The Viscount’s Widowed Lady

by Maggie Andersen

He raised an eyebrow. “A likely story.”

  Her eyes danced. “We have our superstitions in England. And I saw no sense in taking unnecessary risks.”

  “When you look at me like that, I want to kiss you,” Flynn said. He tightened his arm around her, pulling her soft body against his. “Again and again. Until you grow tired of me.”

  “Silly man. I shall never grow tired of you or your kisses. You might kiss me now, but our guests have begun to arrive.”

  The new footman, resplendent in uniform, stepped down to perform his duties with suitable gravity. He had been a welcome addition to the staff, freeing Quinn, having regained his health and vigor, to scuttle about behind the scenes.

  Friends had come from England, and the house had been filled with bright chatter for days. King George sent his felicitations, along with delicate confectionaries like works of art from his patisserie chef and boxes of French champagne. Lady Catherine, recently returned from the Continent, arrived, and gave her warm approval, after stating that Flynn could afford to hire more staff and make further improvements after she died. Flynn suspected the service was not what she was used to. No doubt, she’d hoped her niece would choose to marry a wealthy Englishman.

  The woodwork in the great hall had been polished until it shone and the fine crystal chandeliers sparkled. The air was a blended bouquet of smoky beeswax, flowers, and the ladies’ perfume. His mother’s portrait now hung where it belonged amongst his ancestors. Under the newly expanded staff, the house ran smoothly. The small feminine touches Althea had wrought made Flynn proud to welcome his friends to his home.

  And they had all come.

  Flynn and Althea cut the cake as the Irish Wedding Song was sung. Then Dr. O’Leary stepped forward. He raised his glass. “May all your joys be pure joy and all your pain champagne.”

  Glasses clinked, and a cry “Sláinte!” resounded throughout the room.

  After the newlyweds were toasted with honey mead, the champagne flowed, and a trio in the musician’s gallery struck up a waltz. Applauded by the guests, Flynn swung Althea into the circle of his arms. Her beautiful blue eyes held his. “Do you remember the first time we danced?”

  “I remember every moment spent in your company.”

  She grinned. “I hope you don’t. I was rather rude.”

  “Were you? I didn’t notice.”

  Her cheeks flushed. “I’m sorry for it now.”

  “You have many years ahead to make amends.” He drew her closer. “Beginning tonight.”

  “Yes, tonight.” Her smiled promised such delight that Flynn’s body tightened. He tamped down his impatience and gazed around at the friends who had come to wish them well.

  Guy’s wife, Horatia, spun by in her husband’s arms, her brown eyes full of mischievous laughter. Earlier, she had confessed to Flynn that she hadn’t the heart to scold a wounded man for taking her husband on a dangerous mission. Flynn was confident that Guy would settle down once more on his estate, already deeply involved in modern methods of farming.

  “I like Hetty’s brown dress,” Flynn said. “Unusual.”

  “Hetty has the figure to carry off such a gown,” Althea said with a sigh. She wrinkled her nose. “And brown is hardly a good description. It’s mustard silk and taffeta. Did you take note of her ankle-length tippet? It’s the first stare of fashion.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “It is? I must compliment her on her style.”

  “She has such a trim waist. I suspect she is wearing one of the latest corsets.”

  “Then perhaps I won’t. I don’t wish to encourage the fashion,” Flynn said. “And what might Sibella’s gown be called?”

  “Delicate gauze like a spider’s web threaded with gold. She looks like she might float away. I always wanted to be taller.”

  “Isn’t it lucky that you weren’t, when I like you smaller?”

  “You said talking to me gave you a crick in the neck,” Althea said as they turned on the floor.

  “I have given considerable thought to that.” Flynn smiled. “We shall lie down to talk.”

  “Oh you.” Her blue eyes danced. She looked so fully alive that he pulled her hard against him.

  In a froth of apricot, Sibella swirled by on John’s arm. She had not sought Flynn’s promise that John would never be required for such a venture again. A canny woman, she no doubt knew John was not a man to be managed. Unlikely he’d reenter the spying game though. Nowadays his was a voice to be heard in Parliament, already shaping up to be the equal of his father, something few had anticipated. Flynn highly approved. If only he could have such a future for himself here in Ireland.

  Flynn breathed in Althea’s perfume, attar of roses. After the dance, he escorted her from the floor. They went to speak to friends, as many would be gone tomorrow, and he very much doubted he and Althea would make it to breakfast.

  *

  The house was quiet when Althea entered their bedchamber in her dressing gown. Flynn sat by the fire in his patterned silk banyan. She was nervous. She’d saved her news for this moment. She went and climbed onto his lap, reaching up to stoke back his thick hair from his brow. “I have something to tell you.”

  His arms came around her. “It can’t be…”

  “Yes. When we make our plans, we have another whose needs we must consider.”

  He leaned back to study her face. “A baby?” He inhaled sharply. “Darling! You’re sure?”

  She nodded, her smile widening. “I didn’t believe it possible, after… I’m in my third month. I waited to be sure before I told you. I want so much for it to be true. To give you an heir.”

  “Let the future take care of itself. A daughter is as welcome as a son.” He rested his head against her breast. “I just want you here with me, safe and in good health.”

  She stroked his hair. “I’m in perfect health, Flynn.”

  He framed her face with his hands and pressed his lips to hers. “My love. I’m so grateful you took a chance on me.”

  “I never wanted anyone but you. You drew me out of my fog of despair and banished my sad past with your humor and your kindness and your love. You make me feel alive, Flynn.”

  His arms wrapped tighter around her, and his mouth plundered hers. She opened her mouth to his, tasting of heat and champagne. As a yearning ache spread low in her abdomen, she wiggled against him, warmed by the heat of his body, and wanting more. Intense desire flared between them. “I want you so much,” she murmured, giving in to the delectable sense of expectation and demanding need that washed over her.

  He picked her up and carried her to the bed. Laying her down, he stripped off his banyan. Tall and lean, the perfection of his olive skin was marred only by the puckered redness at his shoulder. It was a badge of courage. She reached for him, her heart full.

  The End