by Megan Bryce
He smiled slightly and hoped his friend could continue to keep this one advantage over her. With Amelia, one needed all the help one could get.
Amelia invited her mother, her brother, and Clarice for dinner in celebration. Jameson’s leg kept him at home so events had to be brought to him.
Jameson said, “I appreciate that I will get to dress up, my dear. But did you have to invite her here?”
“Still afraid of her, hmm?”
He looked at her as if she was dim. “Of course I am still afraid of her. If you have any hope of continuing our marital relations in the next week I propose you stand in front to protect me.”
Amelia replied, “If you have any hope of continuing our marital relations in the next week, you will make nice with her. We will be family soon and I’d just as well not have a feud.”
“That was a low blow.”
“I’d watch for hers.”
He huffed out a breath and hobbled down the stairs, waving off her help. He gripped his new cane and thought he could probably use it as a sort of shield if worse came to worst. He caressed it lovingly, pricking his finger lightly on the sharp teeth just to remind himself that though Miss Underwood might be the more imminent danger, the woman walking beside him would always be the more dangerous of the two. One had to keep her happy, no matter what the physical price might be.
They greeted their guests warmly and Jameson approached Miss Underwood when Amelia led Robin away.
“Miss Underwood.”
Crow was not a dish Jameson was familiar with but he saw it in her eyes. He sighed.
“I hope that you truly care for Robin. He is a better man than I and does not deserve a punishment meant for me.”
“Is that what you believe, Lord Nighting? That I’d marry him to get even with you? Lady Amelia was right. A large head, an even larger ego. I can only assume that you somehow tricked her into marrying you, since she seems to be so brilliant.
“But let me put your mind at ease. I am not marrying Robin because of you. I am marrying him because he is the kindest, most gracious, and most sincere gentleman I’ve ever met. My only regret is that I will now be related to his opposite in every way.”
“I am glad that his relations have not hindered such an harmonious match. My felicitations, Miss Underwood. Lord Beckham is one of the best men I know. Excuse me.”
He headed back toward Amelia, hurt and knowing he deserved it. He only hoped Miss Underwood was truthful with herself. Robin was the best friend a man could have and Jameson hoped they would be happy. He would perhaps warn Robin to watch for her right knee if they ever argued.
“Family dinners will be rousing. Are you happy now that I’ve been insulted, Amelia?”
She slid her hand through his arm and hugged him to her side. She looked into his eyes and smiled. “Yes. Yes, I’m very happy. I hope they will be, too. I think they just might be.” Amelia watched as Robin approached Clarice and she turned to him, completely dismissing Jameson and Amelia. “She did all that with a smile on her face, too. Just think what an excellent countess she will make.”
“Oh, yes. There are not enough countesses in the world who can give a man a good set-down.”
A laugh escaped her. “Not with a smile.”
Amelia waited with her mother as the carriage was brought around. Clarice stood close to Robin a little ways off and they talked quietly as newly-engaged people did.
“Well, I for one am glad that is over.”
Lady Beckham nodded, watching the couple with a small smile. “I would not trouble yourself too much over Clarice and Jameson. A year from now none will remember they were engaged.”
“One can only hope. But will they remember? I like Clarice. I couldn’t hope for a better sister, it’s just she’s not quite forgiven us yet, has she?”
“Of course she hasn’t. She sees you and Jameson happy together and only knows that it was at her expense. She’ll realize one day that her happiness is better than your misery.”
“Do you think she’s marrying Robin to get even with us? I wouldn’t want him hurt.”
“A woman marries for many reasons, as you well know. Whether she truly loves him yet doesn’t matter. She will in time. Robin is very hard not to love.”
Robin helped Clarice and then his mother into the carriage and they departed. Amelia found her husband in bed already, his leg bothering him from so much movement. He held a drink in his hand and shook off her offer of laudanum.
“A fine port will do me for tonight. Come and snuggle with me.”
She laughed and joined him on the bed. “It did not go so horribly, did it?”
“I am as alive and whole as I started the evening. I consider that a success.”
“Me, too.”
He kissed her. “Do I get my reward now?”
“Perhaps tomorrow. I can tell your leg is hurting you.”
“You are too observant by half.”
She yawned. “It is a curse you must bear.”
“Only one of many.”
She snuggled down next to him, smiling. “Indeed.”
The wedding of Clarice Underwood to Robin Delaney, Earl of Beckham was the event of the season, trumping even Lord Nighting’s rather rushed ceremony. It had been timed to occur after most had departed London to minimize the scandal but nearly everyone had stayed to watch and whisper. Even the highest ranking members of the ton were turned away at the door and forced to wait outside.
Clarice’s brothers kept rushing in announcing yet another name that had been rejected at the door, giddy with delight.
“Lord and Lady Montague!”
“Never!”
“I would have sold my sister for one of their invites!”
“And here we are rejecting them!”
And then they would giggle.
Clarice herself felt ill. She sat in a little room with her parents beaming and her brothers giggling and thought she just might faint. Today was her wedding day. To a man who was brother to the woman who had saved Clarice’s reputation yet stolen her original fiancé who was best friend of the man she was marrying. It gave her a headache thinking of it.
Amelia had planned the wedding– neither Clarice nor Robin had been able to stop her– and she sat front row. With him.
Whether Clarice’s nervous stomach came from all the people attending her wedding or from one person in particular, she couldn’t quite decide.
And now she would be related to him!
The rector appeared flushed and agitated at so many people come to see a wedding, of all things.
Clarice took a deep breath, following her brothers to the front of the church. Robin stood at her arrival and Clarice’s nervous stomach calmed. He smiled at her and she smiled back.
Not once did she even think to look at the couple sitting in the pews behind her.
After the ceremony, Amelia kissed her on the cheek and Jameson bowed to her, then quickly kissed her cheek before stepping back out of kicking distance.
Clarice looked between Lord Nighting and her husband. She smiled at the man who had very nearly ruined her life and reputation, then turned to cling to her new husband’s arm.
Her grandmother had been right. Sometimes things do happen for the best.
Epilogue
“Lady Beckham, your granddaughter is the spitting image of Amelia, isn’t she?”
Lady Beckham turned to take in the sight of Charlotte carrying a large bucket, one could only hope it contained water, towards her younger brother.
“In looks. However her temperament and tendency towards mischief comes from her father.”
“And none could mistake that blonde, curly hair on Rodger.”
Lady Beckham sighed. “He looks like an angel, and a more stubborn child I’ve not met since his mother.”
Lady Beckham and her companion smiled at each other. “Isn’t it a comfort to know that children grow up and get their comeuppance?” They chuckled.
Jameson rounded the co
rner of the barn carrying a large bucket in each hand and Lady Beckham sighed at the mischievous grin that matched the one on his daughter’s face.
“Then again, some comeuppances aren’t as readily grasped as others.”
Amelia rounded the barn with a squealing, kicking baby in her arms. “That’s far enough, Charlotte. Right there by Rodger. Jameson, you’re sloshing yours all over.”
Lady Beckham called, “Let me take the baby, Amelia. Whatever your brood has planned won’t be good for him.”
Amelia changed course to kiss her mother’s cheek, but shook her head. “He’ll never forgive us if he’s the only one not soaked at the end of the day.”
Lady Beckham looked to her companion and they nodded in agreement.
“I believe I’ll watch from the observatory.”
“A fine idea. I’ll help you in.”
Amelia laughed and headed for Jameson. He scowled at her, nodding at the retreating ladies. “I had plans for an accidental dousing. Lady Beckham’s companion told me I was starting to gain weight in my middle.”
“My dear, you are still quite dashing despite the spread.”
He gasped, then shot her a look. “Charlotte, your mother is in dire need of a splashing.”
Amelia eyed her daughter, then glanced at her son. “Rodger, attack!”
Lady Beckham smiled through the window as she watched her grandchildren flinging water everywhere, and when Jameson grabbed his wife and bent her backwards to kiss her, Lady Beckham distracted her companion with a game of piquet.
* * *
About To Wed The Widow
A man with a Future, the Honorable George Sinclair would rather poke his eye out than take his place beside his brother and learn How To Be An Earl. But when an earl orders, a brother obeys. And when an earl tries to make his brother steady and responsible and old and gray, well. . . it just might kill them both.
A woman with a Past, Lady Haywood is a scandalous distraction that no honorable gentleman can ignore. Especially one who’s just been told that his very happy life is changing irrevocably to the boring. But even if a scandalous distraction is what George wants, what he needs is a wife. A virgin wife. A scandal-less wife. . .
The earl would be the first to say that his brother has always had a problem choosing what he needs over what he wants. Lady Haywood would say that very few women who have buried five husbands would bother with a sixth. And George would say. . . why, this sounds like fine fun.
Table of Contents
About
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Epilogue
One
The room erupted into hushed whispers and excited laughter and the very Honorable George Sinclair breathed it in deeply and thought to himself, for the first time, that it was good to be home.
He hadn’t missed England. India had sunk into his bones; the heat, the food, the never-ending roar of life. He hadn’t wanted to leave; he mourned the fact that he’d never be able to return.
India had sent him home a changed man. He’d never be warm again; his greatcoat was now a permanent part of his wardrobe no matter how brightly the weak English sun tried to shine. Food would never taste again; flavorless, spiceless, and missing that now familiar bite. And he stayed as far from the country as he could because the silence was too much to take.
That, and his brother the earl.
He was too much to take as well.
But here, in town, with the excitement of balls and the roar of life and the rules, here George Sinclair found what he hadn’t realized he’d been missing.
Scandal.
The noise level somehow both increased and decreased at the same time as she entered and he turned to look at just who could cause such a commotion.
Her golden hair piled high atop her head, her plunging neckline peaking coyly from beneath row upon row of jeweled necklaces.
She paused, looking down on her subjects and they looked back, twittering and fluttering, and Sinclair thought that it was not enough. There should have been trumpets fanfaring and fireworks exploding because a regal queen had deigned to grace them with her presence.
Sinclair poked his friend in the side. “Just who, pray tell, is that?”
George St. Clair looked to where his friend pointed and fingered his cravat. “Mmm. The widow.”
Sinclair trembled with delight. “She has an epithet? The widow? How very intriguing.”
“A richly deserved one. She has had five husbands, all dead within one year of the wedding. The last, rumor has it, died whilst in bed and under her. Two weeks ago.”
Sinclair jolted when he realized her dress was black. That she was in mourning. Her dress skimmed here and flared there, and despite the color said nothing about mourning.
Sinclair’s eyes followed the curves and flares and he said, “Lucky scoundrel.”
St. Clair snorted and Sinclair looked at him with an eyebrow raised. “Is that not the most fervent wish of every man? To die naked, in bed, and beneath a beautiful woman riding him into everlasting oblivion?”
“It is apparently many a man’s wish because she has no lack of suitors.”
“But not you?”
“I require a man be cold in his grave before I start in on his widow.”
Sinclair looked again at the woman, at the long limbs and golden hair that gave proof that some Viking had pilfered and pillaged somewhere in her blood line.
Her black dress not stark but richly adorned, making her pale skin even paler, her golden hair even more golden.
Sinclair sighed. “Mourning suits her.”
“It does.”
Sinclair looked at his friend, noting the lines on his face and the tired look in his eyes that eight years had wrought.
“It’s suited her well for nearly a decade and with a handful of husbands. Remember that, Sin, before you become too enamored.”
“You don’t like her?”
St. Clair looked back at the woman, studying her, and when their eyes caught across the room, she smiled and made her way toward them.
“I know you will like her. And I have no wish to stand over your grave, my friend.”
Sinclair laughed. “I may like her, I may acquaint myself with all England has to offer now that I must, but marriage? Should I lose my mind, the earl will surely take it upon himself to find it for me.”
St. Clair clapped his friend on the back, smiling despite himself. “It’s good to have you home, Sin. And you can count on me, as well, to take up that task if it becomes necessary.”
“See? It is good to be home. I can play with whatever delectable scandal that crosses my path as long as you two are watching over me like clucking hens.”
“We wouldn’t need to if you didn’t look at scandal like a boy getting his first glimpse up the milkmaid’s frock.”
The widow snaked through the crowd, close enough now that she might be able to hear their conversation, and Sinclair said, “I have matured, my friend, since then. And I assure you that I can keep my wits about me in the presence of such beauty. Long golden locks and, oh my, crystal blue eyes.”
St. Clair shook his head. “All the better to snare her prey.”
The widow stopped in front of them, flicking open her fan to wave it idly. “Talking of me, Mr. St. Clair? You are always so flattering.”
He bowed, stiff and just this side of disapproving. “May I introduce Mr. George Sinclair. And this is Elinor Rusbridge Lemmon Gilberti Wooten Headley, Lady Haywood. Did I leave any out, my lady?”
She laughed, a low amused sound that would make any red-blooded man think of silk sheets and naked limbs.
Sinclair bowed theatrically enough to make up for his friend’s lac
k of manners. Flamboyantly enough to snag her attention to him.
The widow said, “George Sinclair and George St. Clair? However will I tell you apart?”
Sinclair leaned toward her. “Just remember, my lady, the sinner and the saint. And then forget the saint.”
Her smile peeked out from behind her fan and she whispered conspiratorially, “Forgotten.”
Sinclair leaned in even closer and didn’t whisper. “Good.”
They laughed, sharing in their little joke, and St. Clair bowed, leaving his friend to fend for himself. Sinclair was reminded of just what a good friend the man was.
The widow watched St. Clair’s back as he walked away from them, her fan still waving slowly.
“I’m surprised he left you here, with me. I thought I heard you were good friends, back in the day.”
“Good friends, we are. The only friend I willingly put pen to paper during my long years in India.”
“The friendship must be more one-sided than you realize.” And in her words was the truth that it was her St. Clair didn’t like.
Sinclair shook his head. “My friend. Who knows me better than myself. Who knows it is very hard to distract me once I’ve seen something I like.”
She turned her eyes to him, dismissing St. Clair.
She waved her fan, still smiling, and studied his coiffed brown hair. His cravat. His waistcoat.
He waited for her to say she liked what she saw as well but out came, “And how is India? As uncivilized as one hears?”
Sinclair jolted at uncivilized. He’d been gone a long time, perhaps he was out of practice at this particular game.
“It is wonderful, and until but a moment ago, I was devising numerous schemes to get back there. Now, though, I find England and her wares intoxicating.”
“Flattery will get you everywhere, Mr. Sinclair.”
