Merry Widows 02: Just One Of Those Flings

by Candice Hern

  "He is rather attractive," Beatrice said, "in a lanky, boyish sort of way. And that smile is devastating. He quite charmed me with it the first time we met."

  "He is meant for your niece, my Artemis, not for you. I want you all to myself. In fact, come with me." He turned to walk back toward the entrance. Surely he did not mean to seduce her here, at another ball. "You are not to take me into the garden, Thayne. We cannot do that again."

  "Not the garden," he said. "But I took time to learn the lay of the land here at Oscott House before you arrived. There's a nice, dark little alcove just around this corner."

  Beatrice understood what he meant to happen in that alcove. He was going to kiss her, at the very least. She ought not to allow it. One dance with Mr. Burnett did not relieve them of the problem of Emily, and Beatrice had been determined to resolve that issue before allowing herself to be seduced again by Thayne. And yet here she was, abandoning all her best intentions to accompany him to some dark corner so that he could kiss her. Her desire for the wretched man was too powerful to resist.

  Thayne casually strolled toward his destination, not touching Beatrice or even standing close. At least he maintained propriety in public. When the few people wandering about had disappeared into the ballroom, Thayne pulled her into the dark recess beneath the stairs.

  He tugged her against his chest, and kissed her. She resisted at first, instinctively, without thought, as though the wrongness of it was elemental. He felt it, and pulled back, lifting his head and staring down at her with eyes so dark they appeared black.

  "Why?" He kept his arms around her, holding her close. Her hands were pressed flat against his chest.

  "Because we should not be together."

  "Why? And don't tell me it's because of your niece. We have settled that business. She has nothing to do with us."

  "I can't help feeling guilty. You were seen to be her suitor and it feels wrong to be with you. But that is not the only reason." "Then why?"

  "We're wrong for each other. I'm too old for you—"

  "Don't be silly. You are not too old."

  "I am a respectable widow with children—did you know I have two daughters?—and you're the Marquess of Thayne, Society's golden prize, the gleam in every hopeful mother's eye. Everyone knows you are looking for a bride."

  "I am not offering matrimony to you, Beatrice."

  "I know."

  "Is that what you want? An offer of marriage?"

  "Good God, no. I have been married. I am done with marriage."

  "Then there is no problem, is there? Yes, I will marry before the end of the year, probably to one of the girls in the next room. But in the meantime, there is us. There is this."

  And he kissed her again, in slow, succulent bites as though savoring a sweetmeat. This time, just as instinctively as she had closed up and rejected him before, she now opened like a new blossom and welcomed him. Her hands slid up his chest and over his shoulders, finally wrapping around his neck and pulling him down. She opened her mouth and touched her tongue to his. He accepted the invitation and set up a dance between their tongues more lush and exciting than anything happening in the ballroom next door.

  She had tried so hard to make this attraction to him wrong, but it felt so right. Her mind spun back to the garden, the darkness, the cool night air, his flesh against hers, and suddenly she knew she had to have him again. Age, be damned. Emily, be damned. Everyone and everything, be damned.

  His mouth left hers and trailed lower, over her arched neck and down to the tops of her breasts, pushed up into firm mounds by tight stays. His tongue dipped into the cleft between her breasts, and she let out a little groan.

  "Stop, please," she said, though it was truly the last thing she wanted. "Not here. Please. Someone may walk by."

  He lifted his head and loosened his arms. He looked down at her with eyes so full of raw desire she felt weak in the knees. "No," he said in a rough whisper, "not here. But somewhere. Yes?"

  She studied his face, almost drowning in the depths of his dark eyes. Lord, how she did want him. Could she really do this? Could she put aside all the objections she knew to be reasonable and right and take him as her lover?

  "Yes?" he repeated.

  "Yes."

  And suddenly, his face broke into a wide grin, slightly smug, as if to remind her that he always got what he wanted. He brought one of her hands to his lips, then made a sort of growl. "Blasted gloves." He bent to kiss the end of her nose instead, and it made her giggle.

  "You have obsessed me, you know. I think of nothing but you."

  "Oh." She smiled at such earnest passion.

  "When?" he asked. "How soon? Tonight?"

  "No, not tonight. And I have so many obligations as Emily's chaperone. Oh, I cannot begin to imagine how we will manage it."

  "There are twenty-four hours in the day, my huntress. Surely we can find one or two for ourselves. Leave it to me. But where? Your house?"

  "Oh, dear. No, no, we cannot go there. Emily is staying with me, for one thing, and I have two daughters underfoot, as well, not so many years younger than Emily. How am I to teach them propriety if they find me in bed with a man? No, I cannot risk bringing you home."

  "And I am staying at my father's house. It is big enough to hide in, as you have seen, but it would be difficult to get you in unnoticed. There are too damned many servants about. I trip over one every time I turn around. And the gossip belowstairs is rampant, and tends to make its way upstairs eventually. And the duchess is everywhere. One never knows when one might run into her."

  "Oh, no, that would not do. I would hate to come out of your bedchamber and crash into your mother."

  "Egad, no. I have bought a house on Cavendish Square, but it is not ready to move into yet. There are carpenters and plasterers everywhere—the place is littered with ladders and scaffolding and paint buckets and lumber. I'm afraid we can't go there yet."

  "Oh." The deep disappointment she suddenly felt was rather comical when one considered that only a moment ago she had been entirely opposed to the business of a love affair with him. Now, after only a few kisses, she could not wait for it.

  "I'll think of something," Thayne said, and led her out of the dark alcove and into the hallway. "I promise. I will send round a note when everything is arranged."

  Beatrice was almost bursting with anticipation and hoped that note would not be long coming. And she hoped they would not have to resort to some tawdry hideaway. Or another garden wall.

  As they entered the ballroom again—keeping a decorous distance between them so no one would guess they were anything more than acquaintances— they came upon Wilhelmina and Penelope, who were standing just beyond the entrance and involved in

  what looked to be a serious conversation. Penelope caught Beatrice's eye and waved her over. Thayne followed.

  "Good evening, ladies," Beatrice said. "You remember Lord Thayne?"

  Penelope smiled brightly and cast a quick, knowing glance at Beatrice before addressing the marquess. "Of course. It is good to see you again, my lord."

  Thayne demonstrated his impeccable breeding by remembering each of their names, and making an elegant bow before them. "Your Grace," he said to Wilhelmina. "I am pleased to meet you again. And Lady Gosforth. You are both looking exceptionally lovely this evening."

  "Bosh," Penelope said. "Beatrice—Lady Somerfield, that is—puts us all in the shade with that marvelous Pomona green dress."

  "Have you two been dancing?" Wilhelmina asked. "You are looking a trifle flushed, my dear."

  Penelope placed her fan over her face to hide a giggle.

  "No, we were only . . . talking," Beatrice said, though they would both know what had really been going on. "But I am a bit parched. Perhaps I ought to track down some punch."

  "Allow me," Thayne said. "And you, Lady Gosforth? May I bring a glass for you, as well?"

  "I'd like nothing more, thank you," she said.

  "And you, Duchess?"

&n
bsp; "No, thank you, but I will walk along with you, if you do not mind. I need to speak with Lord Ingleby, who is on the other side of the room."

  "It will be my pleasure," Thayne said, and offered his arm to Wilhelmina. She took it, and they walked off together.

  "Heavens, but he is attractive," Penelope said after they'd gone. "And that was very kind of him to offer his arm to Wilhelmina. She is so often ignored at these events, despite her title."

  "People can be very cruel," Beatrice said. "Her blood may not run blue, but she has more character in her little finger than anyone in this room, our duchess does."

  "But what about Lord Thayne?" Penelope's voice grew excited, though she kept it pitched low. "What is happening between you? It is obvious that you have just been kissed."

  "Is it so obvious?" Beatrice lifted a hand to her cheek.

  "To one who knows you. Well, then, if you've been kissing, then you must have decided to take him as your lover after all."

  "I have, God help me. Oh, Penelope, I hope I am not making a fool of myself."

  "Of course you aren't. The man can't tear his eyes from you. You are not a fool. You are a lucky woman. So, when is it to be?"

  "We have not yet contrived a plan. Neither of us can bring the other home and flaunt our relationship to our families."

  "That's true. But you'll figure something out."

  "That's what Thayne said."

  "Then trust him to do so. He looks like a man who generally gets what he wants."

  "Yes, he is." And he wants me. Beatrice began to laugh, feeling almost giddy at the thought that such a beautiful young man wanted her.

  Perhaps she was not so very old after all.

  Chapter 9

  "What is it, Mama? Bad news?"

  Beatrice looked up at her youngest daughter, who sat across the breakfast table, slathering jam on a slice of buttered bread. Beatrice made an effort to school her features, to affect an air of nonchalance, when she felt quite the opposite. Charlotte, at thirteen, noticed altogether too much. She had certainly caught the brief moment of anxiety Beatrice had felt upon opening the note that had just been delivered by a footman. In fact, very little got past that girl. She had the sort of curiosity that had been landing her in one scrape after the other from the time she could walk. The last thing Beatrice needed was for Charlotte to discover the contents of the note in her hand.

  The note from Lord Thayne.

  "No, dear," Beatrice said, "not bad news. Just a bit of a disappointment regarding a ... a contribution we had anticipated for the Benevolent Widows Fund. Nothing to worry you. In fact, the only thing you should be fretting about is that classical essay Miss Trumbull tells me you haven't yet finished."

  "Oh, bother," Charlotte said, and rolled her eyes. "Who cares about a bunch of silly old gods and goddesses anyway?"

  "You should care," Beatrice said as she surreptitiously slipped the note into her sleeve. "Every well-educated person should have some knowledge of classical mythology."

  "Then perhaps you ought to take me with you to the opera tonight," Charlotte said, tilting her chin at a defiant angle. "Emily says it is all about that Orpheus chap dashing down to Hades to rescue his wife. It might help me to make more sense of it if I saw it onstage."

  Emily, at the other end of the table, suddenly came alive. "Oh, no, Aunt Beatrice. Please do not inflict the infant on us tonight. I am going to wear my brand-new pink dress and try to catch a certain gentleman's eye. Charlotte would ruin everything with her constant chatter and her total lack of decorum."

  "I have decorum!" Charlotte said. "Loads of it, if only I were given a chance to display it." She turned a plaintive look on her mother.

  Beatrice smiled. "Of course you have decorum, my love. You can be a very proper young lady when you want to be. But you will have to wait a few more years to show off your good manners to Society."

  "Does that mean I do not get to go with you tonight?"

  "Why should you?" Beatrice's quieter daughter, Georgiana, finally spoke up. "I'm two years older than you and I don't get to go. You must wait your turn just like everyone else."

  Charlotte sank back against her chair and pouted. The poor girl was so anxious to be grown-up. Having Emily around this Season, to see how full and exciting a young woman's social life could be, had been exhilarating for both girls. Charlotte, though, had become a trial for her governess, preferring to hear about Emily's evenings out than to study history and French and music.

  "Don't be so glum, Charlotte, my love," Beatrice said. "You and Georgie may join me tomorrow in the drawing room when I am at home to visitors. That is, if you finish your essay. Would you like that?"

  Charlotte's blue eyes grew wide with excitement. "May I? Truly?" She loved it when Beatrice allowed her to mingle with visitors. She was much more gregarious than her older sister, and was not the least uncomfortable chatting with visitors. But she was just as likely to sit quietly and listen, hoping to pick up bits of gossip. Charlotte loved gossip. Beatrice supposed it made her feel more a part of Society, to know everything that went on, but she worried that the girl would hear things she was too young to understand and had no business knowing.

  "If you promise to put on your best manners and sit quietly. And not to speak unless you are specifically addressed."

  "I promise."

  "And if you finish the essay."

  "I'll finish it! I will! I promise."

  "Then you had better get to work, my girl."

  "Yes, ma'am." She got up quickly, her red curls bouncing, and moved away from the breakfast table. "C'mon, Georgie."

  After the girls left, Beatrice turned to Emily. "What are your plans for the day?" she asked.

  "Caroline Whittier wants me to go shopping with her. Then that odious Mr. Burnett has invited me to drive in the park with him this afternoon. He simply would not take no for an answer. But he is Lord Thayne's particular friend, so I shall get him to talk about the marquess and perhaps I will learn how best to keep his interest."

  "Mr. Burnett seems a perfectly charming young man," Beatrice said. "You seem to have attracted his particular interest."

  Emily gave a dismissive wave. "He does not matter. It is Lord Thayne I intend to have."

  "But, my dear, you cannot force the marquess to take an interest in you. It might do you well to look elsewhere."

  "Why are you suddenly so set against the marquess?" Emily asked in a peevish tone. "At first you were determined that I should bring him up to scratch. Now you seem determined that he will not come around, but he will. Eventually. And his mother likes me. She will sing my praises to him, I have no doubt. I don't mean to sound vain, but there are no other eligible girls as pretty as me. Lord Thayne will recognize that soon enough. He will tire of that odious Lady Sarah Addison, who has been practically throwing herself at him. Or Lady Emmeline Standish. None of them are as pretty as me."

  "Perhaps beauty is not as important to him as it is to some men," Beatrice said. "You know, my dear, that your father is merely a baronet. Lord Thayne's father is a duke. He may be looking higher. His recent lack of interest may have nothing to do with you at all, but only with rank."

  Emily gave an unladylike snort, but then grew pensive as she finished her breakfast. Hopefully she was beginning to see, at last, that Lord Thayne might actually be unattainable, despite her beauty. Beatrice prayed that was so, and not only for her own sake, but for Emily's. The girl needed to learn that she could not always rely on her looks to get her everything in life she desired.

  If only she could make Ophelia believe it, as well.

  After breakfast, Beatrice returned to her bedchamber and closed the door. She sat on the bed and slipped the folded note from inside her sleeve. She had not had a moment to contemplate its message while surrounded by three young girls. In fact, she had read only the signature and the first line before Charlotte had noted her anxiety. Beatrice had refolded the note without reading beyond that rather stunning first sentence.


  It is arranged.

  He had done it. Somehow he had contrived a plan for them to meet, to be together again, to make love.

  It had probably been for the best that she had received the note while in the company of the girls, for she had not had time or opportunity to dwell on its import. Now that she was alone, she could give in to every anxious, excited, nervous twinge that had been stifled in the breakfast room.