To Wed The Widow Read online

  Elinor shook her head. “Not in the mood to play tonight.”

  “Not in the moo– Are you ill?”

  She laughed, low in the throat, making one wonder if she was laughing at you or what you said, and George grinned and sipped.

  “Too many other games to enjoy tonight,” she said and George stopped grinning.

  “You’ve spotted your prey.”

  It wasn’t a question, which was just as well since she didn’t deign to answer him.

  She said, “And you?”

  “Two with Miss Westin. If she can persuade some lovesick ninny to give me his dance. We shall see.”

  “That is moving along. Are you testing her ability to lead her men around by the nose or merely playing with her?”

  He grinned into his cup. “Can’t it be both?”

  “As I recall, you do love a good game. What happens if she offers you that second set?”

  The same thing that had happened every other time he’d won in his and Miss Westin’s verbal sparring match.

  He’d get bored. And then soldier on.

  He said, “What would you do in that situation?”

  Elinor didn’t hesitate. “Persuade some lovesick ninny to give me back my dance. And then give it to someone else.”

  He breathed it in. Reveled in it. And wondered just what he would do if Miss Westin played that hand.

  “I can’t decide, Lady Haywood, if I’m glad that I’m not playing you.”

  He could all but hear his good friend George St. Clair whispering in his ear.

  Who says you’re not? You’re still here.

  “You’re not glad. Else you wouldn’t be offering punch.”

  “It’s not all I’m offering.”

  And when her lips began curving up he said, “I’ve come to scribble my name on your dance card. A pity dance for the widow.”

  The curve of her lips opened up into a laugh.

  He said quietly, his mouth close to her ear, “I can’t only dance with Miss Westin. And you can’t refuse tonight, not when you’re wearing those slippers.”

  She lifted the hem of her dress to show him her dancing slippers, proving him right, then said, “I doubtless could.”

  “Could you? Have at it, then. What’s your excuse this time?”

  “I don’t want to dance with you.”

  He cocked his head. “I thought you would be a better liar than that.”

  She sipped, then turned her head to meet his still too-close eyes. “Did you?”

  He could very well imagine Miss Westin saying the same thing to him. Coquettish and playfully hurt. Accusing him of calling her a liar.

  Elinor said it as if she was agreeing with him. Oh, I do lie better than that, and therefore keeping the advantage to herself.

  She leaned against his arm, tilting her lips up to meet his ear and whispered hotly, “I. Don’t. Want. To.”

  George caught his shiver a moment too late and she pulled back to smile at him.

  Now there was bite. A lie and truth, all rolled into one.

  She handed him her empty punch cup. “Thank you for the refreshment, Mr. Sinclair.”

  “Thank you, Lady Haywood.”

  She walked away, the sway of her gown attracting his attention now that he wasn’t looking at her lips or dodging her barbs.

  He hadn’t even noticed the dress. Hadn’t noticed that she was wearing gray instead of black.

  Another week, another step away from her mourning.

  He looked around the room, looked down at the cup in his hand, and wondered.

  Just who was her prey?

  Hours of dancing later, George sat in front of a crackling fire in a brightly colored drawing room and rested his head against the back of a winged chair and willed himself not to fall asleep.

  Three large dogs sat at attention at his feet, which was why he was so comfortable. He wasn’t moving, was fairly certain he wouldn’t be allowed to move, until their mistress arrived home.

  Mrs. Potts had brought him tea. Jones had inquired if he was comfortable, and George had wondered if the fellow had been making a joke. He would have been more comfortable down in the kitchen being watched over by a well-trained cook rather than these well-trained dogs.

  The kitchen, however, had been quashed.

  The lady of the house, though, eventually arrived home. Eventually came into the drawing room to stare at him in disbelief.

  “You followed me home.”

  “I can’t have. I was here first. Been here, in this exact spot, for ages.”

  “Jones says an hour.”

  “Ages.”

  She shook her head, giving one of the dogs a quick pat on the head, then dismissing them.

  “Is your dog in your pocket?”

  “I’ve stopped carrying her around specifically to avoid that question. It is the first thing anyone asks of me.”

  “I can’t imagine why. Have you trained her not to bark ferociously anytime she sees the light of day?”

  He shook his head. “Perhaps you can give me a few tips. You seem to know what you are doing with your dogs.”

  “I could, if you really wanted her to stop. But you don’t. You like the fuss she causes.”

  He laughed because he did.

  “Sometimes. And when I don’t, I leave her home with my valet. The best of both worlds.”

  She nodded. “Is there any other reason you could be sitting in my home waiting for me to arrive, again, in the wee hours of the morning? Perhaps you came to tell me about your two with Miss Westin.”

  “Mm. They were about what you would expect.”

  She sat in a chair far away from him and he took that as the encouragement it was meant. And he thought she might welcome what he craved as well. Conversation and camaraderie.

  With a possibility of canoodling.

  Elinor said, “It was the dance heard ‘round the ballroom. Did she even threaten you with giving it to someone else?”

  He shook his head and she said, “Ah, well. She’s still young.”

  “It’s what I keep telling myself.”

  “And in the mean time, you’ll amuse yourself with me.”

  He’d like to.

  To make a mistress of the widow seemed to be exactly what an earl’s heir would do.

  “You are, indeed, amusing.” He made himself more comfortable. “But I’ve come to ask who it is you’re chasing.”

  One blond eyebrow went up.

  He said, “You know who I’m chasing. It’s only fair.”

  “The whole world knows who you’re chasing. You’ve made your intentions clear.”

  He rested his head back again. “Miss Westin will make a wonderful countess.”

  “Depends on what you think a countess is supposed to do.”

  He closed his eyes, smiling, wondering what Elinor thought a countess was supposed to do.

  He imagined her vision differed from Miss Westin’s. From everyone’s.

  The silence grew between them. He wouldn’t ask.

  She wouldn’t tell.

  His smile grew wider, his eyes still closed. He rested his linked fingers on his belly, prepared to outlast her. Prepared for a siege, for a battle between equal players.

  His eyes popped open when he heard the drawing room door snick shut and he sat up sharply. His breath rushed out when he saw she was still in the room, her hand on the doorknob.

  “You think it’s you. Who I’m chasing.”

  “I admit I’m a bit late to the table but I’ve finally arrived. St. Clair was right; you’re playing the same game with a different opening.”

  “I wasn’t. At first. You are too well-protected.”

  “But something changed your mind?”

  She turned around to look at him and said, “If changed my mind.”

  “If? If what?”

  “If everyone could have what they wanted.”

  “The only thing I can imagine giving everyone what they wanted was if the countess deliver
ed an heir.”

  She walked away from the door, toward George, and he blinked.

  “Are you privy to some information the rest of us aren’t?”

  “No.”

  He sat up a little. “And you’re still relying on this mythical if.”

  “Yes.”

  His heart beat faster. The countess wasn’t breeding. Surely they would have told him if she was. Surely they wouldn’t withhold any sliver of hope if they could offer it to him.

  And just how would the widow know anyway?

  She stopped in front of him, her blue eyes watching. “What would you do with if?”

  He didn’t even want to imagine it. Didn’t want hope to spring free from the cage he’d trapped it in.

  Didn’t want to think about one long journey to India. Didn’t want to think about heat and warmth and life exactly how he liked it.

  Didn’t want to think who he’d bring with him because it wasn’t Miss Westin.

  His tight muscles relaxed. “Ah. Miss Westin. You have to move now. Before it’s too late; before my intentions becomes fact.”

  “I can make you forget all about Miss Westin.”

  “Who?”

  Elinor smiled at him and George truthfully forgot who they were talking about.

  She placed one knee on the chair, right between his. Her dress pulled tight against her breasts and she leaned forward to relieve the pressure.

  George’s hands came up without thought and circled her waist.

  St. Clair whispered to George, Remember who you’re playing. Remember that she doesn’t hesitate to crush her opponents when the opportunity presents itself.

  And bloody hell, if that didn’t make him even more excited.

  George pulled at her fichu, slowly exposing the creamy skin of her bosom.

  “Can you make me forget duty and family, Elinor? Remember you’re not playing Miss Westin, you’re playing me. And the earl.”

  “And St. Clair.” She tugged at his cravat sharply, making his heart thump.

  He murmured, “And St. Clair. And the countess.”

  She leaned into him and breathed against his lips. “And all I have is if.”

  If he could have spoken past the lump in his throat he would have told her she had a hell of a lot more than that.

  Then decided she already knew it.

  One last try. One last warning before they started a game neither one of them could win.

  He cleared his throat. “You’re playing against the way of the world, Elinor.”

  Her lips touched his, a spark traveled down his belly to his groin. His fingers began working on the buttons on the back of her dress.

  She pushed his coat off his shoulders and said, “It’s not the way of my world.”

  The fire had burned down and their clothes littered the furniture and floor.

  Sinclair lay cradled between her legs, his head heavy on her chest.

  Elinor was happy to stay here on the floor with him forever, and where his skin touched hers, she was warm. But her skin pebbled along the outside of her arms and outer thighs, and she shivered.

  Sinclair murmured, “A bed.”

  “A blanket.”

  He sighed and didn’t move. “A raging fire and I can pretend I am at home and not in this perpetually chilled country.”

  “You miss India so much?”

  “More than I can bear.”

  She ran her hand over his hair. “You love your brother so much.”

  “More than I can stand.”

  She laughed, pushing at him until he rolled off her, shivering himself. He made for the fire, poking and stoking until it again put out its heat.

  When he turned back to her, she was pulling on her dress and he reached for her, pulling the dress back off and tossing it away. He pulled her to the heat, trapping her between him and it and rubbed at her arms.

  When her arms were warm, he knelt at her feet, wrapping his arms around her and rubbing her backside.

  She pushed her fingers through his too long, too blond hair and thought she could almost relax around him. Almost be herself instead of what she thought he wanted.

  He smoothed his fingers around her waist, across her abdomen, his thumbs meeting over her navel. “Tell me about it.”

  “About the children I’ve never had?”

  He nodded and she said, “There’s nothing to tell.”

  He looked up. “How can a woman have five husbands and no children?”

  “They don’t last long enough to give me any, Sinclair.”

  She’d meant to say it coldly, matter-of-factly. But it came out choked and sad.

  “You can cry, Elinor.”

  She shook her head. She never had before, she didn’t know why she should start now, with the man who was going to give her everything she wanted at her feet.

  “Cry? Never. To cry would be to accept. To cry would be to admit defeat.”

  “And if it had been one husband for five years? Would it be time to admit defeat then?”

  Her stomach tightened. In anger, in fear.

  She’d gone through this with herself, over and over. Never with anyone else, though, and she pushed her anger down to haltingly say, “It wasn’t five years. Husband number one did his duty.”

  “The old codger.”

  Her smile lifted her lips, her stomach let go of its ill emotions, and she sank onto her knees.

  “The old codger,” she agreed.

  “And then the merchant,” Sinclair said, skipping over the heartbreak of a dead child. Because children died and women somehow, someday, pushed themselves from their bed and learned to live with only half a heart.

  She said, “He could have, should have. One year and no child. That is not so unusual. And then there was the Italian Stallion. Marcus. Who liked men.”

  “Ah. Only?”

  “Only. I had hoped. . . When I finally realized what the problem was, I thought I could change his mind.” She smiled self-deprecatingly. “I was wrong.”

  Sinclair sighed. “And then there was dear Bertie. I don’t think I want to know any of his secrets.”

  “Dear Bertie didn’t have any secrets. He was a good and kind man, more than a woman like me ever deserved. He was year two. And I will agree it is worrisome that there was no child. But still nowhere near impossible.”

  “And then year three was the young whippersnapper.”

  She shook her head. “Of the year we were married, he was able to enjoy our marital bed two times. He had a serious drinking problem and his member suffered for it.”

  Sinclair’s lips pulled back in a grimace. “Remind me to give up drink.”

  “He was a sweet boy, but very unhappy, and I don’t think our marriage helped any. So it was only two years. Not nearly long enough for me to give up.”

  Sinclair reached behind him, pulling his greatcoat over to the fire and smoothing it out on the floor. He lay down on it, holding his arm up for Elinor to snuggle down with him, and when she did, the warm fire on one side and his warm body on the other, she closed her eyes and nearly fell asleep.

  He said lightly, “You can’t fool me, Elinor. You feign sleep but I know, you’re thinking of solicitors and planning your next move.”

  She smiled. “You haven’t given me what I want. Yet.”

  “I gave it to you. More than once.”

  He had. Not a selfish lover, was George Sinclair.

  He is all that he promises.

  He whispered, “Even if I give you a child, I can’t marry you.”

  “I know. You can’t marry me unless the countess breeds. I won’t marry you unless I breed.”

  “And if you begin breeding and the countess doesn’t?”

  “I will have to make you marry me.” She opened her eyes to smile at him and run her hand down his chest. “Somehow.”

  “Fair warning. I can’t give that to you, Elinor. My life is not my own.”

  “Fair warning, Sinclair. I play to win.”

  �
��You play to crush; I remember. You think you can twirl me around your finger like all your other husbands? Make me forget my brother and my duty and cling only to you?”

  She pulled a pin from her disheveled hair and then another and she watched him as the locks tumbled down.

  She said, “Yes,” and George’s cock rose in agreement.

  He murmured, “God help me if you’re right,” and leaned in to kiss her, to cover her and love her again.

  To distract her, if only for a little while.

  Because he was right; it was her against his world.

  Her only play was to make him come to her side. To make him turn against his world.

  How did one make a man give you what you wanted when you’d already given him what he wanted?

  Elinor had figured it out. She still didn’t know if she could do it.

  She would make him give her his heart.

  Nine

  Sinclair came to visit Elinor the next evening.

  And the next.

  And on the third evening, Elinor arrived home to find him tucked into her drawing room, reading, her dogs lying happily at his feet.

  He pulled her down into his lap and she went too easily, too happily.

  She said, “I’ll be giving Jones strict instructions not to let you in again unless I am here to receive you.”

  “Sounds like a good idea.” He kissed her, a whole day apart too long. “Sounds like a great idea.”

  Elinor pulled back before they got too serious. She was tired of the hard floor and the fire burning itself out. Tonight she would take Sinclair to her bedroom.

  He tucked her into his side, telling her of his day with his brother. The tedious, never-ending details one needed to know to run an earldom.

  He exclaimed over the stewards and the running of them and she said, “It is the same as your frippery. You have lots of people taking care of their little part and you have to take care of them.”

  He’d told her all about the hours he’d spent scouring the markets and the excitement he felt when he found something special. The look in the merchant’s eye when he said he wanted as many as could be had. The contacts he’d made in London and the shops that stocked his doodads.

  “But. . .that’s fun. And I’m in charge of it. The earldom runs my brother, not the other way around.”

  “I am sure you will figure it out. I doubt it even occurs to the earl that it could be any other way.”