The Vexatious Widow (Regency House Party: Havencrest Book 2)

by Michelle Pennington

  “Thank you,” she said, her soft voice difficult to hear. “Though I cannot think why you felt the need to tell me that.”

  “Neither can I. Let’s get back before this storm gets worse.”

  Or before he so lost his presence of mind as to give her a great deal more compliments just to hear the warmth in her voice again.

  Chapter Seven

  Joanna was very grateful that she had a lot to attend to the next day as it kept her mind occupied. She’d spent much too long going over and over the moment when Lord Tyndale had complimented her in a blunt, uncompromising way that had been every bit as genuine as his annoyance had been.

  She’d never been so affected by compliments and considering the isolation of their setting and the undeniable attractiveness of the man uttering them, it was no wonder that her head had been a bit turned by them. Later that evening, she’d made the appalling discovery that a mature, jaded woman with nothing but bitter experience in past could still feel like a fluttery debutant every time a certain gentleman looked her way—which he had seemed to do much too often. The only thing worse was the realization that she had only noticed because she was also looking at him.

  So, she sought refuge in work. She spent the first early hours of the morning closeted with Mrs. Daw and Alphonse in the housekeeper's room, comforting those two individuals as they poured out their grievances to her.

  “I’ll never be able to hold my head up again, Mrs. Thorne,” Mrs. Daw said, clutching her teacup close to her bosom. “No less than six guests came out of their bedrooms to sneak candles from various rooms to take back with them to their bedchambers. And the maids that cleaned Lord Tyndale’s room found his sheet in a tattered heap in the corner of his room. And when I saw how thin they were, and darned and full of holes, well, I almost gave notice right then. Mrs. Garvey must have saved them from the rag pile and ordered one of the maids to put them back into use.”

  “But that is of little moment compared to the travesty of last night’s dinner,” Alphonse said, his voice a wreck of emotion. “And what must the missus do when I refused to cook that sad lump of mutton, but cook it herself. If you can call that cooking, which I do not. I was never more mortified in my life than to see what went out to the table last night.”

  “I’m so sorry, Alphonse. Indeed, no one who has once sampled your cooking would ever think you could have had anything to do with that. And Mrs. Daw, I assure you that the guests all know all their discomforts are due to Mrs. Garvey’s peculiarities. Indeed, many of them are quite entertained by them.” Having let both of them unburden their wounded pride and savage resentment, but felt it was now time to offer them the good news. “But, I have the best of good news. It seems that the Prince Regent is not feeling well, and with the turn in the weather, Mr. Garvey has decided to spend the evening here. And you know what that means.”

  The two servants looked up at her as if she’d promised them salvation.

  “At last,” Alphonse said. “And we have carte blanche to order in what we’ll need for dinner tonight?”

  “Indeed you do. And Mrs. Daw, why don’t you add some of your most pressing needs to the list as well. Mrs. Garvey will never notice them in the midst of all the much more expensive bill she’ll be receiving for the dinner tonight. And I have a feeling you should order for two dinners since the weather is unlikely to change.”

  She left the two retainers enthusiastically making their lists and slipped out of the room feeling very pleased.

  And dinner that night was a tremendous success. With four courses and six removes at each, it was every bit as rich and extravagant as Alphonse could have desired. The good food seemed to put the whole company into a festive mood. Afterward, they settled into the cozy music room for the evening's entertainment, each of the young ladies being given a chance to display their talents and attractions before the whole company.

  Joanna sat quietly in a corner with Mrs. Garvey and Mrs. Pike with only a slight ache in her heart as always during an evening such as this. Fortunately, as a widow, she was spared the necessity of participating, which was fortunate since she possessed no talent for music and very little training in it. Seeing the admiration heaped upon the beauties in the room served as a reminder of her own deficiencies.

  She worried over the recent return of her sensitivity about her looks. What had become of her hard-fought fortitude? She did not have to look far to find the answer. Lord Tyndale sat across the room next to his sister-in-law, his handsome features drawing her eyes too often. Several times, when she looked his way, she found him watching her with a solemn and rather vexed expression. No doubt he was still angry about her meddling, but she couldn’t help but wonder if she looked like many of the beautiful young debutantes attending the house party, if she would have received admiration instead.

  Fortunately, since she was in an ill-humor, she was able to leave the onerous task of listening to Mrs. Garvey’s complaints and grumblings to Mrs. Pike. Her cousin was well at home at the Garvey’s where she was able to find all sorts of ways to make herself useful, which Joanna was extremely grateful for.

  Left free to watch the interplay of courtship amongst the guests, she saw signs of developing attachments between several of the ladies and gentlemen. Phoebe even seemed to enjoy the attention she received from some of the gentlemen. More than ever, she suspected that Joanna was not as attached to Mr. Seymour as she believed she was. Indeed, when Phoebe took her turn and sang a pretty ballad to her own accompaniment, she seemed to not have a care in the world as she accepted the applause and compliments heaped upon her.

  After lovely selections from Miss Honeyfield, Miss Martindale, Miss Marleigh, and others, there was a brief interlude for refreshments. Lord Tyndale took the opportunity to move, coming over to sit in the chair next to her. Joanna felt nervous and oddly flattered, hating her reactions even as she prayed he would not notice her quickened breath and heated cheeks.

  “At last,” he said with no preamble, “I may hope for some agreeable conversation.”

  “Agreeable? I was sure you detested me after my manipulation of your niece's affairs.”

  “No, I do not detest you. I have had time to consider it, and I see that you meant to be helpful. I do not fully understand why you wish to be, but I appreciate your kind inclinations.”

  He nodded. “That does not mean, however, that I want you to continue your stratagems. As you see, Phoebe has already forgotten her dismissed suitor.”

  Joanna searched the room and found her at that moment blushing under the attention of the very charming Lord Bolton. “I wonder.” She found that she didn’t much care about Phoebe at the moment. Instead, she could only focus on the sharp twinge of disappointment at his motives. “But, I understand perfectly. Your sentiments just now was an attempt to manipulate me.”

  Tyndale straightened and returned her sharp gaze with a fierce directness that unsettled her still further. “Not at all. Certainly, I meant to convince you to leave Phoebe’s affairs to me, but that doesn’t mean I don’t find pleasure in your company.”

  A rolling boom of thunder broke over the buzz of conversation, making all the guests pause, creating an eerie moment of quiet. Joanna looked up to the high windows and saw lightning flash as another clap of thunder sounded on its heels.

  “This is quite the storm, isn’t it?” Tyndale asked. “It is a good thing that none of the guests will have to go out in the elements in such weather when the evening is over. And after the handsome meal we’ve just enjoyed, I trust we shall have a pleasant nights sleep despite the storm.” He bent closer to her and lowered his voice. “And despite the discomforts of our bedchambers.”

  Remembering her discussion with Mrs. Daw earlier in the day, she said, “I believe you will have the added comfort of quality sheets on your bed this evening. The housekeeper was very unhappy to hear of your poor linens.”

  She was surprised to see Tyndale’s jaw flex a moment before he smiled and answered. “This is the first
time I have ever discussed my sheets with a lady in a drawing room.”

  With her cheeks burning hot, she flew into a hasty retort. “Well, you are the one who brought up bedchambers.”

  “So I did. But you have a strange effect on me. I swear I’ve never struggled so much to maintain propriety as I do when talking to you.”

  “Are you blaming me then?”

  His eyes flashed with amusement. “Completely.”

  Joanna pressed her lips together. “How courteous of you. Well, it isn’t as if we were discussing them in anything but the most prosaic way.”

  He nodded. “Yes. Certainly. And I did not mean to make you blush, though you do so charmingly.”

  It was too much. “Sir, I beg you will stop.”

  “Stop what?”

  “Saying pretty things to me. You know I do not care for it.”

  “I know no such thing. Did you not rhapsodize on your love of free, honest speech.”

  “I did. Which is precisely my point.”

  “And which is precisely why I will continue to say pretty things to you as they occur to me. By heavens, woman, what has been done to you?”

  Understanding too late the danger inherent in honest conversation, Joanna stood up and simply walked away from him. She could not endure facing the answers to his questions or the sharp pity in his eyes.

  Fortunately, the room was so crowded and everyone so focused on their own interests that not a soul noticed her leaving. And she had no intention of returning.

  But even as she turned the corner of the hall and went toward the staircase, she heard footsteps advancing quickly behind her. Turning, she gasped as she saw Tyndale behind her, a determined look upon his face. “Where are you going?” he demanded.

  “To my room.”

  “Will you please grant me the courtesy of finishing our discussion first?”

  “Will you please allow me to withdraw from a conversation that has grown too personal?”

  “And what is too personal for us? Have we not stepped over that line often enough already? I just want to understand why you will not accept an honest compliment.”

  Appalled to feel tears rising in her eyes, she sniffed and forced her emotions into their cage. But apparently not securely enough because when she tried to answer him, her voice was thick with them. “Perhaps because I have never received such a thing from a man in my life. My father often bemoaned the fact that I was not pretty enough to tempt a man of fortune. But he did not give up. Oh no. He made a lovely arrangement with Mr. Samuel Thorne, who had amassed a fortune in banking and was older than my father. It’s a common enough arrangement of course. I did not have beauty or fortune, but I had youth and genteel relations. Samuel gave me compliments enough in the early days—clumsy, blatant lies designed to overcome my reluctance, which they never did. And then when I did not produce an heir, the compliments turned into the same bitter truths I see every day looking in the mirror.”

  “Then you are not looking closely enough,” he argued, his voice rising louder. Too loudly. Someone would hear them.

  Lowering her voice, Joanna continued relentlessly, not heeding his argument. “When Samuel died, he was replaced with a string of gentlemen eager to take his place and spend the money he’d left me. They praised my beauty, exclaimed over my charm, wrote odes to my eyes.”

  He took two swift steps toward her, each of them underscored by the thunder outside. His hands closed over her shoulders and his eyes bore down into hers. “You, Joanna Thorne are not a beauty. I have seen some signs of your charm, but you have also annoyed me as no other woman has ever done. Your eyes are a blasted danger to my peace of mind because they’re not only lovely, but they compel my attention when I’d rather have it anywhere else. So mark my words: do not judge me by other men. You will only ever hear truth from me, whether or not you like it.”

  As if his words had not stunned her enough, he bent forward and pressed a hard, fiery kiss on her lips. As he pulled back and dropped his hands from her, she opened her eyes and drew in a gasp of breath. He had already turned away, striding down the hall as if he couldn’t escape her presence soon enough.

  Overwhelmed and shattered, not knowing what to think or what to do, she ran to her room.

  Lizzie was there, stitching in the candlelight. She looked up, flinging aside her work. “Ma’am, are you well?”

  Joanna leaned against the foot post of the bed, wrapping her arms against it for support. She needed to speak but had to force the words out. “I am fine, Lizzie. I want to be alone.”

  She didn’t look at the girl, but heard the worry in her voice as she said, “Yes, ma’am.”

  When the door closed behind her, Joanna went to the vanity and sat down to look in the mirror. The same face looked back at her, but her features blurred from the tears in her eyes, so she could not see if Tyndale was right. Had she somehow missed some trace of beauty? And what did it matter what she looked like? He had kissed her.

  He had kissed her.

  Which was worse than all the false compliments in the world, because she knew exactly what to do with those. How dared he shatter her peace like this?

  Chapter Eight

  The morning after his disastrous decision to kiss Joanna—her given name now coming readily to his mind—he hid away in Mr. Garvey’s library to escape the annoyance of bored, restless house guests. His host seemed to be absent again, no doubt dancing attendance on the Prince Regent at the Royal Pavilion, but Tyndale was glad to have a quiet place to conduct his various business.

  He was fooling himself, however. He’d been working on the same letter to his land manager for over thirty minutes but had made very little progress. Even as the monotonous rain pelted the windows and the fire crackled on the hearth, his mind continuously turned back to the moment the night before when he had held her close and indulged his fierce impulse to kiss her—to show her that little though she might suspect it, she had the power to stir a man to desire.

  There had been no thought behind it, no time for logic or weighing of the consequences. But alone now with his thoughts, he wished he had not succumbed. No doubt she would keep her distance from him now, for which he would not blame her, and he would have an even more difficult time banishing her from his thoughts. Because she had felt soft and fragile beneath his fingers and her skin had smelled of honey and lavender, all femininity and sweetness. Feeling her lips beneath his had sent an urge through him to conquer and claim. It had taken all his strength and self-possession to step away and not demand more.

  Which made absolutely no sense to him at all. They were little better than strangers.

  So why did it not feel that way?

  He had just managed to write another line with the worst pen in Christendom when a light knock on the door preceded the intrusion upon his solitude by Phoebe. She smiled at him as she came in, sure of her welcome and not at all abashed from their previous clash over her behavior. She wore a white muslin morning dress embroidered with pink rosebuds and looked as fresh and lovely as a summer morning. He eyed her with misgiving and set down his pen.

  “What is it, Phoebe?”

  “Good afternoon, Uncle.” She smiled at him, managing to look very innocent. It was rather impressive.

  “Would you mind skipping over all the cozening speeches you’ve prepared and tell what you want?”

  She laughed, apparently delighted. “I can see that you are still angry with me, but I came to admit you were right.”

  His eyebrow lifted. “Did you now?”

  “Yes. I have given it a lot of thought, and I daresay you are perfectly right about Mr. Seymour. And so, I have decided to give him up.”

  “Have you? How biddable of you. And what was it that changed your mind?”

  Amusement flashed in her eyes. “Perhaps it is the presence of so many charming gentlemen.”

  Tyndale leaned back in his chair. “I see. Because there was such a shortage of them in London when you first settled on Seymour in the
first place.”

  “Oh, well, as to that, I did not spend much time with any of them did I? I considered that there would be so many more opportunities to observe the…the…virtues of gentlemen when you are secluded under the same roof with them for so long.”

  “That sounds ominous. But I am in just such a humor that I hope you will go away now and continue to appreciate their charms.”

  “That is another reason I came. There is to be a fencing tournament. I thought perhaps you would like to come and compete.”

  “Nothing would be less likely.”

  “But you are so good. I have seen you.”

  “That is entirely beside the point. I have a great deal to do since you dragged me here, so I do not have time for such frivolity. You, however, may glut yourself on it with my goodwill if you will only leave me in peace.”

  Phoebe shook her head and came over to kiss him on the cheek. “How dull you are. But at least we have settled everything between us and you know that you need not expend another moment’s worry on me.”

  “Yes. It is quite a relief,” he replied, not bothering to tell her that their conversation had had quite the reverse effect, in fact, putting him on his guard. But she went away, perfectly assured that she had allayed his worries.

  Tyndale did not have long to consider what she might be plotting, however, before someone else came in. This time it was Joanna’s cousin, Mrs. Pike.

  Thinking she must have come in to get a book or some such thing, he only glanced up at her before turning back again to his correspondence. But then she stepped briskly over to the desk where he worked and loomed over him like a threatening cloud. With a sigh, he again put down his pen and looked up at her, noting her determined visage with glum resignation. Standing up and bowing to her, he modulated his tone to reflect more courtesy than he was feeling. “How do you do. Mrs. Pike, isn’t it?”