To Wed The Widow Read online

  She said to her daughter, in a sweeter tone of voice, “He’s playing, Camilla.”

  “It wasn’t funny, Uncle George.”

  He knelt at her feet, pulling a small packet from his pocket and handing it to her.

  “Not funny at all, Lady Camilla. I apologize. And you should listen to your mother. Don’t believe anything I say.”

  She looked down at the plain packet sitting in her hands. “Does that mean that this gift isn’t really for me, then?”

  He choked and laughed. “No hope for us, is there? The gift is for you. I have one for all your sisters.”

  She unwrapped it carefully. Slowly.

  He glanced back at the countess and she nodded in commiseration at the speed her daughter unwrapped her gift.

  Camilla finally pulled out a small ornate hair comb. Dark and oriental in color, and the small butterfly hovering at the top covered in gold leaf.

  Flora clapped her hands together. “Oh, my goodness! It’s beautiful, George. Be very careful with it, Camilla.”

  The child was already holding it cupped in the palm of her hands like it was a real butterfly and George scowled at the countess.

  He stood, pulling another packet from his pocket and handing it to Flora as he sat back down. “Careful! For every one she breaks, I’ll give her two more.”

  And he already knew, he’d never need to order another comb for his serious little niece.

  He said, “That does not stand for your other daughters, though. Or for you.”

  “Wise,” she said as she unwrapped it. She smiled at the small bouquet of flowers at the top of her comb, again covered in gold leaf. “They are truly quite beautiful, George.”

  She went to help put the comb in her daughter’s hair and then knelt gracefully on the rug so Camilla could return the favor.

  Camilla studied her mother’s coif, held the comb up here and then there, and George finally closed his eyes.

  “You have infinite patience, Flora.”

  “Some people like to do things right, George.”

  He knew. And was starting to understand what she’d told him about her daughter. Just like the earl, indeed.

  When Camilla had the comb positioned just so, George helped the countess back up, and Camilla thanked him gravely for her gift.

  Her eyes came together in concern and she said, “Isabel is too little for a hair comb. And she has no hair.”

  He laughed at how serious she was. “Lucky that is not what I brought for her, then.”

  He waited for her to ask what she’d brought for her sisters, he could see she wanted to, but she simply sat back down and smoothed her impeccable dress.

  George would have teased and prodded her to ask but just then his brother came in. Camilla jumped from her chair, then halted her head-long rush and walked calmly to her father. She showed him her new hair comb, told him about putting the flowered comb in her mother’s hair.

  The earl gave her a quick smile. “Shh, Camilla. Let me say hello to our guest.”

  Her eyebrows flew together and she scowled at George for tricking her. He was a guest!

  The countess laughed, pulling her daughter aside to explain the difference between guests and guests.

  The earl, oblivious as usual to the reason his countess was laughing, nodded at George. George nodded back.

  And they were both relieved when the butler came in to announce dinner. To save them from the awkwardness of meeting again after eight years and two continents.

  Camilla’s little voice asked quietly, “Papa? May I?”

  George and the earl looked at her, at her hands gripped tightly together, at her hopeful-but-not-too-hopeful expression, and George silently vowed that if his brother said no there would be fisticuffs. Pistols at dawn.

  But the earl looked at her pristine dress and unruffled hair and smiled at her, nodding.

  Camilla flushed with pleasure, and when George offered her his arm, when she took it with wide, excited eyes, he thought for the second time that he was glad to be home.

  He’d neglected his duties for far too long. He was needed here, at home.

  He needed to teach his niece how to have some fun.

  The countess and Camilla left the men after dinner. The child was drooping with fatigue and hadn’t even protested when her mother told her she couldn’t wait for the gentlemen.

  George wasn’t sure she would have protested anyway.

  She curtsied to him. “We are glad you are home, Uncle George.”

  He bowed to her, so low and so long that when he came back up her forehead was puckered in confusion. He winked, and her expression turned from confusion to exasperation.

  “Oh, Uncle George” she said, and she left the room, her head still shaking at his foolishness.

  His brother was watching her, the pride hard to miss, and George said, “She’s only eight, Sebastian.”

  “Her first adult dinner. She handled herself admirably. And she’s nine.”

  “Nine? Well, then, that’s fine that she’s so quiet and well-behaved.” He huffed in annoyance. “She said two words.”

  “Exactly. You don’t think being allowed to eat with the adults, with her prodigal uncle, is a treat for her? I assure you it is.”

  “A treat, perhaps. Fun? Definitely not.”

  Sebastian sat back in his chair and studied his brother. George studied him in return.

  Eight years. The earl’s hair was streaked with gray, the lines around his eyes deeper. And while the earl would never be so undisciplined as to let his waist expand, there was a softness, a tiredness, that hadn’t been there before.

  He looked so much like their father, George had to shake himself and remember that he wasn’t.

  “It’s like looking at a ghost, you look so much like him.”

  The earl nodded, knowing who George was referring to. The man had obviously looked in the mirror recently.

  George took a drink. “Thank God I take after Mother.”

  The earl closed his eyes, resting his head back. His mouth twitched, knowing he shouldn’t laugh at his silly brother but finding it hard to resist, and George realized there was more than one person in this family who needed him.

  He felt the twinge, the regret, at leaving them. At letting his brother become old like this without him.

  Not that his brother didn’t deserve it. George thought a houseful of squealing little girls who needed their dolls loved and who one day would be married off to undeserving men was exactly the right punishment for any man who insisted on doing everything right. A man who insisted everyone do everything the right way.

  Sebastian’s girls had turned his hair gray and George laughed at him.

  They drank and smoked and talked of nothing important, because then they could get along and they both wanted it to last as long as possible.

  But finally they stood, heading for the drawing room and the countess, and Sebastian stopped him with a hand to the shoulder.

  “We are glad you are home, George.”

  George mimicked him, squeezing with affection. “And how long do you think that will last?”

  “Knowing you, I’m surprised I haven’t changed my mind yet.”

  They smiled at each other. Right now able to laugh at that truth.

  Knowing them, that wouldn’t last long.

  Sebastian said, “The ladies of the ton are glad you are home as well. Flora has had letter after letter asking about you.” Sebastian eyed his brother. “You must tell Flora about all the partners you deigned to dance with so she can give you her opinion.”

  George sighed. “Give me a week, at least, before you marry me off.”

  “Why? You didn’t wait a week to start socializing.”

  “What you are asking me to do is work. Socializing is fun. Virgin debutantes are work.”

  “I doubt you’ve worked a day in the last eight years; time to hop back on that horse. Or in your case, be introduced to it.”

  George bit his tongue.
Tightened his fists. Wanted to defend himself, wanted to share with his brother just what he’d been doing the last eight years in India.

  He’d worked. He’d carved out a place for himself there. Not as the son of an earl, not as the younger brother of one.

  He’d done it his way. It had been fun.

  He wanted to share that with Sebastian. Share it, not defend himself with it.

  But the earl said, “If you’ve had time to get embroiled with scandalous widows, you’ve had time to meet an eligible virgin or two.”

  George narrowed his eyes. “Embroiled? Have you made St. Clair spy for you?”

  “I saw him at White’s. Said I might want to know my brother has got distracted already.”

  “What has happened to the two of you? Or I should say, what has happened to my good friend St. Clair because you’ve always been like this.”

  George knew his friend St. Clair had always been like that, too. He’d forgotten; he couldn’t remember why they’d ever become friends in the first place.

  “George. The woman has been married five times with no surviving issue. I know how you love a scandal. Play with the widow, I don’t care. Don’t get caught in her web. And don’t get so distracted that you forget what this season is for.”

  “I know what this season is for. A wife, an heir. Shackles. Responsibility.”

  “Duty. Family. Gr–”

  “Don’t say it,” George said shortly and the earl said over him, “Growing up. Becoming a man.”

  George sucked in a deep breath and let it out, long and slow.

  They entered the drawing room in silence and when the countess looked between them, George swore he heard her sigh.

  And then she smiled, coming to slide between them and distract them with stories of people George had known long ago.

  Friends and acquaintances who’d grown up and started families.

  Who’d become responsible.

  And tired and tiresome.

  And gray.

  George listened, and thought of India.

  After George took his leave, the countess leaned back against the sofa as much as her corset would allow, closing her eyes and allowing herself to relax.

  All evening she’d joked and laughed with George. She’d smiled at her husband and patted his knee.

  She’d steered the conversation to old times, to memories that were too far away to sting. Away from why George had been called home.

  Away from eligible young ladies. Away from marriage and children.

  Away from her children. Away from the nursery.

  Sebastian had been his usual self. Focused on the problem before him, not understanding that tiptoeing could fix a problem faster than stomping.

  The countess reminded herself that a man who was easy to lead would be boring and she was lucky enough to not have that problem.

  And dear George sat there and laughed. He smiled and joked and pretended that every prick from the earl didn’t sting. He became sillier and less serious, and the earl didn’t see that George was doing his own pricking.

  There was a lot that the earl didn’t see.

  But tonight, at least, her work was done. And if it had taken more out of her than it had a decade ago, well, the earl was not the only one starting to show his age.

  Age. Disappointment. Failure. It had all caught up with her.

  She heard the earl making his way back from saying goodbye to George, and Flora sat up in her seat. She took a quick three breaths to refresh herself and smiled.

  Sebastian stopped in the doorway and looked at his wife.

  “You look tired.”

  “Yes, my dear. I had forgotten how much energy it took to keep you and your brother civil.”

  He grunted. “If it wasn’t my own mother I was insulting, I would seriously question whether she’d cuckolded Father. How can the same pairing produce two distinctly opposite men?”

  “Because one was raised to be the earl and one was raised to be a younger son.”

  Sebastian murmured. “The heir and the spare. I do feel for him, Flora. I do understand how, but for the vagaries of birth, he could have had everything and instead has nothing.”

  She laughed because he didn’t see at all. “In that you are similar because he pities you as well.”

  “Pities me?” His expression was so insulted she could only shake her head.

  “I know, my dear. You don’t understand him; he doesn’t understand you. But George is glad he is not the earl and he is quite upset that it is now up to him to produce the next one.”

  “He is not the only one,” Sebastian said and Flora didn’t flinch. She absorbed the blow into her straight spine, her uplifted lips.

  And she knew it was hard for a man to see what a woman refused to show him. Knew that, and could still blame him.

  “It’s his duty, Flora, and he’s acting as if he’s taking a one-way trip to the gallows.”

  “I’m sure he is not the first man to react to marriage thusly.”

  Sebastian would have laughed if he’d been that kind of man. Instead he looked at her fondly.

  “Duty chafes everyone. We learn to accept it.”

  Flora looked beyond the words that might hurt and to the intention sitting just behind it. At the fond smile on her husband’s face.

  Duty did chafe. And most did learn to accept.

  When she didn’t respond, Sebastian said quietly, “Go to bed, Flora. Rest. Until George has picked his bride, there will be little time for relaxation. I know I can count on you to keep the peace between us.”

  She nodded, found the energy for a benevolent smile from somewhere, and waited until he was through the door and closing it behind him to say, “I’m sorry, Sebastian.”

  The door paused an instant before clicking shut and she knew he’d heard her.

  They were both sorry, and neither could do anything about it because she’d failed her duty.

  She’d failed to give him a son.

  Sebastian went to his library. He sat in the chair that had molded to the backsides of Sinclair men generations ago.

  He just sat, looking at nothing.

  I’m sorry, Sebastian.

  He’d thought this chair would one day be passed to his son. Passed on for generations more.

  And he guessed that it would be, but it wouldn’t be through him and his. It would be through his brother.

  It almost made him laugh, the thought of George holding the title. George’s son raised to be the earl.

  But he didn’t.

  He rested his head back and closed his eyes.

  I’m sorry, Sebastian.

  He knew it was he who should be apologizing; he who’d committed the unpardonable sin.

  He’d called his brother home. He’d given up.

  Flora had been so sick after the birth. Women had many more children than four but not her. She would have no more; the earl wouldn’t risk it.

  He wouldn’t return to her bed.

  She was his. His countess, perfect in every way, and he couldn’t lose her.

  If she carried another child, tried once more to fulfill her most important duty, he knew she wouldn’t survive.

  Sebastian balled his fist and slammed it into his thigh, fought against the knowledge that producing an heir was his most important duty.

  Because what if she died trying? There were maidens aplenty who would gladly become his countess, gladly give him more tries at a son.

  It was his duty, and he’d passed it off to his brother. The moment he’d been told it was another girl, he’d known there would be no more children for him. Whether his countess survived or not.

  He’d sat down at his desk and written. Come home, brother, I need you.

  And George had come.

  They might irritate each other no end but they were brothers.

  His wife, apologizing when he should. Because she knew he wouldn’t.

  All of them making his decision their own because he was the earl.
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  All because Sebastian knew his duty. And he refused to do it.

  Three

  Elinor Rusbridge Lemmon Gilberti Wooten Headley, Lady Haywood, sat side-saddle on her horse and trotted sedately down the mile. Looking, being looked at.

  Her riding habit, black of course, made of light wool, her hat tipped precariously to the side and held in place by roughly a thousand pins jabbed into her hair and scalp. She supposed she could have worn a veil to achieve the same effect. To look without anyone knowing just where she was looking.

  But she hated veils. Hated them with a passion and thought it the worst part of widowhood.

  She watched the men. Watched their glances, watched to see who found the widow intriguing enough to venture closer.

  Most were completely unsuitable and she moved on.

  But she watched one unsuitable man, prancing happily and doffing his hat at any excuse to show off his streaked hair and darkened skin.

  He smiled widely and laughed loudly, and Elinor wondered how long it would take for him to adopt the ennui so common in the men of his generation.

  She knew when he saw her, when he turned his horse her way. She continued on, not changing her pace and let him chase after her.

  She knew some men liked to chase and wondered if Mr. Sinclair was one of those men. And then wondered just what she was doing wondering about Mr. Sinclair.

  His horse nosed even with her own and she didn’t look at him, didn’t wait for him to greet her.

  “I can’t be seen talking with you. I’m a widow; I have to protect my reputation.”

  He snorted. “Of course. You attend balls but don’t dance. You ride the mile but don’t converse. Forgive me for not understanding your mourning rituals.”

  “I choose the parts of widowhood that suit me. I believe I’ve earned that right.”

  He tipped his head. “If anyone has, I do believe it’s you, Lady Haywood.”

  If anyone ever had, it was her.

  Mr. Sinclair nosed his horse a little ahead, enough for him to be able to see her eyes when he spoke with her.

  “My good friend St. Clair says you are on the hunt for husband number six.”