The Widow and the Rogue Page 4

  “I have no dishonorable intentions towards you or any desire to impose my will over your own, Lady Langtry,” he said reassuringly, reading her thoughts. “What I said earlier stands. You are mistress of Dovehill Hall. I am here to merely act as your mentor and advisor.”

  “I . . . I don’t know what to say,” she replied truthfully.

  She gave him a mistrusting glance. Could he be counted upon? Was he speaking the truth? Or was he simply trying to placate her?

  He leaned over and took her hand. She felt a sudden dryness in her mouth at his touch, his warmth disturbing.

  At first he’d merely meant to reassure her, but now he couldn’t help but notice how white and soft her skin felt beneath his, and how her touch heated his blood. He added pressure to his hold and they both felt a tingle of awareness course between them.

  Startled, her eyes widened. She looked at him expectantly.

  He took a deep breath and cleared his throat in order to continue. He had to find a way to explain himself. But at the same time he couldn’t bring himself to release her hand from his. It was so soft.

  “I shall behave like an older brother concerned only with protecting your interests,” he said, although he felt far from brotherly feelings for her.

  She bowed her head.

  The feel of his hand over hers was enticing and invoked tender thoughts in her she’d thought long ago dead and buried with her parents. Doubt flooded her. She’d once trusted men. But she was now older and more cautious. She’d been badly hurt and callously used by them.

  Would he betray her like her uncle had? Take all her money? Barter away her virtue? Or possibly use her, as Lord Langtry had, as some sort of rare possession to be shown off to the envy of other men?

  She looked him over. He’d already defended her once. And his clear blue eyes when he looked at her seemed honest and sincere. But could she fully trust him? Would he put her interests above those of his own?

  He also had a reputation as a ruthless man. He’d been known to use force against his enemies. He would do whatever was necessary, she sensed, to get what he wanted.

  The arrogant manner he had about his demeanor when he read the will and the cold dismissal of the housekeeper forewarned her that he would not tolerate being disobeyed. He was a magistrate like her dead husband. He had, therefore, power. It would not do to provoke him.

  She worried. Would he be unrelenting and forceful if she went against his desires concerning her future? Would he turn out to be like the rest, a self-absorbed villain?

  She doubted, but her heart told her to believe in him. It pounded heavily as he looked steadily at her. She wanted him to prove he could be depended upon. But she knew only time would reveal if he resembled every other man who’d interfered in her life or not.

  She looked carefully at the handsome Corinthian, trying to discern his sincerity. She shook her head. Heaven help her, she didn’t know. It was impossible to tell. She remembered once her old Irish nursemaid saying, “Character is better than wealth.” She’d never forgotten the wisdom of it.

  How many times had she wished someone would demonstrate their trustworthiness to her? Instead, she’d been repeatedly disappointed, surrounded by toadies who bowed to her elderly husband’s wealth.

  “It would appear I have no choice,” she said at last and removed her hand from his. The contact was broken.

  In a firm voice she commented, “I hope, sir, you will keep your word. I have many times been disenchanted by men . . . but perhaps you will continue to astonish and be the person you claim yourself to be.”

  “Be the person I claim to be,” he repeated, clearly amused by her sharp barb. “So, you’re disenchanted by men and wish to be astonished? You hope I am not part of some curse you believe has been placed upon you by my sex.”

  He paused in his reiteration and looked her over in a calculating manner, as if he were weighing his options.

  “Madame, may I recommend you wait and see whether I am true to my word or not.” he said.

  He reminded her of her position. It was clear she had no choice in the matter. She had to accept him. The law was not going to permit her to do otherwise.

  “If I am some sort of evil warlock bent upon making your life a cursed misery, you may scheme to remove me.”

  “How so?” she asked.

  “By deciding to remarry, perhaps you can find yourself a nice milquetoast of a man who will do as you desire. You could then take complete control over your life.”

  She wrinkled her nose in distaste at the thought.

  The idea of being leg-shackled to a weak-willed husband held no appeal. She knew such simpering fops would resemble her uncle. And the notion of being married to someone like him was repulsive.

  He noticed her reaction and a small smile of satisfaction appeared at the corners of his mouth. He was swaying her to accept him.

  “Indeed,” he finished smoothly. “If I were you, your ladyship, I would wait before hastily rushing off into another man’s arms. You might find yourself embracing a toad, instead of a prince.”

  Standing over her, he leaned into her ear and whispered enticingly, “Or you might put your trust in me. I might surprise you and be exactly who I say I am. I might be the man who could make all your desires and wishes come true.”

  The plate shook in her hand as she felt his breath upon her skin and heard the soft words luring her to trust him. Rattled by the nearness of his mouth to her face, she hastily rang the service bell to have the tea tray removed.

  Taking a deep breath to clear her thoughts, she said, “It would appear, Master Powers, I have no choice but to do so.” She settled on playing the waiting game he suggested. She would soon discover whether he was worthy of her trust or not.

  Chapter 3

  No longer dogged at every step by Mrs. O’Grady, she thrived in her unfettered freedom. Kathleen began taking unaccompanied walks in the nearby hills. She accepted calls from neighbors her late husband had frowned upon. Then she did something truly daring—she started shopping.

  She’d never been able to purchase personal items before. When her uncle had money, he usually spent it on himself, and when he didn’t, the shopkeepers refused to give him credit. After she married, her husband declared that the local merchants weren’t good enough. He had her clothes ordered from far off London or Paris.

  And there had been her constant shadow, Mrs. O’Grady. The glowering housekeeper wrote down every choice she’d made. Later any little pleasure she bought was removed from her bedchamber.

  “Far too cheap and frivolous,” Mrs. O’Grady would explain when she dared to complain. “You are the wife of a discerning gentleman. His lordship would have a fit if he knew you had that silly trinket in your possession.”

  Uninhibited shopping was a luxurious adventure. She had not experienced such carefree freedom in years. Like an excited child, she stood before a tray of different toiletry bottles in the village shop trying to decide which to buy.

  There were more than half-a-dozen rainbow-colored bottles in front of her, gleaming enticingly. Should she choose by smell or by look? For some of the glass containers in themselves were quite appealing. The cut glass and pretty stoppers made her decision quite difficult.

  She kept glancing at her companion, waiting for the moment when he would tell her she couldn’t buy anything. Or the merchant, as had often happened in the past when she lived with her uncle, to quietly whisper in her ear she had no credit and therefore would have to leave . . . but neither occurred.

  She turned to the tall dandy, wearing mustard-colored breeches, lounging on a striped glass walking cane. He wore a bemused expression.

  Unlike her late husband who had whined bitter complaints from the moment she entered a shop till the moment they left, Beau had been patiently waiting. He was smiling, as if he was actually enjoying the excursion.

  “Don’t tell me you find none of these to your liking?” he asked. His voice was light with amusement. He picked u
p one of the bottles and delicately sniffed the fragrance. He put it down and picked up another, examining the cut glass stopper.

  “They are all wonderful. I am having difficulty choosing,” she confessed. “And I suppose you find all of this to be quite tiresome and now wish to leave.”

  She prepared to depart. But he stopped her, taking her arm.

  “I am in no hurry, Lady Langtry. Besides, not all of these can be that pleasing. Perhaps I can help you eliminate a few?”

  He picked up several more bottles until he found one with an extremely strong odor. He smelled it and quickly drew back his head.

  “Try this. It’s called, sal volatile,” he suggested.

  He placed the stopper beneath her nose. “A mixture of distilled animal elements and perfume, I believe.”

  “You mean like musk?” she asked and took a whiff. The inside of her nose burned. Tears sprang into her eyes.

  She coughed and laughing said, “You’ve tricked me, sir. That was no perfume, but hartshorn, smelling salts.”

  “C’est vrai,” he admitted cheerfully in French with a grin.

  The strong perfume was made from distilled male deer horn shavings and perfume. It created ammonia, the mixture necessary for smelling salts.

  “I may be a widow, Master Powers, but I am not yet an elderly matron in need of constant reviving from fainting spells.” she said with spirit, and placed the bottle back on the tray.

  A pretty, red-colored bottle with petal feet and a crystal stopper caught her eye. She opened it and breathed in a delicate scent. The pleasant odor of essence of roses and something a bit more elusive delighted her senses. She could not quite make out what the other underlying ingredients were.

  She placed a small dab on her wrist and sniffed.

  “This is quite nice,” she said. “But I am not certain what else may be in the fragrance other than roses.”

  “May I?” he asked and lifted her wrist. He leaned intimately closer. He was near enough for her to smell him. His hair was pomaded and it reminded her of the oriental shop she had once visited with Lord Langtry in Dublin. It was an exotic, yet masculine smell, of citrus and spices.

  His guinea-colored head bent a little as he sniffed the perfume, looking up into her eyes as he savored the delicate scent.

  “Ah—geranium and jasmine, I do believe,” he said. “Delightful.”

  He did not remove his hold and continued instead to gaze steadfastly at her.

  “I would not wish to force my opinion upon you, but you might consider purchasing this,” he said. “It is not the scent an old lady would wear. I think you will find many a gentleman unwittingly drawn to you. Even though it appears you have decided to take the veil.”

  He lightly touched the dark one she was wearing. Ever since her husband’s death, she had been wearing dark colors and unbecoming clothes.

  “Oh-uh, quite,” she agreed.

  Her heart tripped as he gently released her. “I believe I will buy it.”

  Distracted, she nearly dropped the bottle. His remark reminded her why she was draped from head to toe in black. It was conventionally correct to be wearing widow’s weeds. But she had another more personal reason for wearing the dark garment. It covered her gold hair. She wasn’t conceited, but she was aware that men were tempted to use her beauty for their gain.

  She did not want another man to try and tie her to him. She had no wish to be manipulated again. She wanted to hide herself completely from view. If she hid her looks, she reasoned, maybe she would be left alone.

  He continued to gaze at her with his devilishly handsome smile. It was most disconcerting to be stared at by the handsome Corinthian. It almost made her wish she hadn’t chosen to wear the black bonnet with the ugly veil.

  Opening her small beaded reticule to dish out coins to pay the merchant, she realized her heart was drumming a double time rhythm. Could this be attraction she was feeling? Did she want him to be interested in her?

  She suddenly felt embarrassed by her whimsical notion. Had he noticed her reaction? And what if he had? Would he take advantage of her? Mock her?

  She felt her face flush and raised a hand to one of her heated cheeks. Heavens, she was blushing. She hadn’t done that since she was a young girl caught trying on her mother’s delicate unmentionables.

  She took the wrapped bottle from the merchant, placing it in her reticule. She could not decide which intoxicated her more, the scent, or the nearness of her guardian. The attraction was almost too much to countenance.

  Feeling heady with the realization, she said, “I think I shall step outside for a bit, Master Powers. The fumes are beginning to overwhelm me.”

  “Of course, I shall be with you in a trice,” he said and solicitously opened the shop door.

  I need to cool down, she told herself. Or I shall find myself thinking some very unholy thoughts. Ones I very much doubt a nun wearing a veil would indulge in.

  Breathing deeply of the fresh air, she continued her inner monologue. She dismissed the possibility that Beau might fancy her.

  What would you think of me, dear sir, if you knew of the effect you have on me? Perhaps you see me only as an aloof widow completely incapable of any passionate feelings?

  Ha! I am quite heated by your piercing gaze. Aye, you have no idea how your light touch and kind smile have set my heart a-flutter. It is both wonderful and dreadful at the same time. And for someone who has been deprived of tender feelings for such a long time, it is a veritable feast you offer me.

  She had to admit it would be wonderful if he did care a wee bit for her. No one had cared about her since her parents’ deaths. If he proved himself to be the man he said he was, she would be honored. Indeed if he took an interest in her beyond that which a guardian has for his ward, it would be an emotionally dizzying experience. He would be placing her in the precarious position of falling in love.

  * * *

  Beau returned to her side. He held a small oblong package in his hand. Humming under his breath, he seemed quite pleased with himself.

  “This,” he said presenting it to her with a small bow, “is for you, Madame.”

  “Me?” she asked, surprised.

  She took it from him and broke the string that was tied around the paper. Opening it, she discovered a silk fan.

  “You appeared overheated,” he said. “I thought perhaps you would enjoy using this little bit of frippery.”

  She unfolded it. The fan had mother of pearl stays and a hand painted silk screen. On the shiny fabric was the charming depiction of a young couple walking hand in hand by a tranquil lake.

  “Why it’s Dovehill!” she exclaimed.

  She recognized the view at once. It was the same one she saw daily from her bedchamber window. It was of the lake and the green hills near Dovehill Hall.

  Pleased, she waved the fan back and forth, admiring the countryside painted in colors of delicate blue, green, and pale pink. Small woodland creatures frolicked in the foreground and clusters of tiny flowers grew at the couple’s feet. The edge of the fan was gilded in painted silver. A tassel of matching color dangled from the pivot, holding the stays together.

  “But ’tis far too costly a gift for me to accept, Master Powers,” she said, a furrow of doubt creasing her brow.

  She recognized the value of the elegant ornamentation. It was a high quality fan. Families usually bought such items for wedding celebrations. They were treasured by the owners as heirloom keepsakes of the event. Often they were kept in cedar-lined chests for preservation.

  “Nonsense,” he said, dismissing the idea out of hand. “I am not some callow lad attached to his mama’s apron strings. This was made to be held in the hands of a beautiful lady. And as you are overheated and quite lovely, it suits you. Thus, you may not refuse my little trifle.”

  “But I—” she said, wanting to protest. This was not a “little trifle,” as he had so elegantly described it. It must have cost a pretty penny.

  However, she cou
ld not continue. He shook his head and wagged his index finger at her as if she were a young child. She was being naughty. His mind would not be changed. The gift was hers.

  She gave a small laugh of concession. It was a beautiful gift. And how could she refuse when he was so pleased to be giving it to her? It would be petty to do so.

  “I see now, sir, why you have made yourself quite a reputation as a magistrate. For no barrister would dare argue against you. Indeed you are one of the most decisive gentlemen I have ever had the pleasure to meet.”

  “Thank you, ma’am, for the compliment. And for the honor of giving you this,” he said, lightly tapping the fan.

  He was inordinately pleased to see the flush of pink that colored her cheeks. If only he could be the one to help the lovely lady’s smile travel from her lips to her sad eyes, he would have accomplished something truly noteworthy.

  Looking down at her small black figure troubled him. She was young and had a sparkling character. Like a fine bottle of champagne kept in a dank cellar, she appeared to be wrapping herself in black sadness. And he sensed something else. She was afraid.

  He frowned. He could do nothing, he sensed, to dispel that fear. Only time would prove that he was as good as his word. He would slowly have to gain her trust.

  * * *

  “What say you, Madame, of traveling to Dublin with me?” he asked. “I must go there to attend to the other half of the partnership. They require my help in clearing up a few tiresome legal matters at the chambers there.”

  “I—I do not know,” she said, hesitating.

  She bit down on her lower lip. Should she leave the safety of Dovehill Hall to live in a bachelor’s residence in Dublin town?

  She glanced at him. Could he be trusted? Or was she once more to be taken advantage of, to be used like a bargaining chip? To be sold off to the highest bidder to be found in Dublin’s salons?

  He put a comforting hand on her shoulder.

  “I see you are troubled. Perhaps I can ease your worries? There is a sea captain’s widow visiting here in the village, do you know of Lady Agnes Fitzpatrick?