Page 21 of To Woo a Wicked Widow

“Yes, my lord. Mrs. Lockhart met the new cook from the Park yesterday at the market.”

“Ah.” So the widow was in residence. “Did Mrs. Lockhart mention anything about our new neighbor?”

“No, my lord. Only that she had advised her cook not to buy chickens from Harnett’s.”

“Hmmm.” Tomorrow was the eighth. “Thank you, Acres. That will be all.”

The clock on the mantel struck three as the butler closed the door. Half the afternoon gone and he still had to ride out to see to that tenant issue near Pliny Woods. He’d leave the decision about Lady Cavendish’s party until tomorrow. He’d put that meeting off until the Second Coming if he could.

Nash quit the study and headed to his suite. He’d change into riding clothes and, with luck, make it out to the Woods and back by dark. Thayer entered his dressing room, polished Wellingtons in one hand, brown tweed coat in the other. Nash nodded and gave himself over to the man’s ministrations. It would be a long afternoon but eminently more pleasurable than one spent wooing Lady Cavendish.

* * *

Compelled to inspect each room one last time, Charlotte strode down the first-floor corridor, stopping at each doorway to assure herself everything stood in readiness for her guests.

It had been a hectic seven weeks of whirlwind activity, but she had managed to complete the move well before Edgar’s birthday. She hoped he enjoyed himself however he had celebrated his majority and heartily wished never to see the wretch again.

She popped into the morning room to straighten a red rose in a vase of flowers. Perfect.

Nervous tingles shot down her arms and gave way to flutterings in her stomach. Only a few more hours and the gentlemen should be here. But would Lord Wrotham? She’d had no reply from the earl, which boded ill for her plan to become better acquainted with him. Even in the midst of the move, this house party had always been in the forefront of her mind.

Their meeting at Almack’s had occurred almost two months ago, yet she still vividly recalled the feel of his hard chest, his arms around her body.

If only Alan Garret had not intervened. Then the rogue had had the gall to call on her the next day, a mercifully brief interlude owing to an unexpected and unsatisfactory visit from her father. He had put in an appearance after years of absence from her life to upbraid her for her actions the night before. Charlotte had dismissed his concerns and him rather abruptly.

Of course his concerns were all for himself and his reputation—the Fownhope reputation rather—though why this was so she had never been able to fathom. She’d never heard of a man so proud of his name, nor so determined to rule his family with an iron fist to keep it spotless. When she’d eloped with her groom, she’d opened the possibility of public scandal to the family. His retaliation had been to silence her using Sir Archibald.

Sometimes, however, in the past six years, she hadn’t known whom to pity more, herself or her mother. Mama had been married to the tyrant for almost thirty years. At his insistence, she had relinquished control of all the children to him while they were growing up. Rather like Patient Griselda from the Canterbury Tales. Charlotte had seen her mother rarely, though she’d been fond of her sisters growing up. That had ended with her attempted escape with Edward. Father hadn’t wanted them contaminated by her unhinged behavior, so they had been forbidden to write her as well, even after Agnes had married and moved to Durham. Old chains still bound.

But Father couldn’t control her life any more, thank goodness.

After his visit, she had focused her attention on supervising the packing and moving and therefore been unable to attend the few remaining social functions of the Season nor received any callers.

Including Edgar, who she chose to avoid whenever possible.

Fortunately, her stepson had elected to lodge with his uncle in St. James’s rather than live under the same roof as her. Unfortunately, for a brief period, he had come every day to oversee her progress. She could not forbid him the house but made every effort to keep to her rooms or manage to be out whenever she thought he might show up. With the thankfulness of a pardoned prisoner, she had learned in mid-July he had repaired to Brighton. His absence lightened her burden considerably, and she had continued her move as planned but with brighter spirits.

Now the day had arrived; it remained only for the guests to appear. After assuring herself the morning room met her standards, she continued on to the drawing room, where Fisk would bring her company. She stepped through the doorway and stopped, her heart giving a little leap. A guest had already arrived.

He stood at the window, looking out at the front lawn, his broad back encased in an excellent blue superfine. From this vantage point Charlotte did not recognize him, although she had a passing acquaintance with most of the gentlemen invited. The man hadn’t heard her enter, so she took the opportunity to study him, puzzling over who he could be.

Georgie had shown her a portrait of Lord Brack, who had blond hair; this gentleman was dark. Lathbury and George Abernathy had sent regrets. Lord Sinclair, who she knew, had accepted in Abernathy’s place. Lord Fernley had asked to bring his cousin, Henry Marsh, whom she did not know, but at that point Charlotte, desperate to keep her numbers even, had agreed. This wasn’t Fernley—who had a shock of red hair—but his cousin might have come separately. Gathering her courage and smiling her most gracious hostess smile, Charlotte said, “Good evening.”

The man spun toward her, his expression wooden, his mouth pinched. “Good evening, Lady Cavendish.” His voice, though stern, fell pleasantly on her ear.

A memory tugged at the edges of her mind. Something about his intense blue eyes . . . “Lord Wrotham.” Charlotte’s smile widened as she curtsied. He had come after all. Her heart gave an odd little beat.

He nodded and his mouth pinched tighter. “We have been formally introduced, albeit briefly.” Something in his eyes flared. “I received a letter from your father, asking me to call on you.”

“My father?” Strange news indeed. Other than that brief, curious visit in June, she had not seen him at all in six years. Her smile slipped. “Why would my father do that? I thought you had come in response to my invitation.”

She scowled, at once wary. Any time her father tried to involve himself in her welfare, she ended up the worse for it. If the earl had come from her father, she’d have nothing else to do with him.

* * *

The transformation of her face from lovely to outraged took all of two seconds. Damn, if she had such animosity toward her father, he’d better find a way to explain the man’s interest and do it quickly. “I beg your pardon, my lady. What I mean is, I received word from the earl that he wished me to see about your property. If you do not know, we have a band of robbers in the area. Neither your father nor I would wish to see you harmed.” Well, that was true as far as it went.

Her eyes flashed green fire. “I see. Well, thank you, Lord Wrotham. You may report to my father that I am perfectly safe here on my estate.”