Page 12 of For The Love Of A Widow

From his unease, she sensed he had many questions. Lettie didn’t have to take her gaze off her lap to notice. The continual tapping toe of his Hessian said it all. When he experienced anxiousness or uncertainty of any type, he fidgeted. A tapping of a toe. The clicking of his teeth. A nervous tug on his cravat.

Everything had changed in the last six years, yet…nothing at all.

She still knew him well.

Lettie risked a glance at him from under her lowered lashes, but her stare moved no farther than his hands sitting lightly atop his knees. The knuckles of one hand were bruised, and his skin appeared rough, similar to that of a workingman. A farmer, millworker, or soldier.

Her own hands were too filthy, stained by years of hard labor, to note if they were worn and rough, as well. Dirt clung to her fingers—still trembling from the shock of seeing Daniel after all these years—and settled beneath her fingernails, short from nervous biting.

The simple gold band on her finger—given to her on the day she’d wed—sat heavy on her hand, though it held no adornments of filigree or gems.

She twisted the ring on her finger. It was the only thing of monetary value she possessed, and it would not gain her enough to secure lodging for longer than a fortnight. Not that she ever planned to remove it.

“Will Mr. Hughes be joining you in London, Lady Lettie?”

Her glare snapped to his and Lettie couldn’t stop her eyes from widening, allowing him to see her despair. However, the sorrow he witnessed could never compare to the complete heartbreak within her.

CHAPTER 5

It had been a simple question. One Daniel thought would be expected given Lettie was a married woman. A way to begin a conversation after so many years apart—after so many years of living different lives. The slump of her shoulders and the shaking of her hands as she twisted her wedding band on her finger told a far different tale.

“Lettie,” he began quietly. She appeared the timid mouse, something his childhood friend—and once betrothed—would have never allowed. “Look at me, please. I did not mean to upset you. It was only a question.”

When her eyes met his, they were as round as his mother’s ancient tea saucers and held as much wear. But at twenty-six, no woman’s stare should hold so much…hurt.

Its depth reached across the carriage and tangled about his own heart, pushing him away from her.

Daniel reclined on the velvet-covered bench, stretching his legs out and crossing them at his ankles. Next, he turned and looked out the rain-splattered windowpane as the carriage sped away from The George. Suddenly, he wished he’d have succumbed to another tankard of ale.

His calm pose appeared to do nothing to banish the tension from her; did not still her worrying fingers that’d moved from her gold band to the stitching of her coat—a garment that was at least two sizes too small for her. The sleeves didn’t reach her wrists, and the elbows were almost threadbare.

Maybe beginning with a question was a bit too much for her.

Daniel shifted on his seat and pretended to stare out the window once more. “Your mother will not take kindly to your choice of hairstyle, my lady.”

He thought of sharing that he thought the style framed her face perfectly and highlighted her deep blue eyes, or mentioning it showed off her graceful neck to perfection, but an unladylike snort filled the carriage, bringing Daniel’s gaze back to her.

Lettie narrowed her stare, honing in on him, and he immediately regretted his comment. He was zero for two in the way of tries.

He was mucking up the conversation and making a fool of himself.

“Long locks are not preferred among women who travel with the soldiers. Hair collects bugs, and those bugs spread to rations. Not to mention they itch like the devil when one tries to sleep.” She paused, and Daniel sensed she’d learned that lesson the hard way. It was his turn to stare at her wide-eyed. “Bathing is rare in times of battle, and a proper head of long hair needs constant maintenance and brushing. With so many wounded, it was hard to find the time and adequate supplies. I much prefer this style, as it is.”

A lump formed in his throat, and he coughed in hopes that it would vanish, but it remained, giving Lettie the opportunity to sharpen her tongue on him again.

“When one is faced with carrying extra soap or laudanum for pain management, there truly is no choice to be made,” she continued, the words leaving her in a rush as if she’d finally found an agreeable topic that suited her. Her chin notched up and she stared down her nose at him. “Hair is only a vain attempt to shield others from who a person truly is. I have dispelled with all the fine draping society deems necessary for a woman of worth. My hair is not who I am, though it may be who I was.”

Her eyes lost their piercing glare as if she’d been transported to another time by her own words.

If Daniel had found it difficult to speak before, it was near impossible now. She’d always been idealistic, and he’d blamed it on her flight-of-fancy ways—always determined to think the best of others, to give as much as she could to the less fortunate. Like giving a new coat to one cold fruit vendor at the playhouse would solve the many societal problems London faced.

The beau monde may be able to look past her long locks to admire the stunning woman behind them; however, he was certain they would never be able to notice beyond the lack of hair.

It was a sad revelation, but the wretched injustice of it would not diminish just because it was deemed so.

“My apologies for the discourteous observation.”

“There is no apology necessary, Lord Linwood.” She crossed her arms, mimicking his pose. She’d never called him by his title—not in direct address. They’d been acquainted long before he’d inherited it, and when his father passed away, it had always still been Daniel, as she was simply Lettie. “I have steeled myself for such uneducated and insensitive remarks, I assure you.”