Lord Romney's Exquisite Widow

by Jenni James

  Lord Romney’s Exquisite Widow

  by

  Jenni James

  Trifecta Books

  Book design and layout copyright © 2016 by Trifecta Books

  Cover design copyright © 2016 by Jenni James

  This is a work of fiction, and the views expressed herein are the sole responsibility of the author. Likewise, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are represented fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, or actual events or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means whatsoever without written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Copyright© 2016 by

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  About the Author

  This book is dedicated to Al Lansdowne, the inspiration for the Regency heroes I first fell in love with. And my own sweet, amazing Regency hero come to life with all his love and humor—I love you, Jason.

  CHAPTER ONE:

  Lady Catherine Elizabeth Anne Romney, Dowager Countess of the late Earl of Huntingdon, turned from her rather bewildered position of staring out the second-best parlor’s full window at Moat House in Kent. She had been blindly gazing at the horridly gray torrent of England’s most dismal winter on record. There had not been even a hint of snow to recommend itself this early December day, and with the rain spitting out as it had been wont to do all fall, there looked to be no reprieve from such gloominess in the near future.

  She sighed, walked over to the large dark-blue sofa, and picked up her embroidery, a picture of a happy kitten, a Christmas present for her step-grandson Joshua Romney, the future Earl of Huntingdon. This embroidery had no end in sight, like the continual rain before her. Truly, it felt as though she would never finish the thing.

  It was no wonder Catherine was out of sorts. Tomorrow, it would be one year since her husband had passed on and her life had altered once again. She tossed the sewing upon the seat next to her and looked at her black dress. Though it was customary to begin lightening her clothing with purples and grays before now, Catherine had decided to see it through and wear black for the complete mourning period.

  Lord Romney, bless his heart, had been deeply in love with his previous wife and their children long before he met Catherine in London three years prior. Indeed, as the older gentleman walked with his cane around the assembly hall with her hand in the crook of his elbow, he had only talked of the graces and marvels of his late wife. So much so that it was a complete and utter shock when he came the week next to offer for Catherine’s hand, as well as bringing a generous gift to her parents of some eight thousand pounds to put their affairs to rights. How he had known they were short on money, one could never guess. Her father had been a wise man and gracefully accepted the amount, and Catherine was sold, like cattle, in a very backwards and unlikely union of souls.

  She was exceptionally young to have a title, as her mother reminded her daily before she and the old earl wed. And it was her exquisite beauty that captured the heart of the man who promised to keep her well-endowed with a small fortune and pin money of her own after he was deceased. He was lonely, and her dear face reminded him of his cherished wife in her younger days. Which is how Catherine found herself at merely nineteen, married to the well-respected Earl of Huntingdon, whose children, ranging from twenty to twenty-eight, were all older than she.

  Now at nearly twenty-three, she was a widow of some consequence whose stepson, the new Earl of Huntingdon, Charles, and his wife, Sophia, were eager to make Moat House their home. Catherine had been planning for some time what to do, and thought it best to rent some rooms in Bath for a while before deciding where to purchase a nice house for herself and hide away.

  Sophia walked into the room, smiling. “Are you eager for tomorrow? To finally cast off your blacks and be in color again?”

  Catherine looked up as the dark-haired beauty approached, picked up Catherine’s embroidery hoop, and then sat down next to her. She was dressed in a lovely green gown with darker forest-colored stripes.

  “I was only this moment marveling at the change in clothing on the morrow. I have had a few dresses made up, but it will be strange to put them on so soon. Perhaps I should start with darker gowns, like you have, and then work my way back into lighter colors.”

  Sophia shook her head and laughed. “Only you would be so concerned about propriety. Come now, tell me all about your plans. Are you still set on Bath and then a place somewhere in the country?”

  “Do I have another choice?” At three years older, Sophia had become much more a friend or sister than a stepdaughter could ever be.

  “Of course there are other choices, Catherine!” She scooted closer in eagerness. “I am bursting with the idea Charles and I came up with last evening before nodding off, and I think you will love the notion as well.”

  “It has something to do with me, I gather?” They were too kind to her.

  Sophia grinned excitedly and grabbed each of Catherine’s hands. “We are both in agreement, and believe you should accompany us to London for the Season in January.”

  Catherine nearly choked as she abruptly started to have a coughing fit.

  “Catherine, do not be like this, dear. You are too young to hide yourself away, and you have never known love before. No, we cannot see you shut up and hidden from the world before you have had a chance to live.” Sophia paused. “Say, are you well? Indeed, you are looking rather pale.” She turned to the footman. “Fetch the dowager a glass of water, please. And hurry.”

  “I am fine,” Catherine protested. “I was a little taken aback.”

  “Good. I am glad of it. However, we are perfectly serious in asking you to come with us to London.”

  “I thought you were meaning to stay in Kent while Charles went for Parliament this year.”

  “Yes, that was our intention. However, our plans have changed. We wish to open up the house in London to be together, and are ever so eager to see you come with us.”

  “Sophia, firstly, to alter your plans for me is too much. I know you would rather be here in the country. And secondly, after one marriage, I have no desire to wed again.”

  “Yes, we know this, but dear, I cannot stress enough—though I loved my dear father-in-law, you were not in a real marriage. It was for suitability only, and I cannot bear to imagine you continuing on thus. You are young. You should rally and come out and enjoy yourself for once.”

  Catherine imagined what life would be like had she not wed so early. She had not even had a full Season before she had been swept off the marriage mart. Her heart began to beat rather quickly as she recalled two exceptional dances, as well as some visits and rides, with Lord Hamson before her father accepted Lor
d Romney’s proposals. It was folly indeed to remember the dashing light-haired lord. No doubt he had wed some other fortunate girl years ago. Her hands trembled as she pondered what had become of the first man she had set her cap on.

  Yet to bring up his name to Sophia now would be crass and heartless, and Catherine was neither of those things. “I do not know if I have the courage to face them all again.” It was best to keep the past in the past.

  “Courage?” She smirked. “You have plenty of courage. What you lack is determination.”

  “No. I am very determined to head to Bath.”

  “Catherine, please, I beg of you. Come. It is time. You have allowed yourself to be buried away in this house for far too long. Dearest, enough. You have lost your vivacity, and it pains me greatly to see you reduced so. I will not take no for an answer.” She looked imploringly at Catherine, and then tapped her lips with one slender finger. “Perhaps you could attempt to enjoy yourself for a fortnight or two. If after one month, you do not wish to remain, we will gladly take you on to Bath. Would that do?”

  Catherine grinned and shook her head. “You are incorrigible.”

  “No, I have finally grown enough to admit the truth.” She leaned into the soft back of the sofa. “I was so very skeptical when Charles’ papa remarried. I could not imagine that you would become as dear to me as you are now. My thoughts, before meeting you, often turned to moneygrubbing, I am sad to admit. And then you came. And you were kind and gracious, and loved me in spite of my arrogance, and slowly but surely won over everyone around you, including the staff! I still cannot get Cook to make me those cherry tarts she is always presenting you with. And now, here we are, the best of friends. You, wiser and a greater mother than my own, and yet you carry this overbearing sadness.”

  Catherine let out a sigh of resignation. It did no good to dispute with Sophia. Eventually, she would wear her down, and Catherine would find herself traveling west for the Season despite anything she would have said otherwise. “You flatter me. I do not feel worthy of such attention as this. Truly, it is ridiculous.” Could it be possible? Could she be given another chance at finding love? “However, if you wish it of me, you know I cannot deny you—I will come to London for one month. And if life is dismal, I shall be much happier at Bath, where it is a bit quieter, in a community full of things to do that are more to pace with that of a dowager widow.”

  CHAPTER TWO:

  Lord George Verl Hamson, fifth son of the Earl of Kettering, had a distinct spring in his step as he appeared at the Percevals’ annual ball in Grosvenor Square. This selfsame night, he had plans to whisk the vivacious Miss Hemming out on the floor for two sets and then take her aside somewhere privately and speak to her, perchance to broach the subject of marriage to the sweet angel to see how well she responded. It had been three weeks of courting the happy miss, and George had decided this would most unquestionably be a nice alternative to his perpetual boredom to have a wife about his life with him, supposing she seemed agreeable to the idea, of course.

  He was nearing twenty-five years and was still not wed. His father was eager to see him settled down and then sent off to the West Indies or South Africa to oversee either of his sugar plantations. George was not overly keen to go, yet if he had a spouse who delighted in a bit of adventure, mayhap it would not be so very unpleasant.

  He continued to muse, which was how he found himself only half attending to the prattle of Miss Hemming not some quarter of an hour later. She was secured as his partner for the next half an hour at least.

  “And Mama told me not to wear the pink, for she said it was not at all as becoming as the blue, yet I could not see how she was correct, so I wore the pink anyhow, and is it not lovely?”

  “Huh?” George started. What had she been speaking of? Something about her gown, perchance? “Oh, yes. The gown is charming.”

  Miss Hemming beamed and then opened her mouth to commence once more.

  To be sure, she was not overly tedious. There were worse things for a young lady to speak of, like the absurdity of someone else’s gown, for instance. He simply could not abide it when a woman blathered about another merely because of what she chose to wear.

  He felt the tugging on his sleeve before he was brought back again to present. “Do you not see? Over there. What is that poor new girl wearing? She could not be more than twenty, and she has a lace cap about her head. She looks a veritable dowd. And her gown! Why, it is purple. Who would wear such an unfashionable color to an assembly such as this?”

  Was she disapproving of what another was wearing? Frowning to perceive that Miss Hemming would do precisely what he believed she would not, he followed where her fan was pointing, then froze. His heart nearly flipped within his chest. For it was none other than Miss Catherine Polten—nay, Lady Romney now. He had heard that her husband was deceased, but not once in his wildest imaginings did he expect her to return to London.

  “Lord Hamson, whatever is the matter with you? You appear as though you have seen an apparition.”

  He had—oh, he had. The spirit of his past. The memories were fleeting—a few balls, six afternoon visits, and drives around Hyde Park. Yet, there was hope in her looks back then, and laughter that had filled his ears with music.

  Suddenly, his heartbeat began to escalate, and his breathing became much more labored.

  “Lord Hamson, would you prefer to sit out the next dance? Truly, you have not budged a centimeter for these thirty seconds at least, and we are beginning to create a scene, standing here without you taking me on the floor. Whatever has captivated you so thoroughly? The lady looks oddly dressed to be sure, but not to cause this much confusion.”

  He started out of his reverie and glanced around him. “Forgive me, Miss Hemming. I seem to have completely lost my manners.”

  She followed her gaze to where he continued to glance back. “Do you recognize the woman I was speaking of? The lady with the absurd lace cap?”

  “Yes, I do. Or I did. It was long ago.” He shook himself. “However, I am present again, and eager to join in the throng once more.”

  For the rest of the two sets, George was good to his word and did just that, though all thoughts of conversing with Miss Hemming in confidence seemed to flutter away. It took every ounce of concentration he could muster to remind himself to be patient and wait to reintroduce himself to Lady Romney later.

  Miss Hemming continued on with her prattle, and George endeavored as best he could to listen attentively, but every so often, he could feel his attention returning to the lovely lady who was even then walking over to his side of the room.

  She was with a gentleman and a lady. The two most definitely were a couple—perhaps the new earl and his wife? For his life, George could not recall what Charles Romney looked like. However, he would recognize Miss Poleton—er, Lady Romney—anywhere.

  And now that he thought about it, precisely why was she wearing that silly lace cap? Yes, she may have been married and a widow now, and wearing it would be deemed proper. Yet honestly, it did nothing for her, and she was attending a ball besides. Even his own mother seldom wore her caps to balls.

  Though he was attempting to stay focused on Miss Hemming, he was not remiss to the point that Lady Romney had yet to notice him. Perhaps she did not recall him at all. It did not matter. He had been a fool three . . . no, she had been married for three years, at least that’s what the papers said, and widowed one. Therefore, it had been four years since he had decided to ask for her hand. Now that she was here again, it was as if the heavens had gifted him with an incredible opportunity, one he should embrace fully and send his foolish pride packing. She was such a one to turn your life topsy-turvy for.

  Why, he had only been in Lady Romney’s presence less than half an hour, and he was in blasted raptures over the chit. Enough was enough. If he did not know better, he would be mooning over her like a lovesick calf before the night was through.

  His father’s words came back vividly in that moment
. “George, my son, life rarely allows you a second chance. Be careful enough not to wish you could go back and change something. However, if an opportunity presents itself, grab hold and right the wrong, for it is a rare gift indeed to be able to do so.”

  Finally, the music ended, and with a determined step, he gave Miss Hemming back to her mama with the usual courtesies. He bowed low and then abruptly turned and walked toward the small group. This meeting was long past overdue.

  CHAPTER THREE:

  Catherine’s mouth fell open when in astonishment, she beheld the dashing Lord Hamson approaching. She did not know where to look. Her heart began to beat fast, and her breathing was exceptionally erratic.

  Sophia and Charles’ conversation tittered to a stop as he halted in front of them. “Good evening, Lady Romney.”

  His voice, his smile—he was still here in London. How could her world be so perfect as to have the young lord here, and participating at the same ball, no less? “Thank you, Lord Hamson.” Her voice was stable, thankfully, belying the inner turmoil she felt. “Good evening to you as well.” She extended her hand and he kissed the top, sending an array of tinglings through her gloved fingers up to her elbow. It took a few moments before she came to her senses and remembered the company with her. “Excuse me. This is my stepdaughter and stepson, the Earl and Countess of Huntingdon.”

  “It is a pleasure.” He bowed, but his gaze did not leave hers. Oh, how she had missed that particular look.

  The Romneys and Lord Hamson exchanged pleasantries, but Catherine did not pay much attention. Her mind seemed to be in a continuous whirling loop, repeatedly asking itself if he was truly there before her.

  She had nearly convinced herself that she was indeed dreaming when Lord Hamson interrupted her reverie and asked, “Forgive me, Lady Romney, but would you do me the exceptional honor of taking a turn about the room?”