Page 7 of A Widow for the Earl
Beatrice awoke with a jolt, rubbing the sleep from her eyes; she had not meant to fall asleep in the guest chambers that were now her own. Her bleary gaze fell on the empty glass of fortified wine that she had used to steady her nerves about the wedding night, cursing its potent gifts.
What time is it?She squinted until her eyes found the clock on the mantelpiece, startled by the hour. It was just past threeo’clock in the morning. She had not merely dozed off; she had been asleep for four hours.
“Has he knocked for me?” she whispered to the darkened room, illuminated solely by moonlight that faded in and out as it hid behind rolling rainclouds.
She groaned as she got up off the comfortable chaise-longue that had lulled her to sleep along with the wine and the crackling fire that had since dimmed to embers. The floorboards were cold against her bare soles, her wedding gown rustling as she padded over to the door. No lady’s maid had come to prepare her, her nightdress still lying on the bed where she had left it.
“Why has no one bothered me?” she asked, dread prickling down the nape of her neck, pursued by a shudder.
Maybe, the household wanted to let me rest. Maybe, Sebastian does not want to disturb me tonight, after such a tiring day.
She clung to that uneasy hope as she opened the chamber door and slipped out into the hallway, counting the doors on the left until she reached the one that Sebastian had pointed out as his.
It was hard to believe that, on her first wedding night to Lord Albany, she had been relieved when her husband did not come to her bedchamber. Now, she would have given anything to be disturbed by her third husband, to settle her soaring anxiety.
She knocked lightly.
“Lord Wycliffe?” she whispered, her heart beating so hard that it seemed to be bouncing all the way up her throat, blocking any air from finding her lungs. “Sebastian?”
She knocked again, pressing her ear to the door, listening for any sounds of life in the room beyond. Silence echoed back.
He likely fell asleep too. All will be well. It is not possible for it to happen three times. It is not. By all probability and possibility, it is not.
Hand shaking, she grabbed the brass doorknob and turned it, while every instinct begged her not to enter, not to look.
“Sebastian?” she repeated, stepping into the bedchamber.
The room was steeped in darkness, thicker than the dark of her own chambers, the drapes pulled tight. The fire looked like it had died hours ago, a stub of a candle melted all the way down.
Wishing she had thought to bring a lantern from her own room, she crept blindly across the room, her arms outstretched as she felt her way toward the windows. She jumped at the brush of brocade against her fingertips, hurrying to draw the drapes back.
In the weak light of the night world, she braced herself with a few deep breaths and turned to search the room for her husband. It took half a second to find the shape of him, tucked beneath the coverlets, his back to her.
“Sebastian? Are you asleep?” She approached nervously, extending a trembling hand to shake him by the shoulder. “Sebastian?”
He did not move, prompting her to shake him harder, calling his name all the while.
Putting all of her strength into pulling him down onto his back, she leaped backward and clamped a hand over her mouth to swallow the scream that tried to escape. Glassy eyes stared vacantly upward, her husband’s stern mouth slightly parted as if death had been a surprise, his chest completely still.
“Sebastian?” she said weakly, her knees wobbling, knowing full well that he was gone.
She was a widow for the third time… and she would be lucky if society did not hang her for it. Indeed, they would need no further excuse to begin their witch hunt.
To lose one husband is a tragedy, to lose a second is careless, but to lose a third… what else can that be but a curse?
CHAPTER FOUR
FOUR MONTHS LATER…
“Mrs. Stephens, is that an apple pie I smell?” Beatrice called out, wending her way down the white gravel path that meandered through the herb garden.
A basket dangled from the crook of her arm, filled to the brim with blackberries and wild strawberries that she had gathered on her late afternoon walk. The seasons had changed during the months of her third mourning period, the cool unfurling of spring blending into the heat of a true summer that wasjustbeginning to taper off.
“It is, my lady!” the cook, Mrs. Stephens, replied, poking her head out of the kitchen door. “I was just about to send Mr. Bolam to find you. Dinner is ready for you whenever you want it.”
Beatrice’s mouth watered, her stomach growling eagerly. “I might eat out on the terrace this evening, if that is not too much trouble? I do not know how many more lovely evenings like this there will be before autumn; I should hate to miss even one.”
“I thought you might say that.” Mrs. Stephens chuckled. “I already had Margaret prepare the little table out there.”
