Page 6 of Her Sort of Scoundrel
And he’d rejected her. Soundly. Cruelly.
Fiona drew in a sharp breath and pushed those memories aside.
The widows club ladies remained in the conservatory, chatting and finishing their cups of tea.
“Perhaps we should have arranged for lunch too,” Fiona said to Cecily, who’d approached to stand beside her.
“Why not plan that for next time?”
“I will.” There was so much to look forward to. Among the members, there’d been suggestions for future topics to discuss, additional ladies to invite, and the whole group had agreed that during the next meeting they’d have a guest speaker—a lady banker—to advise them about managing their own finances.
“I’m sad that our meeting is over so soon,” Abra Chamberlain said as she took up a spot next to Fiona. The beautiful American heiress was utterly charming in her outspokenness, and Fiona had been thrilled when she’d agreed to join.
“The time seemed to fly by,” Portia, who’d come to stand next to Fiona, agreed.
“Yes that, but I was also hoping we might get to discussing more…” Mrs. Chamberlain leaned in, and Fiona, Cecily, and Portia followed suit. “Delicate matters.”
“Such as?” Portia asked eagerly.
Fiona knew she’d been quite sheltered before her marriage, and she seemed the most eager to explore all the possibilities a more independent life might afford her.
“Well, amours, to speak plainly.” Abra kept her voice low, though in Fiona’s experience, the American rarely did anything other than speak plainly.
“Amours,” Portia repeated breathily. “Yes, let’s discuss that.”
Cecily chuckled and Fiona seamed her lips together and grinned.
“We will,” Fiona assured them. “I promise. I’d actually thought to put it on the agenda for next time. I think it’s something ladies should speak aboutplainly, as you say, Mrs. Chamberlain.”
“Please do call me Abra because I fully intend to call you Fiona.”
“That sounds perfect.” Fiona meant it. She wanted all the ladies in the club to become not just fellow members but trusted friends.
“Speak about what plainly?” Jocasta Bancroft had overheard and drew up beside Cecily, one brow arched as if her curiosity had been heartily piqued.
“Affairs,” Abra offered before Fiona could get out a reply.
“Oh, yes, please,” Jocasta put in eagerly. “Truth be told, Fiona, I’m not sure how you can think of much else, considering your neighbor.”
Fiona fought to hold onto a polite smile that gave nothing away. Fought to keep her eye from twitching, which it always did when she attempted falsehood of any kind. But it was her own skin which finally betrayed her. She could feel the heat in her cheeks, her neck, the tips of her ears.
Abra Chamberlain shot her a look that was somehow both sympathetic and knowing.
Did everyone in attendance know of the Earl of Granford’s appeal?
Of course, they did. The man was infamous. Very proudly so, if even half of the things she’d heard about him during the years of her marriage were true.
“He is a striking sort of man,” Abra said lightly, as if his physical beauty was the least of his charms. “But several noblemen are.”
“My husband, for example,” Cecily offered proudly.
Fiona couldn’t deny that Everton was pleasing to look at it, but she’d thought him feckless and scandalous before he’d married her best friend. The Duke of Everton might be the one man to convince her that former scoundrels do make the best husbands. But he and Cecily were still in those early months of wedded bliss, so Fiona was withholding final judgement.
“What I’ve heard about Lord Granford is that he’s talented.” Jocasta spoke the words and then sipped at her tea, watching over the rim of her teacup as everyone’s curiosity built.
“At what?” Tabitha Clifton’s voice was light, lilting.
Fiona had noted the young woman’s shyness the first time she’d met her at a house party in the fall. But there was something intriguing about her, and Fiona had wanted to know more after that first meeting. Once she’d learned she was widowed, she knew she had to invite her to join the club.
