The Viscount’s Widowed Lady

by Maggie Andersen

  Why did he so often make sense? She brushed down her skirts, which were already dreadfully crushed, and was forced to agree. She wasn’t a shy, green girl; she just didn’t want to inflame his passions. It would take very little encouragement, she suspected. But her underwear covered her and was perfectly modest. “The bed is too small. A gentleman would sleep in the chair.”

  His eyebrows flew up. “It’s made of wood.”

  “Obviously.”

  He flapped a hand in dismissal. “I intend to sleep in that bed, my lady. Where you choose to sleep is entirely up to you.” He sat and pulled off his stockings. “I’m going downstairs to wash at the pump. While I’m away, you can undress and hide beneath the covers.” He paused, one hand on the doorknob. “Again, do you require help to undo those impossible little buttons at your back?”

  “Odd that this problem didn’t occur to me when I chose to wear it.” Her lips puckered in annoyance. While they were arguing, what remained of the night was passing. She turned her back. “If you will.” If he treated her like a servant, she would do likewise.

  Her hair had begun to escape the topknot, and she swept it up out of the way, scattering pins. She tingled under the gentle touch of his fingers as they moved down her back. Her gown fell away. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m unlacing your stays. You can’t sleep in this uncomfortable garment!”

  “I had intended to,” she said, pulling away as he tugged at the laces. Too late, she felt them give.

  “You have lovely hair, Althea,” he said softly.

  His use of her name was very seductive. Her pulse skittered alarmingly. She spun around, clutching the bodice of her dress to her chest as her stays slipped to the floor.

  Montsimon looked her up and down, warm approval in his gaze.

  She backed away from him, longing for the shelter of darkness. “Once I’m in bed, shall I blow out the candle?”

  “If you wish.” Montsimon closed the door behind him.

  With a relieved sigh, Althea slipped out of her dress and added it and her stays to the chair with the rest of their clothes. At least he had not removed anything else! Or would he? She splashed water into the bowl and washed as best she could. Her hair was in a tangle, she loosely braided it then gathered up the pins and left them on the dresser for the morning. She blew out the candle and darkness enveloped her like a soft veil.

  Once in bed, she scooted over near the wall, leaving as much space for him as she could. She rubbed her eyes, itchy with tiredness, and rested her head on the pillow with a sigh. What an extraordinary evening. Montsimon would never understand why she feared intimacy and physical contact. He would have made love to many exciting and winsome women. Brookwood had accused her of being boring in bed. Her chest tightened and she lost her breath at the mere thought of the act. Somehow, she would get through this night. Unsure of what Montsimon might choose to do, she closed her eyes and feigned sleep. A gentleman would never force himself on her while she slept. Surely.

  The door opened and closed. A bang was followed by a muttered curse.

  Curiosity got the better of her. “What happened?”

  “I knocked my head on a ceiling beam.” Montsimon’s warm breath touched her face, smelling of ale. The bed creaked as he lay down. The mattress sloped alarmingly, and she rolled against a hard body. She inhaled sharply at the contact.

  “Hello.” Montsimon’s voice filled with interest.

  “You are too heavy,” Althea spluttered. “It’s like sleeping on the edge of a cliff.”

  “There’s not much I can do about it,” he said, expressing little regret as he stretched his long limbs.

  “You could leave.” Althea breathed in Montsimon’s manly smell mixed with horse, linen, and some woody fragrance. She turned over to face the wall. All her senses had leapt to life. It was impossible to sleep like this.

  *

  In the dark, Flynn gave a wry grin. A sweet perfume wafted in the air. He lay temptingly close to a deliciously rounded body. A soft derriere had settled against his side, and judging by the lady’s breathing, she had already fallen asleep. It was sobering. He had not failed to stir a woman’s interest since he’d been a callow youth!

  An image of Althea naked beneath him, mewing in pleasure, caused blood to rush to his groin. With reluctance, he banished the picture from his mind. He had seen how Althea’s beautiful eyes darkened when he’d begun to disrobe. Her pretense of a lack of desire didn’t fool him. She was a woman who needed loving as much as breathing, and why she rejected it so forcefully was a puzzle he was determined to solve. Sometime soon, he would rouse her to passion. But it would be unwise to try now. He struggled to gain self-control and shut his eyes. To cool his ardor, he began to recite the lines of Coleridge’s The Ancient Mariner under his breath.

  Flynn woke to the cockerel crow, surprised to find he had slept soundly. Weak rays of sunlight flowed through the high window and fell upon a lock of silky, pale blonde hair on his shoulder. A warm, fragrant body lay close beside him, her soft thigh touching his. She appeared tranquil and unsullied. He was relieved that in the fog of sleep he hadn’t mistaken her for his last mistress. His gaze roamed over her as he drew in her sweet perfection, the porcelain dewy skin and rosy lips, slightly open, begging to be kissed. While he was struggling with the impulse, she suddenly gave a soft snore. It broke the trance, and he couldn’t help chuckling.

  She opened her eyes and stared at him. Consciousness returned, and she scuttled back close to the wall. She sat up and, as if remembering her dishabille, pulled the covers up over her chest. “Why were you laughing?”

  “I don’t think I was. You must have been dreaming.” He chuckled again.

  She eyed him with suspicion. “I think you should dress.”

  Flynn threw back the covers. “I could eat a whole pig,” he said. “I believe I hear Mrs. Fletcher in the kitchen below.”

  She smiled. “Oh good. I wonder what’s for breakfast.”

  He pulled on his boots and glanced up at her. “I like a woman with a healthy appetite.”

  She wrinkled her nose without comment.

  “I hope the son has returned with the trap. I’d like to leave immediately after breakfast.” He rasped his hand over his jaw. “I wonder if Mr. Fletcher will lend me his razor.”

  “You look like a buccaneer.”

  He huffed out a laugh and eyed her speculatively. “Be careful, my dear, I may be tempted to act like one.”

  Her eyes sparkled. “No. You’re more like a diplomat in need of a shave. A pirate would be considerably wilder and rougher than you.”

  “I’m not sure whether to take that as a compliment or an insult.” Determined to one day show her how very like a buccaneer he could be in bed, he donned his gray waistcoat and did up the silver buttons. He held his cravat in his hands and glanced around. “No mirror.”

  “I’ll help you once I’m dressed.”

  He wanted her hands on him and attempted a smile of appeal. “Can’t you tie it for me now? A gentleman isn’t seen without his cravat.”

  She frowned. “Very well, come here.”

  He knelt on the bed beside her. The coverlet fell, and he gained an enticing view of rounded breasts, the nipples a dusky pink beneath the thin fabric of her shift. His breath caught, and his fingers itched.

  “Raise your chin,” she said sternly. “You do need to shave.”

  He lifted his head and saw she had colored up. Her fingers worked at his cravat. Gentle and sure. He drew in her womanly scent, warm from the bed. Her soft hair tickled his chin. A swift overwhelming tenderness took him by surprise. His heart thudded.

  “There.” She moved away. “Now will you go and allow me to dress?”

  “Thank you, my lady.”

  Montsimon grabbed his coat and left the room. He stood outside in the corridor, wanting to go back and make some sort of declaration. I want to make love to you. I wish to keep you safe from harm. But Althea knew this already. He would no
t confess to loving her. He hated men who lied to women just to get them into bed. For what was love? A brief possession, which failed to stand the test of time. He shrugged and descended the stairs as the delicious aroma of frying bacon wafted up. He doubted anything he might say to Althea now would be accepted with pleasure.

  Chapter Twelve

  As they tucked into the lavish spread which Mrs. Fletcher prepared for them, their son, Robert, arrived from Canterbury, where he worked at an inn. A good-natured fellow, he agreed to drive them in the trap after breakfast. His father reddened with pleasure when Flynn bestowed his horse upon him. Fletcher and his wife bowed them out of sight as the trap took off down the dusty road.

  “How are we to get home? By stage?” Althea raised her eyebrows at him as they were jolted along on the trap’s hard seat.

  “Do you prefer to ride back to London on the horse with me?”

  “I do not.” She wrinkled her little nose at him again. He’d rather like to kiss it.

  “My carriage. Ben will turn up with it shortly.”

  Flynn admired Althea’s pale, pretty face, and eyes like the sky in mid-summer. She wore a plain straw hat belonging to Mrs. Fletcher; tendrils of fair hair curled at her neck. She was not as delicate as she appeared. He liked that she’d tidied herself without complaint or bemoaning the absence of her abigail. Her only protest came when he laced her stays and did up her buttons. A job he was beginning to enjoy.

  They arrived in Canterbury before noon and climbed down from the trap outside the Old Gate Inn, a three-story, whitewashed building, its end wall covered in a thick mat of ivy. Flynn was confident the plotters had either not yet arrived or would still be abed.

  The innkeeper’s look of surprise turned to concern when Flynn related his fabricated story of a carriage accident. “It’s fortunate I have a bedchamber free, my lord,” the innkeeper said, puffing out his chest. “I’ve several gentlemen occupying my best rooms and my private parlor has been reserved for today.”

  “So early? I had hoped to engage your parlor,” Flynn said.

  The innkeeper reddened and scratched his head with his pencil. “I have no other to offer you, my lord. I’ve never had such a demand for my parlor! Mr. Brownley asked me to hold it for him yesterday. He has reserved the room for most of the day.”

  “Perhaps I might speak with him. Is he traveling with family?”

  “No, my lord. He’s here with two other gentlemen.”

  “Ah. Business. Perhaps not then.”

  When they entered the inn’s modest bedchamber, Flynn removed Althea’s cape. “You must remain here until I return. Keep out of sight.”

  She shrugged. “I don’t see why.”

  “You could do with some rest.” He put a hand on her bare arm, her skin soft beneath his fingers, and tried not to eye the bed. “You’ve barely slept.”

  “I don’t feel tired.” Althea wriggled out of his grasp. “I wish you would tell me more.” Her tongue darted out to lick her bottom lip and sent an unwanted message to his brain. “Is there some reason why you cannot?”

  Flynn forced his gaze away from her mouth. “You don’t expect me to answer that, do you?”

  “You have answered it,” she said coolly. “I could be of help to you, if you’d be honest with me.”

  “Thank you. I believe you do wish to.” He’d long suspected Althea to be stifled by the life she’d been forced into by men who didn’t give a damn about her. Might she have begun to enjoy the escapade? Now he had only to keep her safe, then, when they returned to London, well… he’d deal with that later. He walked over to where she’d removed her bonnet and was tidying her hair before the mirror.

  He cupped her shoulders, meeting her gaze in the glass. “I am guilt-ridden at those shadows beneath your lovely eyes.”

  “I’m sure you’re tired, too. I daresay we both will recover.” Althea smiled and ducked under his arm, walking to the window. He came to stand beside her. She leaned on the sill and stared down at the street where barrels were unloaded from a dray. A ginger cat perched on a wall watching. “What do you plan to do whilst I’m whiling away the hours here?”

  “I shan’t be far away if you need me.”

  “At shouting or running distance?”

  He grinned and gently stroked down her cheek with a finger, aware of how flawless and kissable her skin was. “Ring for a servant. They will find me.”

  She frowned. “I wonder if the proprietor’s wife has a book or magazine I might read to amuse myself.”

  “Excellent idea. I’ll go and ask.”

  He descended the stairs in search of the innkeeper’s wife, wishing he was more confident Althea would stay put. Would it have been safer to leave her in London? Was it fair that he’d brought her here for his own peace of mind?

  *

  Althea picked up the ladies’ magazine Montsimon sent up and flipped idly through it again. The fashions were several years old, and the pages held even less interest than when she’d first perused them. No woman with taste would ever have been seen in that atrocity of a hat! She dropped the magazine and listened to the raucous sounds of laughter and bursts of song, which floated up from the busy taproom, on the alert for Montsimon’s return. Why did he come here? And what was he doing now? He had ordered her to stay in the room, in his annoyingly officious manner, trying to make her see the sense of it. But there were times when commonsense stifled one and should be ignored. Did he think her bird-witted and unable to think for herself? Might he behave toward all women like that or only her? It was insulting!

  She narrowed her eyes. He’d expressed interest in the men who’d engaged the parlor. Might he have joined them? And if so, for what reason? He had not sought a solemn promise from her to remain here all day. She would have to visit the water closet again at some point. Had that not occurred to him? She opened the door a crack, determined to discover something for herself.

  A surprised maid stood in the corridor holding a tray of food. “Your luncheon, your ladyship.” She entered and placed the selection of cold meats, pickled cucumber, crusty bread, and cheese upon a small table, and added the glass of claret.

  The wine was Montsimon’s attempt to appease her. Well, she was grateful for it. “Thank you. What is your name?”

  The ginger-haired, comely maid bobbed. “Sophie, your ladyship.”

  “Is my husband about, Sophie? I have need of him.”

  “Would you like me to give him a message?”

  “No, that’s not necessary. Just tell me where he is.”

  “His lordship was in the taproom moments ago. He instructed me to serve your luncheon. But I’m not sure where he has gone.”

  “Where is the private parlor?”

  “It’s the room at the end of the corridor, my lady.”

  “Perhaps my husband is there?”

  “He was not when I took the three gentlemen a jug of wine.”

  “Just now?”

  “No, it was closer to an hour ago, my lady.”

  “I might know them. Can you describe them?”

  The maid scratched her nose. “Can’t say, your ladyship. I’m not one to take much notice.”

  Althea smiled. “You’re a pretty girl, Sophie. I’m sure they would take notice of you.”

  Sophie giggled. “One man told me I had a nice smile. Gave me a silver coin, he did.”

  “How kind. Did he say his name?”

  “No, my lady. He was an older man. Quite the gentleman he was.”

  “Older, how? Was his back bent? Did he use a cane?”

  Sophie worried at her lip. “No. He was spritely. But his hair was gray.”

  “What about the other two men?”

  “Neither was gray-haired, my lady.” She rubbed her chin. “One had red hair, and the other was bald as an egg.” She giggled.

  “I doubt I do know them. You’ve been most helpful, Sophie, thank you.”

  Althea wished she could give the girl a tip. She sat and ate the food. It was t
asty, and the claret was a good vintage. The meal quite replenished her energy.

  More restless than ever, she opened the door. The empty corridor tempted her. After a moment’s hesitation, she slipped out to tiptoe along it. At the far end, she placed her ear against the door but heard nothing of the conversation beyond a murmur. A sudden scrape of chairs and the voices grew louder. Althea ran back to her room. Before she reached it, the parlor door opened. She glimpsed a man in the corridor before scuttling inside. She turned the key and leaned against the door, her heart banging against her ribs.

  She stirred uneasily. She’d met that man socially although his name escaped her. Might he have recognized her? But why should it matter if he did? She wished she knew more of what went on there and wondered uneasily if she’d been foolish to go against Montsimon’s wishes.

  Someone tapped on the door.

  Unsure whether to open it, Althea waited and held her breath.

  They rapped again. Sharper.

  “Who is it?”

  “Althea, for heaven’s sake, open the door,” Montsimon said.

  “Oh!” Althea unlocked it. “Montsimon!” So relieved, she fought the urge to hug him, and then his sharp questioning gaze dampened her enthusiasm. She drew in a deep breath and strolled away from him.

  He followed her. “Who did you think it was?” Those sharp gray eyes of his studied her intently as if he could read her mind. “You did not leave the room?”

  “Well, here I am, am I not?” She smiled. “Thank you for luncheon and the periodicals.”

  He raised an eyebrow.

  She reached up. “What is this in your hair?” She plucked a leaf from his head. “Ivy?” She tilted her head. “How did a leaf get in your hair?”

  “I have been outside.”

  “Doing what? Did they engage you as their gardener?” She widened her smile, but he folded his arms and refused to answer. He was very difficult to interrogate. Far better at distracting her. Every line of his body revealed how tense he was. He was making her jittery. “Has your business been successful?”

  Montsimon exhaled on an exasperated breath. “Althea, I can’t keep you safe if you disobey me. Don’t be tempted to move about the inn. Ben will arrive in an hour or so.”