Lord Romney's Exquisite Widow Read online

  CHAPTER SEVEN:

  Upstairs in her set of rooms, Lady Romney paced as she had seen the reprehensible lord do. Perhaps it was because she suddenly felt like a caged lioness. Or perhaps it was merely that for the first time in several years, she felt herself growing livid. It was an emotion she was not familiar with—however, it did have an inconceivable sort of energy and life source about it. Truthfully, she felt almost inhuman with such a roaring of vitality surging through her.

  So, it would seem Lord Hamson—of his own admission—would like to court her, but felt he could not because of the most absurd, idiotic notion that she was a widow and therefore unfit for love or courting or any other ridiculous, presumptuous idea that managed to traverse through his miniscule brain.

  The very same man she had utterly lost her heart to came into her home, telling her he desired to pay court to her, but could not. If he truly felt the same about her as she did him, there would be no preventing his heart from seeing past the cruelties of other’s fast opinions. Indeed, he would see her.

  Soiled? She spun on her heel. Soiled? As if she were a buxom barmaid!

  Here all along, she had believed she would never wed again because she was not worthy of attention, not as accomplished, or well-bred as a wife should be. Not because she had been soiled. Her heart sharply plunged, and the anger began to fade. In its place was the horrid, desolate feeling that she was essentially never meant to feel or know what love truly was. As quickly as her irritation rose and breathed life into her soul, it vanished, and the strong woman began to crumble beneath the weight that she, in reality, never would be what anyone in Society could desire.

  In defeat, she sat upon her chaise lounge and stared out at the bustling town below her, one finger gently travelling around each of the small square windowpanes. It was as if she had lost her husband all over again. Her limbs felt heavy, and she seemed unnaturally far away.

  She could overcome her inability to be clever enough for someone—she could rationalize that away well enough, yet how could she face the irony that that she was the most unsoiled widow in Great Britain without the overwhelming humiliation of such a statement?

  Ever so slowly, she pressed her forehead against the window and closed her eyes, relishing for a moment the coolness that soothed her weary fatigue. Oh, why was life such a worthless muddle as this? Would it be too much to ask that someone, perhaps years down the road, took pity upon her sad, inconsequential state and learned to love her despite her many failings?

  And therein lay her most pitiful state of affairs. That traitorous heart of hers wished to find love sometime, somehow. No matter how much she attempted to bury such thoughts, they came to haunt her convictions and plague what little bit of sanity she had left.

  Catherine stayed in such a state of melancholy for several more minutes. These random bursts happened much less frequently now, but she realized months ago that if she but allowed them their stay for the hour or so, it would be better afterward, and she could rally again and be much more the thing. The alternative was to stuff it away and pretend as though these thoughts never came, and then the despicable notions would laze around in the corners of her mind for simply days on end.

  She removed an embroidered handkerchief from beneath her sleeve and dabbed at her eyes, and then blew her nose heartily before taking a deep breath and standing up. Pluck up, dear. Enough was enough. Life was what it was, and there was no use bemoaning the fact. She had been wholly resigned to the thought that Lord Hamson was undoubtedly taken, so there was no necessity for this extra show of folly. Indeed, such gibberish would get one nowhere fast.

  She smoothed down her pretty gown, adjusted the cap on her head, and then walked over to the blue floral pitcher and washbasin upon the dressing table. With a few splashes of water on her neck and face, she felt almost herself again.

  A small trace of that anger must have been hidden away within her and did not leave with the rest, for she found herself staring into the dressing table’s looking glass and seeing the lady before her. She knew she was insignificant. However, enough people had commented on her beauty to allow her a small smidgeon of vanity, so she saw no reason to simply sit out the next three weeks altogether. She had not the hope of marrying anyone, but she might as well enjoy herself, show Lord Hamson that his words had not wounded her one jot. Perhaps she would encounter a few young gentlemen not frightened away by vicious gossip who would allow her to pass the time with a little more ease. Or at the very least, she could perchance meet another young widow like herself to speak with. One never knew what one would discover in London …

  CHAPTER EIGHT:

  Lord Hamson sauntered away from the house and headed to the stables to fetch his horse whilst mulling over what had just occurred. He had no intention of upsetting the lady, but it would seem he undeniably did just that. His stomach churned, and his spitefulness at the situation grew even more. What was the hope of attempting a relationship with the person you actually preferred in this forsaken town? Society did not want you to be content—they simply required you to do precisely what they all expected you to do.

  He rode home in a foul mood and caused an exceptional ruckus as he made his way up to his study in the old family home in London and shut the door. His parents resided in the new house at Grosvenor Square, and since none of his older brothers were willing to step foot in this ramshackle of a building, he had proudly been gifted the thing. It certainly was not as awful as all that. It had been built during the late seventeenth century after the great fire of London, when rebuilding was essential and land and properties were cheap.

  The old Earl of Kettering had been anxious to provide his family with a fashionable London home, and so had one built. There was a certain charm to the four-storied rambling place. As technology advanced, so did the home, and even though the kitchens had not been remodeled for nearly two decades, they were very nice for a building this age.

  The roof was solid, the fireplaces had been compacted to allow greater heat efficiency, and many of the rooms had been done over some thirty or forty years previous. No matter his brothers’ reactions to the thing—it was his, and something he could proudly say he owned. Then with some very shrewd investments abroad, he had found himself in a very nice situation—a nice enough situation to indeed begin searching for a wife. Slumping into his leather chair in his study, he stared darkly into the air as he contemplated all that had happened that day. Having no idea how long he truly sat there as he gazed into nothingness, it was some distinct time later when he heard a rap upon his door.

  When his butler came in to announce Lord Atten, Hamson frowned and turned him away. “No, I am not in for anyone, not even Atten.”

  However, it was not two minutes later when the reprobate lord managed to find his way into the study—and with the tea tray, no less.

  “I have come to invade the bear in his den,” Atten declared as he set the tray down upon a stack of very important papers. “And I have also stolen your nice luncheon from your rather aghast housekeeper. However, I bussed her on the cheek and did say thank you, as my mama would have expected me to do, and then came directly here.”

  “I said I was not in.” Hamson scowled and was determined not to become at ease with Atten’s attempts to brighten his mood.

  “Come, man! You are as stiff as a post at the moment. Lighten up, open a window, and see the sunny world around you. Also, if you do not want the raspberry tarts, they are rather good—I think I will go ahead and help myself to the lot of them.”

  “The devil you would!” Hamson swatted his hand away. “Get. Go home and eat your own tarts.”

  Atten grinned around a mouthful of the shameful things and then said, “But you know my cook is not half as good as yours. Would you truly wish me to waste away?”

  Hamson groaned, scooted his chair forward, and snatched a cucumber sandwich before the prattling fool ate them as well. “Be gone with you.”

  “Never. Well, not until you inform me
if you are planning to court Lady Romney or not.” He leaned back and crossed one leg over the other as he licked his sticky fingers.

  “And what business is it of yours?” Hamson took a deep breath. “I beg your pardon, chap. I have had the vilest day of it and am unfortunately taking it all out on you.”

  “Yes, I see.” He grinned roguishly and leaned forward to snatch another tart. “So, what has happened to put you into such a brown study? No one cares for theatrics, so do not tell me some great melodrama has come round or I will call you out for being an old granny.”

  Hamson shook his head and bit into his sandwich. After a few moments of munching, he answered, “You lot were correct today. My mama does not approve of the lady after all, and I have not been able to escape the doldrums since. Not even when I went to Lady Romney’s and told her what was being whispered about her and that I could not court her.”

  Atten leaned over and began to cough. “Excuse me. Did you say you went to the lady and clarified what your mama said about her? Are you daft, man?”

  “Yes. Very well then, yes. I am the daftest of daft men around. Are you satisfied with yourself?”

  “Me? You think you have a right to blame me for your foolish escapades? You are having a laugh. Honestly, I did not think courting could go worse than when Compton bet that Lady Ice would fall in love with him and then wondered why the gel could not abide his presence. Now that was a blunder I thought he would never recover from. Yet, you! Look at you!” He chuckled right out loud. “You tell the lady you wish to court, but that you will not, because of what your mama says about her.”

  Hamson grabbed a tart and ate it. “I did not say it was my mother—only that is what was being said. Now cease these ridiculous guffaws.”

  “Never!” Atten leaned over and collected a sandwich. After he took a mouthful, he exclaimed, “These are incredible.” He grabbed two more and then continued to plague Hamson. “In fact, you are acting remarkably more like a two-year-old upset that he did not get his sweet biscuits than a grown man of five and twenty. Thunderation! And you expect to have women falling at your feet, do you?”

  Hamson snorted. “Why have you not gone yet?”

  “Because someone has to knock some sense into you. And also, your tarts are rather good.”

  Hamson took a deep breath and leaned back in his chair, his appetite suddenly gone. “Well, what if my mother is correct? It is fairly obvious that Lady Romney is most definitely soiled, and Miss Hemming is not.”

  Atten slowly uncrossed his legs, and then ever so cautiously began to replace two of the sandwiches. He looked to be in complete and utter shock. After a few more beats of silence, the lord stared pointedly at Hamson and said tersely, “Forgive me, George, but out of all the years we have known each other, I have never heard something as callous or disrespectful as that come out of your mouth. Had she been my sister, I would call you out this instant.”

  “Oh, come now! It is not that atrocious! Who is the one creating melodramas now? Call me out, indeed. Some friend you are.”

  Atten’s frozen gaze met Hamson’s. “This is no jesting matter. Tell me, did you express to the pitiable lady that someone thought she was soiled?”

  A strange feeling of unease settled over Hamson. “Yes.”

  Atten glanced down and then gave a short, quick nod. “Well, my fellow comrade, I have no assistance for you. There is simply nothing else I can say at this moment. If you have not already concluded the great erroneous wrong you have committed—even more so than Compton and that infamous bet at White’s!— there is no help for you.” He stood up. “One thing is for certain, however. Since you have guaranteed that Lady Romney will not be seeing you ever again, she is fair game for me.” He grinned. “And perhaps she is in need of some support, as your brutality and exceptional rudeness will have left her shaken to the core.”

  “Hang about, man! What is the meaning of this? I did not say I was giving up on her. Why would you wish to court the gel? Go find your own. I have been pining for her these past four years at least.”

  Atten slammed his fist upon the desk. “Then act it!” He strode to the door and then turned back before opening it. “Nay, I can see by your face that you are honestly confused. I am so infuriated right now, it is useless to expect me to be rational. However, let me attempt to make you see reason. George, you insulted the lady fully—a married lady—and treated her like you would a courtesan. When a fellow like myself happens to be out browsing the shops and chances upon her and her sweet daughter-in-law this afternoon, and sees that kind smile and hears her soothing words to her step-grandson and future heir, one is completely captivated by her calm beauty and cannot help but marvel at such a woman. Your idiocy merely spared me the inconvenience of feeling wrong in wishing to court the gel myself. To make my point clear—she is an angel, and any man who has an in with her now is a fool to consider her anything less than the heavenly being that she is. You, my dear friend, are such a fool. However, now I am free to court her and shall.” He gave a short salute and bowed before shutting the door most forcefully behind him.

  In all his life, George Verl Hamson had never felt so completely chastised as he did right then. And when a strange feeling of dread came over him, he soon acknowledged he had no one to find fault with but himself.

  CHAPTER NINE:

  It was a few days later at Lady Allington’s card party that Hamson saw Lady Romney again. Indeed, when the two women and the new Lord Romney appeared in the doorway, the whole place tittered to a stop. Hamson had been searching his cards when he noticed the direction everyone else was staring and quickly stood with the rest of the gentlemen. Once the newcomers were greeted and shown to a table, everyone returned to their playing, though Hamson was a bit slower than the rest to return to the game at hand. He had no notion she had been invited as well.

  Without her cap the dowager countess looked absolutely stunning in a light-blue frothy dress, with flounces and the like. It was the first bit of soft color he had seen on her since her return, and no one who did not know her would believe she was a widow. Her sweet smile and sparkling eyes belied her genuine years—she looked like a fresh debutante.

  Several young men murmured encouragingly to each other as they looked her way, but it was his own mother who tugged upon his coat sleeve and asked, “Now, just who is this beguiling creature you cannot stop staring at?”

  Hamson blinked and went back to his cards, his heart not willing to pardon himself or his mother at this point. “I cannot imagine whom you could be speaking of.” He glanced around the table of four. “Is it my turn, then?”

  “George, do not be a silly sop! Who is that girl?”

  “Why do you not go over and inquire about her? Find out for yourself who she is.”

  “Are you saying you do not know her?”

  He selected a card and set it down. “I am merely saying that I cannot possibly hope to know her. She is forbidden to me.”

  “Oh, bosh! What drivel is this? Why, no one can forbid you from anyone, unless she is already taken.”

  “The lady is indeed very single.”

  “Her manners are flawless. Do you see even now that easy smile she keeps while listening to Mr. Jenkins’ tales of war heroics? For you know that is what he is speaking of at this time.”

  “He rarely speaks of anything else.” He glanced up. “Yes, I can see how well she has maintained a polite façade for his prattling.”

  “She is remarkably pretty, George, and I cannot help but notice the way you are wont to glance over at her.” She giggled and placed her trick upon the table. After a few more beats, she said, “Upon my honor, George, I insist you bring her to pay a call on me within the sennight. You are a handsome devil, and she would be eager to be acquainted with you better, I am sure.”

  That particular lady had not made eye contact with him once the whole quarter of an hour she had been sitting at a game table not four meters from him. Indeed, she had done all in her power not to l
ook upon him. So much so, he was convinced she was still wounded. And as well she should be.

  Truth be told, he had been so put out by Atten’s chastisement, he had not even been gentlemanly enough to apologize to the gel yet. He was a wretched beetle-brain, entirely too afraid even to cry crow over the encounter. One deserved to be torn to shreds for his unmannerly behavior, but he could not bring himself to endure such ridicule from her.

  “George! Play your hand.” The other man at the table chuckled as Hamson started and quickly placed his card.

  “Forgive me. I find I was woolgathering again.”

  “Yes, we can see.” The gentleman nodded toward Lady Romney.

  Just then, Atten clasped him on the shoulder as he maneuvered himself between the tables and then over to Lady Romney.

  “Devil it!” George grumbled under his breath as he watched the sop bow over the lady’s hand. He had forgotten Atten was present. By the way she smiled up at him, it would seem the two had previously been introduced.

  “George, if you are going to sit about with a scowl upon your face, you do not deserve the girl anyway,” Lady Hamson graciously pointed out. “Now attend to the game so the rest of us may play.”

  He picked up three and set his card down. “Thank you, Mama.” How did he manage to be sitting at the same card table as his mother? Was this the devil’s way of making a mockery of him?

  Now Lady Romney was laughing at something Atten had said, and Hamson felt as though his innards were twisting in knots. He endeavored not to watch them, but could not help himself. The moment he recollected that he was presently in a game of cards, he immediately felt the unconscious pull to glance over there again, and before he knew what he was about, he was fully engaged in the other conversation—though he could only see it, not hear a word.

  “George.” his mother whispered. “Go ahead and escape the table. Perhaps it is best for all of us if you do.”