Page 80 of To Woo a Wicked Widow

A tug on his coat sleeve brought his attention back to Georgina.

“I heard she is breeding!”

“Charlotte?” His stomach dropped into his shoes.

“Maria Wickley!” she hissed, smacking his arm.

Nash covered his eyes briefly, relief flooding though him, then reached for his wine. “The little mouse?”

“She didn’t act very mouse-like last night, if you recall.” Georgie glanced at Charlotte. “Sometimes the mouse stands up to the cat.”

“Maria certainly did that last night.” Nash sipped some more wine. The shy widow had surprised him with her ferocious manner.

“She arrived here yesterday, distraught, and after a conference with Jane and Charlotte, retired to her room.” Georgie continued, twirling her glass faster. “She didn’t come down for dinner but left abruptly with Lord Kersey. Later, Jane told me, in strictest confidence, Maria suspected she was increasing. But she wouldn’t reveal the father’s identity.” Georgie sat back, an arch smile on her face. “I suppose that is a secret no more. I doubt Lord Kersey would have taken her with him otherwise.”

“Indeed.” Nash drained his glass. The revelation of Maria’s plight, while startling—he’d never for a moment believed that young woman to be so bold—did not weigh heavy on his mind. Kersey had come up to scratch as he ought and Maria would be Lady Kersey well before the child’s birth. A common enough occurrence for ton progeny to be born less than nine months after its parents’ wedding. Society now thought little of it.

Did he need to worry about that circumstance? He thought he’d stopped Kersey in time last night, but he couldn’t be sure. Christ. He couldn’t very well ask, although the answer would be apparent in three or four months’ time. So, the question for him became, could he take a woman to wife who bore another man’s child?

He turned his gaze to Charlotte once more and caught her attention. She stopped in midsentence, staring at him. Her deep green eyes suddenly misted. She closed them, seemed to gather strength, and resumed her conversation with Lord St. Just, once more the cheerful hostess.

Nash sighed, blowing away the weight of the decision. He could no more abandon his lady than he could set fire to Wrotham Hall. Much as he would like to deny it, she’d become part and parcel of his life, whether she acknowledged it or not. And if the unfortunate situation came to pass, he would do everything in his power to save her from the ton’s censure.

He’d look forward to the outing tomorrow, to the festival. With a little harvest luck, perhaps he could convince Charlotte that no matter the circumstance—her father, Lord Kersey, a possible child, or even her own stubborn nature—he would allow nothing to deter him from marrying her.

Chapter 28

Next morning, Nash timed his arrival at Lyttlefield Park for ten o’clock exactly. The judging of the produce, one of his major duties at the Harvest Home, began at noon. This circumstance gave him plenty of time to collect Charlotte and Georgina, drive out to the festival site, and explore some of the stalls before he had to commence his official duties. He hoped Charlotte would enjoy this rustic celebration as much as he did.

Fisk showed him into a hall that bustled with the gathering company. He nodded to Brack and St. Just, who stood talking just outside the drawing room. Fanny strolled down the stairs toward a waiting Lord Lathbury. Servants ran to and fro fetching hats and cloaks. When he entered the room, Jane, George, and Georgina sat sipping tea, unconcerned with the bedlam that seemed to be increasing out in the corridor. Charlotte was nowhere in sight.

“Wrotham.” George hastily set down his teacup and rose to greet Nash. “Good to see you, old chap.” He grasped Nash’s hand like a drowning man. “Such hubbub going on since I arrived.” George lowered his voice. “I’m glad to get out of the house today. A diversion of some sort is the very thing called for. Last night’s entertainment went off deucedly odd.”

Nash cocked his head. He’d been forced to leave immediately after dinner to coordinate with Mr. Kelliam, the ex-Bow Street Runner he’d hired to secure the properties today. The man had arrived late from London and Nash had worked with him far into the night to assure that the festival would go off without incident. Apparently, he’d missed something significant at Lyttlefield in the process.

“What’s happened now, George?” Best to ask and get it out in the open. He wanted no surprises today.

“Nothing actually happened, although our hostess has been acting deucedly strange.” George stared longingly at the sideboard, containing a full decanter, then shook his head. “You told me she was a sensible woman.”

“Charlotte? Of course she is. Why would you say that?” A sudden rush of dread sent a chill through him.

“Because after you excused yourself and left, the woman forgot to leave the table.”

“What?” Nash lowered his voice, though heads turned their way.

“She seemed to sink into her own world.” George leaned in to whisper. “At one point Lathbury had to speak her name twice before she acknowledged him, and he was her dinner companion.”

“But she did finally rise and retire with the ladies?” Damned strange behavior for Charlotte. Their imbroglio had affected her worse than he’d feared.

“With Lady Georgina’s prompting. By then the clock had struck eleven. Never wanted a drink so bad in my life.” Poor George sounded so aggrieved, Nash almost felt sorry for him. “I had Mrs. Easton on my right side and she provided little in the way of entertainment, I must say. More engaged with Brack.” George’s long-suffering look made him want to laugh, but his comments about Charlotte’s behavior were sobering.

“Did Charlotte improve later in the evening?” Nash glanced at the doorway, expecting her appearance at any second. They needed to leave soon.

“By the time we joined the ladies, she had retired. Lady Georgina made her excuses. A severe headache.” George cut his eyes at Nash. “Same reason for her absence yesterday.” He raised his hand as if swiftly downing a glass. “Bit of a tippler, eh? Demned shame, that. Fine figure of a woman.” Shaking his head, George caught Jane’s pointed stare and hastily joined her on the sofa.

“Hmmm.” Nash knit his brows, determined to get to the bottom of this. Charlotte had never drunk to excess as far as he knew. Had she been foxed that night with Kersey?

Charlotte strode into the drawing room, her deep blue cloak already donned and a fetching brown velvet bonnet gracing her head. He stopped, entranced as always by the beauty before him.