To Wed The Widow Read online

  “I appreciate your confidence even if I do not share it. My only hope is that I will never be in charge of the whole of it, although Sebastian is making threats that he will be giving me the running of an estate here and there. For the experience. Bloody hell, I’ll have to report to him.”

  Elinor hid her smile against his shirt. “How horrible.”

  “The worst. I know my father did the same to Sebastian and just look what it did to him. You won’t recognize me when he gets through with me.”

  She laughed outright at that and Sinclair said, “I’ll have to go to the country. Sheep. Tenants. Peace and quiet.”

  He shuddered.

  Elinor said, “Mud,” then sat up. “When will you be leaving for the country?”

  “Oh, not right away. Someday. He wouldn’t trust me with a dollhouse right now, let alone a real house and lands.”

  Elinor calmed her racing heart. He wasn’t leaving for the country yet. She still had time.

  “And Sebastian won’t send me during the season. Not while he is working so hard at getting me married off.”

  Elinor sat stiffly on his lap, trying to think of something witty to say to that. Something biting.

  But her heart still pounded and she imagined her townhouse without him here waiting for her and she just couldn’t think of anything.

  He ran his hand down her back. “This isn’t a secret between us, Elinor. There are no falsehoods between us.”

  She did smile then. “I am certain there are a few falsehoods between us, but you’re right. Not that one. I know you, and your brother, are still set on Miss Westin.” She leaned back against him. “Forgive me if I thought I could change your mind with only a few nights.”

  He breathed out, his breath puffing her hair into her face. “You know were circumstances different, we would be sleeping in a Scottish bed this night. Man and wife over a blacksmith’s anvil.”

  She took that pretty thought and held it to her heart. She never would have but it was a pretty thought.

  “Mr. Sinclair. You know I never get married without a passel of solicitors approving the transaction.”

  His chest rumbled against her back. “No running off to Gretna Green for you? You have killed every last romantic bone in my body.”

  “It is only romantic in your eyes because you wouldn’t lose everything. Stupid is not romantic.”

  “Then tell me, dear lady, your version of romance.”

  She paused to think. Romance? Love?

  Perhaps she did think stupid was romantic. Perhaps romance was doing what you knew was stupid, what you knew would hurt, what you knew would destroy, and doing it anyway. Just for the chance at happiness.

  “I. . .don’t know.”

  “You’ve never loved anyone? Any of them?”

  “Is that what you are looking for in marriage, Sinclair? Love?”

  “Of course not. That would be silly.”

  But she heard it in his voice, that love was what he hoped for. Just like the difference between his frippery and the earldom. One was love, one was duty.

  George Sinclair wanted to love. George Sinclair lived to love.

  He’d left all he’d built, the home he’d made for himself, for his brother’s happiness.

  She said, “Romance is simply the outward expression of love. And love, real love, is the giving up of everything you want in order to give the one you love everything they want.”

  George said nothing at her definition and she said, “No, I never loved any of them like that. I’ve never loved anyone like that.”

  “I think very few people have.”

  Elinor didn’t point out that was exactly what he’d done.

  He pulled pins from her hair. “But you’re right, sacrifice is much more romantic than Gretna Green. Luckily, love doesn’t require everything from most people.”

  Luck. Elinor had never had any.

  Her stomach turned and she was glad that she didn’t love George Sinclair, glad she wouldn’t be asked to give up everything for him.

  His fingers began to work on the buttons on the back of her dress and she slid from his lap, standing and offering her hand.

  “I am tired of the cold, hard floor.”

  He perked up. “A bed? Jones’ll never keep me out now.”

  She laughed, pulling him out the door and up the stairs. “Strict instructions.”

  “Ah, well. I only came early tonight because I will be very late tomorrow. A dinner.”

  “I know. I’ve been invited.”

  Sinclair stopped halfway up the stairs. “You’ve been invited to dinner at the earl’s?”

  When Elinor nodded, he exclaimed, “By the earl?!”

  “His wife.”

  “Has Flora lost her mind?”

  “I don’t believe she has.”

  “How in the world did you get her on your side?” Then he gasped. “Miss Westin will be there!”

  “And St. Clair.”

  Sinclair sucked in a breath. “My brother, my best friend, my intended, and my mistress.”

  She said thoughtfully, “Which of us do you think will be the most uncomfortable?”

  “Me!”

  She chuckled, tugging at him until he began climbing the stairs again. “I am betting on the earl. I am hoping for Miss Westin.”

  He said darkly, “I have underestimated you, Elinor. I won’t be doing it again.”

  “You did underestimate me. You should listen to your friend and your brother more often.”

  “Obviously.”

  She pushed open the door to her bedchamber, a wave of heat escaping to coat them.

  When Jones had told her Sinclair was waiting in her drawing room, she’d ordered her bedchamber fire stoked as hot as possible, and the room shimmered with heat. It was as close to India as she could imagine for him.

  She turned to Sinclair, still holding his hand, and said, “Are you going to start listening to them now?”

  He closed his eyes, inhaling deeply and saying, “God, no.”

  The pain started early the next morning.

  It had been less than a week; Elinor couldn’t be disappointed they hadn’t made a child in so short a time. She couldn’t be surprised.

  She was, and she was. She’d been so sure. She’d known.

  But the tightening in her belly, the ache in her back, told her her menses were coming.

  She prayed she was wrong, refused to send her apologies to the countess.

  By early afternoon, the pain made her breath hitch, but there was still no blood. She could still hope. She refused to take any laudanum.

  She dressed for dinner slowly, haltingly, every movement hurting her, her maid looking worried and trying to talk her into staying home.

  Elinor shook her head, saving her breath to pant against the pain.

  And then there was a spot of blood. And then another.

  Elinor bent double and fell to the bed. She curled into a ball, groaning as the fire burned and twisted low in her belly, as her back spasmed.

  Mrs. Potts held her down and the maid poured that hateful elixir down her throat and far too slowly, the pain receded.

  Far too quickly, Elinor stopped caring that there was no child. She floated in that place where want didn’t exist.

  It didn’t even hurt that her last thought, right before she stopped thinking entirely, was that there would never be a child.

  Flora’s guests had gone home.

  The servants had cleaned up the mess that inevitably resulted from a dozen extra people dining and being entertained for an evening.

  The lights had been doused and the household was abed.

  Flora made her way carefully down the stairs to the library thinking of the Westins.

  Lady Westin and her daughter were cut from the same cloth– beautiful and gay and somewhat spirited.

  The kind of woman you could easily be jealous of, the kind of woman you could easily hate if she had but one mean bone in her body.

 
The kind of woman who could make being a countess look easy. The kind of woman who could raise an earl.

  If only it was Sebastian who had to make that decision.

  Because George had jumped at every arrival, waiting for one person in particular.

  Flora had failed to mention that she’d invited the widow to her husband. Because Flora hadn’t wanted to give Sebastian time to disinvite her. And because Flora hadn’t wanted to spend any time being lectured at before the dinner– after the dinner was unavoidable.

  And because she’d wanted Sebastian to see. To see how George looked at Miss Westin, and how he looked at Elinor.

  But Elinor had not arrived. A note had been sent in her place, not in her handwriting, and Flora had every intention of visiting her friend tomorrow to make sure she was all right.

  When Flora had shown George the note, he’d read it slowly, then folded it tightly and tucked it in his pocket.

  She could only imagine that he had been just as surprised that the widow hadn’t come. Could only imagine that he, too, would be worried about her.

  He’d tried. Tried to be attentive, tried to be interested.

  But his fingers had strayed to his pocket time and again and he’d fiddled with the note the entire evening. As soon as Flora’s guests had begun departing, he’d left.

  Flora thought they’d been lucky he hadn’t left the moment the note had arrived.

  She paused at the library door. Thinking of earls and their brothers. Earls and their wives.

  She didn’t knock, just walked right in like she’d always done. As if it was her right.

  Sebastian was behind his desk, working. Taking care of his responsibilities.

  He lifted his head to smile at her.

  She didn’t smile back. She didn’t say a word, just untied her dressing gown and let it fall to the floor.

  She wished it was dark in here, wished she didn’t have to stand naked and on display for the man she loved.

  Not after ten years and four children.

  Loose, flabby, sagging.

  She hadn’t known, ten years ago, that one day she would miss her young body. Hadn’t known that one day she would wish she had been proud of it. That she’d spent every evening reclining naked in front of the fire, marveling at the smooth skin and firm muscles.

  In ten more years would she feel the same about this body?

  Sebastian’s eyes flicked down, then back up. “Flora?”

  She tilted her chin up and walked toward him, closer to the light.

  “Sebastian. I need you. Like this. Us, together.”

  She did need him like that, but it still made her blush.

  She also needed to try, one more time. Another chance at a son. Not for the earldom, not for duty. Not even for George.

  For her husband. To give him a reason to spend his days and nights working. For purpose.

  He thought he could live without it.

  He was wrong.

  Sebastian sighed. “Flora. I can’t. I won’t.”

  But his eyes kept getting dragged back down to her breasts, the apex of her thighs.

  His eyes didn’t complain that her breasts now sat lower than they had before. They didn’t stop at her belly to criticize the roundness or trace the faint lines left from skin being stretched too far to ever recover.

  She stepped around the desk, leaned down to rub the tip of her nose on his cheek and to smell the scent that was his alone.

  She whispered, “I need you, Sebastian.”

  When she pulled back, his eyes were closed and he said softly, merely a breath escaping, “Flora. Please.”

  She crawled onto his lap, her knees straddling his hips, and kissed him.

  She forgot about propriety and shame. Forgot about rejection and leading him where she wanted him to go.

  If he wouldn’t be led to her bed, if he wouldn’t lie with her, she would love him just like she’d always done.

  As if it was her right.

  George had raced to Elinor’s after leaving Flora’s dinner. His heart beating, the note tight in his fist.

  Lady Haywood sends her apologies.

  Something had to be wrong; the widow wouldn’t shy away from spectacle or scandal. Lady Haywood wouldn’t send her apologies.

  He’d nearly sent his horse up her short flight of stairs to trample through the front door but at the last minute had vaulted from it and used his fist to summon Jones.

  When the man opened the door cautiously, George tried to push through.

  “What’s wrong? Where is she?”

  Jones strong-armed him, keeping him out.

  “She is resting.”

  That did nothing to ease George’s worry.

  “Was it that coxcomb of a brother of hers?”

  “No, sir. She is simply. . .unwell.”

  “Jones, if you do not let me through to see for myself, I will take Anala out of my pocket. Yes, I will.”

  He would have to go home first to get her. But then, by gad, he would bring the little thing back and let her loose on the hapless Jones. And then on Elinor for making him worry about her.

  He was only slightly relieved it hadn’t been her brother. Had been imagining the madness in the man’s eyes and the bruises he must have surely left on Elinor’s arm the first time he’d seen them together.

  Jones looked to be at a complete loss, speechless in the face of George’s threat, then began to push the door shut, muttering something.

  George leaned closer to hear. “Pardon?”

  Jones flushed bright red, cleared his throat and said to the air above George’s head, “It is women’s troubles, sir.”

  George blinked. And blinked again. “Oh.”

  The two men didn’t look at one another until finally George shook it off. “Well, in that case, she shouldn’t mind if I pop in for a short visit. I won’t stay, Jones.”

  Since the man had wished George a farewell and a good morning at the same time for nearly a week now, Jones certainly knew how things lay between George Sinclair and his mistress.

  The poor man was weakening but Jones gave it one last shot. “She would not want you to see her. She has taken a heavy dose of laudanum.”

  “Ah. Excellent.” George pushed his way in, Jones stepping out of the way with a sigh as he realized the futility of the situation. “In that case, she need never know I was here. I will simply peek in to make sure she is as well as can be, then leave her to rest.”

  George didn’t wait for Jones to agree, simply bounded up the stairs and to her room, his coat flapping around him, his hat still on his head.

  He pushed open the door slowly, trying not to imagine what kind of troubles women suffered from, but when he saw a maid sitting quietly next to the bed and Elinor sleeping fitfully beneath a light blanket, he relaxed.

  Three large steps in and he was looking down at her, her hair still coiffed although horribly mussed now. The room was cooler than she kept it for him and it did not go unnoticed.

  No bruises marred her face, just a light sheen to her skin, and George said, “Women’s troubles.”

  The maid flushed and lowered her head, and George sighed.

  A woman who’d had five husbands– three and a half if she insisted– and no children and bad enough women’s troubles that she needed to be knocked out with laudanum.

  George sighed again. Because tonight he’d had dinner with a young girl and her pleasant family, his brother beaming at the splendidness of the situation.

  Splendid. Simply splendid.

  George would have to offer for Miss Westin. Soon.

  He could go tonight. Hunt down her father, make his intentions fact.

  Sip cognac and be welcomed into the family.

  And then call for the solicitors tomorrow.

  He could only think of Elinor now when he thought of solicitors and George smiled. And then he stopped.

  How long would she keep him once his engagement was settled? Until the wedding? After?

&n
bsp; Or would she drop him and move on once she knew she couldn’t win?

  George said to the maid, “I assume you know what you’re doing?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Her tone was too confident to doubt that she hadn’t done this before.

  George didn’t say goodbye, just turned and left. The anxiety he’d arrived with had dissipated into a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

  He liked to call it his future.

  He trudged down the stairs.

  “Thank you, Jones. For letting me see her.”

  “Thank you, sir, for pretending I had any say in the matter.”

  George’s mouth twitched.

  He thought of cognac. And fathers. And solicitors.

  And said, “I don’t suppose Mrs. Potts has any tea down in the kitchen?”

  Ten

  Four days later, when Elinor was receiving callers again, Flora came to pay her a visit. She stopped completely when she saw Elinor.

  “You look as if you should still be abed!”

  Elinor still felt shaky; her skin too pale, her movements too slow.

  “Thank you but I am well enough. It is the laudanum. It does not agree with me.”

  Or perhaps it agreed too well. Stopping the dosage was nearly as bad as not taking it in the first place and she didn’t know why she clawed her way out every month. Didn’t know why her menses were so painful in the first place; only knew she could very well spend the rest of her life in a stupor from the drug. Let it take away her desire and want.

  Many women did. A little sip morning, noon, and night. Just enough to keep oneself from caring.

  Elinor pushed it away. “I am sorry I missed your dinner. Sinclair didn’t get himself engaged, did he?”

  “No.”

  Elinor felt the flicker of life spark again. This was why she’d crawled out this time. Sinclair. Miss Westin. The countess, Elinor’s trump card. The game. Everything she wanted, so close.

  And she pushed away the fear that close didn’t matter, not for her.

  Flora said, “But the earl is becoming quite fond of Miss Westin. He is pushing his brother toward her at every opportunity. Which I am not interfering with since it irritates George to no end. At this point he wouldn’t marry the girl even if he was in love with her.”