To Wed The Widow (4 page)

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.