To Woo a Wicked Widow

by Jenna Jaxon

  “Then I suggest you use them and find another abode.” His gaze fell to the list Jane had dropped at his entrance. “What is this?”

  Charlotte bit back a curse. Disaster loomed if she could not come up with a plausible reason for that list.

  He picked it up, his eyes flicking down the list of names. They stopped at the last one. An evil smile curved his mouth. “Why have you written a list that contains Alan Garrett’s name? He’s one of the worst rakes in the ton.”

  Charlotte glanced at her friends and swallowed hard.

  “We were making a list, Sir Edgar.” Georgina spoke quietly, not looking at him. She resembled a child confessing to breaking china.

  “Obviously.” Edgar rolled his eyes. “But what kind of list?”

  “Of ineligible men, Sir Edgar,” Elizabeth answered with absolute conviction.

  He shot a wary glance at Charlotte. “I was given to believe that women usually made lists of the eligible parties rather than the opposite.”

  “Yes, but you see, Sir Edgar,” Jane leaned forward, arching her neck and thrusting out her chest toward him, “last evening Charlotte and I attended the anniversary ball at Almack’s. On our first foray back into Society, we were accosted by so many undesirables, we compiled a list of the gentlemen we felt were simply not to be tolerated. Our friends are now back out in society as well and we wanted to warn them in case they should meet them.”

  He glanced down at the list again. “George Abernathy? He is undesirable because . . . ?”

  “He is quite the rake, my lord.” Jane smiled knowingly. “I have it on the best authority. He’s not as blatant about it as some, but I’ve heard he’s done some of the most outrageous things with women.”

  Edgar frowned and consulted the list. “The Earl of Lathbury?”

  Fanny spoke up. “Drinks like a fish. Was in his cups last night so deep he couldn’t remember my name. Kept calling me Sally.”

  “There’s no drinking at Almack’s.”

  “I attended a private function last evening, but the man had been drinking before he arrived at any rate. Pickled as a herring.”

  Edgar shook his head, looking at the faces surrounding him. “You were all accosted by bounders?”

  Fanny nodded gravely. “There are so many rogues out there, Sir Edgar. At the end of the Season, all the decent gentlemen have already become betrothed.”

  Charlotte scarcely breathed. Pray God they could explain away that list to her stepson’s satisfaction and mislead him from their true intentions.

  “And I suppose you are going to say that this Lord Fernley is also a rake or a drunkard?” He stared at them one by one.

  Georgina spoke up again. “I’m sure I don’t know about that, but I do know he pulled me into the library at Lady Gresham’s and tried to kiss me.”

  A collective gasp went up. Charlotte’s vision wavered. That description came too close to her circumstances for comfort. But Georgina continued on, though her cheeks flamed. “I don’t think that is very proper behavior toward someone you’ve only just met.”

  “I suppose not.” Edgar’s tone had turned speculative, and to her horror, Charlotte realized he was eyeing Georgie as though she were a horse he contemplated buying. Lord, she hoped that hadn’t given him any ideas.

  “I am also responsible for the next name on the list. Lord Brack is my brother.”

  Edgar continued to eye her askance. “And your brother is ineligible as well?”

  Georgie shifted in her chair. “He is a cruel man, Sir Edgar.” She hung her head. “I wanted to warn my friends about him. When I married a man he deemed beneath my station, he convinced my father to disown me. He has hounded me since my husband’s death and tried to make me marry a man just to pay off his gambling debts.”

  Charlotte clamped her hand over her mouth to keep back the laughter. Georgie looked so miserable, her voice so pathetic, that if Charlotte hadn’t known the truth, she’d have been completely convinced of Lord Brack’s evil ways. Her friend had missed her calling as an actress.

  “And of course the last name needs no explanation.” Jane spoke up before Charlotte could do so. “Everyone knows Mr. Garrett’s reputation.”

  Edgar lowered his head and squinted at each woman in turn. “And which one of you was accosted by that rogue.”

  “He didn’t accost me, Edgar. But he did dance with me.” Charlotte tried to diminish her encounter with Garrett. She had to admit the dance; a room full of people had seen them. But if her stepson knew the full story, she’d be ruined in society as soon as the man left the room.

  “That alone could have ruined your reputation, Charlotte,” Edgar admonished. “Not that it matters to me.” He tossed the list back on the table. “You are on your own as far as I am concerned. I assume you have begun your packing?”

  Charlotte raised her chin. “I have not. Your uncle gave me permission to continue on here at the town house in London until August because he thought it a more fitting place for me to live during my period of mourning.” Her lips curled into a sneer. “I supposed he was grateful to have someone to mourn his brother.”

  Edgar squeezed the arm of the chair until his knuckles turned white. “I want you out of my house.”

  “I have permission—”

  “Which I am revoking this instant. I want you,” he looked around at the little circle of women, “and these ladies, out immediately.”

  Almost as one, her friends rose, their shocked faces riveted on her.

  Charlotte took a deep breath and loosened her clenched fists. “Pray take your seats.” She stalked over to tower over Edgar. “He has no right to send anyone from this house.”

  Edgar leaped to his feet and she thought for a moment he would actually strike her. “You lying—”

  “He has not yet reached his majority, have you, Edgar?” Charlotte smiled sweetly as his black frown deepened. “You don’t turn twenty-one until August second. On that day, you may do as you like with your property. But until then, because your uncle has given me leave to live here, I will do so. If you disagree with his decision, I suggest you take it up with him.”

  Edgar clenched his hands, a darkness flashing over his face that foretold a reckoning for her at a later date. “You will regret this insolence, my lady.” With that veiled threat, he quit the room, slamming the door on the way out.

  As if his exit had been a signal, Charlotte and her friends dropped back into their seats, chattering frantically.

  “I am so sorry, Charlotte.”

  “How have you stood living with that horrible boy?”

  “Has he always been cross as crabs?”

  “What a dirty-dish.” Jane settled herself into her chair. “Someone needs to plant him a facer.”

  Laughter burbled out of Charlotte at last. “I would truly love to see that.”

  Jane sobered. “What will we do now, my dear? We only have a little over six weeks and that bounder will turn us out into the street.”

  “We will commence packing immediately and remove to Lyttlefield as soon as possible.” Charlotte smoothed out her dress, thinking how much she would miss seeing her friends in Town.

  “And the Widow’s Club? Will you still be able to host the house party, do you think?” Fanny asked, her face stretched tight.

  Charlotte looked about at her friends. This move would put a strain on her. A house party would only compound the stress. But these women had stood by her during the trials of the past year. They all deserved the chance to pursue their happiness. She would see the matter through, no matter what.

  “If I set the servants to start today, I can begin the move perhaps by late next week. I intend to be completely free of this house before the middle of July. I’ll see what needs to be done at Lyttlefield; hopefully nothing of major concern. In fact, why don’t we celebrate our freedom with the house party the weekend after that?” Charlotte strode to the desk in the corner and produced a calendar. She ruffled through the pages until she found July.
“Around the nineteenth of July, say?” she asked, looking expectantly at her friends, most of whom were nodding enthusiastically.

  Jane, however, frowned and shook her head. “No, I’m sorry, my dear, that won’t do for me. I’m to go to Scotland in July, don’t you remember? The Munro clan Gathering?” She screwed her face into a comic moue. “I detest these things, but Papa is adamant about it each year.”

  Charlotte laughed, then sobered. “Then we must await your return, my dear. You will have something to look forward to while you are up in the Highlands. I had hoped to hold it sooner, but that cannot be helped now.” She sighed as the thought of Lord Wrotham’s strong arms assailed her. “Will the second weekend in August be enough time after your return?”

  “Yes, that should suit admirably.” Jane nodded, her tense face relaxing into pleasanter lines.

  “I will send out the invitations next week so there should be plenty of time for the replies.” Charlotte turned the pages of the calendar, counting the days.

  “You never gave us the name of your gentleman, Charlotte,” Elizabeth spoke up, a smile touching her lips. “I assume Mr. Garrett is not invited?”

  “Indeed he is not, Elizabeth.” Charlotte shuddered. “No, I believe I will invite Lord Wrotham, to make amends for not dancing with him last night.” The perfect way, perhaps, to end up in his arms again.

  “What will you do if one of the gentlemen can’t attend?” Elizabeth sounded almost as if she hoped that would be the case.

  “You will need to give me an alternate name to be invited.” Charlotte nodded decisively. “Perhaps I should invite an additional gentleman, just in case.” She smiled. “There can never be too many gentlemen, don’t you think?”

  “If we can each get the one we want to attend, we should consider ourselves most fortunate.” Jane rose, which signaled the others. “We need to sit down and plan, Charlotte. I think Theale will loan us servants to help with the move.” She gazed around the morning room and sighed. “This was always such a cozy room. I am sure I will miss it. I daresay you will too, my dear.”

  Charlotte glanced around, taking in the elegant Chippendale chairs, the Queen Anne escritoire, the white marble Robert Adams mantelpiece, and smiled. “Perhaps not as much as you might think.”

  Chapter 6

  August 7, 1816

  Pacing the confines of his study, Nash read Lord Grafton’s letter once more, grinding his teeth as irritation built with every word.

  “My daughter, Lady Cavendish, informs me that pursuant to the terms of her late husband’s will, she will be removing from London to her estate (through dower rights) at Lyttlefield sometime in late July. This plan presents you with an opportune moment, Wrotham, to call on her once she and her cousin are settled in. Make sure she is in good health and spirits. And begin your courtship. Tempus fugit.

  “I trust you are dealing with the robbers you spoke of to me in London, and that you will inform me when they are apprehended. I will not be able to travel into Kent until the autumn hunting season, at which time I would beg your attendance at Grafton Lodge near . . .”

  He tossed it on his desk and picked up the small, elegant cream-colored card.

  “Lord Wrotham is invited to attend a house party, August eighth through twelfth, at Lyttlefield Park in Kent. Hostess ~ Charlotte, Lady Cavendish.”

  The invitation had arrived only two days ago, after languishing at his London town house, where it had been sent over a month ago. If he were to go through with this charade, the house party offered a perfect opportunity to woo his wicked widow.

  Lady Cavendish. The woman rose before his eyes: her yellow gown showing off the swell of her bosom, her smooth white arms, and her long regal neck. The sweet, warm bundle she made pressed against his chest after her graceless fall. If only the memory could stop there. But then she was snatched from him, absconded with that insolent rakehell. Nash closed his eyes against that last sight of her, hair mussed, lips swollen but smiling, hand in hand with the blackguard. The image exploded, leaving his body tense, his mind cold.

  Damnation. He would rather walk through a sea of crushed glass rather than pay a call on that wanton woman, much less attend her party, but he had given his word to the earl. The only thing that made any such visit even slightly palatable was the thought of his bill, now languishing in the House of Lords.

  Nash sighed and laid the invitation on his desk. He consulted the calendar. Had the woman arrived in Kent? He pulled the bell, summoning the butler.

  “Acres, have you heard anything about Lyttlefield Park being occupied?”

  “Yes, my lord. Mrs. Lockhart met the new cook from the Park yesterday at the market.”

  “Ah.” So the widow was in residence. “Did Mrs. Lockhart mention anything about our new neighbor?”

  “No, my lord. Only that she had advised her cook not to buy chickens from Harnett’s.”

  “Hmmm.” Tomorrow was the eighth. “Thank you, Acres. That will be all.”

  The clock on the mantel struck three as the butler closed the door. Half the afternoon gone and he still had to ride out to see to that tenant issue near Pliny Woods. He’d leave the decision about Lady Cavendish’s party until tomorrow. He’d put that meeting off until the Second Coming if he could.

  Nash quit the study and headed to his suite. He’d change into riding clothes and, with luck, make it out to the Woods and back by dark. Thayer entered his dressing room, polished Wellingtons in one hand, brown tweed coat in the other. Nash nodded and gave himself over to the man’s ministrations. It would be a long afternoon but eminently more pleasurable than one spent wooing Lady Cavendish.

  * * *

  Compelled to inspect each room one last time, Charlotte strode down the first-floor corridor, stopping at each doorway to assure herself everything stood in readiness for her guests.

  It had been a hectic seven weeks of whirlwind activity, but she had managed to complete the move well before Edgar’s birthday. She hoped he enjoyed himself however he had celebrated his majority and heartily wished never to see the wretch again.

  She popped into the morning room to straighten a red rose in a vase of flowers. Perfect.

  Nervous tingles shot down her arms and gave way to flutterings in her stomach. Only a few more hours and the gentlemen should be here. But would Lord Wrotham? She’d had no reply from the earl, which boded ill for her plan to become better acquainted with him. Even in the midst of the move, this house party had always been in the forefront of her mind.

  Their meeting at Almack’s had occurred almost two months ago, yet she still vividly recalled the feel of his hard chest, his arms around her body.

  If only Alan Garret had not intervened. Then the rogue had had the gall to call on her the next day, a mercifully brief interlude owing to an unexpected and unsatisfactory visit from her father. He had put in an appearance after years of absence from her life to upbraid her for her actions the night before. Charlotte had dismissed his concerns and him rather abruptly.

  Of course his concerns were all for himself and his reputation—the Fownhope reputation rather—though why this was so she had never been able to fathom. She’d never heard of a man so proud of his name, nor so determined to rule his family with an iron fist to keep it spotless. When she’d eloped with her groom, she’d opened the possibility of public scandal to the family. His retaliation had been to silence her using Sir Archibald.

  Sometimes, however, in the past six years, she hadn’t known whom to pity more, herself or her mother. Mama had been married to the tyrant for almost thirty years. At his insistence, she had relinquished control of all the children to him while they were growing up. Rather like Patient Griselda from the Canterbury Tales. Charlotte had seen her mother rarely, though she’d been fond of her sisters growing up. That had ended with her attempted escape with Edward. Father hadn’t wanted them contaminated by her unhinged behavior, so they had been forbidden to write her as well, even after Agnes had married and moved to Durham. Old cha
ins still bound.

  But Father couldn’t control her life any more, thank goodness.

  After his visit, she had focused her attention on supervising the packing and moving and therefore been unable to attend the few remaining social functions of the Season nor received any callers.

  Including Edgar, who she chose to avoid whenever possible.

  Fortunately, her stepson had elected to lodge with his uncle in St. James’s rather than live under the same roof as her. Unfortunately, for a brief period, he had come every day to oversee her progress. She could not forbid him the house but made every effort to keep to her rooms or manage to be out whenever she thought he might show up. With the thankfulness of a pardoned prisoner, she had learned in mid-July he had repaired to Brighton. His absence lightened her burden considerably, and she had continued her move as planned but with brighter spirits.

  Now the day had arrived; it remained only for the guests to appear. After assuring herself the morning room met her standards, she continued on to the drawing room, where Fisk would bring her company. She stepped through the doorway and stopped, her heart giving a little leap. A guest had already arrived.

  He stood at the window, looking out at the front lawn, his broad back encased in an excellent blue superfine. From this vantage point Charlotte did not recognize him, although she had a passing acquaintance with most of the gentlemen invited. The man hadn’t heard her enter, so she took the opportunity to study him, puzzling over who he could be.

  Georgie had shown her a portrait of Lord Brack, who had blond hair; this gentleman was dark. Lathbury and George Abernathy had sent regrets. Lord Sinclair, who she knew, had accepted in Abernathy’s place. Lord Fernley had asked to bring his cousin, Henry Marsh, whom she did not know, but at that point Charlotte, desperate to keep her numbers even, had agreed. This wasn’t Fernley—who had a shock of red hair—but his cousin might have come separately. Gathering her courage and smiling her most gracious hostess smile, Charlotte said, “Good evening.”