What a Widow Wants

by Jenna Jaxon

  “Good morning, Lady Skelton.” He and Beatrice spoke as one to the lovely woman, their neighbor of long acquaintance. Sarah and Beatrice had grown up together, and though Jonathan Broadman, now Lord Skelton, was much younger than he, Matthew and the tall, thin, good-natured earl had always been on excellent terms.

  “Skelly, well met.” Matthew turned to his friend, who stood next to the fireplace, a teacup in hand.

  “Beatrice!” Sarah Broadman squealed and rushed to embrace her friend. “What a lucky stroke that you have come just this minute. May I take Bea to see my new gown, Mama?”

  “Sarah, did you forget to speak to Lord Lathbury?” The viscountess gave her daughter a stern gaze.

  “I’m sorry, my lord.” Dipping a quick curtsy, Sarah smiled brightly at him. “Good morning. Thank you ever so much for bringing Bea with you. I really must show her my gown for the ball. Come with me, my dear.” She grabbed Beatrice by the hand and tugged her toward the door. “You will be astounded at what Mrs. Comfrey has managed to devise.”

  After her daughter disappeared, Lady Skelton shook her head. “Skelton, I fear it will matter not at all how many balls we give for Sarah, she will not secure a husband if she does not try to attract one.” She looked pointedly at Matthew and sniffed. “Her second Season is likely to be as dismal as her first.”

  “Take heart, Lady Skelton,” Matthew said, moving quickly toward Skelly, who had put his tea down on the mantelpiece and stood with hands on hips, a belligerent set to his lips. “Beatrice will be out as well next Season. When the gentlemen compare Sarah to my sister, they will undoubtedly flee Beatrice’s tart tongue and flock to your vivacious daughter instead.” As long as Lady Skelton didn’t look on him with a matchmaking eye. Sarah was practically the same age as Beatrice, and flighty. Not at all to his taste. “Is she looking forward to London again so soon? She spoke of a new gown for a ball.”

  “Yes, and a pretty piece of folly it is too.” Lord Skelton glared at his mother and straightened the candlesticks on the mantel. “There are few local gentlemen my mother would deem grand enough a match for Sarah, save you.” Skelly raised his eyebrows hopefully. “You aren’t by any chance interested in her, are you, Lathbury? It would make my life a deal easier, I tell you.”

  “Alas, I seem to have a toe caught in the parson’s mousetrap. I proposed to a lady when we met in Brighton, but she has yet to give me her definitive answer. Until I am certain of that outcome I could not, in good conscience, raise your sister’s hopes.” Hoping his description of his current state of affairs with Fanny didn’t stray too wide of the mark, he sat in the rather ornate, but extremely comfortable Sheraton armchair.

  “Didn’t think so.” His friend sighed. “My luck’s out completely. Will you at least put in an appearance, Lathbury? Pay Sarah a bit of attention if you would. Dance once or maybe twice with her even. Perhaps if the other gentlemen see you dancing attendance on her, they’ll try to swoop in and steal her away from you. Worth a go, don’t you think?” Skelly’s dark eyes pled as though his life depended on it. “I cannot endure chaperoning the girl in London for another three or four months. Not and retain my sanity.”

  “What has she done, Skelly?”

  “What do you think she does, old chap? The same as your sister will come next April. Gad about to every ball, picnic, theatre performance, musical evening, and firework display at Vauxhall Gardens. Not to mention having to shepherd her on sightseeing trips to museums, libraries, exhibitions. And the shopping trips.” His face grew pale. “You would not believe it, Lathbury. Four and a half hours to bespeak a gown!”

  “Sarah had not been to London since she was a child,” her mother put in crisply, “and certainly not since coming out. What did you suppose she would do for clothes in Town, Skelton? Be satisfied to make over some of my old gowns?”

  “No, Mama.” Lord Skelton glanced away quickly from his parent, who had started to frown. “But it was the better part of an entire day.” He turned to Matthew for sympathy. “I missed the races at Newbury because of it.”

  Matthew shook his head as if to commiserate, his mind furiously racing down another track entirely. What if the tables were turned? “I can see why you would take every opportunity to avail Sarah of the opportunity to find a husband. I wonder if I might be of some service after all.”

  Eyes suddenly bright, Lady Skelton leaned toward him. “How kind of you, my lord. But what are you proposing, may I ask, if not marriage?”

  “A house party, my lady.” Matthew smiled evenly at his neighbor. “The lady I spoke of earlier had just attended one at which the ladies were able to make the acquaintance of new gentlemen in a secure environment. Young girls would be chaperoned by a family member, but would still have better opportunities to converse with gentlemen. And,” he continued smoothly for the coup de grace, “I would be able to invite a variety of gentlemen, and ladies, of course, who might be suitable, yet from a different social set than that Sarah is accustomed to.”

  Matthew could almost see the cogs in the neatly oiled great wheel that was Skelly’s brain as it ground to the perfectly logical conclusion: Lady Sarah making the acquaintance of someone new, who didn’t know the girl, but might be attracted to a large dowry.

  “We thank you so much for that generous offer, Lord Lathbury.” Lady Skelton spoke first, with a regal nod of her head. “I hope you will find the house party as advantageous to you.”

  If Matthew could manage to invite the precise group of people necessary, this house party could prove not only educational and entertaining, but also devious enough to win him a wife.

  CHAPTER 12

  As the carriage sped along the well-maintained roads of central Buckinghamshire, Fanny gazed eagerly from one window to the other, drinking in the sights of woodlands, parklands, and grassy meadows. She’d not been out of London since her journey to Kent, and although she’d always thought herself a creature more of Town than country, the bucolic vistas flying by spoke to her of a peacefulness not found in the city.

  “Do sit still, Fanny.” Jane, her companion for this weekend at Hunter’s Cross, had withdrawn to the corner of the Marquess of Theale’s huge carriage, eyes closed. “I am worn out with your bouncing about.”

  “You mean you are worn out fuming about your quarrel with Lord Sinclair.” Fanny smirked, then sobered. Her sister-in-law had unexpectedly returned to Theale House two days before, withdrawn and upset by something that had happened while she’d been staying with the earl. Fanny had suggested she accompany her to Matthew’s party mainly to cheer her friend. If Jane was going to wear a Friday face the entire time, however, Fanny would quickly rue her kind offer. “Come, you must not show your grumps to company. I’m family. I don’t mind.”

  Jane cocked one delicate eyebrow, and glared at her. “I’ll remind you of that generous offer at two o’clock in the morning when I need a friendly bosom to cry upon.”

  “I will be happy to oblige you from sinking further into the doldrums as long as I am not otherwise entertained at that moment.” Taking Jane’s hand, Fanny squeezed it and shook it ever so slightly. “Any Widows’ Club member would come to a fellow member’s rescue at the drop of a hat.”

  “As long as it wasn’t a particularly fetching hat, I suspect,” Jane murmured, her good humor a little better restored.

  They passed through the entry to the driveway, a pair of ancient stone crosses, gray and pitted but somehow still majestic, standing on either side of the crushed gravel drive. The crosses for which the estate had been named, Matthew had said, when inviting her to this party. She’d been surprised, nay shocked, when his invitation had arrived, without a word of reproach for her actions regarding Alan Garrett. In her letter to him, she’d felt she must tell Matthew what she’d almost done and had expected a severe dressing down from him via the return post. Instead, his charming letter had arrived and enclosed an invitation to a house party of his own. His lack of concern had hurt her more than upbraiding her would have. The more sh
e’d thought of that cheerful invitation, the more wary she’d become. Did her almost betrayal mean nothing to him? Had he tired of her refusals and given up his pursuit of her? But then why request her presence here? Did he intend to break with her and wished to do it to her face? She’d not brooded over meeting him again. Until now.

  “Now who’s the fount of despair?” Jane poked her shoulder and rose. “Are you going to sit there and moon over God knows what—or whom—or get out of the carriage?”

  With a start, Fanny came back to herself. “After you, dear sister-in-law. Precedence must be observed or Lord Lathbury will think us quite barbaric.”

  Her friend looked wary of the sentiment, but accepted the handsome groom’s hand without a qualm. Fanny clambered out after her, also availing herself of the strong arm of a footman. With all these attractive men running about, how were women ever supposed to seriously consider the gentlemen attending the party?

  Catching Jane’s gaze and dragging it away from the groom, Fanny laughed and tried to indicate with a sharp inclination of her head that the lord and the countess had appeared to welcome them.

  “Good afternoon, Lady John, Lady Stephen.” Matthew’s deep voice rumbled and Fanny’s heart leaped in her chest as though it were a stag being chased by a pack of hungry hounds.

  “Good afternoon, my lord,” they replied in concert, dipping a curtsy in unison as well.

  “You seem well rehearsed, ladies.” Matthew’s gaze took them both in, but it seemed to Fanny he lingered on her a bit longer than her companion. “Perhaps you will entertain us during the weekend with a scene from Drury Lane.”

  “I’ve often thought, had my circumstances been different, Lord Lathbury,” Jane favored him with a pert smile, “I might well have made a career on the stage. So exciting to go before people and tell them stories. Quite like being out in Society, if you think of it that way.”

  “Lady John, I daresay you would charm any audience, whether from the Lyceum stage or at Lady Jersey’s latest at home. Mama”—he turned to the gracious silver-haired lady beside him—“may I present Lady John Tarkington? Lady John, my mother, the Countess of Lathbury.”

  “My lady.” Jane dipped her curtsy.

  “I am delighted to meet you, Lady John. I believe I knew your mother, Lady Munro. You favor her about the eyes.” The countess smiled and nodded, then looked expectantly at Fanny.

  Unaccountably, her mouth dried as though she’d swallowed a handful of dust.

  “And this is Lady Stephen Tarkington.” Matthew grasped her hand and drew her toward his mother. “I have spoken to you of her several times.”

  At those ominous words, Fanny stumbled forward, grabbing Matthew’s hand in earnest. “My . . . my lady.” She coughed slightly to clear her throat. “I am so pleased . . .” The words came out in a croak. What must the woman think of her? She swallowed, desperately trying to moisten her parched throat. “I am so pleased to meet you.”

  “And I you, Lady Stephen.” The countess’s brilliant blue eyes, an exact copy of the ones that looked out of Matthew’s face, took her in from top to toe. “My son has spoken of you often, in most glowing terms. I am happy to meet you at last.”

  Afraid to try to utter another word, Fanny dipped a curtsy. Thankfully, Matthew took her arm and steered them all toward the house. “Mrs. Donnelly will see you to your rooms to freshen up, ladies. Then we are gathering in the drawing room for tea.”

  “Are we the first or last to arrive, Lady Lathbury?” Jane had fallen into step with the countess. “I fear we started rather late from London this morning.”

  “Somewhere in the middle, I believe.” The older woman smiled and raised her China blue skirts as they mounted the steps of the portico. “Although we have several guests staying at Hunter’s Cross this weekend, many are local families who will attend the festivities, such as dinner and dancing this evening, or the shooting tomorrow, but who will return home at the end of the night.”

  “I’ll see you once you are settled,” Matthew said, giving her hand a squeeze. That was encouraging. In ways she couldn’t quite put her finger on, he’d seemed somewhat distant since greeting them. Had his affections turned away from her because of her dealings with Alan Garrett? If so, her moment of folly in Kent might cost her dearly.

  They were shown to their chambers and Fanny resisted the urge to sink down on the bed and not arise, but that was the coward’s way. If she’d lost Matthew’s regard, then by God she’d make sure to get him back this weekend. She quickly washed the grime of the road from her face and hands and summoned the maid to assist her into a new day gown, a green and gold stripe trimmed in gold lace that she’d bespoke specifically for this weekend. The cut of it subtly accentuated her breasts, as low-cut as possible for a gown worn during the day, with shirring at the sides to draw the eye to their fullness. She’d designed it with Matthew’s hungry eyes in mind so she’d put it to the test as soon as possible.

  The drawing room teemed with people, enough to make the large, long room seem small. The walls of Pompeian red, framed with polished walnut wood, created the perfect setting for this gathering. Fanny paused on the threshold, taking in the sight, especially noting the number of young ladies attending in all manner of brightly colored pastel gowns, as though an army of bright butterflies had flown inside and now flitted about the room. Were these schoolgirls her competition?

  It certainly seemed that way. Matthew glided around the room, the genial host, laughing with this one, chatting avidly with that one, smiling into the face of a chit who must surely be no more than twelve years old? Fanny gritted her teeth, forced a smile, and headed for the tea table, wishing she could drown her sorrows properly. Unfortunately, tea was the strongest beverage available. In order to drown anything, she’d have to pour all the cups into a tub and stick her head in, as though she were bobbing for apples.

  “Lady Stephen?”

  She turned. Dear Lord, one of the butterflies had fluttered down beside her. A pretty one, with dark hair and eyes as blue as . . . the countess. And Matthew. “Yes?”

  “I know we’ve not been properly introduced, but I wanted to speak with you.” The girl dropped a quick curtsy, impatience with the formalities in every graceful line, and smiled. “I’m Lady Beatrice, Lord Lathbury’s sister, the eldest one of them still home. How do you do?”

  “Quite well, thank you.” Fanny’s spirits, so glum a few moments ago, now took a turn for the better. Lady Beatrice’s straightforward manner acted as a tonic to her. It could be simply she was a connection to Matthew, but she didn’t truly think so.

  “Would you care to take a turn in the garden? It’s so crowded and noisy here. I told Matthew he was inviting too many people, but would he listen to anything I said? No. This way, my lady.” Lady Beatrice led Fanny out the French doors, along the veranda, and down a short flight of stairs that opened onto a vast garden of blooms.

  Overgrown, with riotous color everywhere, these blooms put the young ladies inside to shame. Neither was it a staid garden, with paths of exact measurements that crossed with military precision nor with shrubs clipped into precise geometric shapes, as they were in the backyard at Theale House in London. All over the Theale network of estates across England, if truth be told. None of her brother-in-law’s estates included a garden such as this. This garden felt alive in a way no other ever had to her eyes. The unrestricted colors, plants unrestrained by borders or shapes made the whole area seem a living thing in a way the formal gardens did not.

  “How absolutely charming, Lady Beatrice.” Fanny wandered off the rustic path that wound through the wilderness and stooped to smell an exquisite tall purple flower. “What a delicious smell! Vanilla and cherries together.”

  “Heliotrope, my lady. One of my favorites.” Remaining on the pathway, Beatrice looked on as Fanny sniffed her way across a bank of purple, yellow, and pink blooms, each more fragrant than the last.

  “Lord, I could camp right here and be happy, I believe.” Fanny r
aised her head from a showy pink damask rose and waded over to an unfamiliar, strangely stringy yellow plant. “I know the rose, but what is this one?”

  “Witch hazel. Not only a pretty flower, but Cook makes a face wash from it.”

  “Indeed.” Fanny sniffed again, a fresh, clean scent wafting upward. “Lovely.” She waved her hand across the expanse of colorful blooms. “Is this your handiwork or the countess’s?”

  “I wish I could take credit for it; however, I do not have the patience for such meticulous design.” Beatrice shook her head.

  “Meticulous design? It all looks as though it came up quite naturally.”

  Lady Beatrice chuckled and beckoned Fanny to her. “Matthew says that for anything to both look natural and be pleasing to the senses, it must be designed to do so. For example, to insure the display you see here, the different plants are put into the ground at particular times, during different months even, so they will bloom together to make this perfection.”

  “Matthew says? He planted this garden?” Gazing again at the glorious blooms around her, Fanny was suddenly reminded of the bouquet of flowers he’d sent her after the masquerade. That too had been perfectly arranged with all the flowers she loved best.

  “He has a passion for it.” Lady Beatrice nodded and grasped Fanny’s arm, propelling her farther down the path.

  Stunned by this revelation, Fanny would have blindly followed Lady Beatrice into the River Thames. Matthew had an enthusiasm for gardening and flowers? How had she never known this about him? When had she ever given him a chance to reveal it?

  “Speaking of which . . .” Lady Beatrice stopped them in a little clearing, drawing Fanny to a rustic wooden bench to one side, next to a cluster of hydrangeas. “Are you in love with my brother?”

  Caught in the act of seating herself on the bench, Fanny thumped down on the hard plank, once more astounded by Lady Beatrice’s words. “I . . . I beg your p-pardon?”

  With a merry laugh, the girl sat beside Fanny, seemingly pleased at the mayhem she’d caused in her guest’s heart. “I do apologize, but Matthew instructed me to ask you that question.”