Page 37 of To Woo a Wicked Widow

The look of appreciation she sent him spoke volumes. “You are very kind, my lord.” Her soft voice sounded warmer than before. “If you will not be too inconvenienced? I am sure you did not come here with the expectation of leading our party.”

“I am delighted to be able to show off our village to your friends.”

“Our village?”

He cocked his head. “Both our properties adjoin Wrotham Village. It is as much yours as mine.”

She shook her head. “I am only just come into the neighborhood, my lord. It is your home, not mine.”

He grinned. “Not as much as you might think, Lady Cavendish. But if you will excuse me?”

Nash made his way toward the convenience at the back of the inn and in five minutes time stood in front of The Bull, talking to Brack as the rest of the party assembled around him.

The little knot of women off to his right on the grass beneath a shady oak had their heads together like the witches from Macbeth. Perhaps deciding which gentleman they would like to escort them, for when Lady Cavendish emerged from the inn they broke apart en masse. Each one then engaged one of the men who stood in a staggered line in the dusty road.

Lady John claimed Sinclair with a determined arm through his. Lady Stephen slipped her hand through the crook of Sinclair’s other arm. Mrs. Wickley sidled up beside Lord Fernley and began to speak animatedly to him.

Nash wasn’t greatly surprised when Lady Georgina attached herself to his right arm.

“Shall we be off now, Lord Wrotham? I am so excited to see the church tower.”

Before he could answer her, to his amazement, Mrs. Easton appeared on his left.

“We truly have a lovely day to see the village, don’t you think, Lord Wrotham?” she asked, her voice musical and low-pitched. “The weather has been so unseasonably cool.”

Nash swallowed to moisten a suddenly dry throat. Two ladies at his side? Well, with Garrett gone, the party lacked more than one man.

He shot an innocent look toward Lady Cavendish.

She had stopped next to Lord Brack to stare back at him. Her shoulders squared as though pierced with a ramrod and after one wintry flash from those devastating eyes, she fell into conversation with her escort, as though she had taken no notice of Nash’s companions.

With difficulty, he repressed a grin and turned to Mrs. Easton. “I quite agree, ma’am. A beautiful day for a walk with two lovely ladies.” His voice carried just far enough on the windless air.

His lady twitched her shoulders, then continued to nod at a comment from Brack.

Nash glanced at first one, then the other woman beside him, sighed, and started down the road toward St. George’s. This could prove to be an exceedingly interesting afternoon.

Chapter 12

Strolling down the dirt-packed lane to St. George’s, arm in arm with Lord Brack, Charlotte couldn’t help but think she should be a happy woman. Her disastrous outing had turned golden: The weather couldn’t be better—blue sky, a gentle breeze, the sun beaming down pleasantly warm for such a cool August. The company seemed to be enjoying themselves, though they changed partners with alarming frequency. The idyllic setting, with leaves rustling in accompaniment to the birdsong overhead, had put her party in good spirits. And best of all, a guide had appeared who knew everything about Wrotham Village. All in all, a splendid day to her credit as hostess.

Then what had her so on edge? Her heart kept up a fluttery beat and the pit of her stomach ached from that blasted ale. No wonder ladies weren’t supposed to drink the vile stuff. She might have known Lord Wrotham would suggest a beverage that upset her digestion. Disagreeable man. Too cheerful by far for what he had been up to last night. The memory of lying still against his chest surfaced and her breath came in gasps.

“Whoa, Lady Cavendish!” Lord Brack’s words checked her headlong flight toward the rugged gray building. He turned a quizzical gaze to her. “We’re not racing to the church, are we?”

“Of course not, my lord. Please, do forgive me.” Charlotte immediately slowed down to a normal pace. They were now at the head of the group; when she and Brack had set off, they had been dead last. “I confess I was thinking about everything I need to do for tonight’s entertainment and got quite run away with the details.”

The pleasant, ruddy-cheeked young man chuckled. “You almost ran away with me.”

Charlotte had to restrain the urge to fan herself. The gentle breeze no longer cooled her sufficiently. “I do beg pardon. Georgina would never forgive me for stealing away her brother.”

“I believe today you could kidnap me here in broad daylight and she’d not even notice.” He glanced back at Georgie, still on Wrotham’s arm. “I am so glad to see her coming out of her shell a bit.”

“Yes, we were very concerned that she would not enjoy herself this weekend.” Charlotte winced at a high-pitched peal of laughter that wafted from behind them. “I am so pleased to find this not the case.”

Lord Brack snorted a laugh, then apologized. “I’d say she’s finally on a fair way to recovering from Kirkpatrick’s death. A blessing I must lay at your feet, Lady Cavendish.”

“Oh, but I—”