Tempting Mr. Townsend (Dashing Widows)

by Anna Campbell

  But her proximity to Mr. Townsend was an uncomfortable reminder that she'd missed Henry's body, too. Not just the act of love—although she'd woken from countless sensual dreams to the aching realization that Henry Deerham lay in the grave's eternal embrace—but the pleasures of having a man about the place. Masterful, direct Anthony Townsend couldn't be more different from laughing, goodhearted Henry Deerham, but despite her antipathy, tonight's journey stirred senses long dormant.

  She mightn't like Mr. Townsend. In fact, she was convinced she didn't. But plastered to his side, she was inescapably aware of his overpowering masculinity. And that made her ashamed. She'd been a good and faithful wife to Henry. Thinking of another man in…those terms made her feel like she broke his trust.

  True to his word, when Mr. Townsend stopped to change horses, he waited only long enough for the ostlers to hitch up the new team before he set off once again. Fenella felt him silently daring her to complain, but she made no request for a delay. He misunderstood her if he imagined she meant to impede this desperate hunt.

  More biting cold and breathtaking speed, and gradually her reasonable side gained the upper hand. Resentment became less satisfying by the minute. While Mr. Townsend's comment had been unfortunate, he'd been half out of his mind with worry about Carey. And perhaps there was a shred of truth in what he'd said, much as she loathed admitting it. Since Henry's death, she and Brand had depended so closely on each other.

  She was on the verge of saying something inane about the weather, if only to ease the bristling atmosphere, when Mr. Townsend spoke for what felt like the first time in hours. "We're lucky with the full moon."

  "Yes."

  For the life of her, she couldn't think of anything to add. She fidgeted with the rug he'd pushed at her when they started out. His care for her comfort had surprised her when he'd been so set on leaving her behind.

  As they covered another mile without speaking, she sensed his disappointment at her lack of response. So far, she'd avoided looking at him. Not because she was angry—by now, she was over her huff—but because staring at him intensified that unacceptable female awareness. Now she couldn't help snatching a quick glimpse at his set, angular features. He looked hard and purposeful, as she'd come to expect, but also discouraged.

  Hours of travel on an icy night stretched ahead. She should say something, if only to break this prickly silence. They had the boys in common, but she flinched from inviting more criticism.

  She was at the point of asking how far they had to go to his estate when he spoke again. "I'm sorry, Lady Deerham. I have no right to judge the way you raise your son. It's none of my business."

  To her surprise, instead of graciously accepting the apology, she found herself explaining. "You weren't entirely wrong. I did coddle Brandon after Henry died at Waterloo. I couldn't help it."

  "You must have loved your husband very much."

  "I do. I always will." She stared sightlessly over the horses' ears to the road winding between the fields. Thick hedges rose on either side, creating an illusion of intimacy. "I hope—I know—since then I've always acted in my son's best interests, despite my instincts to keep him close and safe beside me. You have no idea how difficult it was to send Brand to school, but he needed some masculine influence."

  "Now the school hasn't proven the safe haven you'd hoped."

  "No."

  "Tragedy can strike anywhere," he said softly. "Look at William and Jenny. A storm out of nowhere on the loveliest day in summer."

  Fenella gripped her gloved hands together in her lap. She was physically weary, but too keyed up to sleep. Her mind was in such turmoil, she felt as alert and on edge as a mouse in a cat club. Strangely, despite their short but rocky relationship, talking to Mr. Townsend kept her from falling victim to phantom horrors. Something about him inspired confidence. His strength and solidity perhaps. More likely his self-assurance.

  "Were you close to your brother?"

  "Aye."

  Again, Fenella recognized the sorrow beneath the clipped response. "Perhaps that's why Carey and Brandon so swiftly became friends—they both lost people they love."

  Mr. Townsend sighed. "Brandon has you. Poor Carey drew the short straw when he was left in my care."

  His bitterness surprised her. "You don't mean that."

  His lips twisted in self-derision. "Don't I?"

  "You obviously love the boy. When you burst into my house, you were beside yourself with fear. And as your ward, he'll never want for anything."

  "Anything material, at least. If they're to thrive, children need more than food in their bellies and somewhere to sleep."

  "But he must know you love him. I picked it up immediately, even through the bluster."

  "Perhaps I should bluster at him more often so he understands," Mr. Townsend said dourly.

  She bit back her impatient response that if his guardian just told Carey that he loved him, the problem would disappear. Living with a husband and a son had taught her that males preferred to sidestep direct declarations of feeling, however useful they might be.

  "Then you just have to try harder to show him that you love him," she said calmly. "For a start, you could spend more time together."

  Surprised dark eyes left the road to focus on her. "You don't mince your words."

  She shrugged. "You're the adult. It's up to you to find some way through this."

  He gave a grunt of amusement. "For a woman who looks likely to snap in a gentle breeze, you punch above your weight, Lady Deerham."

  His compliment, backhanded as it was, pleased her. All her life, people—men—had told her she was pretty. Very few had remarked on her strength.

  This time when they changed horses, Mr. Townsend stepped down from the carriage and came around to offer her a hand. "We'll have something to eat."

  "I'd rather keep going."

  Was that admiration glinting in his eyes? Her heart kicked, before she reminded herself she had more important things to worry about than Mr. Townsend's opinion of her. "Ten minutes for a hot drink and some bread and cheese won't hurt."

  "Ten? I thought the limit was five."

  His face remained perfectly straight as he assisted her to alight into a yard bustling with men and horses. "I'm feeling generous."

  Fenella dipped her head as she entered the crowded hostelry on Mr. Townsend's arm. Someone making a late return from the Ascot races might recognize her. But nobody paid any attention to the well-dressed couple. As they stepped inside, Mr. Townsend murmured to the landlord, and she found herself in a private parlor, small and cozy with a roaring fire.

  "I'll check the horses. Sit down and warm up. I won't be long."

  "Thank you," she said, crossing the room to stand before the fire. She sucked in a breath, relieved that she was no longer crushed up against Mr. Townsend. She couldn't blame him for that insidious proximity. She'd insisted on coming. But it was much easier to remember she was a widow with a child and not a giddy girl when he stood safely on the other side of the room.

  She stripped off her gloves and extended bare hands toward the flames. The heat set the blood in her chilled fingers tingling.

  When the door opened behind her, she didn't look around.

  Until a man who wasn't Mr. Townsend addressed her in the slurred tones of the deeply inebriated.

  * * *

  As Anthony turned into the short corridor leading to the parlor, some drunken ass ahead of him let out a triumphant bray of laughter. Alarm tightened his gut. Hell, he'd only been away a few minutes.

  He lengthened his stride and careered round the corner to hear some tipsy, extravagantly dressed coxcomb announce, "Well, what do we have here? A pretty yella-haired strumpet looking for company. I've had the devil's luck today, boys."

  The well-bred imbecile stood between two equally gormless companions who craned past him to see into the room where Anthony had left Lady Deerham.

  Everything inside Anthony's head turned red. He barged up to the t
rio and shoved them out of the way. How dare anyone accost Fenella? Couldn't they see that she was his?

  That thought jolted him into pausing before he started flinging his fists around and creating bloody mayhem.

  "I'll say this once, then the trouble's on you," he grated out, battling the impulse to thump the idiots into oblivion anyway. "Go back to the taproom now."

  One glance at Anthony and the two offsiders edged away on unsteady legs. "Your pardon, sir. A mistake. No offense meant," one bleated.

  Their vocal friend swayed on the spot. Too far gone in his cups to see the danger, he leveled a bleary gaze at Anthony. "Demme, you're a dashed big 'un."

  He was young. All three were. Barely twenty if he reckoned aright. But after sailing the world, Anthony was regrettably familiar with the trouble even very young men could cause. His aggressive stance didn't relax. "I won't ask again."

  The young man raised a shaky quizzing glass to his eye, then, recklessly, directed his inspection into the room. His lustful smile told its own story. "The doxy's a prime article. I'll give you a thousand guineas for her."

  Before Anthony could pulverize the upstart, clear laughter rang out from inside the room. "My husband may just take you up on that, sir. But in the meantime, why don't you go and sleep it off?"

  Astonishment kept Anthony's fists by his sides. Fenella's courage should no longer catch him unawares, but still she took his breath away. The lout was right—she was a prime article.

  At the sound of Lady Deerham's unmistakably upper-class voice, the youth flushed blotchy red and backed away from the door. He cast a quick glance at Anthony and this time, he took in how much muscle threatened to obliterate him. "Your pardon. I saw the ladybird…uh, the lady on her own, and I thought—"

  "I know what you thought," Anthony said wearily. "Leave the ladies be, at least until you can see straight."

  The lad bowed and retreated after his friends with much haste and no dignity.

  Anthony sighed and entered the room. "Husband?"

  To his surprise, the heroine of the hour blushed. "It was the best I could think of at the time."

  "I'm sorry about that. I shouldn't have left you."

  Even more surprising, her smile glowed with open approval. "You came to my rescue."

  His heart performed a strange skipping dance and his mind went flying out of the room. He blinked at her and told himself that he was too old to fall victim to a pretty wench's smile.

  And didn't believe a word of it.

  To hide his confusion, he turned to close the door. "You were perfectly capable of handling that silly bit of wet string."

  "Perhaps." She sat at the small table with a grace that set his wayward heart capering again. What in God's name was wrong with him? "It turned out I didn't have to. Thank you."

  He sat opposite her. "On second thought, a thousand guineas is a lot of money."

  "Perhaps you should check if the offer's still open," she said tranquilly. "It would save you hauling me all the way to Hampshire."

  She was magnificent—and not just because she was the loveliest woman he'd ever seen. He had no doubt that she was still deathly afraid for her son. And having strange men accost her in a public house would give most ladies the vapors. But she glided through it all with perfect composure.

  In London, he'd resigned himself to putting up with a delicate female who found rough travel insupportable. But she'd been as game as a terrier the whole way and hadn't complained once. Even when that inebriated oaf had marched in on her.

  A thousand guineas? Ten thousand wouldn't do her justice.

  Either he needed to revisit his opinion of upper-class women as basically useless. Or Fenella Deerham was a glorious exception to the rule.

  "Actually you haven't been much trouble," he said gruffly. "I might let the lad keep his winnings, instead of spending them on wild women like you."

  She was still smiling and his heart returned to cavorting in a most disconcerting manner. "My hero."

  The arrival of two mugs of steaming beef tea and a meat pie saved Anthony from responding to her dry remark. But some previously unknown corner of his soul turned romantic and yearned to believe that she meant it.

  Which was the most worrying thing of all.

  Chapter Four

  * * *

  Fenella and Mr. Townsend set off from the inn not long afterward, and despite her qualms about the delay, she felt better for the short break and the meal. Even with the added entertainment.

  That encounter between Mr. Townsend and the drunken stripling had been telling. It confirmed her suspicion that his earlier behavior wasn't typical. More than her safety—after all, she could have screamed for help if necessary—she'd been afraid her escort might start a brawl which would lead to unbearable delays. But Mr. Townsend had handled the boy with aplomb, and saved both Fenella and their quest. Those huge fists could have made his point, but he'd used his brain instead.

  He became more interesting by the hour.

  She tucked her chin into the rug to escape the strengthening wind. One gloved hand clutched the side of the rig against the swaying.

  "Why don't you try and sleep?" he murmured as they sped past the high walls of some sleeping estate. Since leaving the inn, they'd spoken only a word or two, but the antagonism had vanished.

  "I can't." Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Brand coming to grief. Hurt and lying in a ditch. Lost in a wood. Worst of all, struggling to escape some faceless villain's clutches.

  "Worrying won't find the lads any quicker."

  "I know," she said regretfully. "If it did, they'd be home right now."

  "We're still a couple of hours from the Beeches."

  She tugged the rug up higher, although cuddled up against Mr. Townsend, she wasn't cold. "I'm perfectly fine."

  "You're as taut as a sail in a high wind," he said.

  She blushed to realize that their physical nearness left her few secrets. But what did that matter when her son was lost? Her hand clenched on the side of the carriage and she stared out across the moonlit landscape. All she could hear was the horses' hooves, the creak of the curricle, and the whistling wind. They combined into an ominous chant.

  You're too late. You're too late.

  "Stop expecting the worst," Mr. Townsend said, without taking his attention from the road.

  "I can't help it," she muttered. "Perhaps…perhaps if you talk to me, it will help."

  "Talk?" He sounded like she'd asked him to turn somersaults in midair.

  "Yes. Please. Something to take my mind off the boys."

  "I live to serve."

  "I doubt it."

  "What shall we discuss, my lady? The latest fashion in bonnets? Prinny's plans for the coronation? The best recipe for syllabub?"

  "No," she said, appreciating his efforts to ease her distress. She'd misjudged Mr. Townsend on their first meeting. He was far from a boor and a bully. "I'd like to know about you."

  "Me." The flat tone conveyed no enthusiasm.

  "Yes. Tell me about your life."

  "There isn't much to say."

  "I don't believe that."

  "Well, not much to interest a lady like you."

  "You needn't give me all the grisly details." She was positive there had been grisly details. He was too capable not to have encountered and overcome trouble in his life. "I don't know… For example, were you born with money?"

  "No. Can't you tell from the way I speak?"

  "I…I like the way you speak. It's real."

  Many men dragged themselves up in the world. Most aped the aristocracy, usually not very well. She admired that Mr. Townsend didn't try to hide where he came from. Despite his humble origins, he was a proud man—and given his success, he had every right to his pride.

  A grunt of sardonic amusement. "It is, at that."

  "Well?"

  He sighed. "Wouldn't you rather tell me about yourself?"

  "No. That means talking about Brand. And right now—"


  He spoke before she finished. That was something else she liked about Mr. Townsend. He was quick on the uptake. "My father was a mine manager in South Yorkshire. An honest, hardworking man. My mother was a foreigner."

  "A foreigner?" she asked, intrigued.

  His firm mouth relaxed a fraction. "Aye, from Lancashire."

  She gave a short laugh. "How exotic."

  "There were four of us children. William was ten years older than me. I have two sisters, both married with half a dozen bairns between them. I'm the youngest."

  "Spoiled, no doubt?"

  Then she was sorry she asked because it might remind him of their quarrel. But he continued in that easy bass baritone. "Aye. A right little terror. Local opinion had it that I'd end up hanged at the crossroads before I was done. But I turned into a solid enough citizen in the end. Once I finished my schooling at sixteen, I joined William in the shipping line he'd set up in Liverpool, mainly trading to America. That's when William Townsend Shipping became Townsend and Co."

  "And you worked your magic from the start?" The rumbling voice with its northern burr settled her jumping nerves in a most miraculous way. She was still afraid for Brand, but at least Mr. Townsend's life story helped her concentrate on something other than possible calamities.

  "No. The vile tyrant made me work my way up through the business." Affection deepened his voice when he spoke of his brother. "I started as a clerk. At a clerk's wages."

  "Oh, foul injustice. I'm sure you didn't like that."

  "Not at first. But I quickly learned that numbers are key in business. Luckily all that schooling had made me a wizard with arithmetic."

  She sighed in mock disappointment. "I'd imagined wild foreign adventures. Pirates. Mutinies. Treasure hunts. Lovely dusky maidens. Exploring unknown lands."

  "You're a romantic, lass."

  He'd called her lass a couple of times. Something silly and feminine in her melted into syrup every time he did. "Perhaps. Or perhaps your heroics at the inn turned my head."