Lord Romney's Exquisite Widow (3 page)

She closed her eyes briefly, her heart twisting. “Forgive me, but I cannot speak of this further. I find some things are more painful than I imagined them to be.”

“I beg your pardon. I see that you were indeed attached to him. I am the one to request forgiveness. And yes, he has passed on, and my words will have pained you deeply. I am a halfwit indeed to speak of this to you.”

“No. Please do not become anxious and talk of yourself in this manner. You do not understand. When I can speak of it further, I shall reveal more, but for now, let us converse of happier things. Tell me about you. What has happened since I saw you last?”

“Very well.” He took another deep breath. “I have not married yet, as you can see.”

“Yet?” She gave a shy grin. “Do I hear a bit of hesitation?” When his brows went up in shock, she asked the next most obvious question with as much of a smile as she could muster. “Who is the fortunate girl? And does she know you are interested?”

His jaw dropped slightly, but he recovered quickly enough. “Miss Hemming unquestionably knows I am interested. In fact, I was to bring up the subject of marriage tonight. Though, when you walked in, I must confess I was most eager to say hello, and I had forgotten my plans until this moment.”

Her heart clenched painfully, yet it felt an obligation for the plight of the girl expecting his proposals.
Whatever is he doing here with me?
Catherine put her hand to her cheek. “Good heavens. You must go to her at once.” She shooed him with her fan. “Go and do not waste another moment on me. How horrid of me to closet you away like this.” Then another despicable thought emerged. “Why, you no doubt have scores of dances promised to the young misses here tonight as well!”

Sheepishly, he winced. “Yes, in fact, in the next ten minutes or so, I am promised to another dance with yet a different young lady. Would you mind terribly if we did end this and I behaved in a more gentlemanly way?”

She smiled. “I would not mind at all. Thank you so much for taking the time to speak with me. I would have been an uncomfortable mess had you not put me at ease as you have.”

“Ease? I nearly offended you into running away.”

She shook her head. “What drivel. No, I will not be brought into such nonsense as this. However, please note that I am so very grateful to have been reunited with my old friend.” Her chest felt heavy as she admitted to herself it was most likely the last time they would speak together. “You have made this short trip so much more complete. Now, go and make Miss Hemming superbly happy—and all of the other young ladies who are eager to stand up with you.” She thought her fan would break with the force of her hands crushing it. It would be better if he left now, and hurry it up before her mind began to wish for him to stay.

“Just a moment. Short trip? Are you not intending to stay long in London?”

“Three more weeks. I am staying only a month with my stepson and his wife.”

“And then?”

Why was he questioning her so? “I move to Bath.”

“Well then, I am very pleased to have spotted you this evening.” He rose with a smile and took her hand. “Please give my best wishes to your family.”

“Yes, I will be certain to.” She watched as his broad-shouldered form wound its way through the dozen or so people in the room and back out toward the ballroom.

With a brave face, she turned in her seat and sat up a little straighter, wondering what twist of fate would bring her to him now only to watch him join himself to another. Giving her a taste of her own medicine, no doubt.

However, she should not be envious, or unkind. Love certainly suited Lord Hamson extremely well. It would be good for her to endeavor to recall how in love with Miss Hemming he appeared to be. Catherine had experienced her marriage, and now it looked as though Lord Hamson would fare much better with his future. Which was how it should be, especially as he implied he did suffer at her hand. He truly deserved every happiness because of her thoughtlessness toward him.

Catherine’s gloved hands trembled, and she quickly clutched them tighter around her fan so it would not be obvious. Yet they would not stop.

For years, she had tamped down her pining for that particular lord whilst hearing—however sweetly meant—how very much she never would compare to another woman. That she would never be as great as her husband’s late wife.

Indeed, no matter what happened four years ago, if Catherine understood anything now, it was definitely that she knew her place. Though some called her pretty, she was reminded day to day that her face was not enough. And she could attest to how continually repeated phrases of worthlessness can eat at a person until they are but a fragile shell beneath the appearance of an angel.

She had mastered the art of smiling through numbness, yet why she would begin trembling today, she would never know. Now was the time to bring in her small cloak of dignity and carry on as always, serene and grateful for whatever she had. She did not need more, she did not deserve more, so it was foolish to hope for something that would never be hers.

Catherine kept her focus toward the rear of the room, her back straight as she wiped at the nonsensical tears of pity. It did not matter—none of it did. Soon she would be far away from London and living in a little place of no consequence, where one with her lacking manners and abilities and mind should be. Shut out and quieted and watching those much worthier than her live their lives.

In fact, if she were entirely honest about the situation, she would not sit in shame and instead, marvel at how perfect the new Lord Romney’s timing had been. For had they arrived a month earlier, Lord Hamson might have imagined himself eager to see her again and possibly saddled himself with one of the silliest, most inconsequential women in all of England. A woman so horridly low, her own husband could not bear the thought of touching her and creating offspring that would be put up against the fine specimen he had already produced with his dear impeccable late wife.

She blinked back stubborn tears, took a few calming breaths, and willed herself to smile and be grateful for Miss Hemming and her ability to capture Lord Hamson’s heart. For Catherine knew for a fact that having been a horrid wife to one man, no other could ever truly want her.

CHAPTER FOUR:

George paced the wooden floor of his rather large study in his home on Upper Brook Street.  With him was Lord Perceval, the oldest of his closest comrades, as well as Lord Atten and Lord Compton. All three of them gawked at his unusual manner.

“I tell you, I was less than a day from asking Miss Hemming’s father for her hand. One solitary day.” He ran his fingers through his blond hair and then stopped. He pointed at Perceval. “At your ball, no less. And now what?” He began to pace again.

“Cease this continual motion at once,” Compton grumbled as he sat down in a wide leather chair. “You are ensuring we will all become ill. Indeed, your anxiety is oddly catching.”

“I cannot sit down until I know what it is I should do.”

Atten shook his head. “Now wait a moment. I have lost part of this conversation, I am certain. You were actually going to offer for Miss Hemming’s hand at the ball?”

“Yes.” George paled. “No. Not at the ball—not to her papa, if that is what you mean.”

“That is precisely what he means!” Perceval pushed off from the side wall where he had been observing them all. “Confound it, man. Atten is correct—we have no notion as to what you are speaking of. If you wish to align yourself with the chit, then do so, though heaven forbid, please do the Hemmings a favor and speak the King’s English when you do. Whatever this sputtering nonsense is, I will never know.”

Compton snorted, and Atten outright laughed. “Tis true, we cannot understand above two sentences that have come out of your mouth.” He pointed to the chair behind Lord Hamson’s desk. “Have a seat and explain again, in layman’s terms, whatever you are trying to convey.”

George covered his face with his hands and plopped into his chair. He knew he was acting completely contrary to his normal respected behavior, but he could not help himself. “What am I to do?”

Atten spoke. “Let us perhaps start at the beginning of this strange tale. Are you against offering for the chit now? What has happened?”

Perceval pulled out the chair next to Compton’s and squeezed his larger form into it. “No, the man is not against it, are you, Hamson?”

“Then why are you going on in such a juvenile manner?” Compton asked.

George took a deep breath and looked at all three of them. “Lord Romney’s widow.”

Atten blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“His wits have gone a begging, have they not?” Compton laughed. “I vow, I have never seen you in such a state, Hamson.”

George closed his eyes and attempted once more to make sense. “No, Miss Poleton.”

“Whom are we speaking of now?” Perceval looked at him as if he had escaped from Bedlam.

Atten shook his head. “Pray, do not tell us. I am swiftly becoming afraid of the answer.”

Compton continued to burst into guffaws. “No, do not halt this now. I have never laughed so hard in my life.”

Perceval looked genuinely confused. “So is it a widow, Miss Poleton, or Miss Hemming? Who exactly are we speaking of again?”

Atten patted George’s shoulder and sat down on the other side of him. “No wonder you are confused, lad.”

They will never understand
. He took a deep breath and tried again, “Miss Poleton is Lady Romney, the Earl of Huntingdon’s very young, very beautiful widow. Miss Hemming is the gel I was about to offer for, except Perceval invited Lady Romney to the ball. Four years ago, I nearly lost my heart to the young Miss Poleton before her father accepted Romney’s suit and wed the girl to him within a fortnight. Now do you understand my quandary?”

One eyebrow of Compton’s rose. “You are still pining for the widow, then?”

“No. I do not know. There was a time when all I could think of was her. But so much has happened between us now that I do not know if she would ever consider a suit from me.”

“And what does your mama think of the young widow?” asked Perceval. “Surely she cannot support such an endeavor over Miss Hemming.”

“You are quite right.” George frowned a little. “Honestly, I have not asked her. But she would be much more willing to accept Miss Hemming than the dowager countess, I am sure.”

Atten leaned against the wall. “What does this conversation signify? Who do you care for more, Hamson? That is all that any one of us should concern ourselves over—not what his mama thinks, or society, or any of that. Which one do you prefer?”

“That is just the thing. I do not know—I hardly know the woman Miss Poleton has become. However, I have obviously been courting Miss Hemming these past few weeks. If I do not offer for her hand, it would be very gauche of me, would it not?”

Atten shrugged. “Why? Sure, there would be gossip, and the right thing to do would be to marry the chit, but why? Why must you be as unhappy as you have seen our parents’ arrangements? Think of your offspring and their security. Would it not be better for everyone if you do not marry the gel?”

“Do you love her? Are you impartial to her?” Perceval asked.

“I thought I esteemed her well enough,” George admitted, “Though now, with the dowager come again, I do not know. What if it was fate that brought me together with Lady Romney at this precise time? One more night, and all would have been lost.”

“And yet you do not feel you know her enough to stop your courtship with Miss Hemming?” Compton queried. “Is this why you are in such high fidgets?”

“Yes, precisely. Do I stop a sure thing, gambling upon the heart of one I have previously lost?”

Perceval grinned. “Is the lady worth it, Hamson?”

“Every grit of me says yes. Though, what if she damages me again?”

Compton leaned forward and put his elbows on the desk. “A young girl marries a man so many years her senior, he could be considered her grandfather. Three years later, he passes on. After the mourning period, she comes to London, an heiress—I am assuming, from the loads of plantations the earl kept in the West Indies. He would have not left her destitute. You are desiring to know her once more, and now are concerned for propriety’s sake, that you may harm Miss Hemming in doing so.”

“Yes, yes, it is that exactly!”

Compton continued, “And what would you say if Atten here decided to court the widow himself?”

Atten balked, but it was the flash of fury that George recognized that sold the debate. “You are correct,” George admitted. “If I do not at least attempt to court her, many a young buck will jump in there before me.”

“Many.” Compton smirked.

“Well, lads, I think we have our answer.” Perceval nodded. “Though why it took all of us rushing over to meet with you, I will never understand.”

Atten laughed. “When it comes to women, it is usually best to consult with others or we would, each of us, make a great muddle of it all.”

CHAPTER FIVE:

Lord Hamson swooped into his mother’s stately London home on Grosvenor Square at the very unfashionable hour of twelve o’clock, precisely when he knew she would be sitting down for noon tea in the upstairs parlor. He brushed past Sprightly, the butler, with a quick how-do-you-do. Then took the stairs at a ghastly two-at-a-time pace with an impressive bouquet of pink roses trailing behind his back.

“Here I am, Mother!” he called as he entered the room, kissed Lady Hamson on her cheek, presented her with her most favorite flowers, and bowed low. “Have you missed me?” he asked before pulling out a seat without being asked.

“Why would I miss such a scapegrace?” she tutted as she brought the roses up to her nose for a sniff and then passed them on to the servant to be taken care of. “Such a bright bouquet. Thank you, dear.”

George beamed. “I saw them today and could not pass them up without bringing them directly to you.”