Page 4 of To Woo a Wicked Widow

Remaining still, she stared at his hand as he made the small, neat letters. The trick was not to say a word. Allow him to make the first move.

At last he signed his name with a flourish, set the pen down, and capped the ink. Then he raised his head and looked at her. And smiled.

Charlotte’s stomach sank. The smile meant triumph. It meant whatever the punishment he had set for her, he had gotten his way with it. She firmed her lips. She’d not give him the satisfaction of seeing her fear.

“Well, your little indiscretion of last night has cost us the Ramsay alliance.” He leaned back, his hands clasped.

“It has?” She couldn’t keep the surprise out of her voice. The settlements for her marriage to Lord Ramsay had already been signed. How had the betrothal been broken?

“Ramsay caught wind of your little escapade. I’m not sure how, but I’ll find out which servant talked. They will never set foot in a decent household again.” He tapped his forefingers together. “Nevertheless, he knows that my daughter tried to elope with her groom and now refuses to have you.”

Well, good for Lord Ramsay. She had nothing against the man except that she didn’t know him and certainly didn’t love him.

“I could have forced the issue, but he has agreed to be discreet about the reason he now finds you objectionable. I have broken the betrothal on your behalf. Perhaps next year I will give him your sister Agnes.” His intense stare made Charlotte’s skin crawl. There would be worse news to come. “She’s much more biddable than you ever were.”

“Thank you, Father.” Not that this situation pleased her much more than marrying Ramsay. Of course, now he’d have to send her down into the country to wait for him to choose the next-most-advantageous match for her. A plan with merit, for being out of his presence was a boon. Even had she found a man this Season at least palatable to her, her father would never allow her to marry him unless the alliance served his purposes.

“But do not despair, Charlotte. You shall have your wedding, and on schedule.” His eyes twinkled and her stomach sank even further. “I have called in a favor from an old friend. He has agreed to marry you and take you off my hands.”

“An old friend, Father?” Dread built slowly in her chest. This must be her punishment.

“Sir Archibald Cavendish. You remember him, I daresay. He’s been my guest often enough at the hunting lodge in Kent.”

Her breath stopped. No. That was not possible. Marriage with . . . “Sir Archibald? But . . . but he’s your age.” And balding and as big around as he was tall. The last time she’d seen him, two years ago at the lodge, he’d been so drunk he stank of whiskey and the strong clove scent he wore in his cologne made her sneeze. Now she’d be expected to marry the man? She had to clutch the back of the chair in front of her.

“Two years younger, but that’s of no consequence.” The jubilant tenor in his voice told her he was enjoying her horror. “Sir Archibald is just the man to curb that spirit of yours.”

“I won’t do it. You cannot make me marry that nasty old man.” She had spoken with her cousin Jane when she’d been betrothed to Ramsay and been informed that English law required her to consent to her marriage. Well, she would never willingly agree to this alliance. Being a spinster or anything else was better than being that man’s wife.

“Oh, I think you will, daughter.” He leaned toward her, menace etched in every line on his face. “Because it is Sir Archibald or the lunatics at Bedlam. Any woman who would disgrace herself by running off with a servant would easily be deemed mad by the authorities. I have sent inquiries to one of the physicians on the board, telling him of your irrational behavior and asking if they would admit you if you do not see reason.”

“You would really do such a thing to me?” He would. She had no doubt.

“It is your choice, Charlotte. I will not have scandal in my house. Had you behaved according to your station and married Ramsay, we could have avoided these less-appealing options.” He sat back again, cold, emotionless. Triumphant.

He had her trapped. She could not choose the asylum if she expected to live. Edward had not wanted that for her, even at the cost of his own life. She swallowed hard and prepared herself for the inevitable. It would have to be the odious Sir Archibald. Perhaps she could persuade the man to leave her in the country while he gallivanted around and thus spend as little time with him as possible. At least there was that hope.

With a heavy sigh, Charlotte nodded. “Then I accept Sir Archibald’s suit. You can inform me of the wedding details when you have arranged them.” She clenched her hands and spun on her heel, determined to leave the study without seeing her father’s gloating face. Before her tears rained down again, as she knew they would, the ocean her father had predicted just beginning.

Chapter 2

London, June 18, 1816

Lady Charlotte Cavendish squeezed into the upstairs retiring room at Almack’s, shaking in her new yellow slippers, half in excitement, half in terror. The parlor was already crowded with gaily dressed women eager to show their patriotism for the Waterloo veterans. She, on the other hand, attended for an entirely different reason—a reason that gave her joy for the first time in six long years.

Charlotte glanced around, unnerved by the crush of people. She was unused to such crowds after five years of marriage and a year of mourning. Surely she could find a bit of unclaimed wall where she could wait for her cousin, Jane, Lady John Tarkington, and contemplate the freedom she’d celebrate tonight. Not the normal return to society by a grieving widow. Then again, she had never grieved one day for the odious Sir Archibald. Considering she was still a virgin, she could hardly be called a normal widow at all.

She danced out of the way as two portly matrons hurtled past her.

“And then she said Lord Fairfax dragged her into the library . . .” The ladies moved off, heads still together, oblivious of the others around them.

Charlotte ran her hands over her skirts, checking for tears. She had never seen so many people here before. Had half of London turned up? Spying an open spot, she hurried toward it, tread on the hem of her gown, and stumbled against the cream-colored rear wall.

Drat. She turned her back to the wall and inspected the edging of the garment. The modiste had apparently cut it a little too long despite her exacting measurements. Why hadn’t she noticed this at home? The lace wasn’t torn, however. She sighed in relief, relaxing just a little. There was no reason to be nervous about rejoining society, yet she was on pins and needles. She must compose herself and wait right here for Jane so her clothing would not be further mussed.

She glanced down, smiling in satisfaction at her gown, which the seamstress had delivered yesterday. The fresh confection, cut daringly low in both front and back, in the most delectable shade of deep primrose yellow, boldly announced her eagerness to engage in life anew.

Time now to re-emerge, like a bright butterfly from a twelve-month cocoon, to stretch her wings. Charlotte fidgeted, shifting from one foot to the other, full of pent-up energy after years spent suffering through an empty marriage to a man she had never loved. I’d have better spent the past twelve months grieving the loss of Edward. Or perhaps I should have mourned my stepson Hal. He set me free.