Page 12 of To Woo a Wicked Widow

Charlotte clamped her hands over her burning cheeks.

“I am not adverse to a little dalliance, if given a quiet, secluded place to dally.” Jane’s face had taken on a faraway look.

Wishing for something a bit stronger, Charlotte sipped her lemonade and gathered her wits, trying to resolve the problem. A place for a successful house party was the very thing they needed. Such a secluded spot, however, could hardly be attempted here in London, under the scrutiny of their families. If they wanted true seclusion, they needed an estate in the country. None of them, however, had such a place to hand . . .

She sat straighter in her chair as Jane chatted on. An inkling of an idea presented itself as if a gift from the gods. She needed time to think about the organization of it, but yes, this notion just might do.

“Jane, are you free tomorrow morning?”

Her cousin glanced quizzically at her but nodded.

“Can you please send messages to the ladies of our circle and ask them to call upon us at ten o’clock? I believe I may have the answer to all our prayers.” She stood and looked around the now-deserted retiring room, satisfaction welling up in her chest. “We shall have a formal meeting of the Widow’s Club and plan our strategy to snare the gentlemen of our choice.”

Chapter 4

Nash sat down to a breakfast of toast, kippers, and eggs, in a better mood than when he’d come home last night. He sipped black coffee, savoring the rich drink. It had been a luxury all the years he’d served in the Navy, so now it had become a morning staple.

He tucked away the note that had arrived earlier from Lord Grafton and smiled. The earl was coming to call upon him this morning. That had to mean he had finally decided to lend Nash his considerable support on the upcoming Yeoman Warder bill. One less matter he had to worry about as the parliamentary session ground on.

Next, he perused The Times, searching for news of the fleet, always his first interest. Then turned over to the marriages and obituaries. After several months as a member of Brook’s and all the social outings this Season, he had some hope he knew the grooms; occasionally, he found he had danced with the brides before their betrothals. Nash sighed. He’d hoped to have his own engagement announced by now. How difficult should it be to pick a woman to marry?

He’d attended every soiree, ball, rout, crush, and musical evening he’d received invitations to this Season. Theatre parties, outings to Vauxhall, driving or riding in Hyde Park. Any potential way to meet young ladies of good family, he had tried. Was he truly so particular?

Nash savored the rest of his coffee and folded the paper. In all his perambulations, only three ladies had piqued his interest. Miss Bolton, a pretty brunette who danced well and smiled a great deal. A sweet girl, with whom he had been able to converse on a number of subjects. She had, however, developed a tendre for the heir to the Marquess of Ainwick.

Then there had been Lady Grace Knowlton, a daughter of the Earl of Braeton, who had held Nash’s interest for quite three weeks. An elegant blonde who played the pianoforte beautifully, she’d been a touch reserved, but he believed they might suit. He’d been on the verge of offering for her when he’d opened the newspaper one morning to see her engagement to Lord Longford.

The last was Lady Cavendish from last night. He’d never been so attracted to a woman on such a brief acquaintance. The sum of his knowledge of her amounted to almost nothing: She was a widow, her given name Charlotte, she moved more gracefully on the dance floor than off it, and she had a propensity to carry on with unsavory men. He clenched his jaw at the memory of his last sight of her.

After he’d cooled his ire in the refreshment room with weak lemonade, he’d returned to the ballroom bent on asking the captivating Lady Cavendish for the next set. Instead, he’d spied her emerging from the stairwell, her hair mussed, her eyes glazed, in the company of that young buck. Had Nash been closer, he’d have planted the man a facer on principle alone. The woman, however, was none of his affair now. A lady that brazen in a public place could hardly be one he wanted for his countess.

Why then could he not stop thinking about her?

His reflections were interrupted by Hoskins’s announcement, “Lord Grafton, my lord,” followed by the sight of the man himself.

Nash leaped to his feet, his napkin flying off to the side. “My lord.” He bowed. “I beg your pardon. Hoskins should have shown you—”

“He tried, Wrotham. Don’t berate him for giving me my way.” The tall, thin, gray-whiskered man smiled mirthlessly. “I told him to take me to you at once and he did so. Shows he’s either a sensible man or a well-trained servant.” Lord Grafton appropriated the chair on Nash’s right, as imperious here as when in the House of Lords. An imposing man, whom age seemed not to have touched as far as dint of will or physical strength was concerned, the earl sat ramrod straight, staring at Nash with small, round, glittering brown eyes, his hands crossed gracefully over his silver-knobbed walking stick. Nash had seen that stick countless times in the Lords and had a healthy respect for it. Those who did not often found it had purposes that had nothing to do with walking. No, the Earl of Grafton was not a man to be gainsaid.

“I received your note this morning, my lord. I assume your visit had to do with the Yeoman Warder bill?” Nash tried not to sound too hopeful. The earl’s face gave nothing away. He could just as easily be about to withdraw as to lend his support.

“It does, Wrotham, after a fashion.” Grafton settled himself in the chair, straightening his shoulders, adjusting his hands on his stick. “I want you to marry my daughter.”

Nash blinked several times, unable to speak. He stared at the older man, wondering if he was playing some elaborate jest. Grafton’s face had not one laugh line on it.

“I beg your pardon, my lord,” he said at last, grappling to maintain a stoic mien. He needed to stall for time to compose himself. “Would you prefer tea or coffee?” Had the man actually just asked him to be his son-in-law?

“Coffee, black.”

Nash nodded to a footman. Not enough time to puzzle it out. Well, then, forward unto the breach. “You say you want me to marry your daughter, my lord? Yet this is the first time you have broached the subject to me. Is there some recent development that would precipitate such an offer?” God, his daughter was breeding and he wanted to marry her off to keep it quiet. Or, worse, thought him the cad who had ruined her. Gad, what a tangle.

“I see you are a man to come directly to the point. I was right about you.” Grafton’s smile sent a chill down Nash’s spine. “Yes, there has been a development concerning my daughter that I will not countenance. She has taken up with the most unsavory of men, a rakehell who will see her reputation in shreds and laugh about it at White’s afterward.” The earl’s face had turned a deep shade of red. “I will not have it, I tell you.”

The footman appeared with the earl’s cup of coffee and set it in front of the shaking man.

Grafton seized it and drank it half down at one gulp. “Therefore, Wrotham, you will oblige me by marrying this headstrong woman and put an end to her scandalous actions.”

“I do understand your concerns, sir.” Nash’s breathing had slowed to an almost normal rate, his mind racing to find a way out of this highly distasteful proposal. “However, I don’t believe that I have even met your daughter.” What was the chit’s name? The elder two were married, so the man must be speaking of the youngest one. He hadn’t thought her out of the schoolroom yet. “I can hardly make a declaration to Lady Sophia—”