An Earl for the Shy Widow

by Ann Lethbridge

  He brushed her lips with his and she looked at him shyly. ‘I love you so very much, Ethan. Until now, I was afraid to trust what my heart was telling me. It hurt so badly when I thought I had lost you.’

  His heart swelled in his chest at her painful admission. He enfolded her in his arms. ‘I will trust in that love to see me through all the years of my life. I will never ever give you cause to doubt me, sweetheart, I promise. Shall we go and announce our engagement to the awaiting world?’

  ‘What? Now?’

  ‘Do you still have doubts, then, my sweet?’ He held his breath, but, no, he let his breath go. His Petra was as loyal and true as he was himself. And brave, too. She would never back away from a challenge.

  ‘No doubts at all.’ She hesitated. ‘Oh, dear, but what about Marguerite? I will be leaving her to manage alone.’

  ‘We will invite her to live with us. There is lots of room at Longhurst. She may have a whole wing to herself if she wishes, my love.’

  My love. He would never tire of saying it. Until now, he hadn’t realised it was the one thing he didn’t have. Had never had. And it was the one thing he really needed.

  Her heart was in her eyes when she gazed back at him. ‘Oh, Ethan, thank you. I do love you so much. You are the kindest, sweetest...’ She flung her arms around his neck and kissed him.

  And he would never ever tire of her kisses. When they finally broke apart, they were both grinning like children. He could never remember feeling as happy as he did at this moment.

  He squeezed her hard. ‘Then let us not delay, please. Let us announce it to the world. Today. Now.’

  ‘I see you have no sympathy for all those debutantes waiting below in hopes of snagging an earl.’

  He laughed out loud. ‘Not when I can only think of you.’

  She sighed. ‘That is the most romantic thing I have ever heard. Let’s do it.’ She swallowed. ‘What will Lady Frances say?’

  He grinned. ‘She will do what any sensible general does when he is faced with defeat. She will withdraw with good grace and say it was part of her strategy all along.’

  ‘Then lay on, Macduff, for tonight will be ours.’

  ‘And all the nights following.’

  Arm in arm they went down to the ballroom to make their announcement.

  Epilogue

  ‘Let me take a look at you, gal.’ Lady Frances rustled into Petra’s chamber at the Westram town house, where Marguerite and Carrie were helping her dress for her wedding. Petra had grown fond of Lady Frances, despite her rather dictatorial manner.

  Today, the old dear looked magnificent in a striped-black-and-emerald-green silk gown, though her grey-powdered wig with its stiff curls and elaborate decorations made her look eccentric rather than fashionable. When questioned, Lady Frances had explained her hair was far too thin and white to be worn au naturel and, she had added in lowered tones, she felt naked without her wig.

  Carrie and Marguerite stepped back out of Lady Frances’s way.

  Petra twirled to give her about-to-be relative a full view of her wedding gown of rose silk, decorated with Bruges lace and pale cream ribbons. ‘Do I meet with your approval, Lady Frances?’ she asked in teasing tones.

  Lady Frances stared down her nose, but there was a twinkle in her eyes. ‘Pretty enough. I’ll say one thing about this modern-day taste for skimpy skirts—looking at your figure, there will be no talk of a babe.’

  Marguerite gasped.

  Carrie choked on a laugh.

  It was also the reason Lady Frances has insisted on a St George’s wedding, with the banns being called and the whole of the ton invited to witness. There must be nothing havey-cavey or rushed about a Longhurst wedding, she had declared.

  While it had been the longest three weeks of Petra’s life, she and Ethan had survived the wait and now, today, she was getting married. Her heart picked up speed at the thought of the eyes that would be watching her as she walked down the aisle. But why would she not want to please an old woman who had been nothing but kind, in her own gruff way?

  Petra rose up on her toes and kissed the old woman’s powdered cheek, inhaling the scent of attar of roses and brandy. ‘I am glad you are pleased.’

  Lady Frances cackled. ‘I liked your spirit the first time I met you, my gal. Now, enough of your titivating, Westram is pacing the floor downstairs.’

  ‘I will be down in a moment.’ Petra had quickly realised that while Lady Frances’s bark was worse than her bite, the woman was a shocking bully and would ride roughshod over anyone who did not stand up to her. ‘But, my dear cousin Frances, you need to leave for St George’s right away if you wish to arrive ahead of me.’ Lady Frances was renowned for not letting her carriage move faster than a crawl.

  The old lady glanced over at her sisters and frowned. ‘Who are you?’ she asked, pointing a gnarled finger at Carrie.

  ‘That is my sister-in-law, Lady Avery,’ Petra said. ‘I told you she and Lord Avery were invited to the wedding.’

  Lady Frances grunted. ‘The other Westram widow.’

  Petra winced. None of them liked to be reminded of their disastrous first marriages. Especially Marguerite.

  ‘That’s right, my lady,’ Carrie said calmly. ‘But I’m a married lady now and a Gilmore besides, but I still consider Marguerite and Petra as my sisters, as I hope they consider me.’ She opened her arms wide and Petra and Marguerite moved to each side and tucked an arm around her waist.

  ‘Always,’ Petra agreed.

  ‘We suffered a great deal together,’ Marguerite explained. She gave them both a warm smile. ‘It does my heart good to see them happy.’

  ‘Sentimental claptrap,’ Lady Frances declared, but she looked pleased. ‘All we need now is to see the last of you married and no doubt your brother will be very satisfied. And relieved.’

  Marguerite paled.

  ‘Not every widow needs to re-enter the married state,’ Petra said firmly, ushering Lady Frances towards the door. ‘Why, you yourself never married again after the death of your husband.’

  Another cackle greeted this sally. ‘I was already an old woman before my Peter died. Well past my childbearing years and not once did he chide me for not giving him his heir.’ She glanced back over her shoulder at Carrie and Marguerite, grinned and winked. ‘Not that we didn’t give it our best try.’

  Carrie giggled. Marguerite looked pained.

  ‘Well, you can be assured Longhurst and I will also give it our very best effort,’ Petra said. She opened the door and shooed the old lady out, closing it before the woman could deliver yet another of her shockingly frank remarks.

  Carrie collapsed on the bed with a hand over her mouth and her eyes dancing with merriment.

  Marguerite lifted her chin. ‘It’s a good thing she plans to retire back to Bath after the wedding. She is a handful and no mistake.’

  ‘I know,’ Petra said. ‘But Longhurst seems to manage her very well. She has accepted that he is head of the family.’ She chuckled. ‘He just has to smile at her and she turns up sweet.’

  ‘He is an extremely charming man, Petra. You have found yourself a gem,’ Carrie declared.

  ‘Not charming enough to convince Marguerite to live with us at Longhurst Park,’ Petra said. Both she and Ethan had tried to convince Marguerite it was for the best, without success. She was determined to maintain her independence.

  ‘You are planning to get married today, are you not?’ Marguerite gave a significant glance at the ormolu clock on the mantel. ‘Your poor bridegroom will start to worry that you have changed your mind.’

  ‘Oh,’ Petra said, realising how close to the hour it was. ‘Let us go.’

  They walked down to the carriage arm in arm and climbed in. Red gave the orders to the coachman, who really didn’t need any orders. He knew exactly where they were going.

  �
�Next is your wedding, Red,’ Marguerite said when he had settled himself beside Carrie.

  ‘It is,’ he said, shoulders stiffening as if the reminder was not exactly pleasant. ‘The offer still stands for you to come and live with me at Danesbury, you know, Marguerite.’

  ‘Or with us in Wrendean, my dear,’ Carrie offered.

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of intruding on newly married couples,’ Marguerite said firmly. ‘It would make none of us happy. I promise I will not be a stranger to your homes and will visit as often as you would care to invite me, but I am happy in Westram with my drawings for company.’

  ‘And she has said the same to me,’ Petra added, ‘but you may be assured I will be visiting our sister every other day, so you have no need for worry.’ Red did worry about her and Marguerite, and Carrie, too, but Petra wanted her sister to lead the life she wanted.

  ‘Not quite every other day, I hope,’ Marguerite said drily.

  They all laughed and the tension in Red’s shoulders eased.

  The coach drew up at the door of St George’s. On the steps, Lord Avery was waiting for his wife. He looked so handsome in the weak early-December sunlight and the way Carrie’s face lit up when he took her arm and gazed down at her was a delight to see. She knew her own face lit up the same way, whenever she looked at Ethan. She just wished Marguerite could find a similar joy.

  That wasn’t fair. Marguerite was perfectly happy with her independent state and Petra certainly did not want her sister to lose what she considered her precious freedom.

  Once the others had entered the church, Red helped her down. He gave her a cheerful brotherly smile, though there were shadows in his eyes. ‘It is not too late to change your mind, you know.’

  Her jaw dropped. ‘W-what?’ she spluttered.

  He gave her a look askance and shrugged. ‘I have been doing some thinking. I do not want you to feel obliged to wed just to please me.’

  ‘I can assure you, I am marrying to please no one but myself.’ And Ethan, of course. Dear Ethan.

  Red nodded. ‘Then on your head be it.’

  He had to be jesting, surely. She shook her head at him. ‘Really, Red, you do pick the worst of times to tease me. Really, you do.’

  His mouth tightened, but he held out his arm to her and together they walked beneath the imposing portico and through the great doors into the church.

  Standing at the altar, Ethan turned to watch her walk towards him. For some reason, while this was exactly the way she had pictured this in her mind for the past three weeks, she suddenly felt terribly nervous. Everything inside her fluttered wildly. This was her second time walking down the aisle after all.

  Ethan smiled and held out his hand, taking a few steps towards her as she approached. She calmed. This was Ethan. Her beloved, sweet, dear Ethan, who had been deprived of love as a child, yet love for her still shone in his lovely blue eyes and in his expression.

  She smiled back and placed her hand in his and together they walked the last few steps to meet their new life. He leaned close. ‘You look beautiful. Have I told you recently how much I love you?’ he murmured.

  ‘Every day, for the last three weeks,’ she whispered back, hugging the memory of their stolen kisses.

  ‘Every day, except today,’ he whispered. ‘I do love you, my darling Petra.’

  ‘And I love you,’ she murmured, leaning into him.

  The Vicar gave them a severe look over his glasses.

  They released hands and Ethan nodded at him to begin.

  ‘Dearly beloved,’ the Vicar said.

  Petra had never felt so happy or beloved in her entire life and she knew she would feel like this for ever.

  * * * * *

  If you enjoyed this story,

  be sure to read the first book in

  The Widows of Westram miniseries:

  A Lord for the Wallflower Widow

  And while you’re waiting for the next book,

  check out these other great reads

  by Ann Lethbridge:

  Secrets of the Marriage Bed

  An Innocent Maid for the Duke

  Rescued by the Earl’s Vows

  Keep reading on for an excerpt from Tempted by His Secret Cinderella by Bronwyn Scott.

  Tempted by His Secret Cinderella

  by Bronwyn Scott

  Chapter One

  London—Friday, July 13th, 1855

  Sutton Keynes considered himself a man of science, for whom all occurrences had a logical reason. There was little room in his well-ordered life for superstition. And what room did exist for such a novelty was quickly being filled to capacity as his uncle’s ancient fossil of a solicitor, one Mr Barnes Esquire, leaned forward, joints creaking from the effort, and uttered thirteen of the unluckiest words ever spoken in succession to a bachelor who was quite happy with his single state.

  ‘You have four weeks to wed if you want to claim the fortune.’

  Four weeks to wed.

  The words seemed to suck the very air out of the cramped little office in Poppins Court. Damn it all to hell. He thought he’d headed off such madness when he’d visited his uncle this spring. He’d made it very plain he didn’t want his uncle’s money. He’d even gone as far as to suggest that if his uncle wanted to keep the money out of his own son’s hands he should tie it up in charitable annuities. His uncle had given it to him anyway. Sutton had not been nearly as persuasive as he’d thought.

  Sutton reached for his teacup, wishing it held something stronger, and took a long swallow. He tried to appear neutral, as if his world hadn’t just been upended. He was a man of reason. He should stay calm until he had all the details. Perhaps the pronouncement only seemed dire on the surface.

  ‘Four weeks? That seems an exceptionally short amount of time in which to find a wife.’ A partner for life. It was an enormous commitment, one he’d managed to put off because of its enormity, until now. These things, like any decently run experiment, could not be rushed. There would be specimens to collect, variables to account for, observations to make, information to collect and analyse, hypotheses to test and eliminate as he winnowed down the field. ‘It would take at least a year to find a suitable bride.’ Sutton put his cup down and Mr Barnes quickly refilled it, perhaps hoping to make up in quantity of drink what the tea lacked in quality—mainly that it wasn’t brandy. ‘Is there any significance to that deadline?’ Sutton asked with a demeanour of equanimity, not wanting to give away his hand. He wasn’t opposed to marriage, in theory, but he was opposed to undue haste. Haste increased one’s margin for error exponentially. Surely he could argue for an extension unless there was a predetermined reason for such immediate action.

  His mind was already searching for a rationale behind his uncle’s decision. His uncle liked to play with numerology among his many eccentricities. Four—the four archangels, the four gospels, the four sides of New Jerusalem in Revelation. Those things would appeal to his uncle, but Sutton couldn’t see any relevance to this situation. Four, of which the square root was two, his scientific mind put forward. The four elements, the four phases of the moon, the four seasons, the four divisions of the day.

  ‘It’s the bank’s provision, Mr Keynes,’ Barnes explained. ‘The bank your uncle’s funds are invested with requires that all accounts be resolved within four weeks of the account holder’s death.’ But the rest of it, the marriage condition, was all his uncle’s. In order to be a legitimate beneficiary of those funds, his uncle, not the bank, required him to be married first. It made sense now. Four. The square of two. Husband and wife. Completion. Two parts of a whole.

  ‘And if I refuse to follow my uncle’s dictates?’ He watched Barnes’s bushy grey eyebrows go up. It wasn’t every day a man considered turning away a fortune handed to him.

  ‘Then the fortune reverts to your cousin, Baxter Keynes.’ Mr Barnes peered over his
thick-rimmed glasses meaningfully.

  ‘Of course. Bax.’ Sutton gave a derisive chuckle. Bax was the one factor that could compel him to take up his uncle’s challenge. There was much he would do to keep that amount of money out of Bax’s control. What an unreasonable game this was becoming. He wasn’t only being forced to marry, he was being forced to step into the metaphoric ring and compete against his cousin, his uncle’s only child. ‘Are you acquainted with my cousin, Mr Barnes?’

  Barnes fixed Sutton with a strong stare. ‘Yes, indeed I am, Mr Keynes. He was here this morning, in fact. He didn’t stay long enough to have tea.’ The man’s tone was sharp, his gaze intuitive. For the first time since Sutton had entered the dingy office, the solicitor appeared to be more intelligent, more sane than Sutton had given him credit for. Most sane people struggled to do business with his uncle.

  Baxter knew, then. That would make things interesting in a dangerous sort of way. Sutton picked up his tea and pondered that piece of information. ‘Angry, was he?’ His cousin had been left with nothing, although it couldn’t have come as a surprise. Sutton’s uncle had been threatening for years to pull something of this nature. The old man’s title wasn’t hereditary. The only thing he could leave Bax was his fortune and he hadn’t. Instead, he’d left it to his nephew.

  ‘Positively furious.’ Barnes grimaced, nodding towards the cracked window pane.

  Sutton offered a tight smile. ‘If you’ve met him, you know there’s not a choice. It’s not a question of if I want to claim the fortune. I must. Baxter is not the sort of man to whom a fortune of that magnitude can be entrusted.’ His cousin wasn’t just reckless, spending money frivolously, although some of the fortune would indeed be squandered on harmless pursuits. Bax liked a good silk waistcoat and a fast horse as much as the next man. It wasn’t the harmless pursuits Sutton was worried about. It was the more harmful ones; Bax was mixed up with slavers, the type that sold white women into the harems of the east in order to gain the favour of the Ottoman pashas, and arms dealers who sold guns for profit regardless of the cause, regardless of the side. In short, Bax played a deep game with powerful men. His involvement, of course, was most certainly not well known. For all intents and purposes, Bax, son of the eccentric Sir Leland, was a typical gentleman. But only on the surface. Beneath that surface, Bax inhabited a dark, dangerous world.