The Wicked Widow Meets Her Match

by Stefanie Sloane

  “Good God,” Dash muttered under his breath as he watched the landau bearing Elizabeth Bradshaw, Marchioness of Mowbray, pull to a stop in front of Carrington House.

  Several heavy leather trunks were lashed to the conveyance, leaving Dash to wonder if there’d been room for the marchioness. He narrowed his eyes and peered through the window, fully expecting to find the interior filled with the familiar boxy shapes of yet more trunks.

  Instead, he discovered a pair of bright green eyes watching him above a mouth that curved upward in a mischievous smile.

  A footman dutifully opened the lacquered carriage door and lowered the steps, extending his hand. Lady Mowbray graciously accepted his aid and stepped from the carriage onto the pavers. She pulled her deep crimson pelisse tightly about her narrow shoulders and beamed at Dash.

  “Lady Mowbray,” Dash addressed the handsome older woman, walking to her side. “My dear lady, it’s delightful to see you. And looking as beautiful as always, I must say.”

  The marchioness turned her cheek and allowed Dash to chastely kiss her soft, scented skin. “Yes, you must say, as I’m wearing a new gown. But ‘delightful to see me’? Come now, my lord. Our shared history assures we may speak plainly, does it not?”

  “You question my sincerity?” Dash asked with amusement, offering Lady Mowbray his arm. He waited while she adjusted her gloves, and then led her toward the wide, solid steps of Carrington House.

  “Always,” she confirmed, gracefully adjusting the pale yellow scarf tied jauntily about her neck. “That is why I’m your favorite aunt.”

  The irresistible woman was not his aunt, strictly speaking. But she may as well have been. Dash could not recall a time when Lady Mowbray had not been poking about his affairs, firmly asserting that her role as his mother’s dearest friend gave her the right to do so. Not that the woman needed permission—at least not to her way of thinking. She could be incredibly opinionated and pushy, but Dash loved her all the same. Lady Mowbray knew him better than almost anyone else in his life. And so he overlooked her many annoying habits.

  Though the number of trunks did give him pause.

  “Now,” the marchioness began, patting Dash’s arm. “When does Miss Barnes arrive? I cannot wait to make her acquaintance. She is rumored to be quite intelligent—perhaps even as sharp as you, my boy.”

  The hair on Dash’s neck prickled at the woman’s words. “Do not even think on it,” he warned.

  “Think on what?” she replied innocently, gracefully lifting her skirts as they mounted the stairs.

  Dash shook his head slowly in disbelief. “You know exactly what I’m talking about. Your attempts to secure a wife on my behalf are legendary.”

  “I would hardly call them legendary, my boy—”

  “Lady Emma Scott?” Dash interrupted. The very mention of the woman’s name quieted the marchioness.

  A footman opened wide the oaken front door and stepped aside. “That was simply a bit of bad luck,” Lady Mowbray countered, sweeping into the foyer ahead of Dash. “How was I to know she was acutely allergic to flowers?”

  Dash groaned and released her arm. “Precisely. Which is why you’ve no place dabbling in such matters—ever,” he answered. “I do adore you, but come now. You’ve behaved so well since the infamous Scott scene. I thought you’d learned your lesson.”

  “Really, my lord, you haven’t a clue as to how the female mind works, do you?” the marchioness answered blithely and patted him reassuringly on the arm.

  Lady Mowbray handed her pelisse to a waiting servant and removed her poke bonnet. “Now, I would like to retire to my room. I would prefer to be settled before Miss Barnes arrives so that she might have my full attention. After all, it is my duty as her chaperone to provide instruction and guidance to the girl, is it not?”

  Dash groaned a second time as the marchioness handed him the hat.

  “We’re in agreement, then. Splendid,” she replied, clapping her hands together. “Tell me, where is my chamber?”

  Dash stared at the bonnet in his hands. “The west wing. Bell will accompany you.”

  “And Miss Barnes? Will she be housed in the east wing—with you?” Lady Mowbray inquired innocently.

  Dash gripped the hat in a death hold and cleared his throat. “Bessie …” he said warningly.

  “Really, my boy. It’s merely that the east wing affords a superior view of the city.”

  “Go,” Dash commanded, pointing to the stairs.

  “Yes, I believe I’ll retire now,” she replied amiably. “Bell, if you please.”

  Dash watched Lady Mowbray ascend the stairs until she disappeared down the hall to the western half of the house, realizing only after she’d gone that he’d fisted the blasted bonnet into an unrecognizable ball.

  “Good God.”

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