Page 20 of To Woo a Wicked Widow

“Has he always been cross as crabs?”

“What a dirty-dish.” Jane settled herself into her chair. “Someone needs to plant him a facer.”

Laughter burbled out of Charlotte at last. “I would truly love to see that.”

Jane sobered. “What will we do now, my dear? We only have a little over six weeks and that bounder will turn us out into the street.”

“We will commence packing immediately and remove to Lyttlefield as soon as possible.” Charlotte smoothed out her dress, thinking how much she would miss seeing her friends in Town.

“And the Widow’s Club? Will you still be able to host the house party, do you think?” Fanny asked, her face stretched tight.

Charlotte looked about at her friends. This move would put a strain on her. A house party would only compound the stress. But these women had stood by her during the trials of the past year. They all deserved the chance to pursue their happiness. She would see the matter through, no matter what.

“If I set the servants to start today, I can begin the move perhaps by late next week. I intend to be completely free of this house before the middle of July. I’ll see what needs to be done at Lyttlefield; hopefully nothing of major concern. In fact, why don’t we celebrate our freedom with the house party the weekend after that?” Charlotte strode to the desk in the corner and produced a calendar. She ruffled through the pages until she found July. “Around the nineteenth of July, say?” she asked, looking expectantly at her friends, most of whom were nodding enthusiastically.

Jane, however, frowned and shook her head. “No, I’m sorry, my dear, that won’t do for me. I’m to go to Scotland in July, don’t you remember? The Munro clan Gathering?” She screwed her face into a comic moue. “I detest these things, but Papa is adamant about it each year.”

Charlotte laughed, then sobered. “Then we must await your return, my dear. You will have something to look forward to while you are up in the Highlands. I had hoped to hold it sooner, but that cannot be helped now.” She sighed as the thought of Lord Wrotham’s strong arms assailed her. “Will the second weekend in August be enough time after your return?”

“Yes, that should suit admirably.” Jane nodded, her tense face relaxing into pleasanter lines.

“I will send out the invitations next week so there should be plenty of time for the replies.” Charlotte turned the pages of the calendar, counting the days.

“You never gave us the name of your gentleman, Charlotte,” Elizabeth spoke up, a smile touching her lips. “I assume Mr. Garrett is not invited?”

“Indeed he is not, Elizabeth.” Charlotte shuddered. “No, I believe I will invite Lord Wrotham, to make amends for not dancing with him last night.” The perfect way, perhaps, to end up in his arms again.

“What will you do if one of the gentlemen can’t attend?” Elizabeth sounded almost as if she hoped that would be the case.

“You will need to give me an alternate name to be invited.” Charlotte nodded decisively. “Perhaps I should invite an additional gentleman, just in case.” She smiled. “There can never be too many gentlemen, don’t you think?”

“If we can each get the one we want to attend, we should consider ourselves most fortunate.” Jane rose, which signaled the others. “We need to sit down and plan, Charlotte. I think Theale will loan us servants to help with the move.” She gazed around the morning room and sighed. “This was always such a cozy room. I am sure I will miss it. I daresay you will too, my dear.”

Charlotte glanced around, taking in the elegant Chippendale chairs, the Queen Anne escritoire, the white marble Robert Adams mantelpiece, and smiled. “Perhaps not as much as you might think.”

Chapter 6

August 7, 1816

Pacing the confines of his study, Nash read Lord Grafton’s letter once more, grinding his teeth as irritation built with every word.

“My daughter, Lady Cavendish, informs me that pursuant to the terms of her late husband’s will, she will be removing from London to her estate (through dower rights) at Lyttlefield sometime in late July. This plan presents you with an opportune moment, Wrotham, to call on her once she and her cousin are settled in. Make sure she is in good health and spirits. And begin your courtship. Tempus fugit.

“I trust you are dealing with the robbers you spoke of to me in London, and that you will inform me when they are apprehended. I will not be able to travel into Kent until the autumn hunting season, at which time I would beg your attendance at Grafton Lodge near . . .”

He tossed it on his desk and picked up the small, elegant cream-colored card.

“Lord Wrotham is invited to attend a house party, August eighth through twelfth, at Lyttlefield Park in Kent. Hostess ~ Charlotte, Lady Cavendish.”

The invitation had arrived only two days ago, after languishing at his London town house, where it had been sent over a month ago. If he were to go through with this charade, the house party offered a perfect opportunity to woo his wicked widow.

Lady Cavendish. The woman rose before his eyes: her yellow gown showing off the swell of her bosom, her smooth white arms, and her long regal neck. The sweet, warm bundle she made pressed against his chest after her graceless fall. If only the memory could stop there. But then she was snatched from him, absconded with that insolent rakehell. Nash closed his eyes against that last sight of her, hair mussed, lips swollen but smiling, hand in hand with the blackguard. The image exploded, leaving his body tense, his mind cold.

Damnation. He would rather walk through a sea of crushed glass rather than pay a call on that wanton woman, much less attend her party, but he had given his word to the earl. The only thing that made any such visit even slightly palatable was the thought of his bill, now languishing in the House of Lords.

Nash sighed and laid the invitation on his desk. He consulted the calendar. Had the woman arrived in Kent? He pulled the bell, summoning the butler.

“Acres, have you heard anything about Lyttlefield Park being occupied?”