To Wed The Widow Page 2

  “Here he is! And he’s brought me punch, how sweet. Toddle back to our hostess, brother, before she finds someone else with impeccable fashion sense.”

  Elinor smiled brightly at Mr. Sinclair, forcing herself to hold on to the cup until her brother was gone and out of sight. Pins and needles raced down her fingers as the blood came rushing back and she switched hands quickly before she dropped the confounded punch.

  George Sinclair watched her and took a sip from one of his cups. He made a face, then said, “Brother?”

  Elinor took a cautious sip, turning it into a healthy gulp when it tasted just fine to her.

  “You can pick your husband, you can pick your dog. You can’t pick your brother.”

  He thought about that for a long moment. “Yes. I have my own brother. They should be outlawed.”

  She snorted, a very unladylike and punch-filled sound that turned into a short coughing fit.

  Mr. Sinclair watched her, still sip-sip-sipping, and when her coughs subsided said, “I don’t have a dog, though.”

  She cleared the remaining cough from her throat. “I have three. Mastiffs.”

  “Mastiffs! In London?!”

  Everyone within a ten-foot radius turned at his shout and when Elinor had recovered from her involuntary jump, she started laughing at the red tinge to his face and sheepish look.

  He muttered, “It’s much louder in India. I haven’t yet acclimatized myself to the quiet.”

  Elinor chuckled, listening to the loud laughter of the crowded room and wondered just how loud India could be. She sipped her punch, forgetting her brother and her arm and thinking it was too bad about George Sinclair.

  He was. . .intriguing.

  An intriguing husband would certainly be different than her normal fare.

  Except she’d met his brother. And she agreed, he should definitely be outlawed.

  And there was his friend St. Clair who would keep a calm head under pressure.

  They could both foil her plan. She needed someone more certain.

  She turned her head away from George Sinclair and scanned the crowd.

  He drew her attention back with a somewhat quieter, “How do you keep three Mastiffs happy in London? I was thinking of a Pomeranian. Keep him in the pocket of my greatcoat.”

  Elinor tried not to smile at the image. Tried to give him the cold shoulder, chase him off, but he leaned in and whispered, “And then when my brother gets too close, let the dog loose. Yap yap yap yap.”

  He laughed and Elinor laughed with him. “I would love to see you do that to the Earl of Ashmore.”

  “I see you’ve met him.”

  Elinor sternly insisted to herself to stop laughing. “I have. Are you quite sure you’re related?”

  He sighed, heartfelt. “I would give anything to be proved I am not. Alas.”

  He tipped his cup up, finishing it and starting in on the next one, and she tried again to look away. To stop wasting time with him.

  But she said, “My brother wouldn’t be scared off by the yapping of a spoiled Pomeranian. I assure you it is quite as funny when you open the door and let loose three Mastiffs.”

  She snickered at the memory. Mr. Sinclair didn’t join her, and there was a little less laughter in his eyes when he looked at her. He looked down at the arm she was still favoring.

  “Brothers. Should be outlawed.”

  She turned her head away at the tone in his voice. At the outrage and understanding.

  She caught the gaze of George St. Clair, off in a corner watching them. She stared unblinking at him, and he her, until finally she nodded imperceptibly.

  George St. Clair had already lost one friend to the widow. Elinor knew he wouldn’t let her have another.

  No matter how intriguing he was. No matter that she hadn’t been the cause of husband number four’s death.

  Hadn’t been the cause of any of their deaths.

  But the rumors circulated, and the whispers were too delicious to be sullied with the truth.

  That Elinor Rusbridge was simply supremely unlucky.

  One could say it was her husbands who had been extremely unlucky, but she liked to think that all of them had had the best year of their life before their untimely deaths.

  Husband number four, and the reason for George St. Clair’s supreme dislike, had been a quiet, kind man.

  No one had thought she’d been serious about him, including the poor man himself.

  But Elinor hadn’t wanted anymore drama.

  She’d wanted quiet. Peace. Children running under foot and a husband who was easy to please.

  They’d settled in the country and Elinor had resolved to herself to be the perfect country wife. Not too adventurous in bed, just solicitous enough out of it.

  Her staid, conscientious husband had taken it upon himself to visit a sick neighbor in the rain and had left this world courtesy of putrid fever.

  Elinor had decided she was none too fond of the country. Her mourning had lasted two months.

  Mr. Sinclair looked to where her attention had gone to.

  “Friends. Should be outlawed, as well.”

  “That friend, absolutely. Have you ever seen him smile?”

  “Too serious for it. Too much responsibility.” He closed his eyes, shuddering. “A responsible man.”

  “You don’t seem to suffer from the affliction.”

  “Thank you,” he said and she laughed. Again.

  He said, “May I stand firm against the lure of responsibility despite all attempts at recruiting me.”

  Elinor decided she must put a stop to this at once. He was far too entertaining.

  She said, her voice cold and disapproving, “Friends are rare, Mr. Sinclair. You should treasure yours.”

  “I do. Especially the kind that lets me enjoy my mistakes first and then saves me from them after.”

  She lifted an eyebrow. “Mistake?”

  “His word, not mine. And obviously I was not talking about you.” He ducked his head into his empty punch cup and muttered, “And obviously I have become as uncivilized as you have accused me.”

  “Obviously.”

  But her lips wobbled with the effort it took to keep from smiling.

  She turned abruptly away from him, deciding that verbally sparring with him would simply never work and physical distance was required.

  He followed at her elbow.

  “But what about my reward?”

  “. . .For?”

  “Chasing away a brother. I think a dance should do it nicely.”

  “I’m in mourning, Mr. Sinclair.”

  He looked at her dress, sliding his eyes leisurely down, down, down.

  “I can see that.” His eyes roamed back up, clearly enjoying the view. “I’ve never seen mourning look quite so beautiful.”

  The reality was she’d been in mourning for the last ten years. Owned nothing but black clothing, black veils, black gloves and fans.

  She looked down at the dress that was beautiful and striking despite the color, and lifted the hem of her gown just enough for her black heeled shoe to peek out.

  She smiled. She did look good in black.

  She said, “I shall simply have to return the favor someday and chase away your brother. I would hope I could be as off-putting as a Pomeranian.”

  Mr. Sinclair came to a full stop and Elinor turned when she realized she’d lost him. He stood stock still, his eyes far away and unseeing, a smile lighting his whole face.

  She wouldn’t have called him a beautiful man. Somewhat ordinary looking, except for the blond streaks in his light brown hair. His eyes an indiscriminate blue, faded and washed out.

  Add to that his too-tanned skin, so unfashionable.

  But he was one of those people. One of those people who became more beautiful with each moment they were in your company. The kind of people you looked forward to meeting with, the kind of people you missed when they were gone. The kind of people who were so happy and delightful that there w
as no hope in being anything but the same when they were near.

  Elinor was not one of those people.

  She was the kind of people you saw more and more of and liked less and less. She was the kind of people who became what she needed to get what she wanted. Showing the world what she wanted them to see and keeping the real her locked up tight.

  She was the kind of people whose husbands found absurd ways to die after a year of her company, no matter how she tried to be what they wanted.

  Two weeks.

  She’d been widowed two weeks ago and here she was, hunting again.

  Husband number five had been young. Three years younger than herself. Hearty and hale, the third son of a baron whose family had disapproved of her, of course, but hadn’t seen any better for the boy.

  She’d been tired of her husbands dying and had thought his age would protect him. Had thought his age would protect her.

  She’d been wrong. His age had only made him silly and careless. Had made him think he was invincible when all it took was a prodigious amount of liquor, falling asleep in his favorite chair with his chin to his chest, and never waking back up.

  And here was her current predicament.

  She couldn’t be distracted by a man who made her laugh when she couldn’t get what she wanted from him.

  This husband had to prove himself before the marriage, and then be gentleman enough to still go through with it.

  Mr. George Sinclair might have been that man. If he didn’t look at responsibility and shudder. If he didn’t have a brother who would laugh at her demands when she made them. A friend who watched him like a hawk, to swoop in and yes, save him, in her moment of triumph.

  She had to find just the right man, and she would use whatever she had to get what she wanted.

  Want was all she had.

  This husband would give her a child. This husband would not leave her alone should he tire of her company after a year.

  She would find her last husband.

  And it wasn’t this man smiling brightly at her and saying, “I’m imagining you yapping at my brother.”

  George Sinclair came to the conclusion sometime after the lovely Lady Haywood had swept away from him that he had indeed left any sort of charm he’d once depended on on another continent.

  His friend St. Clair had been no help when he’d gone to complain at his lack of progress with the woman.

  St. Clair had only continued to watch her and say, “Don’t bet on it. She’s simply playing a different game this time.”

  “The ‘I’m not interested’ game?”

  St. Clair turned his head just enough to note the frustration on Sinclair’s features. “Is her lack of interest making you want to chase after her like some lovesick ninny?”

  Sinclair tracked the woman, not hard to do with that hair standing a foot above every man in the room and the black dress snagging everyone’s attention amidst all the brightly colored frocks.

  “I object to the description but see your point, old friend.”

  “I should write to the earl and tell him what kind of woman has grabbed your attention.”

  Sinclair shook his head sadly and patted his friend on the shoulder. “I don’t know what has happened to you, George.”

  St. Clair pushed himself off the wall he’d been propping up and said, “I grew up.”

  He walked away to find some other entertainment now that the widow was leaving his adopted ward alone.

  Sinclair watched him and thought no three words had ever sounded so sad.

  Two

  One week later, Sinclair’s brother, along with his countess and four daughters, arrived in town.

  Sinclair gave the benefit of the doubt to his friend and decided it wasn’t because St. Clair had sent that letter as he’d threatened.

  No, the earl came because it was the season. And the countess loved everything about the season.

  Sinclair was ordered to appear at the earl’s London residence, and Sinclair obeyed.

  Everyone obeyed the earl.

  Except the countess.

  Sinclair would enjoy that about her, had in the past loved the countess unreservedly for it, but she’d recently become the source of all Sinclair’s problems.

  Why couldn’t the woman simply obey her husband and pop out an heir?

  Four girls. Ye gads.

  The earl had sent a missive to his wayward brother shortly after the birth of the latest, informing him that he needed to come home. What with travel times and finishing up business, it had taken Sinclair over a year but here he was bouncing his youngest niece on his knee and saying over her squeals, “Why couldn’t you have been a boy?”

  She showed him her gummy smile and shoved a wet and well-loved fist into her mouth. And squealed so loud that Sinclair stopped missing India.

  His oldest niece, just turned eight and so serious and such a little version of the earl that he wanted to throw her into the air and make her squeal to prove she was still a little girl, scolded him.

  “Uncle George. Even if it’s the truth, some things shouldn’t be said out loud.”

  Camilla looked at her littlest sister with a worried expression. “I don’t want her to feel bad.”

  George stopped bouncing but it did nothing to stop the squeals so he shouted, “Do you feel bad that you weren’t a boy?”

  Camilla took her time thinking about it. Then raised her chin. “No. Although I know it would have been easier, Papa says he doesn’t need a son. That’s why he has you.”

  George’s lip curled and he flopped against the back of the sofa.

  The earl had him.

  And that’s why he’d left India to come back to this chilly, bland country.

  The earl needed him. The earl had ordered him home. To start learning his duties, to help with the responsibilities.

  George shuddered.

  To find a wife who could produce the next generation’s heir. Or rather, to be there when the earl found one for him.

  Everyone obeyed the earl, even if they had run halfway across the world to escape him.

  George hated his brother, and he loved him. Didn’t, under any circumstance, want to become him.

  But George Sinclair was the earl’s heir, up to and until such time as the countess produced the real one, and with every passing year, the chance of that happening grew smaller and smaller. Damn the woman.

  The countess swept into the room, no doubt following the squeals still erupting loudly from her offspring, and smiled warmly when she saw George entertaining his nieces.

  He glared at her, at her still trim figure, the smile that shone in her eyes despite a decade married to his brother, the love and pride that showed on her face when she looked at her children. Even the youngest, who was supposed to be a boy.

  She pecked George’s cheek warmly before settling next to him on the settee.

  She glanced at the nursemaid, hovering nearby, ready to swoop in the moment Mr. Sinclair grew tired of squeals and pink, cherubic cheeks.

  The woman had a long wait coming. George remembered bouncing Camilla on his knee when she was this age. He remembered spending an unfashionable amount of time with her tucked in the crook of his arm, spending an unseemly number of dinners at his brother’s dining table.

  Happy being a part of the family. Happy to bask in the reward and none of the responsibility.

  The countess said loudly, “Let the nurse take her, George. She is too much.”

  “I like too much. I like too loud.”

  “Then you may retire with her to the nursery.”

  He sighed, gave the baby one last bounce, and handed her off to the nursemaid.

  The nurse shut the door behind her and the room filled with peace and quiet. George hated it, but the countess settled back into her seat happily.

  “I don’t know why every child gets progressively louder. Camilla was a mute in comparison.”

  “This Camilla? The one sitting right here so nicely, not saying a
peep? I thought she was a mute.”

  Camilla scolded him again. “Uncle George.”

  He’d obviously left the poor child to the earl for far too long. She sat quietly in her chair, her back straight, her hands folded in her lap. Her long brown hair was tied back with an oversized blue bow and her pretty dress was spotless.

  He remembered her loud baby squeals and her fat, pink cheeks.

  Remembered the earl quietly mourning on her first birthday that she hadn’t been a son. But there was always the next child. And there was always his brother, George, eh? Wasn’t that what the spare was for?

  There was always his brother, the spare.

  Who’d booked passage to India the next week.

  The countess had written to him unstintingly during his self-imposed exile, and George knew his warm welcome home was all because of her. She’d refused to let the girls grow up not knowing their uncle. Refused to let the uncle not know every little detail about the girls.

  He loved his sister through marriage despite the fact that him being here was all her fault. Didn’t know how his brother had got so incredibly lucky.

  The countess smiled at her oldest daughter. “She is on her best behavior. On account of our guest.”

  “Papa said if I was good I could eat dinner with you. In the dining room.”

  She sounded so incredibly excited about it that George had to bite his cheek to keep from laughing. Or crying.

  “And who is this lucky guest to be graced with Lady Camilla’s presence? Oh, gad! Don’t tell me it’s started already. What horribly suitable vir–” The countess jabbed him in the side. “–lady have you invited for dinner?”

  “You are our guest, Uncle George.”

  He sputtered, “But I’m not a guest! Would a guest travel halfway across the world to eat at your table? Would a guest bring gifts and presents and hold your baby sister on his knee despite the drool? A guest!”

  Camilla’s eyes had got wider and wider at George’s diatribe and when he was done, she said quietly, “I’m sorry.”

  He jumped to his feet, sucking in a breath. “Flora! Haven’t you told her anything about me?”

  “You mean to not believe anything you say, and that when you are talking the loudest is when we should listen the least? Yes, I did tell her but, like the earl, she doesn’t understand you at all. Like you didn’t understand when I wrote telling you she was just like him.”