To Wed The Widow Page 7

  “We’ll go tomorrow. Out of the city for a fortnight and you can catch as many rabbits as you like.”

  He wagged his tail at her, and at rabbits, and Elinor nodded.

  A fortnight was all she could spend away from the Season, was all she could stand in the country. But it might do her some good, might be enough of a change so she could come back to town with a better plan than a Scotsman.

  She rose, all the dogs stretching and following her out of the room, to tell the housekeeper they would be leaving tomorrow for the country.

  The rest of the day would be panicked packing; the staff rushing about, no room quiet or empty or boring or lifeless.

  The cold she couldn’t get rid of.

  But she could fill those long hours that tempted her into talking to herself. Or to an imaginary Sinclair.

  The long hours that tempted her into chasing down the flesh-and-blood Sinclair and throwing away her plans and her dreams for one night of warmth. . .

  Perhaps a week. Or a month.

  A year, if she was lucky.

  But she wasn’t, and she knew no matter how warmly his love burned her, he would leave her.

  They all did.

  Sinclair stood opposite Elinor’s townhouse and chided himself. Just what was he doing here, bothering her, bothering himself?

  This was a bad idea. But he’d come here to show her his new purchase, to see the fire light up her eyes. To see that smile slowly pull her lips up, to hear the laughter she couldn’t stop.

  A voice at his shoulder said, “She is not at home.”

  Sinclair looked the man up and down, and then remembered.

  “The brother?”

  Alan Rusbridge nodded his head and stuffed his hands into his pockets. “She’s run off to the country.”

  Sinclair blinked and pointed to the house. “Lady Haywood?”

  When her brother nodded again, Sinclair could only think to say, “Why?”

  Why go to the country in the middle of the Season when you were hunting a husband?

  Unless you’d found that husband and were gone to his country home. Perhaps to meet an ailing mother?

  Perhaps to have an easier time sneaking around at night, to start that family she so desperately wanted.

  Surely he would have heard if she’d attached herself to someone. Surely.

  Rusbridge shrugged. “Why does any woman do anything? To make as much trouble for the men in her life as possible.”

  Sinclair turned to face the man. “Are you in her life, Rusbridge? And why would her going to the country trouble you?”

  Rusbridge turned to face Sinclair, the belligerent set to the man’s chin making Sinclair want to introduce his fist to it.

  “Are you in her life, Sinclair?”

  Yes. No.

  Why did her going to the country trouble him so?

  Sinclair’s greatcoat pocket wiggled and he stuck his fingers inside to tickle and to be playfully bit.

  “I am not, and I rather thought you weren’t either. It is a mystery why two men not in Lady Haywood’s life are standing outside wishing they were in.”

  “All this should have been mine.”

  Sinclair looked at the house. “This?”

  Rusbridge swung his arms wide. “Everything. This home, these servants. Her country estate.” He snarled, “Her jewels. Her freedom.”

  Sinclair said mildly, “Her dogs?”

  “Everything. Everything that was once mine, she stole. What was mine by right, by birth. Damn women, taking what wasn’t theirs. Sisters!”

  “I don’t know anything about sisters. Now brothers, those I could do away with.”

  Rusbridge sneered. “You are just like her. Taking what is your elder brother’s. Did your parents love you more? Did your mother cuddle you on her lap while pushing her firstborn away? Did your father pet and love you when he yelled and smacked around his son?”

  Unhinged. The man was obviously unhinged. His breath bellowed and his fists clenched.

  Sinclair shuffled a little distance away.

  Rusbridge didn’t notice. “And here you are to take his title. To stop his wife from producing the rightful heir.”

  Sinclair would have liked to ask just how one went about that but was afraid Alan Rusbridge would actually have an answer.

  “Right. I’ll just leave you then to salivate after a house, shall I? I’ll be sure and let Lady Haywood know to watch for you.”

  Sinclair hadn’t taken more than two steps before Rusbridge called after him.

  “She will take everything from you. Everything, and leave you nothing. Including your life. You think her husbands are the first people to get too close and then die?” He laughed. “When she’s beneath you, making you forget about everything, remember that she won’t forget. Know that she’s calculating how much you’re worth, how much she can get out of you. And the best way to get rid of you.”

  Sinclair’s own fists tightened at the ugly words from her brother but he kept on walking.

  “Ask about her mother! Ask about my father!”

  A rough hand fell on Sinclair’s shoulder, turning him forcibly. “And you can tell her I will have what is mine. What’s left of it, at least.”

  Sinclair whipped out a furry puppy the size of his hand. The dog, already having learned this one trick, barked and yapped excitedly and with great furor.

  Rusbridge hopped back, tripping and falling to the pavement. The fear on his face amusing, and pitiable, if Sinclair hadn’t remembered how Lady Haywood had favored her arm after talking with her brother. At the hard cold voice she used when talking of him.

  At the ugly words he was shouting here in front of her house.

  Sinclair said, “I know she’s not a Mastiff. But still. Gets the job done.”

  He fed Anala a small meat treat and scratched beneath the pink bow tied intricately around her neck. A duty his valet had never dreamed he would be required to do, and yet Sinclair had heard the besotted man call the pup Mistress Anala.

  And who could blame him.

  Sinclair held his pup up to his face, letting her lick his cheek excitedly and saying in a high-pitched croon, “What a good girl you are. Yes, you are. You chased that bad man off.”

  He put her back into his pocket, wondering how to make it more comfortable for the dog and how big one could realistically make it.

  He left Rusbridge cursing on the dirty ground and turned away from the widow’s empty house. Thinking he would have to come back later and warn the staff that their mistress was not safe. Perhaps pay a boy to watch for her arrival and come warn her himself.

  No wonder the woman had three Mastiffs. Because they were lonely, his arse.

  And even though Sinclair was reevaluating just how bad his brother was compared to a few others, he said to his new pet, “Come, Anala. Let’s go introduce you to the earl.”

  Elinor hated the country.

  She hadn’t exactly forgotten, she simply hadn’t remembered the extent of it. But when the carriage pulled back up to her townhouse a fortnight later, the lights blazing welcoming, the pedestrians passing quickly in the street, she sighed with relief that she was home.

  The dogs bounded from her carriage, they at least refreshed and revitalized from the rabbit hunts. And duck hunts. And pheasant hunts.

  From rolling around in mud and tracking it everywhere.

  The mud. Oh, the mud.

  She greeted Jones with a tired smile and was ushered inside to the drawing room where the housekeeper waited with warm tea and sweet biscuits.

  And she swore to herself that the next time she needed long walks she would go to the Regent’s Park. Surely there were rabbits there.

  But she did feel less gloomy. And had given herself a good talking to. Not out loud.

  Mrs. Potts asked if she would like a dinner made up and when Elinor shook her head, the woman hesitated.

  Elinor sighed and drank her tea and said, “What has my brother been up to.”

 
“Well, yes. He was here, but it was that Mr. Sinclair. He was worried about you.”

  The cup shook in Elinor’s hand and she set it down carefully.

  The housekeeper continued. “He said he’d run into your brother one day outside and didn’t feel good about it, and he was worried about you coming home to find your brother here.” The woman rung her hands together. “He’s waiting for you down in the kitchen.”

  Elinor blinked and opened her mouth. And then blinked and closed her mouth.

  “Mr. Sinclair is downstairs in my kitchen?”

  Mrs. Potts blushed. “I know it is irregular but he was so insistent. And he didn’t want to put us to no trouble. Never met a gentleman like him.”

  Elinor remembered the reference his mistress had written for him.

  He is all that he promises. Or was eight years ago. God knows what India has done to the man.

  Elinor stood. “I would like to see Mr. Sinclair.”

  “I’ll send him right up.”

  “I wouldn’t want to disturb the man,” she said dryly. “I will go to him.”

  If he was allowed downstairs in her kitchen, then so was she.

  The housekeeper grimaced at her tone but led the way. Elinor had been down to the kitchen before. . . Of course she had. Hadn’t she?

  But when she descended the tight staircase and entered the room, the laughing blue eyes that looked at her from across the heavily scarred wooden table were more familiar to her than the room.

  He sat on a little stool, looking more comfortable than he should have, and he smiled at Elinor.

  Her dogs had already found him and they sat at his feet, at attention. Jones was telling Mr. Sinclair that Lady Haywood had arrived and was upstairs in the drawing room if he would be so good as to join her.

  Sinclair smiled around the butler and his first words of welcome were, “I can take Anala out if you’ll call off your dogs.”

  “Why are you in my home, in my kitchen?”

  “The dogs?”

  She raised her eyebrows and he said softly, “I wanted to welcome you home before your brother could. And I thought the easiest way to do that was to arrive before you.”

  “How accommodating of my staff.”

  “They have been. Yes.”

  Jones turned, not quite blushing at the impropriety of a guest down in the kitchen. He cleared his throat.

  “Mr. Rusbridge has been making a nuisance of himself. I was not sorry to have some strong company around during your arrival.”

  “If we need more staff, Jones, hire them. A burly footman or two.”

  Sinclair said, “Or three. The door is locked tight, Jones?”

  “Of course, Mr. Sin–”

  Elinor interrupted angrily. “Excuse us, Jones. Mrs. Potts.”

  They left after a look between them, and Elinor shut the door when they left it open.

  She did not slam it.

  She turned back to the smiling man she’d spent two weeks in the country to get away from, only to find him here, in her home, when she returned, and he said, “I had a long, frightening conversation with your brother in front of your house this past week.”

  “That is the only kind of conversation my brother is versed in.”

  Sinclair nodded. “I had thought to have a street urchin alert me when you returned and then had the heart-stopping thought that your brother would do the same.”

  He was still in his greatcoat, although he’d dispensed with his hat, and she thought he must not have been here long despite how cozy he looked sitting in her kitchen.

  A cup of tea sat before him and Elinor realized just how Mrs. Potts had been ready so quickly at her arrival.

  She said, “I do not like the thought of my staff befriending every Tom, Dick, and Harry who wanders in while I’m away.”

  “They hardly did. I’ve been welcomed by you before and even then, they wouldn’t have let me in the door if they hadn’t already been worried about Rusbridge. Mrs. Potts has seen him loitering in the mornings when she’s gone to do the shopping.”

  “And she just came out and told you that?”

  He narrowed his eyes. “Are you really more worried about loose-lipped servants than about your brother?”

  “I have quite enough experience to know how to deal with my brother. This,” she waved her hand at him and then toward the upper floors, “is new.”

  “I will endeavor to not turn your servants in my favor.”

  “How kind of you.”

  “It is. Yes.”

  Elinor’s anger melted, the laughter threatened. She kept it under control though, despite how tired she was from her long journey.

  She wanted a bath and her own bed.

  She wanted Mr. Sinclair gone.

  And as long as she was wishing, her brother as well.

  He said, “I thought an extra pair of eyes, hands, and paws would not be unwelcome tonight. Just in case.”

  It is unwelcome, she tried to tell him. You are not welcome here, she tried to lie.

  But he ran a hand through his hair and laughed and said with as much satisfaction as any man could, “I introduced him to my dear Anala and was looking forward to a repeat.”

  “Don’t tell me. The Pomeranian.”

  “In my pocket. I will introduce her to you if you’ll call off your dogs.”

  She called off her dogs and Sinclair relaxed. Elinor was surprised he didn’t melt into a puddle on the floor.

  He pulled out of his pocket a small red and white ball of fluff. The puppy, quite obviously a she, barked and yapped away in his hand, and Elinor’s dogs jumped up and joined in.

  The sound reverberated in the small room until Elinor signaled for them to be quiet. Mr. Sinclair fed his puppy a treat.

  “Hmm. I’ll have to think of some way to tell her not to bark when I pull her out.”

  She looked at him, watched as the little ball of fluff with a huge white bow around its neck licked and loved him. As he cuddled her to his chest.

  Tears pooled in her eyes and she looked at the ceiling to keep them from falling. As emotion, want and despair, flooded her.

  She heard him rise, felt his warm hand wrap gently around her wrist and hold on to her.

  He held the little dog up to her and it squirmed trying to get to her face. She reached for it before it could fall, trapping it against her chest and tilting her chin down so its rough little tongue could bathe her face.

  Sinclair pulled at Elinor’s wrist and when she came willingly, didn’t fight, he wrapped his arms around her. Tucked her tight against him and warmed her from the outside in.

  He said softly, “We are glad you are home, Elinor.”

  She leaned against him and stopped thinking. Stopped every little thought in her head except the one she didn’t want to stop. The one that was telling her how nice this felt.

  A loud bang from the door knocker upstairs made her jump and Sinclair tightened his arms.

  “I’ve instructed Jones to not answer the door tonight.”

  “Stop talking, Sinclair. I don’t want to hear anymore about you ordering my servants around.”

  He whispered, “What am I going to do instead of talk?”

  She whispered back, “Not that.”

  His eyes glimmered down at her. “Then a dance. Since I was not fortunate enough to procure the pleasure when you decided you had mourned long enough.”

  He took his little puppy from her, slipping it into his pocket, and Elinor wanted to pout.

  She must not have hidden it too well because Sinclair said, “I don’t want her accidentally stepped on. By us or your behemoth dogs.”

  She looked around the kitchen. “Are you planning a quadrille? A waltz?”

  “A waltz, Lady Haywood? My, but you are scandalous.”

  “And you have been gone longer than ten years if you think so.”

  He tugged at her traveling glove, slipping the material from one finger and then the next.

  “A waltz is always s
candalous if done properly. Did you waltz that night you wore your dancing slippers? Just who was the lucky fellow who got to hold your hand, to hear your laugh, to dream of throwing life and limb to the winds for one marvelous year?”

  She didn’t bother to answer. She didn’t bother to remember.

  She watched as he flung one glove over his shoulder and went to work on the other.

  The knocker rang out again and all of Elinor’s dogs stood up.

  Sinclair murmured soothingly, “Ignore him,” and Elinor wasn’t sure if he was talking to her or to the dogs.

  She waited, to see if the dogs would obey his command like Jones and Mrs. Potts did, and when they stayed alert and at attention, she smiled slightly.

  But she did try to ignore the knocking.

  She said, “You never wear gloves.”

  “I got out of the habit. Can’t be bothered to get back in.”

  “Because you’re still trying to figure out how to get back to India?”

  His bare hands cupped hers, the contact causing her breath to catch and gooseflesh to pebble up and down her body. He brought one of her hands inside his greatcoat, inside his waistcoat, to lay flat against the thin cloth of his shirt. His heat seared her, the skin of his palm rough against the back of her hand. Not trapping her, just holding her tight.

  With his other hand, he linked their fingers, and then twisted her arm gently behind her until their entwined fingers rested against the swell of her bottom. Until she was tucked into his side and his leg was cradled between her own.

  She was suddenly having a very hard time breathing, a hard time calming the racing of her heart. A very hard time hearing anything above the rush of blood in her ears.

  A very hard time remembering what they were doing down in the kitchen and not upstairs in her bedroom.

  She cleared her throat, tried to clear her head. “I’ve never seen or heard of a dance like this.”

  “No? Not with any of them?”

  He swayed gently from side to side, the muscles of his thigh shifting against hers with every movement, the tips of his fingers brushing against her bottom.

  She stared into eyes the same color as her own, but oh, so different, and he murmured again, “Ignore him.”

  Elinor hadn’t heard anything. She only felt. Felt the thumping of Sinclair’s heart under her palm, felt his chest rising and falling with hers.