured again. A long stream of milk followed before she handed the brimming cup to Ella. “Be careful, my dear. Don’t spill it on your pretty dress.”

  “I won’t, Aunt.” Ella maneuvered the cup to her lips, took a sip, grimaced, then set the cup and saucer on the table.

  “Is something wrong with your tea, my dear?” Lavinia stared at the girl like a cat about to pounce on a mouse.

  “Oh, no, Aunt.” Shaking her head, Ella was quick to deny it.

  Perhaps too quick.

  “It was hotter than I expected is all.” Resolutely, the child picked up the cup again, sipped, and smiled.

  Fanny set her tea down, slowly. Although she’d not had tea with Ella in months, she well recalled that the child had always taken it as she did, without milk. Fanny herself had never been fond of it and Ella had seemed to follow suit. Why this sudden affection for it now? Her daughter looked positively bilious. “Don’t drink too quickly, darling. You’ll make yourself ill.”

  “I won’t, Mama.”

  “Take one of the fairy cakes. They look delicious.”

  “But Aunt hasn’t—”

  “I shall put one on a plate for Aunt Theale.” Fanny slid a petite cake, glazed with pink sugar icing, onto the saucer and thrust it at Lavinia. “There.”

  Caught off guard, her sister-in-law had no choice but to accept the cake. Her eyes narrowed at Fanny.

  “And I have my cake, so you may have yours as well.” With a deft hand, Fanny distributed the confection to Ella in the proper order of rank. Was that the lesson Lavinia was trying to teach her daughter? At what cost to the child?

  Ella, her eyes pools of blue on a field of white, shot a frightened look to her aunt.

  Lavinia nodded, although her mouth looked as though she’d bit into an unripe persimmon.

  “Thank you, Mama.” Moments later Ella was nibbling the cake, some of the tension in her slight body eased.

  Almost as though the strain of this encounter had flowed from her daughter to her, Fanny tensed, gripping her cup so hard she feared the handle could snap off in her hand. Better if it did. That would keep her from pitching the lot—tea, milk, cup, and saucer—at Lavinia. She’d been torturing her daughter in the name of good manners. Well, manners did not dictate the inclusion of milk in tea just to honor the hostess. And although the order of service might be decreed, to deny a hungry child a treat had nothing to do with manners.

  She must remove Ella from this hateful household. Lavinia had taken advantage of her absence to impose these arbitrary rules on her child. That would cease from this day forward. At least she would attempt to put measures in place. Drat. She would be leaving in a week or so for Kent and could scarcely bring her child with her. With no one to intervene for Ella, the girl would be at the mercy of Lord and Lady Theale.

  Relaxing her grip on the cup once more, Fanny sipped the cooling brew. At last she had hit upon a completely different reason for marrying Lord Lathbury—security for Ella. Matthew would be an excellent father, Fanny was certain of that, though she’d never heard him speak of children, nor seen how he fared in their company. He would take both of them away from Theale’s repressive rules and none too quickly, apparently. She would have to arrange a meeting between Matthew and Ella to see how they got on. If she were to marry the man, he would thereafter be her child’s guardian. A godsend, perhaps, or a nightmare.

  Yes, she must consider Matthew, or any man, carefully. More than one life was at stake.

  CHAPTER 10

  “Jane.” Fanny embraced her sister-in-law on the steps of Lyttlefield Park’s spacious portico. “How good to see you again. I’ve missed you.”

  “Hello, Fanny. I’ve missed you as well.” Lady John Tarkington, widow of Stephen’s second-eldest brother, returned the hug. “You have managed to keep busy these last months, I understand. Your stay in Brighton was invigorating, I hear.”

  With a sigh and a laugh, Fanny swept past Jane and into the foyer. “Very. Has Lavinia been filling your head with my scandalous behavior?”

  “I daresay she could have done, considering what transpired there. Have she and Theale had the whole story from you, then? Elizabeth is my informant, though she said nothing of scandal.” The petite blonde sidled up to Fanny as the butler took her spencer. “We must catch up this instant.” She gestured to the staircase rising to the right of the foyer. “Will you take a moment to freshen up or shall we go straight to the drawing room? Charlotte is to gather her guests there.”

  “Oh, please,” Fanny said, heading straight for the stairs, “if a meeting with Lord Lathbury is imminent, I must repair these travel-weary looks.”

  “Charlotte did not have time to inform you.” Jane mounted the stairs behind her. “Lord Lathbury sent his regrets at the very last moment.”

  Fanny stopped, her heart giving a huge thump as though it had rolled over in her chest. “Regrets?” She whirled around. “He’s not coming this weekend?”

  Shrugging, Jane motioned for her to continue upward. “I’m sorry to be the bearer of ill tidings, but no. Some urgent matter has called him to Hunter’s Cross, his primary estate in Buckinghamshire.”

  Stunned, Fanny grasped the handrail and began to climb once more. All the joy she’d anticipated in seeing Matthew again this weekend evaporated the moment Jane spoke the words, leaving an emptiness the size of the ocean inside her. “Did he say why?”

  “No. The letter arrived yesterday, saying he was terribly sorry, but he was heading north that very day.”

  A bitterness flooded her mouth. She hadn’t understood just how much she’d been looking forward to seeing him again. To being intimate with him again.

  “Are you all right, Fanny?”

  Jane’s question brought her back to herself. They had reached the first floor and she stood unmoving, completely unsure what to do now. “I am fine. I simply don’t know which way to go.”

  Her sister-in-law motioned her toward the corridor on the right, and she followed her, barely aware of her surroundings. What was she to do this weekend, then? She knew none of the other gentlemen, and wasn’t interested in getting to know them. She wanted Matthew, and now couldn’t have him.

  They stopped halfway down the corridor and Jane opened the door on a cheerful room of pale green, the color of a ripe pear, furnished with charming wh
ite furniture in the French country style.

  “Charlotte remembered how you liked the color green. Shall I send the maid to you or can you manage?” The ever efficient Jane turned to go.

  “I can manage. I’ll be down shortly.” Still rather dazed, Fanny pulled herself together enough to send Jane a reassuring look before she closed the door.

  Finally alone, she sank down onto a chaise whose green-flowered cushion would have normally brought a smile of delight to her lips.

  She had nothing to smile about now.

  What business in Buckinghamshire could have made Matthew renege on his promise to attend the house party? She’d lack a partner the entire weekend, as everyone else would be paired off. Unless she could entice a gentleman away from one of her fellow widows. Not a noble thing to do, to be sure, but if she became desperate enough, she might try. The idea filled her with despair. She didn’t want another gentleman. She wanted Matthew.

  How infuriating that she had become dependent on the favor of one man so quickly. She’d believed she’d spend her widowhood happily flitting from one companion to another, sampling them like a bee in a vast field of flowers. As Stephen had done with the women of her acquaintance.

  Fury, fueled by disappointment, brought tears to her eyes. She dashed them off and breathed hard through her mouth to stem the tide rising behind her eyes. No tears. She’d have to make an appearance downstairs in a little while and she’d not have everyone wondering at her red eyes and splotched face.

  Rising, she sought the wash water and basin to cool her face, then stripped down to her chemise. Her cosmetic case lay on the bed and she took some time to repair the ravages of her distress. When the image in the mirror had a new sparkle in her eyes—and skillfully placed artificial roses in her cheeks—she rose and dressed in a simple afternoon dress of green sprigged muslin. That should do for now.

  She grabbed a shawl, bit her lips to bring color to them, and sallied forth, determined to forget about Matthew and enjoy herself this weekend, if it killed her.

  * * *

  With a smile carefully hiding her pain, Fanny went through the steps of “Grimstock” with Lord Fernley, determined never to repeat the experience even if she had to leave the party completely. She’d danced with unskilled partners many times; never had she stood up with one so utterly inept on his feet. Her entire left foot ached where the man had stepped on it with his full weight—apparently more considerable than he looked—and her right shin smarted from a kick she’d received as he’d attempted a flourish of his foot when they cast down the first time.

  Finally Charlotte played the last note of the wretched song and Fanny curtsied to her partner, feeling as though she’d come through a battle, wounded but alive. Before her friend could begin the next song, Fanny seized Fernley’s arm and dragged him over to a chair pushed up against a wall. “I really must rest a moment, my lord. I am quite fatigued by that lively dance. I’m not used to dancing much after being in mourning for so long.”

  “Ah, I do understand, Lady Stephen.” He bobbed his red head, a kindly smile on his eager face. His deep blue eyes were his best feature, to be sure, for his wide nose was absurdly long and his ears stuck straight out from the sides of his head like handles on a pitcher. “May I fetch you some wine to help you recover?”

  “That would be very kind, my lord.”

  He rushed away, leaving Fanny a moment to breathe and plan a strategy. She’d have to sit out the next dance, just to assure Fernley of her sincerity. Afterward, however, perhaps she could encourage Lord Wrotham to ask her to dance. He’d partnered little Mrs. Wickley in the first dance, smoothly guiding her step by step in a dance she obviously had never done. Yet he made it look as though they had danced a hundred times together. Clearly the best dancer in the room, he was also the most handsome, for her taste. Not that he held a candle to Matthew.

  Drat. She’d vowed not to think of him tonight. Shaking her head to dislodge the image of Lathbury dancing with her, she gazed about in search of another partner.

  “Here you are, Lady Stephen.” Fernley had returned with a glass of something that was definitely not wine. “I’m sorry it’s lemonade, but there was no wine to be had. Will you please excuse me? I am promised to Lady Georgina for the next dance.”

  “Thank you so much, my lord. Enjoy your dance.” God save Georgie.

  He scampered over to his prey and Fanny relaxed, sipping her drink, watching the others pair off for the dance. Charlotte had been snared by Alan Garrett, and didn’t look particularly pleased about it. The ton had been buzzing about them ever since that dance in June, the night she’d met—

  Drat. She would not think of that man. Why the blazes had he not come to this party? If only she’d have gone to the ball and fete instead of the masquerade, she would not have met Matthew and stirred up old passions. Instead, she might have caught the eye of this charming rogue.

  Not overly tall, but with nice broad shoulders, Alan Garrett looked the epitome of an elegant rake at first glance. Curly blond hair that gave him the air of a cherub, deep blue eyes that sparkled with mischief, and a full, sensual mouth that made a woman want to beg him for a kiss, among other things. Perhaps she could entice him or Lord Wrotham to partner her next. They were the only men here with whom she’d even entertain the possibility of a tryst. Lord Brack was too wholesome-looking, Fernley too odious, and Lord Sinclair, although very handsome indeed, had been very adamantly claimed by Jane.

  The music ended and Fanny rose, determinedly trying to catch Lord Wrotham’s eye. That gentleman, however, had eyes for no one but Charlotte. He pursued her to the refreshment table, whither she’d fled from her partner at the dance’s end. Poor Charlotte. She’d protested an affinity for Mr. Garrett earlier; apparently the sentiment still held true. Perhaps Lord Wrotham would prove a more agreeable partner for her friend.

  “Lady Stephen.”

  The deep, sensual voice in her ear made her jump and turn toward Mr. Garrett, who had appeared seemingly out of nowhere. She could have sworn she’d seen him heading toward Mrs. Wickley after Charlotte had left him on the floor.

  “Mr. Garrett.” She nodded her head, giving him a knowing smile. With very little effort, she supposed, she could have this man in her bed in two or three hours’ time.

  “Are you engaged for the next, my lady?”

  “I am not, sir.”

  “Then would you give me the privilege of partnering you?”

  “I would be delighted.”

  Garrett took her hand, smoothly twined it in his arm, and led her toward the dance floor. “In more than in a dance, perhaps?”

  The rogue wasted no time, that was certain. Still his question thrilled her. It was wonderful to be desired, even more so to be pursued. “Whatever do you mean, my lord?”

  “I believe you understand the question too well, my lady. Ah.” The first strains of music filled the air and Garrett glanced toward Elizabeth at the pianoforte. “Mrs. Easton has decided to assist me. She is being scandalous.”

  “How so?”

  “She is playing a waltz.” He seized Fanny’s hand and put it on his shoulder then placed his hand firmly on her waist. “You are familiar with the steps?”

  “Of course.” A flicker of competitive spirit rose in Fanny. Let us see who seduces whom, my lord. In pretense of adjusting her grip on his jacket, she squeezed his trim waist. “I have waltzed more than once, and with more than just my husband.”

  They began the steps, gazing intently at one another.

  A gleam of desire darkened his eyes. “A well-educated woman is always a delight, Fanny.”

  “As is a knowledgeable man, Alan.” On a first-name basis before the dance was scarce begun. A pleasurable thrill chased down her arms. “Shall we compare our educations this evening?”

  “I can think of nothing I would like better.” He took advantage of the next steps to pull her sinfully close.

  Her breasts grazed the front of his jacket, turning her nipples har
d. Heat shot into her cheeks. Thank goodness they had already been rouged. Never let a man see just how much you desired him, though she didn’t think it would matter a jot with Mr. Garrett. “Then we must find some time alone to . . . converse.”

  “Yes, we must,” he whispered when his lips came close to her ear again. “Shall I come to your room this evening?”

  The heat of his breath in her ear made her shiver. This surrender would be hot and sweet. “I would like nothing better. The green room, first-floor corridor on the right, the door halfway down on the left.”

  A jangle of keys from the pianoforte brought the dancers to a sudden halt. Cheeks reddening, Elizabeth gathered the scattered sheets of music. “My pardon, ladies and gentlemen.” She hurried from the instrument and Georgie sat down, immediately beginning a mazurka at breakneck pace.

  “Shall we perhaps sit this one out? I can think of much more pleasant ways to expend our energies.” He motioned her toward a small chaise moved out of the way to accommodate the dancing.

  “As can I.” Fanny dropped demurely down upon the chaise, her gloved hands clasped in her lap. For the evening she had chosen her favorite gown of deep green, sprinkled with yellow buds and a stunning embroidery of flowers at the hem, as though she wore a fantastical garden. Its very low décolletage had turned Matthew’s head when they were in Brighton—

  As though she’d conjured him, his image rose before her eyes. Thick, silky black hair, unruly as always, clear blue eyes, wide nose, and full sensual lips that begged to be kissed.

  “What is wrong, chérie? You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.” The concern in Alan’s voice brought her back to Charlotte’s drawing room, to the chatter and laughter in the room that had gone stale to her.

  “A goose walking over my grave, I suspect. Will you be a dear and fetch me some lemonade? And if you find a bottle of brandy along the way, a drop of that in it would not go amiss.” She must stop recalling every single thing she had done with Matthew, although the same unfortunate type of memories had occurred the last time they had parted, seven years before. For months afterward certain items of clothing, a particular silk fan, blue hydrangeas, and seed cake, of all things, had brought his face to mind as vividly as though he stood before her. That must not happen again. She was bound to no man now. And she would take advantage of it as this party intended.