Czytaj książkę: «The Widow and the Rake»
Lady Miranda is on the search for a new husband, and never expected the devil himself to be in contention! After one doomed marriage, this time around Miranda is certain to call all the shots. So when notorious rake and gambler Neville Morleigh announces his indecent intentions, Miranda finds the temptation too much to resist and requests a one-time bedroom interview… After all, shouldn’t all unsuitable candidates be given a chance to please this delectable widow?
The Widow and the Rake
Lyn Stone
Author Note
The inspiration for this story comes from a conversation over lunch with friends about arranged marriages. We decided it was much like buying shoes over the Internet. You like what you see, but will they be well made and a perfect fit? Well, you can usually return shoes for a different size or style if they don’t suit you, but in Regency times, replacing a husband who didn’t meet expectations would have been impossible! Second time around, it might prove best to choose a style she likes and try him on before she buys, thinks a wealthy young widow! So there you have it, The Widow and the Rake!
Enjoy!
Lyn Stone
Dedication
This story is dedicated to my buddy Charlotte who loves a spicy historical!
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
About the Author
Copyright
Chapter One
Neville Morleigh happened to be gazing out the window of his modest flat over a stationer’s shop just off Abermarle when he spied his solicitor, Randal Tood, rushing across the street as if he were being chased. Morleigh went to his door and opened it as Tood thundered up the stairs and hurried inside.
“Sir, I have the most extraordinary dilemma. You will not believe the scheme that has involved me.” He laid his hat and cane on the sofa and plopped down beside them, wiping his fingers across his sweaty forehead. “I am so distraught!”
“Easy there, Tood,” Neville Morleigh said, worried about the little man who had been such a good friend to him the past few years. It wasn’t like Tood to exaggerate a problem. Generally he went about solving it without any fuss. “Shall I get you a brandy?”
“Oh, please. Yes, thank you.” He raked a hand over his face, sucked in a deep breath and released it slowly, obviously trying to calm himself.
Neville handed him a snifter. “What is it, man? I’ve never seen you this upset. Has the market plunged again?”
“No, no, it’s to do with her ladyship.” He took a gulp of brandy and winced at the burn.
Ah. Tood’s other client. He only served two, Neville himself and Ludmore’s widow. “I assume you mean Lady Ludmore. Is she back in society yet? It’s been a year since the old baron died, hasn’t it?” Neville had been counting the weeks, fifty to be precise. Now she was no longer forbidden fruit and he discovered he was still damned hungry for her.
“She wants to purchase a man!” Tood gasped out the words and quickly took another swallow.
Neville laughed out loud. “Whatever for?”
“A husband. She wants to have children, keep control of her money. And control of the man in question. That is one strong-minded female, Mr. Morleigh.” He upended the snifter and emptied it. “And she’s ordered me to help her arrange it!”
Neville sat down, crossed his legs and sipped his brandy as he thought about the woman he had not been able to get out of his mind for the past two years. Government business and Napoleon’s antics on the continent had provided some distraction, but not enough to make him forget her.
She was a fair-haired vision in anyone’s estimation, but it wasn’t only her looks that had captured and held his regard. There was something about the way she moved, her voice, her laugh. She had spirit, that one, and you could see it well across a crowded room. Vivacious, yet graceful. Inclined to humor, though not loud about it. He had kept his distance. Miranda had been married and happily so it seemed.
Though admittedly envious of Ludmore, Neville truly admired the lady’s obvious devotion to her elderly husband. That spoke of both her caring nature and her loyalty.
He had never met her formally, nor had he wished to at the time. The temptation might have been too great. Ludmore had been a respected gentleman who did not deserve cuckolding, even if his wife had proved eager. In any case, Neville staunchly avoided wives.
However, widows did have the freedom to take lovers if they were discreet. He might be able to charm her into an attachment now that she was free. She might not remain at liberty, though, unless he could dissuade her from this ridiculous plan of hers. “Does she have anyone particular in mind?” he asked Tood.
His solicitor whipped out a paper and handed it over. “Here is a list she made of a few to begin the process. She wants someone penniless, grateful, strictly opposed to violence and not fond of cards or loose women. I’m to ensure their qualifications before setting up the interviews.” He got up and helped himself to another tot from the sideboard. “This is why I came directly to you, in hopes you know the candidates.”
Neville was already perusing the names she had written in a beautiful flowing script. Ever aware of subversive elements, he made it his business to know everyone in the ranks of society who did not actively support England’s effort in the war by either word or deed. These three were politically uninvolved in any way, probably the only point in their respective favors. He scratched his stubbled chin as he mused over each name.
“Well, let’s see. Bathgate’s a toad. He’ll put her off with the first words out of his mouth, which are likely to be profane. Simpson is set on the church, so I hear. Quite preachy.” He thumped the list. “And Lawney. Now there is an obnoxious bore, even when he’s not cupshot.” Neville sighed and tossed the list aside. “But they’re all in hock up to their overstarched collars and should be delighted to bow and scrape for a license to bed and a few quid a week.”
“Oh, my. Do you know any other more acceptable men that I might suggest to her?”
Neville grinned. “Bachelors who meet her criteria aren’t exactly thick on the ground, but I was about to add one who might do nicely. Why don’t we let her meet the others first, though? Advise her not to decide until she has looked over the lot.”
Tood had relaxed after two snifters of brandy. “So who is your addition to her gang of three?”
“Why, me, of course.” Neville smiled.
Tood almost choked. “You would marry her?” he gasped.
Neville inclined his head, but avoided answering. He could not name a worse choice of husband for any woman, let alone one he esteemed. He trusted no woman enough to commit to her for life. He had seldom witnessed a marriage that remained happy. Most were simply endured. Not to mention that he would have to remodel his entire existence if he took a wife.
Though he wanted to bed the winsome Miranda more than anything else he could imagine, Neville was not certain he would marry any woman just to have her. Thus far, he had never found it necessary.
Chapter Two
Miranda paced the floor of her parlor and hugged herself. She had all but given up on finding anyone else to provide hugs. Mr. Tood should have warned her of what to expect.
She now realized that eavesdropping on her gossiping peers at charity events was no way to obtain a list of candidates. Perhaps she would hire an enquiry agent next time around.
Mr. Bathgate, she had dismissed within two minutes and would have done sooner if she had not been shocked speechless by his boisterous greeting. “Ol’ Tood says you want to pick my brain about choosing a curricle.” He had leaned close and winked salaciously. “But I know it’s a bloody tupping yer after! Been a damn long dry spell, eh?” Tupping indeed. The man was brain-sick. And he smelled as though he hadn’t bathed for a week.
The handsome reverend Mr. Simpson had arrived a half hour early and overstayed by that length of time for what had amounted to a holier-than-thou sermon on the sins of Eve. Pontificating wretch. Apparently he was to have the living at Martlesby, a crumbling estate in the Northwest. Tood had told him she had asked him here to offer a donation. She had given one, too, just to be rid of the man. She kicked a footstool out of the way and continued pacing as she reviewed the prospects.
An hour later, Mr. Lawney had arrived, talking nonstop, obviously well into his cups. Not only had he not known why he was there, but he probably had not even known where he was. So much for Mr. Tood’s investigations.
The situation seemed hopeless though there was one yet to apply, due at any moment to round out an exasperating day. She did not bother checking her hair, pinching her cheeks to give them color, or smoothing wrinkles from her new green gown. What did it matter how she looked while tossing out yet another undesirable?
Ravensby, her butler, appeared as expected. “Mr. Neville Morleigh to see you, madam.” He leaned forward and whispered. “This one’s sober.”
“Show him in,” Miranda said on a sigh as she threw up her hands. How much worse could he be? She stopped pacing and stood in the middle of the floor waiting.
“Good evening, Lady Ludmore. Neville Morleigh at your service.” The voice was deep and bore a touch of amusement. He bowed. “Mr. Tood advised me that you wished to speak with me this evening.”
Miranda stared. She simply couldn’t help it. His eyes were arresting, the blue-green of a sunlit sea. His features were so nearly perfect; the small scar on his chin seemed a mere accent to add interest. His dark hair, cut in the latest fashion, waved naturally over his brow. He was a head taller than she. His wide-shouldered and narrow-hipped form was well turned out in buff pantaloons, a dark blue superfine coat, embroidered waistcoat and polished Hessians. She noted how his sun-browned complexion contrasted beautifully against the stark white linen of his cravat and collar. His looks quite took her breath away.
Aside from the fact that he was extremely handsome, he looked familiar. She knew she had seen him before, but where? Morleigh. The name had not registered when Tood gave it earlier. She drew in a deep breath and released it slowly to regain her wits. “You are the Earl of Hadley’s heir, are you not?”
He continued smiling as he shook his head. “No, ma’am. My father was a second son. My cousin, Caine Morleigh, is the heir. Have you mistaken me for him then? He is on the Continent with Wellington at present.”
“Oh. A soldier?” she asked, simply for something to say.
“A captain. So was it him you wished to see?”
“No, no, not him.” Certainly not if he was the heir. This one was perfectly fine. Almost too fine. “Would you care for a glass of sherry?”
He nodded. “That would be most agreeable if you will join me.”
Miranda went to the sideboard, steadied her hands and poured. With a bit more composure, she returned and handed him the drink. “Won’t you sit down?”
She took a seat so that he would. He sat beside her, not close enough to seem presumptuous, but near enough for her to catch the clean male scent of youth, sun dried linen and a mere hint of bay rum. Without being obvious about it, she inhaled more fully. Intoxicating.
He appeared uncommonly comfortable with the silence, but Miranda’s nerves thrummed with apprehension. Or perhaps excitement. It was hard to tell. Her senses felt dangerously and deliciously full of him. She adjusted her skirts and her position, hoping to disguise her restlessness. “So. Have you lived long in London, sir?”
He studied her with polite interest and took another sip of sherry. “Not very. I was born in Suffolk, schooled at Stowe, took ship at fifteen and traveled for years. I returned now and again for visits, but have only recently taken up residence in Town.”
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