Prologue
The first time Evangeline was widowed, it was a relief.
She hadn’t wanted to marry Viscount Cunningham; she hadn’t even known him. He had been her father’s choice—and very nearly her father’s age—in a vain attempt to rein in Evangeline’s “wild and ungovernable” nature, as Sir Robert Bennet had disapprovingly termed it. Her transgressions had ranged from sneaking a ride on her horse in her brother’s old breeches to allowing a barrister’s son to kiss her, rather passionately. Her mother had wept from the shame of it. Evangeline had also cried, and promised to reform, but to no avail. She’d been barely seventeen years old, and had met Cunningham exactly twice, when her father marched her down the aisle of the church to become his viscountess.
The best thing that could be said of their marriage was that it was blessedly short. They were horribly mismatched. Evangeline, young and outgoing, liked dancing, masquerade balls, and theater, the more outrageous the better. Cunningham preferred fishing at his Scottish estate, drowsing by the fire over a good book, and maligning the French with his cronies at his club. Within a year, neither wanted anything to do with the other.
One evening, four years after they wed, Cunningham went to bed early after dinner, complaining of indigestion. He never woke. A fatal attack of bilious dyspepsia, the doctor informed her the next morning.
Evangeline hadn’t been there. Always cross when unwell, Cunningham had told her to leave him be, and she had been at a masquerade, drinking champagne with other gentlemen and a woman she suspected was a courtesan. It had been marvelous.
“And now you’ll have to wear black,” said her friend Fanny, Lady Woodville. Fanny was a dozen years older, and a widow with a substantial fortune. She had no children and her late husband’s title had gone to a distant cousin, who had no interest in her; she was as free and independent as a woman could be. She was dashing and opinionated and Evangeline admired her greatly.
“Of course I will.” She plucked listlessly at the black crepe they were attaching to bonnets. Cunningham would have wanted a decent mourning, and Evangeline felt remorseful enough not to deny him that.
“What a pity you look marvelous in black,” remarked Fanny.
Evangeline pursed her lips to keep from smiling. “You shouldn’t say that to a widow.”
“I imagine a host of gentlemen will say it soon enough.” Fanny leaned toward her and lowered her voice. “It’s not as though you killed him.”
“Of course not!” Evangeline hissed back, glancing fearfully at the closed door. “But neither am I...”
“Sorry he’s dead?” supplied her friend when she hesitated.
“Heartbroken.” Evangeline gave her a guilty look. “I feel as though the prison cell has been unlocked.”
Fanny smiled in understanding. “It has been, my dear. And a world of consolation awaits.”
The second time Evangeline was widowed was more upsetting.
She observed a proper mourning for Cunningham but then decided she was due a little freedom... and pleasure. The Earl of Courtenay—Court, he begged her to call him—was tall and fit, handsome and charming. He was only thirty-one, which seemed vital and young after Cunningham, and he pursued her with a very flattering abandon.
She never meant tomarryCourt. It was only an affair, to savor the sort of pleasures she had heard of, but never experienced with Cunningham. Court was ardent, romantic, and terribly good in bed, and she was careful to be discreet.
But not discreet enough. When her father called on her unexpectedly one day and discovered the two of them in a highly compromising position, he threatened to call out Court. Once again, over her furious protests, Evangeline was unwillingly married to a man she didn’t love.
It was even worse than the first time. Court lost interest in her almost as soon as the ink was dry in the parish register. It turned out his favorite sport was chasing young widows and married ladies, and he didn’t mean to give it up. Nothing Evangeline did deterred him: not pleading, not seductive attire, not the sight of her flirting with other men. By the end of the third year, Evangeline had realized it was hopeless, and had resigned herself to another empty marriage.
It came to an end the night Viscount Ambrose returned home early and discovered Court in bed with his young bride. Ambrose shot him—not in a duel, which would have been shameful enough but was widely accepted as the proper way to settle the issue between gentlemen—but right there in the bedchamber, while Lady Ambrose shrieked in the background. Then he’d had his servants dump Court, bleeding and naked, on the front stepsof their house. Court had died, wrapped in a tablecloth, on his own dining table.
The scandal had been immense.
“This time you’re truly free, don’t you see?” was Fanny’s consoling advice after the funeral.
Evangeline’s father had died the previous year. After forcing Court to marry her, he’d never lifted a finger to prevent her husband from making a mockery of their marriage. Men were allowed all the wickedness, while women bore all the shame.
“Yes,free,”she said bitterly. “Free to be called the Black Widow in every drawing room in London. Two husbands dead before their times! Young or old, no man is safe!”
Fanny waved that away. “Rubbish. You’re still young and beautiful. You’ve got a handsome fortune. Enjoy it all.”
Perhaps, Evangeline reflected, that was the only thing she could do. Scandal couldn’t hurt her, not now. She’d grown a tough shell over the years, as people whispered that she was a foolish, flighty young bride, then a wanton widow just waiting to cause a scandal, and finally a scorned, shrewish wife who’d trapped an earl into marriage only to drive him into another woman’s arms. If everyone already thought her wicked and immoral, she hardly had a reputation to protect.
And that meant... freedom. She could do whatever she wanted now—and not do anything shedidn’twant to do—such as marry again.
Evangeline vowed to herself that she would never make that mistake again.
No man was worth it.
