Lord Romney's Exquisite Widow Read online

  “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.”

  She gave him an arch look and took a bite of her cucumber sandwich. That look, combined with the peach-colored morning dress she wore, made her seem at least fifteen years younger.

  “You look exceptionally pretty today,” George observed as he collected a plate and began to help himself to the array of fruits, vegetables, cheese, and dainty sandwiches.

  Lady Hamson blotted her mouth with a napkin and then said rather frankly, “Out with it, young man.”

  “Out with what?” he asked, giving his most innocent look.

  She grinned and waved her hand. “No, those guises do not work on me. I am your mother, someone who is dreadfully afraid of what significant folly will now come traipsing from your lips. I know you too well, my boy. You only bring me flowers when you have gotten yourself in a scrape of some sort. I suggest you tell me straight away before I become bothered.”

  “Can your son not consider his mother and not want to brighten her day with roses? Why must you be so apprehensive?”

  “George Verl Hamson, you are my last child, and the only one known for his many escapades and continual need for forgiveness. Do not for one minute believe that you are fooling me. Now, what ails you? And what predicament have you gotten yourself into now?”

  He plopped a few berries into his mouth.

  “And for heaven’s sake, eat like a person of class and not some wild animal. If this is how you act while entertaining the ladies, ’tis no wonder you have not married yet.”

  “I trust you are correct.” George grinned, reached over, and snatched three more berries.

  “George! Cease vexing me, child, and get on with this visit.”

  “Very well.” He sighed and then leaned back in his chair. “It is about Miss Hemming.”

  “Thunderation! Have you made the offer of her hand, and she has refused you?”

  “No. You may rest assured that nothing of the sort has happened. It may never happen.”

  “Whatever do you mean?” she asked, turning more fully toward him.

  George shook his head, this time being intelligent enough to sort his thoughts before attempting to speak them aloud. “Lady Romney, née Miss Poleton, has returned to town.”

  “No!” His mother looked shocked.

  “Yes. It completely flabbergasted me, let me assure you.”

  His mother slowly set her napkin down. “Now that she is a widow, you are not thinking to resume your advances toward her, are you?”

  “Possibly.”

  She stared at him.

  “Yes. Precisely that. I fear I may still have tremendous feelings for her that outweigh what I feel for Miss Hemming, and I have come to ask for your aid in the matter.”

  “My aid? George, this is the outside of enough! I cannot and will not be privy to ruining one gel while you attempt to woo the very same miss who smashed your heart five years ago.”

  “Four. It was only four.”

  “Fine. Four, then. But it does not change a thing of how I feel about the matter.” She folded her arms.

  “Mother, you know this will be a scandal if you do not assist. And you certainly do not want the hearsay that will come of such an action. Already, I made a fool of myself at the Percevals’ ball Monday last. I cannot imagine how much worse things could become once I turn my charms to her.”

  She tapped one long finger upon her arm. “And what do you expect me to do in such a situation?”

  “It is simple. Support me. Bring Lady Romney forward and let the beau monde know you approve of my change of heart. They all heed you. You have great sway in the rules of the Ton, and it would do much in my favor. Please, I beg of you, consider it.”

  “First, I do not have exceptional sway among the Ton. I simply do not allow their rashness to dictate what I know is best. And second, why would I contemplate bringing a widow forward to marry my bachelor son? It is madness, I tell you.”

  “Am I not your most beloved child?”

  “Ha. Not after this. I am certain it will be your brother James who wins that honor.”

  George chuckled. “You are an incorrigible wretch.”

  She brought her hand to her chest, her eyes twinkling with mirth. “To call your mother such names after all I went through to carry you into this world!”

  “Does this mean you will consider advancing Lady Romney forward?”

  “Positively not.” She sighed, all mirth from her gone. “George, I cannot support you in this. I will not. I believe it is utter folly and will only cause you great distress.”

  He could not believe his own mama might be so unfeeling. George stood up straight, his posture rigid. “Very well then, without your support to lend an air of respectability, you are ensuring that I shall cause a scandal.” He placed his napkin upon the table and looked down at his mother. “I lost her before to a horrific engagement with an old man. I will not lose her again.”

  “She has been soiled!”

  There it was. The truth behind his mother’s ridiculous notions. George’s heart dropped to his stomach. “Do you actually believe so? She was married, Mother.”

  “Yes, but you have not been wed. It will seem crass to align
yourself with a widow, when you are not yet twenty-five.”

  “Twenty-five? Do you not hear yourself? Most of my comrades are just now settling down. Besides it is not as if she were forty, or some such nonsense.”

  “But when seen in light to a very pretty Miss Hemming, who has never been married, why would you wish to pay court to a widow?”

  He could not comprehend his mother’s train of thought. “Do you truly feel this way?”

  “Yes. As will several of my acquaintances. I simply cannot encourage this.” His mother stood as well. “George, let us not quarrel. Less than a week ago, you were set on Miss Hemming. You can be again, I assure you.”

  His gaze met her stubborn features, all playfulness gone. She was correct. If his mother felt as though Lady Romney were ruined, so would everyone else. As a young widow, she would be off limits to the elite, and scorned by all. Her status would allow her into homes, but being a widow would ensure that she would be spoken of continuously. Yet why would his mother believe such nonsense as this? Why speak of such appalling prejudice, knowing how he felt about the lady? “This admission that you feel Lady Romney is soiled has harmed me. Indeed, it distresses me significantly. I fear I cannot look at you the same. Excuse me.” He turned on his heel and made his way from the upstairs parlor.

  “George, wait!” she called, but he did not heed her. “Do not leave in such a state!”

  No, Mother. Had she been married eighteen years, she still would not have been soiled. I cannot—nay, I will not think of her in such a light.

  Grabbing his top hat and overcoat, George reached the front door ahead of the butler and slammed it shut on his way out.

  He fetched his horse in a deep scowling mood from the stable boy and rode directly to the Romneys’ house before he knew what he was about.

  George climbed the steps and rapped upon the door with great frustration. When the butler allowed him entrance, George impatiently waited in a small yellow-and-white sitting room to the right of the door. It was not until Lady Romney herself came into the room that his dark mood began to lift at all.

  CHAPTER SIX:

  Catherine’s heart fluttered when she caught sight of Lord Hamson pacing her carpet, yet she paused at the door when she perceived that he was out of spirits. After a few moments of watching him in restless agitation, she pasted on a smile and said, “Why, hello, Lord Hamson. How are you this fine day?”

  He turned around and smiled. “Better.”

  “Please have a seat.” She motioned for him to be settled on an ivory silk high-backed chair and then signaled for tea. Something about his mannerisms said this would not be a quick call. With as much poise as possible, she attempted to hide her own anxious state as he sat. She would never have imagined him in this house, sitting in that particular ivory chair, yet here he was. “It is a pleasure to see you, Lord Hamson.”

  “And I you.” He leaned back and unseemingly placed his foot over one knee before appearing to catch himself and put it down again.

  Whatever had gotten into him? She was becoming more and more curious by the second. Clearly he had come to express himself in some manner, either in confidence, or to relieve himself of some exasperation he was feeling. Though why he would come here to do so, she had no idea. Perhaps it was best to begin with easy subjects. “How is Miss Hemming?”

  “Who?” Hamson glanced up from looking at his shoes. “Pardon me—I was not attending. I missed that last bit.”

  Catherine gave a nervous grin. “Miss Hemming. Is she well? I assume you have been by to see her today.” Her heart gave an odd little squeeze, but she quickly ignored it.

  He shook his head. “Oh, no. I sincerely doubt I will be by her way at all today.”

  Whyever not? Catherine decided to tuck that tidbit of not visiting Miss Hemming aside to be examined later at her leisure. Something had most decidedly happened to put him in such fidgets—perhaps it was best to bring it forward bluntly. “Then what brings you here?” she asked as nonchalantly and pleasant-sounding as she could.

  He moved in his seat and glanced around the room. If Catherine did not know better, she would think he looked genuinely confused. “I do not know. Only that I desired to see you, so I came.”

  “Well!” She allowed another small grin to peep out. “Is there anything in particular you would like to speak with me about? Truly, you seem out of sorts.”

  “I do?” He mumbled something under his breath. “Forgive me—you are correct. I am definitely out of sorts, though just moments ago, I thought I was a little better. However, now I am nearly as cross as before.”

  “Has something happened?” she prodded gently, wishing the tea was there to give her hands a bit to do.

  “No.” He sat up. “That is to say, yes. Something has happened.” He looked over and flipped the subject. “How do you find London? Is it agreeable, or are you still wishing yourself to be in Bath?”

  “I do not know. I have only been here a little more than a sennight.”

  He nodded. “And if you find you do not like it, will you let me be acquainted with your verdict?”

  Perplexed, she smiled. “Will you try to make my stay more comfortable, then? Truly, I can see no other reason to plague you with such a silly thing as my feelings of London.”

  He looked toward the wall nearest and seemed to be examining her portraits. “No.”

  My goodness, could he not even maintain simple eye contact? She was starting to worry. “Lord Hamson, whatever is the matter? Please, stop this fidgeting and tell me.”

  He took a deep breath and shook his head. Abruptly, his left knee began to take on a life of its own and bounce, yet he would still not look over at her. “I cannot. I fear to confide, as it could possibly hurt you greatly, but I am in such muddle over it. I have no idea what I am about.”

  “Have you not asked for Miss Hemming’s hand as of yet? Is that perhaps what is causing you such turmoil?”

  “Most likely. It would be much easier to ask for the chit’s hand and be done with this nonsense.”

  “And what nonsense is that?” she asked, her heart barely knowing which way to beat. Did he truly consider Miss Hemming to be nonsensical?

  “You.” He surprisingly stood up and then wandered over to her portraits and studied them.

  “Me?” she asked, her heart dropping. “I—I am the nonsense you speak of?” What a brute! Why would he come here at all, then?

  Hamson glanced over his shoulder. “Very much so. I know you are not the type of female I should be courting, and yet I find I want to.”

  Two slim fingers tapped against the arm of the chair. She brushed away the second comment and instead concentrated directly on the first, mingled with being considered nonsense. “What type of female am I, precisely?”

  He ran his hand through his hair and sighed. “I ought not to have said that, huh?”

  “I am not overly certain at the moment, though I must confess, you have most definitely kept my curiosity piqued. Pray continue, Lord Hamson. You have my full attention.” She rubbed her lips together and once again addressed his broad-shouldered back. He was even now spending more time examining artwork than focusing on her. “What type of female am I, did you say?”

  He turned then and sighed, his looks taking on a haggard and worried air. “I did not, though you might as well be familiar with what is being thought about you nevertheless.”

  The gabblemongers had her in their sights, did they? A flash of exasperation shot through her. “Yes.” She gave a brief smile. “I believe that would be best. Please give it to me as frankly as possible, as I cannot abide hemming and hawing when something must be revealed.”

  His gaze finally met hers and then he said simply, “You are soiled.”

  “Soiled?” Catherine blinked a couple of times, and then her whole body went rigid as her fingers clutched the arm of the chair. Whatever did that mean? Had she not been wed these past years? Or was he implying something she had no notion of?

 
“Yes, and Miss Hemming is not.”

  Confusion marred every inch of her, so much so that for a moment, she felt as though she could not breathe. Very slowly and deliberately so as to be unerringly clear, she asked, “Because I am a widowed woman, married for three years, and Miss Hemming has not been wed, I am now considered soiled?”

  “Yes.”

  She closed her mouth and bit her lip to halt her jaw from quivering. There was no need to show any tears of from such a blow, though why he would come here and say such things, she did not understand. “Are you comparing me to a damaged woman?”

  “Well, no. Not in the same way. Merely, you are not the equivalent as one who has not wed.”

  His words slammed into her ever so forcefully and triggered all sorts of injuries to her heart. “I see.” As her breathing became more and more pronounced, her head began to whirl, and the only thing she wanted most was to be as far away from Lord Hamson as she could get.

  Indeed, seeing as he was so liberal with his manners, perhaps it did not matter overly much if she stood up and asked him to leave. Without another thought, Catherine did just that. “Lord Hamson, I must beg of you to leave here at once. I find I have suddenly got the headache and wish to lie down.”

  He started, but swiftly bowed. “Forgive me. I am a blundering fool. I hope I did not cause offense just now.”

  Offense? Now the heartless toad was worrying about insulting her? Ha. “Harper,” she called the footman closest. “Please see Lord Hamson out. He was just leaving.”

  She dipped a quick curtsy and strode from the room, her long skirts swishing purposefully behind her. It felt freeing to do something so . . . so boorish. Why had she never before thought to simply remove herself from unfeeling people instead of continuing to sit there until her smiling façade cracked?