Page 31 of What a Widow Wants

They were shown to their chambers and Fanny resisted the urge to sink down on the bed and not arise, but that was the coward’s way. If she’d lost Matthew’s regard, then by God she’d make sure to get him back this weekend. She quickly washed the grime of the road from her face and hands and summoned the maid to assist her into a new day gown, a green and gold stripe trimmed in gold lace that she’d bespoke specifically for this weekend. The cut of it subtly accentuated her breasts, as low-cut as possible for a gown worn during the day, with shirring at the sides to draw the eye to their fullness. She’d designed it with Matthew’s hungry eyes in mind so she’d put it to the test as soon as possible.

The drawing room teemed with people, enough to make the large, long room seem small. The walls of Pompeian red, framed with polished walnut wood, created the perfect setting for this gathering. Fanny paused on the threshold, taking in the sight, especially noting the number of young ladies attending in all manner of brightly colored pastel gowns, as though an army of bright butterflies had flown inside and now flitted about the room. Were these schoolgirls her competition?

It certainly seemed that way. Matthew glided around the room, the genial host, laughing with this one, chatting avidly with that one, smiling into the face of a chit who must surely be no more than twelve years old? Fanny gritted her teeth, forced a smile, and headed for the tea table, wishing she could drown her sorrows properly. Unfortunately, tea was the strongest beverage available. In order to drown anything, she’d have to pour all the cups into a tub and stick her head in, as though she were bobbing for apples.

“Lady Stephen?”

She turned. Dear Lord, one of the butterflies had fluttered down beside her. A pretty one, with dark hair and eyes as blue as . . . the countess. And Matthew. “Yes?”

“I know we’ve not been properly introduced, but I wanted to speak with you.” The girl dropped a quick curtsy, impatience with the formalities in every graceful line, and smiled. “I’m Lady Beatrice, Lord Lathbury’s sister, the eldest one of them still home. How do you do?”

“Quite well, thank you.” Fanny’s spirits, so glum a few moments ago, now took a turn for the better. Lady Beatrice’s straightforward manner acted as a tonic to her. It could be simply she was a connection to Matthew, but she didn’t truly think so.

“Would you care to take a turn in the garden? It’s so crowded and noisy here. I told Matthew he was inviting too many people, but would he listen to anything I said? No. This way, my lady.” Lady Beatrice led Fanny out the French doors, along the veranda, and down a short flight of stairs that opened onto a vast garden of blooms.

Overgrown, with riotous color everywhere, these blooms put the young ladies inside to shame. Neither was it a staid garden, with paths of exact measurements that crossed with military precision nor with shrubs clipped into precise geometric shapes, as they were in the backyard at Theale House in London. All over the Theale network of estates across England, if truth be told. None of her brother-in-law’s estates included a garden such as this. This garden felt alive in a way no other ever had to her eyes. The unrestricted colors, plants unrestrained by borders or shapes made the whole area seem a living thing in a way the formal gardens did not.

“How absolutely charming, Lady Beatrice.” Fanny wandered off the rustic path that wound through the wilderness and stooped to smell an exquisite tall purple flower. “What a delicious smell! Vanilla and cherries together.”

“Heliotrope, my lady. One of my favorites.” Remaining on the pathway, Beatrice looked on as Fanny sniffed her way across a bank of purple, yellow, and pink blooms, each more fragrant than the last.

“Lord, I could camp right here and be happy, I believe.” Fanny raised her head from a showy pink damask rose and waded over to an unfamiliar, strangely stringy yellow plant. “I know the rose, but what is this one?”

“Witch hazel. Not only a pretty flower, but Cook makes a face wash from it.”

“Indeed.” Fanny sniffed again, a fresh, clean scent wafting upward. “Lovely.” She waved her hand across the expanse of colorful blooms. “Is this your handiwork or the countess’s?”

“I wish I could take credit for it; however, I do not have the patience for such meticulous design.” Beatrice shook her head.

“Meticulous design? It all looks as though it came up quite naturally.”

Lady Beatrice chuckled and beckoned Fanny to her. “Matthew says that for anything to both look natural and be pleasing to the senses, it must be designed to do so. For example, to insure the display you see here, the different plants are put into the ground at particular times, during different months even, so they will bloom together to make this perfection.”

“Matthew says? He planted this garden?” Gazing again at the glorious blooms around her, Fanny was suddenly reminded of the bouquet of flowers he’d sent her after the masquerade. That too had been perfectly arranged with all the flowers she loved best.

“He has a passion for it.” Lady Beatrice nodded and grasped Fanny’s arm, propelling her farther down the path.

Stunned by this revelation, Fanny would have blindly followed Lady Beatrice into the River Thames. Matthew had an enthusiasm for gardening and flowers? How had she never known this about him? When had she ever given him a chance to reveal it?

“Speaking of which . . .” Lady Beatrice stopped them in a little clearing, drawing Fanny to a rustic wooden bench to one side, next to a cluster of hydrangeas. “Are you in love with my brother?”

Caught in the act of seating herself on the bench, Fanny thumped down on the hard plank, once more astounded by Lady Beatrice’s words. “I . . . I beg your p-pardon?”

With a merry laugh, the girl sat beside Fanny, seemingly pleased at the mayhem she’d caused in her guest’s heart. “I do apologize, but Matthew instructed me to ask you that question.”

“He did?” She didn’t know whether to be flattered or outraged.

“I’m not to press you for an answer; however, he does wish to know.”

“Then why does he not ask me himself?” If Matthew would play games, he would find her a willing participant, but likely without the result he desired.

“Perhaps he will.” The girl shrugged. “Although he is much taken up with his other guests at the moment. My friend, Miss Broadman, had a ball given in her honor several nights ago in hopes she would discover a suitor to her liking. It could be my brother is introducing her to the eligible gentlemen with whom she is not already acquainted.” Lady Beatrice raised her eyebrows and glanced to the side. “Of course when last I saw him, he was conversing with Miss Gadhill.”

“Which young lady was she?” Fanny tried to recall all the little butterflies in the drawing room.

“The one in deep rose, with blond hair and—”

“And a predatory gleam in her eyes when she looked at your brother.” The young lady had clung to Matthew’s arm as though she were a permanent attachment.