Tempting Mr. Townsend (Dashing Widows)

by Anna Campbell

  "Indulge me, my darling." He cupped her jaw and kissed her with a thoroughness that made her toes curl. "I don't want any shadows hanging over us."

  The unfamiliar, unexpected endearment bolstered her courage. "He'll always be part of my life."

  Anthony's smile was irresistibly sweet. He held his arm out. "Come here. You're too far away."

  She accepted the invitation without hesitation. Once she was curled into his side, she murmured, "You mightn't like what you hear."

  Anthony's laugh was a comforting rumble. "What? Because he was a good man? You misjudge me. I'd never wish you unhappy—and I'm grateful that you had someone worthy of you."

  She tilted her head back to meet his intense dark stare. "When it comes to good men, I've been lucky twice over."

  He kissed her gently. "I'll do my best, lass. I swear that on my life."

  The kiss vanquished her misgivings. But because talking at length about Henry hurt, even five years after his death, she faltered at the beginning. "It's an ordinary story. Our fathers were best friends at Eton. Henry and I knew each other from babyhood."

  Anthony settled her more comfortably against him so she felt safe and cherished in a way she hadn't since she'd received the devastating news from Waterloo. "A bit like Carey and Brand."

  The reminder of her beloved son made continuing easier. "Yes, like that. You could say the match was arranged, but by the time we wed, we were so mad for each other, that wasn't important. Henry was all I'd ever wanted."

  "Handsome?"

  She dissected the question for any resentment, but all she heard was friendly curiosity. "As an angel. Especially in his regimentals. But his looks weren't what made him so special. He was by nature a contented man. I think that was his greatest gift—happiness." She pressed her cheek to Anthony's heart, finding strength in its steady beat. "I'm not explaining this very well."

  He shaped one hand to her jaw and cradled her face against his chest. "You're doing fine."

  Uncanny how his strength flowed into her. "But Henry was a soldier and England was at war. In our eight years, we rarely had more than a few months together at a time. I'd worked up the nerve to follow the drum with him in Spain when I fell pregnant."

  How long it was since she'd thought of Henry in his prime. His early, heroic death had tainted every happy memory. Which suddenly struck her as a pity. And vilely unjust to a man who deserved to be remembered with a smile.

  "So you spent most of your life missing him?"

  She wasn't surprised Anthony understood. "Yes. Although there's a difference between knowing someone can come home and knowing you'll never see them again. And he was tired of war well before Waterloo. When we thought Boney was finished in 1814, Henry was so looking forward to coming home to Brand and me. And more children. We would both have loved that." Her voice broke, and she blinked away tears.

  His arm tightened. "Do you want to stop?"

  "Do you want to hear more?"

  "Aye. But not if it's too difficult."

  Fenella pressed closer. His protective warmth had lured her from the first, even when he'd been shouting at her. "It's easier to tell you than I thought it would be."

  "You describe a paragon."

  She smiled wistfully. "I'm sure I've idealized him. Of course he had his faults. A tendency to accept a superficial impression as fact. Impetuosity. And he was nowhere near as clever as you are. But that didn't spoil the man he was. He brought sunshine wherever he went."

  "And you feel like you've lived in night ever since."

  "Yes."

  "I'm sorry you lost him, Fenella."

  "So am I." Then she surprised herself by saying, "He'd have liked you. Despite your apparent differences, both of you have…integrity. It's a rare and precious quality."

  "Thank you." His lips brushed the top of her head. "I think I'd have liked him, too, although I'd envy him his pretty wife. He sounds like an exceptional man. I can see why you've clung to his memory all these years."

  Fenella made herself sit up and meet Anthony's eyes. She didn't underestimate how hard it must be for him to hear her loving recollections of another man. Yet he did this for her—so that she could join him in a new life. "I thought I'd grieve forever."

  "And that's no longer the case?" he asked slowly.

  "I'll always miss Henry and regret his loss. But I've changed out of all recognition since the night this big brute of a man stormed into my parlor and shook me from my torpor."

  Anthony smiled at her as if she was a miracle of creation. "You know I love you, don't you?"

  At the quiet declaration, her heart stuttered into stillness. Then it began to beat deliberate and hard, like a military drum marking a slow march. She took Anthony's powerful hand in hers and stared into that roughhewn, fascinating face. She saw intelligence and strength and kindness.

  And, yes, love.

  "I hoped."

  "And can you imagine ever loving me?"

  She gave a huff of amusement, although she knew what it had cost him to ask the question. "Don't be a nitwit, Anthony. Of course I love you. It took me completely by surprise because it's not at all like what I felt for Henry. Our love was like a beautiful clear lake, unruffled and calm. When I'm with you, I feel like I'm aboard a great ship on a storm-tossed ocean. It's exciting and daring and reassuring, all at the same time. And I feel like I'm heading for somewhere wonderful and exotic."

  "Oh, my darling," he murmured and kissed her softly on the lips. "I don't deserve you."

  She pulled away and regarded him sternly. "Of course you do. I was blessed to find love in my first marriage, and I've been doubly blessed to find it in my second." Her voice roughened. "And I feel Henry would approve. He was never a jealous, covetous man."

  Anthony kissed her again and rose to his feet, extending his hand to help her up. "I know two people who will definitely approve."

  "The boys?" She laughed with almost unbearable gladness. "Oh, yes. They'll vote for anything to save them from going back to Eton. To think, we’ll all live here as a family on your beautiful estate."

  He raised her hand to his lips. "We have a lifetime of love ahead, my darling."

  She stepped into the shelter of his powerful body. The cold, lonely days were over at last. She was in love with Anthony Townsend, and the world glowed warm and full of light. "I can hardly wait."

  Continue reading for an excerpt from

  THE DASHING WIDOWS BOOK 1: THE SEDUCTION OF LORD STONE

  For this reckless widow, love is the most dangerous game of all.

  Caroline, Lady Beaumont, arrives in London seeking excitement after ten dreary years of marriage and an even drearier year of mourning. That means conquering society, dancing like there's no tomorrow, and taking a lover to provide passion without promises. Promises, in this dashing widow's dictionary, equal prison. So what is an adventurous lady to do when she loses her heart to a notorious rake who, for the first time in his life, wants forever?

  Devilish Silas Nash, Viscount Stone is in love at last—with a beautiful, headstrong widow bent on playing the field. Worse, she's enlisted his help to set her up with his disreputable best friend. No red-blooded man takes such a challenge lying down, and Silas schemes to seduce his darling into his arms, warm, willing and besotted. But will his passionate plots come undone against a woman determined to act the mistress, but never the wife?

  The Seduction of Lord Stone

  * * *

  Prologue

  Grosvenor Square, London, February 1820

  The world expected a widow to be sad.

  The world expected a widow to be lonely.

  The world didn't expect a widow to be bored to the point of throwing a brick through a window, just to shatter the endless monotony of her prescribed year of mourning.

  Outside the opulent drawing room, fashionable Grosvenor Square presented a bleak view. Leafless trees, gray skies, people scurrying past wrapped up beyond recognition as they rushed to be indoors again. Even
inside, the winter air kept its edge. The bitter weather reflected the chill inside Caroline, Lady Beaumont; the endless fear that she sacrificed her youth to stultifying convention. She sighed heavily and flattened one palm on the cold glass, wondering if there would always be a barrier between her and freedom.

  "You're out of sorts today, Caro," Fenella, Lady Deerham, said softly from where she presided over the tea table. While Caroline was this afternoon's hostess, habit—and good sense—saw Fenella dispensing refreshments. She was neat and efficient in her movements, unlike Caroline who tended to gesticulate when something caught her attention. Fenella would never spill tea over the priceless Aubusson carpet.

  "It's so blasted miserable out there." Caroline still stared discontentedly at the deserted square. "I don't think I've seen the sun in three months."

  "Now, you know that's an exaggeration," Helena, Countess of Crewe, said from the gold brocade sofa beside the roaring fire.

  How like Helena to stick to facts. On their first meeting, this intellectual, sophisticated woman had terrified Caroline. She'd since learned to appreciate Helena's incisive mind and plain speaking—most of the time.

  Nor would anyone have predicted Caroline's friendship with Fenella. Fenella was gentle and sweet, and at first, Caroline had dismissed her as a bit of a fool. But after a year's acquaintance, she recognized Fenella's kindness as strength not weakness, a strength that threw an unforgiving light on her own occasional lack of generosity.

  She'd met Helena Wade and Fenella Deerham at one of the dull all-female gatherings designated suitable entertainment for women grieving the loss of a spouse. Their youth—all three were under thirty—had drawn them together rather than any immediate affinity. But somehow, despite their differences, or perhaps because of them, Caroline now counted these two disparate ladies as her closest friends.

  With another sigh, Caroline turned to face the room. "I doubt I'd have survived my mourning without you two."

  Helena paused in sipping her tea, her striking dark-eyed face with its imperious Roman nose expressing puzzlement. "That sounds discomfitingly like a farewell. Do you plan to abandon us for more exciting company once your official year is up?"

  Fenella regarded Helena with rare reproach. "Don't tease her. She's only saying what's true for all of us."

  "Exactly, Fen." Caroline sent the pretty blonde in the plain gray dress a grateful smile. "Trust our resident dragon to puncture my sentimental bubble."

  Helena, slender and elegant in her widow's weeds—Caroline envied her friend's ability to create style from crepe and bombazine—watched her thoughtfully, not noticeably gratified by the declaration. "Nonetheless your seclusion ends next month. No wonder you're champing at the bit."

  Horsy terms littered Helena's conversation. She was by reputation a punishing rider, although bereavement had curtailed her exercise.

  "Aren't you?" Caroline crossed to extend her delicate Meissen cup for more tea.

  "Devoting a year of my life to the memory of a brute like Crewe is hypocritical at the very least. Not to mention an infernal waste of time in the saddle."

  "Seclusion must chafe when you didn't love your husband," Caroline said, taking a sip.

  Helena's gaze didn't waver. "You didn't love yours either."

  Caroline wanted to protest, but the sad truth was that Helena was right. Freddie had been a stranger when she'd married him, and their years together hadn't done much to increase the intimacy. Marriage was a cruel yoke, uniting such an incompatible pair. Even crueler that she'd been forced to follow Freddie's dictates as to where they lived and what they did. Mourning him was the last obligation she owed her late husband. Once the year was over, she meant to enjoy her independence and never surrender it again.

  "Helena!" Fenella said repressively as she refilled the other cups. "We both know Caro was fond of Beaumont."

  Helena's laugh was grim. "The way she's fond of a dog, Fen?"

  In the stark afternoon light, Fenella's beauty was ethereal. "You're unkind."

  Helena shook her glossy dark head. "No, I'm honest. Surely after all these months, it's time we spoke openly to one another." A trace of warmth softened her cool, precise voice. "Because you've both proven my salvation, too. I would have run mad without you to remind me that other people have feelings, Fen. Caro, I never have to pretend with you. And for some reason you both seem to like me anyway."

  Helena generally steered clear of emotion. This was the closest she'd ever ventured to confidences. Surprised, Caroline studied her, seeing more than she ever had before. At last, she glimpsed the deep reserves of feeling lurking beneath that self-assured exterior.

  "Mostly," she said in a dry tone, knowing Helena would take the response the way it was meant.

  "So did you love Frederick Beaumont?" Helena persisted.

  Poor Freddie, saddled with a weak constitution and an unloving helpmeet. Hatred would have been a greater tribute than his wife's indifference. How sad for a decent, if tedious man to die so young. Sadder that nobody in particular cared that he'd gone.

  "No," she said hollowly, at last voicing the shameful truth. "Although he was a good man and he deserved better from me than he got."

  Freddie should have married a stolid farmer's wife, not a restless, curious, volatile creature who dreamed of the social whirl instead of milk yields and barley prices. By the end of Caroline's ten years in Lincolnshire, she'd felt like she drowned in mud. She sucked in a breath of London air, reminding herself that now she was free.

  "Well, Crewe deserved considerably less than he got from me," Helena said sourly. "He wasn't even any good in bed. If a woman must wed a degenerate rake, the least she should expect is physical satisfaction."

  Fenella was blushing. She always looked about sixteen when she was embarrassed. "Well, I loved Henry. And he loved me." She sounded uncharacteristically defiant. "I'll always miss him."

  Fenella's happy marriage always filled Caroline with a mixture of envy and disbelief—and guilt that she couldn't mourn Freddie with an ounce of the same sincerity. But if she needed an example of the dangers of a close union, she merely needed to glimpse the sorrow in Fen's fine blue eyes.

  Helena regarded Fenella with fond impatience. "You were lucky to have a good man, Fen. But Waterloo was five years ago, and you're still wearing half mourning. Isn't it time to start living again?"

  Fenella paled at Helena's unprecedented candor. She rarely heard a word of criticism. Caroline had long ago noticed that Fenella's air of fragility made people treat her like glass, ready to shatter at the slightest rough treatment.

  "You don't understand. It's different for me," Fenella stammered.

  "Because of your son?" Caroline asked, wondering for the thousandth time how different her marriage might have been if God had granted her children. Would she have felt so trapped, so frustrated, so useless? Who knew?

  "Brandon's only ten. He needs me."

  "And you're only twenty-nine," Helena retorted. "You need to look for love again."

  "I don't want love," Fenella said stiffly. She bit her lip and turned a tragic gaze on her friends. "It hurts too much to lose it."

  With that stark statement, confirming Caroline's doubts about even a loving marriage, the spate of confidences slammed to a shuddering halt. A desolate silence descended on the luxurious room. Only the crackling fire and a spatter of raindrops on the windows broke the quiet.

  Eventually Helena smiled, but Caroline saw the effort it took. "I'm sorry, Fen. I'm as blue-deviled as Caro. It must be the weather. I have no right to harangue you."

  Caroline gestured, sloshing her tea into the saucer, and spoke with sudden urgency. "We all have the right to offer our opinion. It's what people do when they care."

  Annoyance banished Fenella's distress, thank goodness. For a few moments there, Caroline had worried that her usually serene friend might dissolve into tears. "So you too believe I should forget the best person I've ever known, a faithful husband, a loving father, a brave sol
dier?"

  For safety's sake, Caroline set her cup on the tea table before she slid into the chair beside Fenella's. When she took Fenella's hand, she wasn't surprised to find it trembling. "You'll never forget him. And neither you should. But Henry wouldn't want you to hide away from the outside world, not when you're young and beautiful with so much to give. The man you've described would never be so mean spirited."

  Fenella's grip tightened. "I'm not brave like you and Helena. I'm comfortable in my rut. The truth is that I'm afraid of facing the world again, especially without Henry by my side."

  "It's brave to admit your fear," Helena said from the sofa in an unusually subdued voice. "And you're wrong about my courage. I might act as if I'm ready to take on the world, but I've already had one disastrous marriage. Choosing a pig like Crewe, especially when I defied my parents to have him, puts my judgment in serious question."

  "Oh, Helena." Fenella's lovely face softened with compassion. "You've learned from your mistakes. And you were so young then."

  "We were all young," Caroline said in a low voice. "We're still young."

  Freddie had been young, too. But at least he'd led the life he chose. Until illness struck him down, he'd been blissfully happy in the muck and mire of his fields. Caroline realized that if she died tomorrow, she'd never done a single thing she wanted. That seemed even more of a waste than Freddie's lingering death. She'd devoted three long years to nursing him. She'd emerged from those harrowing days painfully aware of life's brevity and how easily the years could slip away with nothing to show for them but drudgery.

  "What about you, Caro?" Helena asked. "This gray day has us stripping our souls bare. We've started telling the truth. We may as well continue. What frightens you?"

  Gathering her dark, confused thoughts, Caroline stared blindly into the fire. Pictures from the barren past filled her mind. Her austere girlhood, the only child of elderly parents with rigid ideas of behavior. Her seventeen-year-old self marrying stodgy, tongue-tied Freddie Beaumont with not a shred of romance to brighten the occasion. Ten dreary years as a farming baronet's wife in wet, windy Lincolnshire, with no company but the equally dreary neighbors and a prize dairy herd. This last uneventful year in London as she waited out her period of mourning for a man who had left little impression on her, however much she might pity his untimely death.