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April 1822

When a man rode a horse like it was an extension of his own body, he likely managed other … physical activity with such skill. One of the many reasons Freddy had decided to make London’s Golden Boy, the expert equestrian riding round the ring below, her paramour. She desired a skilled lover, and a vigorous one, and he promised much without saying a word.

He could hardly speak now, could he? Standing atop the giant horse, balancing as it took him in circles round Garrison’s Circus’s amphitheatre. Those in the audience attracted to his mesmerizing golden glitter leaned closer, breath held tight in their lungs, attuned to his every move and muscle flex.

Mr. Grant Webster entranced them all, and Freddy wanted more than silent promises. She wanted to be seduced. To do the seducing. Whichever, as long as her naked body laid alongside his at some point in the process.

She put a palm to her cheek. Was it burning as bright as it felt? And with her inconveniently pale coloring, anyone nearby would know the direction of her thoughts. She pulled her cloak tighter, to hide her blush, and backed away from the banister. She’d seen his act many times and did not need to stay until the end to know how it went. She did, however, need to get to the courtyard behind the amphitheatre. She had a plan based entirely on hearsay, whispers, and rumors that claimed Mr. Webster took a lady back to his dressing room each night, choosing whatever woman had snuck back there to be with him first.

Tonight, that lady would be Freddy. Because at five and thirty years of age, mother of two delightful daughters, and a widow for nearly four years, Freddy found herself missing the touch of a man.

Not just missing. Craving. Ever since that stolen moment away from Max and Nora’s wedding breakfast. The man had brought her wine and cake and paid an unknown price for his kindness—her unwavering esteem.

He’d done nothing to damage her respect from that moment on, winking at her and joking with the girls when he came to dinner at Max’s bidding. He often asked about her knitting with a hint of trepidation and an ocean of support. The poor man seemed to believe she’d ever improve in that area. And all that playful charm and kindness made him a ghost in her waking and sleeping life. He haunted her dreams and winked at her as she pleasured herself between her lonely sheets each night. But tonight, she meant to turn vision into reality.

Impossible to believe the man she meant to take as a lover was the one in the amphitheatre mesmerizing half of London. His very brightness should have scared her off, but her desire had grown too strong, an out-of-control need she could no longer ignore, crafted not only of physical attraction but of all those little moments, too—the wine and cake, the winks and jokes, unexpected kindness. He was a star, but he was also a man who offered her comfort. The perfect man to be her lover.

And the wise words of the Wicked Widows had led her one conclusion: she could make a willing lover of a scoundrel.

She could try at least.

Once away from the audience, she fled down the stairs and out the front doors. The night air was warm for an April evening, and clouds, gray and heavy, rolled across the sky, threatening a spring storm. She ran around the building and found a wrought iron gate. Well. She’d not expected that. Was it locked? Dread made her fingers heavy as mud as she reached out and explored. What would she do if the gate proved an affective barrier between herself and the one desire that had taken hold of her recently, refused to let her go until she did something about it?

She’d not considered locked gates while she’d crafted her plan to become bold enough to take a lover.

First, she’d meant to become good at her hobby—knitting. A failure there. She still missed more stitches than she made, but she’d discovered something useful. She enjoyed it and didn’t care if she was good or not. That little revelation had been oddly freeing. She could do something entirely for herself without pressure of performing well.

She’d then moved on in her plan to scandalous reading material. She’d devoured Henry Fielding’s Tom Jones. She didn’t quite see why people were so bothered by it. But reading a book others gasped at while she enjoyed had given her a bit of courage to do other so-called naughty things. To try something, in fact, that was entirely scandalous. And a bit mad perhaps, too.

She’d run down the street and back. In the dark hours of the nighttime morning. In nothing but her shoes and shift. She glowed red just thinking of it, felt alive, too. Even now, three months later. It had done the trick, certainly, let her know she was on the right track, the bold track that led to a lover.

Fourth, she’d begun to speak up for herself more often. Or tried to, especially when in large groups where she usually sank into her habitual invisibility. She’d attended many Cavendish dinners and said a word or two. Perhaps three. And not been ignored, either. That had felt lovely. To be heard.

Everything she’d done in service to this last goal, all meant to give her the courage to slip into that courtyard and take London’s famous lover as her own.

If the cursed gate was not locked.

It was the final task on her list, so locked gate or no, she’d find a way. She had to. Her body ached with loneliness and need. Her heart did, too, but she’d ignore that particular organ because the Widows warned against its involvement and so did her experience. The love her heart desired would only come with the possibility of the pain of loss. Through death or disinterest, men left women’s hearts hollow. Little girls’ hearts too, daughters wailing for their papas in the middle of the night.

Freddy pressed her eyes tightly closed, snapping a gate closed against the memory and wrapping her hands tighter round the actual steel gate before her. With the smooth iron under her fingers, she found well-oiled hinges and a locking mechanism. She worked it and pushed, and the gate swung open. Not locked after all. All that worry for naught. Relief swooshed through her with the swoosh of air caused by the opening barrier. Nothing kept her from her goal. Nothing kept her from Mr. Webster. Except, perhaps, the jumbled mess of emotions tempting her to run. Except that little voice in her gut insisting she was not yet ready for such a giant leap, not yet ready to claim the title of wicked widow.

Why did she worry? She was taking a lover, not a husband. Husbands were the true threat.

Marriage could leave her a widow twice over, a fate she refused to meet, for her own sanity and for her daughters’. Besides, she did not need a husband to tell her what to do, to close his ears when she tried to speak up, to hush her voice and shadow over her like an oak tree over a strangled flower at its roots.

No. Lovers were much preferable, from her point of view—and according to The Wicked Widows Guide. And what better lover than the master equestrian? Handsome, charming, silly. He had flirted with her many times before. He’d brought her cake. Hopefully he’d not mind gifting her other delectable things.

She closed the gate gently behind her, and the iron kissed together silently, the gate and its frame nestled close and locked tight like lovers. The courtyard spread before her, a giant ring at the back of the building. If there had ever been any grass, it had long since been pounded to dust by horse hooves, tumblers, contortionists, and children playing. Mews stood to one side and the amphitheatre to the other. A single door was cut into the building’s marble façade.

She strolled across the courtyard toward it. Surely his act was over or close to it. She bit her bottom lip, straightened her cloak, breathed into her cupped palm to make sure her breath still had a hint of the mint leaf she had chewed on earlier. The cloak had likely mussed her hair a bit, but that was good. Mussed hair gave a man thoughts of the bedroom, and that was where she wished to drag him. Or for him to drag her.

Either way was perfectly acceptable. Though, it should likely be him. In case she lost the nerve.

The door flung open, and almost hit her in the nose. She dodged out of its trajectory.

Come on, Freddy, don’t be such a fool. She straightened herself and looked about for whomever had opened the door. Could it be … Ah. No. It was not Mr. Webster but a woman, someone Freddy did not know, garbed in spangles—a performer. If she stayed much longer, she’d be audience, too. To a kiss.

Could Freddy do this in front of others? Surely Mr. Webster’s fellow performers were used to the sight of him kissing strange women in the courtyard, but Freddy had never kissed in front of a single other soul beside the soul of the man kissing her. Perhaps the kissing would wait until they reached his dressing room.