Page 5 of Her Sort of Scoundrel
“The more the merrier,” Lady Portia Hastings said with enthusiastic agreement and then stood from her chair and clapped. Like Fiona, and every other woman present, she’d become widowed after only a handful of years of marriage. Now, three years after the death of her husband, she’d become a sought-after portraitist, and over the last few months, she’d been key in helping Fiona develop her widows club idea.
“Strength in numbers, as they say,” Tabitha Clifton added as she stood to applaud too. The four other ladies present followed Portia’s lead and rose from their chairs to acknowledge the moment.
Tabitha’s sentiment was one Fiona believed in with all her heart. Having been born the only girl into a family of four brothers had caused her to value friendships with other young ladies even more. As she’d grown up, she’d quickly realized that in a society dominated by men in positions of power, there was safety and value in gatherings of women, whether to direct their energies toward a cause or simply for honest conversation and commiseration.
Cecily, Duchess of Everton, was among those who stood to acknowledge the success of this inaugural meeting. Though she’d recently married, she was a dear friend and had been the first person Fiona talked to about her plan to start a widows club. Fiona had promised to include the duchess as a founding member.
“Well done,” Cecily mouthed.
Fiona winked back at her friend.
Though Fiona had initially invited younger widows like herself to join, she envisioned a club that would eventually include ladies of any age, any circumstance, provided they shared her guiding principle of wishing to savor the independence that their status allowed. The whole point of the group was to expose members to matters that were usually the purview of men—handling one’s own finances and investments, pursuing education or making a business out of some talent or passion, traveling wherever they wished, being allowed freedom in social situations, including discreet romantic encounters, if they so desired.
Fiona wanted to gather ladies together who intended to live boldly. As a widow, she no longer labored under the judgement or control of any man. None of her fellow widows needed to live under such constraints either.
The current group compromised a range of ages from twenty-two to six and thirty. Some had married as soon as their coming out. Others had waited so long and endured so many Seasons, their families considered them hopelessly consigned to spinsterhood. Some had found a love match with their late spouse. Others had married out of duty or even experienced cruelty at their husbands’ hands. But whatever the story of their marriage, all were ladies who’d found themselves alone a short while after exchanging vows.
Fiona had experienced the same herself. Lord Lionel Prescott had not been a love match, but he’d seemed staid. Reliable. It was only after they’d wed that she learned his notion of marriage involved spending as little time with one’s spouse as possible.
Being married soon after her first Season and then widowed just four years later had been one of the most challenging times of her life. She’d been unsure who to trust, uncertain where to turn for support and guidance. Most of the other noblewomen she knew urged her to marry again as soon as she was able, but with her own funds and the first taste of true independence that she’d ever experienced in her life, she wanted much more than that.
An unexpected flush of embarrassment rushed in at the memory of precisely what shehadwanted.Whoshe had wanted.
She’d been vulnerable, and she’d turned to a man who wasn’t interested in such a proposition at all. The younger brother of her childhood best friend was the last man she should have been considering for an affair, and yet over the years, the attraction she felt for him, and had tried to ignore, only grew stronger.
Fiona forced those thoughts away—thinking about Dashiel Forbes never did her any good. And she’d become quite expert at avoiding him entirely, despite the fact that all six feet and sundry inches of the man resided right next door.
She tried her best to never bump into him and, thank heavens, he avoided her with equal thoroughness.
Of course, it was impossible not to get a glimpse of him now and then.
He and a young lady, who Fiona had heard via gossip was now his ward, took a walk most days. In the morning, usually.Around ten. Alright, yes, she’d noted the time one day and looked for him a few times after. Maybe once or twice—until she’d come to her senses and remembered that anything to do with Dash was none of her concern.
Even if she had to admit he cut a striking figure with his dark, short-cropped hair, sharp jaw, and shoulders too wide and muscular to be entirely ignorable. He still possessed that undeniable masculine swagger in his stride, even if she never caught the usual mischievous grin on his face when he and the young lady walked by.
Knowing that he’d lost his cousin—a man Fiona had only met once at a Forbes family gathering—made her reconsider their estrangement. For days, she’d wondered if she should break the icy silence between them and go to him and offer whatever comfort she could.
In the end, she’d decided that if he’d truly needed her, he would have walked next door. She was under no illusion that he was a man without friends. And he was certainly a man with an endless stream of admirers. One of the ladies attending the gathering today had already made mention of her interest in meeting Fiona’s neighbor.
Fiona had no intention of making the introduction.
Still, thinking of him caused her to glance toward his conservatory, which had been built quite inconveniently close to her own. Or perhaps his family’s had come first. She wasn’t certain. By the time she’d married Lionel and moved to this Belgravia address, both conservatories already existed, snugged up next to each other.
She loved hers dearly. Loved the light, the warmth, the greenery she tended with care. And she’d had no real misgivings about gathering her ladies club members in the sunny space. Granford never seemed interested in spending time in his own conservatory, so she had no fear of disturbing him or his young ward.
Yet she couldn’t resist glancing over as the meeting progressed, and every time, she chastised herself for the little flare of hope that she might catch a glimpse of him sheltered by some glossy palm or napping in the sun.
No, she did not—would not—make a habit of looking for Dash Granford.
Indeed, she’d successfully avoided him since the day he’d subjected her to one of the most mortifying moments of her life. What a nitwitted fool she’d been to think his nearness would bring her comfort. If anything, his nearness overheated her senses and unsettled her composure entirely.
During her loveless marriage, she’d encountered him at a few soirees, and the tenderness she felt for him as a friend was joined by something more primal. He was a gorgeous man, and the affableness she’d valued when he was younger had developed into a charm that many ladies seemed to find irresistible.
In truth, she wasn’t chagrined to find herself as enticed as so many others were, but she’d never done anything with the feelings. A thousand times, she’d urged herself to be satisfied with the lovely friendship they’d once shared.
Then, after a dreadful, isolating year of mourning, no rationale or logic seemed as powerful as her craving for him. He was just next door. So tantalizingly close.
So she’d gone to him, quaking with nervousness and yearning.
