She did not look up from her knitting. “I would not curse the needy with my failures, Mr. Webster. My blankets are so full of holes they’d not even keep a mouse warm.”
“You? Anything less than perfect? I refuse to believe it.”
She chuckled and held up her work.
He whistled. “Damn me. That is bad.” A heavy sigh left his lungs. “Don’t worry, angel. Your lack of skill only increases your perfection.”
She cocked her head to the side. “How is that, Mr. Webster?”
“A perfect woman would prove annoying.”
She laughed, long and hard until she had to wrap her arms around her belly or feel her body shake to bits. How long had it been since she’d laughed so, since she’d let herself go golden inside out with joy. Too long, and the taste of it now made her want more.
“Did you just snort?” he asked, pleasure curling like a cat around each of his words.
“No,” she managed to say between guffaws.
“Merely checking. Let me check something else.”
She inhaled deep to finally control her mirth. “As it pleases you.”
“Is there anything else you have need of? Company perhaps?”
And keep him all to herself? She wanted to. So very much. Her newly kindled desire for joy ate at her, begged her to beg him to stay.
But men like him—bright and beautiful—were not for women like her—small and quiet. “I am perfectly well, Mr. Webster. Thank you.”
He did not leave though. He hovered and stared at her with some strong emotion glinting in his eyes. Then he stepped back. “Very well. But you should join us for a jig, Freddy. Or I can join you here. I swear I do not mind.”
She smiled and shook her head. She could not keep a man like him here to herself, but also … he oddly made her want to take a second look at the guide hidden in her basket. A wicked widow could keep a man like Mr. Webster, a golden boy, a seductive scoundrel. Hadn’t she often heard of his exploits? Max and Nora spoke of his liaisons as if they were discussing the weather over tea. He took every type of woman to his bed, and took them nightly, too. He’d likely had widows aplenty. The bold type of widow, the type who saw a man she wanted and took him.
Freddy wanted to know more but could not flip through pages until he left. She shook her head once more.
“Very well,” he said again, bowing low. “Till later, angel.” Then he left.
She took a heavy swallow of the wine he’d brought her and dove for the pamphlet. She finished off the glass as she read its advice. Wicked widows, it seemed, lived life as they pleased, whether in the shadows or in the sun. They chased men like Mr. Webster, scoundrels and rogues, dangerous and desirable. Their only rule was a sound one—avoid serious attachments.
Wise indeed. Her own experience had taught her that attachments of the heart did not last. John’s fervor for her had faded over time, and then his death had ripped what was left away too. Worse yet, her daughters had suffered, and she had not been able to save them from such grief. Only time had lessened it. John had been a better father than a husband in the end, her daughters’ pain at losing a father had sliced her more cleanly through than her own at losing a husband. They had cried. Every day. Their little eyes looking for his figure, their arms reaching for a neck not there, their voices reaching out for his. Gone.
She rubbed her eyes to relieve the sting. They’d not begun to fully step into the sunshine again until they’d come to London. Yes, Freddy had not overly mourned for her husband, but she had buried herself with her children’s father, given herself over entirely to helping her girls through their loss. She was glad to have done it.
But now the girls were waking up, embracing life and sun, and Freddy … she remained, it seemed, six feet under with her memories.
The wicked widows had the right of it. Attachments gave more pain than pleasure. But temporary lovers …
She closed the pamphlet. It seemed to weigh more than an entire townhouse, and it lay in her lap, suffocating her, tempting her, challenging her. Would she always run off to hide in corners, remaining silent and invisible? Remaining safe, yes, but lonely. She looked at the cake on the plate so near to hand, brought by a golden man who should have cast her in shadows, but seemed instead to douse her in light. It had felt warm and lovely to be seen by him. And the widows’ words of advice warmed her further.
What if she did what widows were wont to do and took a lover?
No. Too big a step too quickly. But … she could work up to it. Do small daring things, each one bolder than the last, until she finally had the courage to kiss a man, unwind his cravat, and claim him in the dark of night.
A lover only. A companion to stave off the loneliness and the shadows.
She’d nudged her daughters into life this morning. She could nudge herself as well.
Max’s marriage had brought her into a new world with new people and experiences. She would not waste it by retreating always to the corners and disappearing into silence. So instead of knitting a crooked scarf, she knitted a solid plan. With a little help from the Wicked Widows, she would bring herself out of the shadows and into the light.
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