To Woo a Wicked Widow

by Jenna Jaxon

  Her wheedling tone and the saucy glint in her eyes told Nash he was being given an opportunity to have Charlotte to himself for the day. He beamed at her.

  “I completely understand, Georgina.” He ignored the icy glare Charlotte shot at her friend. “You haven’t seen him since early last month. Of course you would like to catch each other up.” Nash winked at her.

  Georgina’s blush deepened and she cut her eyes over to the doorway, where Brack and St. Just stood. “There is always news to be shared.”

  Eyes flashing, Charlotte opened her mouth, paused, then seemed to change her mind. “I hope you have a good time, then, Georgie. I expect we will see you there.” She peered at Nash and squared her shoulders. “I’m ready.”

  She was acting damned odd. Better to accept a boon, however, when handed one. If Charlotte would come willingly with him, he’d not question it. “If everyone would assemble at the carriages, we should start now.”

  The room erupted into a chaos of sound and movement. Jane called for her maid, Brack and St. Just entered with Mrs. Easton in tow, Fanny and Lathbury appeared from nowhere. Charlotte stood calmly watching him handle the departure, her eyes fixed on his face. Her scrutiny unnerved him even more. He’d not forgotten how strongly her closeness affected him, but it surprised him all the same.

  Thank God he’d left his great coat unbuttoned. The heat her gaze generated in him made him feel like a small sun. It would scarcely abate before they reached the grounds and he’d hate to be perspiring before the day had begun. Good thing he’d elected to ride. To be enclosed in the carriage with her would have been his undoing for sure.

  Without another word, he shepherded his flock out to the waiting carriages. He mounted Minotaur, made sure there were no stragglers, and set off.

  The men rode alongside the carriages, which suited Nash. By the time they arrived at the Wrotham estate, he had indeed cooled down. Not that he expected it to last. This state of affairs with her had to be resolved before he burst into flames.

  The sun hung higher, the day grown a bit warmer when they crested the rise leading to the south field. Nash had kept a weather eye peeled for the gang as they rode. Best to be safe rather than sorry, but no one untoward had appeared.

  The Wrotham Harvest Festival lay spread out before them, the mix-match of colorful tents and milling people forming a living tapestry. The largest tent, where meals and tea would be served, sat in the middle of the field that a week before had held nothing but stalks of wheat. On either side of it, stretching in rows, individual stalls had been erected for a farmer’s market, where tenants and farmers could sell goods or crafts. Other tents had been set up as well for the produce judging. And in a section of the field off to the side, the stubble had been cleared to the ground for the afternoon games.

  A thrill of satisfaction ran through Nash. A heady feeling indeed, akin to the fulfillment of command he’d experienced aboard ship. These were his people.

  He nudged Minotaur and the company headed down the gentle incline toward the festivities.

  Shortly, both ladies and gentlemen stood before the main serving tent, gazing around at the bustling scene.

  Jane turned to him, a slight smile teasing the corners of her mouth. “Have you instructions for the best way to enjoy the festival, Wrotham? Or are we simply to experience it at our own whim?”

  “I believe the latter method will ensure the most pleasure, Lady John.” Nash flashed a smile back at her. Such a vivacious woman. No wonder George was smitten with her. “I hope you have brought your purses, for the market is famous for its wares. And,” he nodded toward a larger tent where huge casks formed a back wall, “John Micklefield has set up his establishment to serve his special ale.”

  Grins split the faces of the gentlemen and a hum of voices ensued.

  Nash sidled up to Charlotte, whose head leaned close to her cousin’s. “Are you ready to accompany me to do my sacred duty, my lady?”

  Her head popped up, eyes wide and wary. “What sacred duty is that?”

  “The most important activity today, save one. Without it, the festival would be deemed a dismal failure.” He hoped his teasing tone would banish that wary look.

  Charlotte’s eyebrows swooped upward over hazel eyes.

  Her eyes were a weathervane to her emotions. Hazel foretold a pleasant disposition; green meant anger or passion. Much as he’d love the passion, he’d be happy to look into the beautiful mingled brown and green flecks for the start of the day.

  “I had no idea you held such an important part in the festival, Nash. What is it?”

  “I am to judge the produce.”

  Charlotte broke into a delighted laugh. “You’re judging turnips?” Her eyes flashed a lovely shade of mingled brown and green.

  “And potatoes, pumpkins, onions, peas, and carrots. It is an essential part of the Harvest Home.” He kept his voice light, although his heart stuttered at the gorgeous sound of her laughter.

  “Then by all means, let us not keep you from such a vital task. We will meet you later, Jane.” Charlotte grasped Nash’s arm and began to walk briskly toward a nearby tent.

  “I appreciate your enthusiasm, my dear, but you’re going the wrong way.” Nash chuckled. He readjusted her arm in the crook of his elbow and changed their course, stepping between a stall selling fried pies and one offering plaid woolen scarves. He threaded them through the rows of booths until they came to a large tent on the outskirts of the market.

  “Lord Wrotham!” Alfred Smith called from beside a bushel basket of potatoes on the far side of the produce booth.

  “This way.” Nash started toward the smith, making his way through the heaps of baskets and sacks of vegetables. Despite the cold weather this summer, it looked like there was a bumper crop to judge.

  “My lord, my lady.” Smith bobbed his head, his florid face already shiny with perspiration. “Lovely day we’ve got for the ingathering, don’t you think? Warming up nicely.”

  “It is indeed, Mr. Smith. Lady Cavendish, have you met Mr. Smith?”

  Charlotte shook her head but smiled and nodded to him. “A pleasure I’m sure, Mr. Smith.”

  “And mine, m’lady.” The smith acknowledged her with another nod of his head, then turned his attention to Nash, his face now sober. “Begging your pardon, your lordship, but there’s been some strange men poking around here this morning. I couldn’t get a word with them, and I should have come earlier to the manor house to tell you, but I was afraid to leave the women here. I figured I could take care of ’em if the priggers started making a ruckus.” Smith flexed his arm, a huge fist at the end of his beefy forearm.

  He probably could have put at least two or three intruders out if hard pressed.

  “Not to worry, Mr. Smith,” Nash hastened to reassure the man. “I should have warned you. I’ve got men stationed here and at the tenants’ homes to guard against the gang. Just a precaution, but one I’m not willing to forgo on such a day. Now . . .” He gazed at the enormous amounts of produce—the farmers proudly standing watch over it—and found them a bit daunting. “Where should I begin? Last year I started with the potatoes. Is that the usual way of it? Or do I start at one end of the tent and work my way down?”

  “Potatoes first, then carrots.” Smith ticked the vegetables off on his fingers, a litany he supposed the man had learned over forty years of Harvest Homes. “Then peas, pumpkins, turnips, and onions be the last. That be the order of it.”

  “Right you are.” Hell. Onions at the end would be the worst part. As judge, he needed to evaluate each vegetable on shape, color, texture, size, and taste. Eight or nine bites of raw onion, with nothing to follow, would present quite a challenge for his taste buds. What had he done last year? Oh, yes, he’d gone out of order, taking the pumpkin last. Smith had been lenient with him because he had been a novice. This year he’d not escape so easily. The sweet taste of pumpkin had cut the sharp onion admirably, though. Perhaps he’d purchase a pumpkin in order to get that f
inal slice in. No rule against that.

  Plastering a smile on his face, Nash nodded and took a deep breath. “Then it’s time to start the judging.” He turned to Charlotte and discovered sparkling eyes and a strained mouth. “If you wouldn’t mind keeping a tally of the points in each category?”

  Smith produced a sheet of foolscap and a thick pencil. “If you’d be so kind, m’lady. I’m not the best hand for figuring.”

  Charlotte nodded and took the pencil and paper. “I would be happy to make my small contribution to the festival.” Her merry eyes met his and his hopes soared.

  If he disregarded her odd behavior last night, she had been more amiable toward him today than for quite some time. Perhaps the whole affair with Kersey could be put to rest. God, he hoped so. Every time he saw her he wanted nothing but to take her in his arms and . . .

  Nash swallowed hard and brought his thoughts firmly back to the task at hand. “So the potatoes first?” He wound his way through the baskets heaped with brown and red root vegetables. “First entry belongs to Adam Thomkins.” He glanced at Charlotte, writing the name carefully, using a stray piece of board as a makeshift desk.

  He lifted a potato from the basket. It spanned his hand a goodly length and weight, the coating smooth and evenly brown. The earthy smell of it tickled his nose. The perfect aroma for harvest. Nash brushed a little dirt from one end and signaled for a knife. He cut a sliver and bit into it carefully. The fresh taste exploded in his mouth. He’d never have believed a raw potato could taste so delicious. Of course, the first one had last year as well. By the time he’d tasted nine or ten, however, it would be a different story.

  “Entry number 1, Lumper. Score fifteen out of twenty.”

  Charlotte dutifully wrote down the information and they moved on to the next basket. Potatoes, carrots, peas. Nash took only the smallest bites, but raw vegetables were not his favorite food. Tasting became harder and harder. The pumpkins were a blessed relief, but all too short-lived. If he could only get through the onions.

  “How are you doing?” Nash asked Charlotte, more to squeeze in a break than anything else.

  “I am doing just fine.” Her eyes still twinkled at him. “Although I hope luncheon will be served soon. I’m decidedly peckish.”

  “Witch.” He spoke under his breath, but she laughed. “Yes, we’ll be able to get something besides raw vegetables, thank God.” Her laughter intensified and he continued to the turnips and finally the dreaded onions. Remembering the problems he’d encountered last year, Nash avoided bringing the whole onion close to his face. The paper-thin sliver made it to his mouth without causing tears to flow. That would have been most humiliating. Only two more . . . one . . . done!

  Heaving a sigh of relief, Nash called out the final numbers to Charlotte.

  She recorded it in her elegant looping script and set down the pencil. “To whom do I give this, Nash? Mr. Smith? He seems to have disappeared.”

  “Then you need to hold on to it until we can get it to him. Perhaps he’s retired to the refreshment tent as well.” Nash walked to the washbasin set up for his use. The water had been changed three times due to the grubby nature of the vegetables. After cleaning up, he offered Charlotte his arm and hurried off, glad to shake the dust of this particular tent from his boots.

  “Do you have any appetite at all after such an amount of raw produce?” Charlotte’s voice held a touch of wry sympathy.

  “Well,” he began, tucking her arm firmly in his, “if you noticed, I managed to take very tiny bites of everything.” He shook his head. “The worst part is, everything begins to taste exactly the same, which makes the judging more difficult. But to answer your question, yes, I do have a bit of an appetite. I’m especially looking forward to Mrs. Campbell’s pork pies. They are a treat.”

  Her return smile warmed him better than the sun that had decided to show itself brilliantly for the first time in days. Perhaps it was a happy omen.

  They chatted over lunch, Charlotte relaxed and friendly, asking him about the success of his trip to London and his plans to capture the gang.

  “The man who’s heading up the detail, a Mr. Kelliam, worked at Bow Street for ten years before retiring. He came highly recommended.” Nash took out his pocket watch to consult. He snapped it closed and tucked it back in his waistcoat pocket.

  “The games should begin in a quarter of an hour. Would you care to stroll over to the field?” He offered his hand and she nodded and rose. His lady had exceeded his expectations so far. With luck, the rest of the day would do as well. “We can shop along the way, if you like.”

  She beamed at him, making his knees weak.

  “That would be fun, Nash. I’d love to see some of the local wares. We will not, however, be sampling Mr. Micklefield’s ale.”

  He chuckled at the vehemence in her voice. “Agreed. There are plenty of other food booths if you’ve a mind for tasting.”

  Nash led her first to Mrs. Faison’s stall, with the beautiful plaid shawls and scarves. Charlotte made much over a blue-and-green-patterned scarf, though when he offered to buy it for her, she shook her head.

  “Allow me to spend my own money, please, my lord.” The twinkle in her eyes told him she was enjoying herself immensely.

  “By all means, my lady.” He gestured for her to proceed and she quickly paid for two items, the blue-and-green scarf and a shawl of mingled green and gold. Mrs. Faison wrapped and tied them in brown paper and string and held it out to Nash.

  “I’m sure you wouldn’t want the lady burdened, my lord,” the woman said with a wink.

  “You are correct, Mrs. Faison.” Nash grabbed the package and followed Charlotte, who had moved to the next stall, where Mr. Tillman had set out all manner of knives.

  Booth by booth, they made their way through the bustling crowd toward the playing field. The games must have begun, but he was loath to urge Charlotte to hurry. She seemed the happiest he’d ever seen her, genuinely engaged with the different crafts. She had even begun to exchange pleasantries with the various merchants. He hated to put an end to her pleasure.

  As they neared a stall that sold baked goods, Nash spied a booth just beyond. He grabbed Charlotte’s hand.

  “Nash! What are you doing?”

  “You’ll see,” he said, pulling her along until they stood before Mrs. Hammond’s wares.

  “What are these?” Charlotte picked up one of the small figures made of strands of wheat.

  “Corn dollies, my lady,” Mrs. Hammond replied, placing several different designs of the little dolls in front of Charlotte. “They’re made from the last sheaf of wheat from last year’s harvest and are supposed to bring good luck to the next harvest.”

  Charlotte smiled delightedly. “Then I must have one, to bring me good luck as well.”

  “And you must allow me to buy it for you, Charlotte.” Nash pulled some coins out of his pocket. “I insist.” He handed them to Mrs. Hammond, who nodded and smiled. “Do you like this design?”

  Charlotte turned the little figure this way and that. “Yes. She’s the one I want.” It had a head and arms and her lower half resembled a skirt. She clutched the corn dolly to her, looking for all the world like a little girl with her first doll. A shy smile crept over her face. “Thank you, Nash. That was very sweet. And I do need all the luck I can get.”

  He took her arm and they continued toward the games area. “The dollies aren’t just for good luck either. They were originally to ensure fertility—”

  “What!” Charlotte stopped dead and spun toward him. Her face drained of color until it resembled the cold moon. She thrust the corn dolly from her, staring at it in abject horror, and dropped it, as though it suddenly burned her hands.

  Military reflexes still intact, Nash bent and snatched the little figure before it could hit the muddy ground. He held the dolly out to Charlotte. She backed away from him, revulsion frozen on her face. After two steps, she turned and fled over the field, away from the stalls and the games
area, making for a stand of trees in the distance.

  “Charlotte!” He raced after her, pushing himself because she ran as though hellhounds breathed down her neck. What the devil had gotten into her? He caught up to her just as she reached the woods. His hand shot out and grasped her elbow, spinning her around to face him. “Charlotte!” He grabbed both her arms, afraid she would try to bolt again.

  Misery looked out of her haunted eyes.

  The horror of it hit him like a punch to the gut. Christ, he was an unthinking fool. She could be carrying Kersey’s child and here he was prattling about corn dollies and fertility.

  “Don’t look at me.” She squeezed out of his grasp and shrank away. Her arms stole around her waist as she clutched herself. One hand came up to cover her face and she wept.

  His first instinct to comfort, he crept up behind her but hesitated, unsure how she would react to his touch. Her sobbing grew to a steady wail he could not abide for long. Driven to desperation by her keening, he slid his arms around her.

  She stiffened, though the sobs did not abate.

  “P . . . please don’t, N . . . Nash.” His name seemed to unleash a greater floodgate. She cried as though her heart had broken. He turned her toward him and she burrowed into his chest, crying in earnest. At a loss, he simply held her fast, willing calm into her body. At last she quieted.

  Nash took a deep breath and raised her unhappy face, streaked with tears and blotched with red and white patches. Deep sorrow rimmed her eyes.

  She drew a watery breath and said, “Oh, Nash. I’m ruined. I’m completely ruined.”

  Chapter 29

  “What do you mean, Charlotte? Is this about the other night?” Nash peered into her woebegone face, his heart aching. He couldn’t help her if she wouldn’t allow him to.

  She shook her head and shrugged out of his arms. “It doesn’t matter anymore.” Tucking her head down, she headed once again toward the woods.