by Ashley March
“I don’t think I want to order any of these today,” she said.
Wariness writ itself across the assistant’s brows—possibly due to the low, secretive whisper Leah used. “No, madam?”
“I’d like to see your fabric. Black, of course. But do you have anything other than crepe or bombazine?”
The girl’s eyes lowered, her lips pursing to the side. “Just a moment, please.”
Leah glanced around the room as she waited: at the shell pink upholstered chairs with a table between, at the piles of pattern books at the end of the counter. The walls were papered a blue-and-white Oriental theme, clean but peeling at the seams. A tapping sound echoed in her ears, and she glanced down at the nervous drum of her fingers on the counter. Taking a breath, she forced them still and watched the back curtains part to reveal the seamstress again.
In her arms she carried a bolt of black organza, shimmering like the darkest blue in waves of light as she walked. “Ordered for a ball gown, but the other lady decided not to use it.”
There was no reason Leah’s heart should have sped like it did; it was only a piece of fabric, and still black. She wouldn’t be able to adorn it with bows or beads, or have it cut into one of the fashionable patterns. If she wore it, it would be made into a widow’s garment, proper and respectable and without any hope of gaiety.
And yet, as she reached out and slid her hand over the organza, the material rasping beneath her black kid glove, she was unable to resist. It was a small rebellion, but it was enough.
“I’ve changed my mind,” she murmured, unable to take her eyes off of the blue-black material. “I would like a dress made, after all.”
“Which pattern, madam?”
Leah flipped the pattern book open and found a random dress which looked exactly like any of her other two dozen mourning gowns. “This one is fine.”
“Would you like to have your measurements taken now?”
“Yes.” Leah stood straight, reluctantly drawing her arm away. “When will it be ready?” she asked, then almost laughed. It wasn’t as if she’d be wearing it anywhere except in her own house. As a recent widow, no one sent her invitations or expected her to attend balls or dinner parties. She certainly didn’t expect her mother or Beatrice to come calling anytime soon. And the friends she’d once visited with over tea had all been Ian’s admirers; yes, they’d sent the requisite sympathy cards, but otherwise they had no use for her anymore. They’d only needed her in order to flirt with Ian.
Still, when the girl said, “Is a week acceptable?” Leah actually gave a little twirl. She didn’t think about it, analyze the propriety of the action or its repercussions, how it would make her mother feel or reflect on her husband. She just twirled.
And when she turned back around and found the seamstress staring at her, Leah smiled at her through the veil.
Smiling. Twirling. Black organza. All in one day. Oh, but it was only a small exercise in independence. From now on, she wanted so much more.
That evening, Leah wandered from room to room. She tried reading, but even Thackeray couldn’t hold her attention. She attempted to amuse herself on the pianoforte, but found herself sitting still, her hands resting idly on the keys after only a few notes. Her feet tapped out a restless rhythm down the halls on the ground floor, the first floor, even up to the second. After a while, the servants began to send her curious glances.
For her entire life, she’d been bound by the restrictions set on her by her mother, by society’s expectations. She’d never thought to rebel against those rules; she’d been content to play along, believing that her reward was to marry a nice man, hopefully someone who loved her, and have children. But being obedient had brought her nothing but misery so far.
Leah spun on her heel, her skirts lashing against the chair. It was almost as if the room was closing in on her, the silence overwhelming. She’d been alone with Ian’s secret for so long, afraid to allow herself close to anyone lest they see the truth in her eyes. But now that he was dead, why should she accept the loneliness anymore? She shouldn’t have to become a pariah because she was a widow. She understood that no one sent her invitations because they expected her to be consumed by her grief, but she wasn’t.
She paced across her bedchamber, her gaze running to the walls, the floor, the various bric-a-brac she had set around her room not because it pleased her, but because she had wanted the room to appear like she expected a lady’s bedchamber should. The perfume bottles on the vanity, with a comb placed precisely on the table—not resting haphazardly, but exactly straight and centered. The landscaped paintings on the walls, fields of dotted violets and peaceful pastures. No, if she had obeyed her own desires, she would have chosen the bold brushstrokes of Delacroix, or Géricault: bold, vivid life flung across the canvas instead of settling for a passive tableau.
She whirled again and spied her writing table set against the opposite wall. Inside were the letters Angela had written to Ian. No matter how many times she’d picked them up and held them out over the fire, she couldn’t burn them. Their secrets wouldn’t let her alone.
Pulling out the drawer, Leah lifted the letters in their pink silk ribbon. Though the vanilla and lavender scent was fainter now, it still stung her senses. A flare of memory, of watching Ian climb into her bed, of smelling the same perfume on his skin, slashed across her mind.
Her hand gave a slight tremble, itching to fling the packet away. Instead, she clutched them more securely and turned toward the chair near the hearth. A trickle of sweat inched down her temple as she sat, but she didn’t ring for someone to douse the flames inside.
She held the letters so tightly in her hands that she could feel the moisture from her palms soak into the parchment. She breathed. In. Out. In. Out. Great shuddering breaths, as if she’d run up the stairs a few minutes ago instead of climbing them at a dignified pace.
The sweat trailed down her cheek and over her chin, along her neck and beneath her fichu to trace the line of her collarbone.
With hands still shaking, Leah loosened the ribbon and drew out a random letter from the stack. It could have been the first letter Angela had written or the last; it didn’t matter. She didn’t know what she was searching for, or even why she was reading one.
Tucking the others at her side, she opened the letter.
The parchment became like thin tissue, damp and worn between her fingers as her eyes focused first on the salutation.
My dearest love.
Leah waited for her eyes to burn and her throat to thicken with tears, but none came. She couldn’t deny the sense of betrayal at seeing another woman refer to her husband in such a manner, but it didn’t crush her. Her heart was no longer a delicate, fragile thing, and she was relieved by the realization that it wouldn’t be broken again so easily.
Thank you for the flowers. They were beautiful. I do not even remember telling you that orchids are my favorite. They’re in my bedroom now, and whenever I see them, I think of you and smile.
However, I must insist that you stop sending me gifts. I had to explain to Sebastian that they were from my cousin Gertrude, meant to brighten my spirits. I don’t want him to grow suspicious, and I do despise lying to him. Sometimes I can’t remember what I’ve already told him. Two days ago I claimed to have a headache, and he nearly sent for a physician again because I’d told him earlier that my stomach was ill. I wish I didn’t have to continue deceiving him with this ruse of sickness, but I can’t bear the thought of him touching me any longer.
Leah paused, sucking in a breath. Lord Wriothesly had been right in refusing to read the letters.
Would that I had met you first, or that you would have been born an earl’s son instead of a viscount’s. Every day I wonder . . . but no, I know there is no use for such thoughts. I love you, my darling. You asked me before and I wouldn’t admit it, but yes—I am jealous of her. When we’re apart, I think of you together. How I wish that I could be the one to see you every day. I imagine sitting qu
ietly in the evenings, working on my embroidery while you read. Quite the domestic scene, I know. Our children would sit at our feet and listen to you. You would make them smile, and laugh, as you make dear Henry laugh. And then when it becomes late, you would take my hand and lead me to your bedchamber.
My dearest Ian, I would write more, but . . . I will save the words until I see you again.
How long the days are without you.
I love you.
Eternally yours,
Angela
Leah held her breath. Her eyes unfocused, the dark ink becoming a blur. Her shoulders slumped, her fingers releasing their death grip on the letter. It shifted in her lap, almost forlorn in its abandonment.
They’d been in love. Or at least, Angela had loved him.
She’d assumed lust, yes, and probably a little obsession, but . . . not love. Not the way she’d loved Ian. Half of her had been hoping the letter was nothing more than a vulgar mechanism to spout passion words. It would have been difficult to read any fantasies of lovemaking, but then any remaining anger or bitterness over their betrayal would have been justified. Now . . .
They had all lost, hadn’t they?
Leah stood from the chair, the letter falling from her lap to the floor. She took half a dozen harried steps before realizing and turning around, going back to tie the letters back together.
But perhaps Ian and Angela hadn’t lost, not precisely. They’d done what they could to be together; they hadn’t allow society’s expectations—moral or otherwise—to rule their lives. Angela’s letter bore echoes of her misery and loneliness when they’d been apart, but if her writing was any indication, her desolation was only more acute because of the joy they’d shared when they were together.
Leah opened the drawer again and slid the letters inside, the scent of vanilla and lavender no longer an offensive stench to her senses. It was something more. A reminder she would not forget. An encouragement she hadn’t known she needed.
A dare.
Chapter 5
Don’t tell me you know how I feel. Do you know the joy in my heart when you’re near, or the desolation when you depart? No, I fear you do not, and I am alone in my heartache.
Sebastian took a slow breath as he surveyed the room. It stank of old titles and little wealth, the heavy fog of cigar smoke lining his lungs as he inhaled.
“I regret it already,” he murmured to James. He hadn’t ventured into the gentleman’s club since Angela’s death. It wasn’t that he didn’t welcome the sight of people, or company; James had made himself such a fixture in the town house that Sebastian was surprised the maids hadn’t begun polishing him along with all the other furniture. No, it was the normalcy of the club, the same reason he now avoided dinner parties and musicales. It was as if Ian’s and Angela’s deaths had never occurred, as if his life hadn’t collided with the somber coldness of reality four months prior.
“You may regret it all you wish,” James answered as they moved to a table in the center of the room. Not one in the corner—God forbid—but directly in the middle of things. “Just be thankful I didn’t tie you to my horse and drag you through the streets to get here. It was a tempting thought.”
Around them, conversations carried over the usual currencies: weather, politics, war on the Continent and, with greater enthusiasm—women. The chair at Sebastian’s back was too soft and cushioned; he longed for rigidity, for punishment. Hands curled over his knees, he watched James motion a server for drinks.
His brother sat back across from him and smiled, one arm resting on the table in front of him, the other hanging lazily at his side. “God, you look like hell.”
“I’m not sure why you insisted on a change of scenery if all you mean to do is insult me wherever we are.”
“I enjoy insulting you. It’s one of my greatest pleasures in life.”
Sebastian pressed his lips together as the server set the drinks before them. His gaze flicked to the scotch, a pale gold, then moved away. James sipped at his glass and stared at him in much the same way he’d been staring at him for months—with a patent expression of patience, only slightly marred by the frustrated slash of his mouth.
To Sebastian’s left, Mr. Alfred Dunlop was speaking with the young Baron Cooper-Giles. “I must go. I don’t care if there’s a scandal. Walter told me that Miss Pettigrew would be there.”
“The banker heiress?” he heard Cooper-Giles ask.
“Yes,” Mr. Dunlop replied. The word held a grim note to it. “Lost the shipping investment a week ago when the Reynard sank. By the end of the week, I intend to have a marriage acceptance in hand.”
Sebastian shifted his gaze over James’ other shoulder and listened to Lord Derryhow spew on about his new Thoroughbred, a dark roan hunter. James’ sigh swept across the table, and Sebastian met his gaze with a half smile. It seemed the more he practiced those, the easier they became.
“Perhaps all I need is a woman,” he said.
“A woman?”
“Yes.”
“To bed?”
Sebastian nodded.
“You want to bed a woman?” James’ voice increased in incredulity, and Sebastian scowled. Had his little brother always been able to see through him so easily?
Yes, he wanted a mindless fuck, someone to erase Angela’s memory from his arms. Someone else’s skin and scent and hands. But at the thought, his body rebelled, his muscles tensing and his lungs seeming to cave in. His breath spasmed, caught on that ever-constant, silent whisper of her name. Angela.
“Never mind.” He turned toward the large window facing the street, over the heads of Baron Cooper-Giles and Mr. Dunlop. They were talking about a house party now.
But James continued to play along, his voice tinged with amusement. “Shall I send one to you tonight? Or perhaps we should leave now, and I’ll do my best to find Lady Carroway. You did fancy her a few years ago, didn’t you?”
“Goddamn it, James, I said—” The rebuke died in his throat as he heard a name spoken at the other table. His gaze fixed on Mr. Dunlop.
“Of course,” James said, “the widow Carroway is quite a bit older than she once was. I suppose some men would be put off by the gray hair. Myself, for example.”
Sebastian cast him a speaking glance, then stood and stepped toward the other table.
Mr. Dunlop halted in midsentence and looked up. “Lord Wriothesly.”
“Good day.” He inclined his head to Dunlop, then Cooper-Giles. Civilities. Those also became easier when practiced. The impulse to rage and destroy was weaker now than it had been a few months ago. A broken chair, a shattered window, walls forever indented with the impression of his fists. The fire poker hurled across his bedchamber after he’d resisted burning Angela’s portrait. These days, his rage was more controlled. Only the mangled ruins of his cravats in the mornings bore evidence of the anger still lurking beneath the gentleman’s exterior.
Sebastian looked at Dunlop. “I believe I heard mention of a house party?”
Dunlop exchanged an uneasy glance with Baron Cooper-Giles, and immediately Sebastian knew. He hadn’t misheard. “Whose party is it, if I may ask?”
Dunlop didn’t quite meet his eyes. “The widow George, my lord. We’re leaving tomorrow . . . We were leaving tomorrow for Wiltshire . . .” His voice trailed away. Likely he expected Sebastian to be upset; even though Dunlop couldn’t know of the affair between Ian and Angela and Sebastian’s subsequent agreement with Leah to keep it quiet, the idea of the recent widow of Sebastian’s close friend hosting a house party was absurd enough.
All thoughts of Angela fled, replaced by an image of the smiling, dark-haired deceiver. Three weeks. That’s how long it had taken for Leah George to betray her promise.
“Ah, of course.” He paused, calculating how long it would take for them to travel to the George estate. He nodded again, then turned back to the table where James sat.
“Sebastian?” James took another leisurely drink of his scotch. “Is every
thing all right? Your face is turning that lovely scarlet shade I so enjoy—”
“It appears Mrs. George is hosting a house party,” he bit out quietly. The tips of his fingers brushed the edge of the table. Not gripping, but a feather-soft touch to the dark polished wood—a testament to his control.
“Four months,” James mused. “That seems quite early.”
“Yes, and no one will be able to resist the scandal of it. The meek and mild Mrs. George, recent widow, hosting her own country house party.”
He could well imagine how the first scene would unfold: Leah greeting her guests as they arrived, sans widow’s cap, one of her bloody ridiculous smiles spread across her face. She might have even forsaken mourning clothes by now, dressed instead in a cheerful yellow or a provocative crimson that proclaimed to the world the joy of her new independence.
Reckless.
How she’d loved the word—feasted on it—her entire countenance lighting with glee. Had she already begun planning the house party when he’d visited her town house, or had he unknowingly sparked the idea with the use of those two little syllables?
But it made no difference. Whether she stood by her semantics of not directly telling anyone of the affair, the end result was that her actions risked the revelation of the truth. It didn’t matter that he would be revealed as a lovesick fool, the doting husband who’d never suspected he was being cuckolded. That gossip would eventually pass, and his pride would heal. No, there was another thought he could not bear for others to echo, one that haunted him every single time he looked at Henry: the doubt of his son’s legitimacy.
If only Henry could have had brown hair or green eyes. If only his face wasn’t rounded and he wasn’t so young, then he might show some feature or mannerism which would clearly mark him as Sebastian’s son. But all Sebastian saw now when he stared at Henry was a perfect little boy with Angela’s sweet, innocent face, his hair the same color as Angela’s . . . and Ian’s as well.
