God, she made him sound so old, but surely he wasn’t as long in the tooth as the spinster who would arrive tomorrow. “I have no need of Lady Emma. Tell me the widow’s name.”
“Dowager Marchioness Huxley,” Lady Templeton said. “Rosalie. Second wife to Marquess Huxley, widowed five years ago and eight months after her marriage. No children. She joined our group a year after her husband’s death. Other than her reading preferences, she is perfectly polite and well-mannered.”
“And pretty,” Lottie added. “Four and twenty years of age.”
“She is younger than you. Younger than Andromeda and Prudence. Younger than the twins. By two years.” He was grumbling. A plain fact, that, and not one that would bother most men. But he didn’t want a wife younger than most of his sisters. It felt… odd.
Another fact—no matter his grumbling, he’d run out of time to be choosy.
“A young wife is best.” Lady Templeton stood and picked a cautious path toward him. “You do need an heir, after all, and it is not guaranteed you’ll receive one with the first babe.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose. What a headache.
It didn’t have to be. “Very well. Arrange a meeting. If she’s agreeable to me, and I to her, we’ll wed as soon as the bans can be called.”
Lottie used the arms of her chair to lumber to her feet. “Give yourself time to come to know one another, Samuel. No need to make a decision this very moment.”
He strode for the door. “Decision made. I’m going out.”
“It’s late.” Lottie glared at the night-dark square of window across the room.
“I need air.” He swung down the hall, the front door and freedom growing closer with each rapid step.
Hewasgrateful. Despite seeing five of his eight sisters married in the last eight years, he felt a complete failure. He’d certainly done nothing to help them find suitable husbands. In fact, his meddling had in at least one case caused his sister pain. He rubbed at his chest as he stepped outside and crossed the street. The groan from the gate opening into the Grosvenor Square garden covered the groan from his lips, and after the click of the latch catching, the silence of the night swallowed him whole.
Shaking the Duke of Clearford’s habitual armor loose and letting it fall, he welcomed the quietude of the night. Welcomedthe soft glow of the lights already lit in intervals around the garden, welcomed the lowshushof the wind through the trees. Welcomed Samuel Merriweather back into existence if only for half an hour.
Clouds weaved gray striations across the navy sky, hiding stars and obscuring the moon. A dark night but for the lamps, but light enough to pick his way to the center of the garden, to the bronze statue of King George I atop a horse facing the eventual sunrise. The gas lamps barely reached here. Only a glimmer or two sparked off the statue’s weather-dimmed exterior.
“Hello, Georgie old boy.” Samuel sank to the grass below the statue and rested his elbows on bent knees. “It’s an excellent plan, isn’t it? The widow?”
George did not answer.
“Of course you married for more mercenary reasons. I don’t judge you. But I always thought I’d be different. I’m trying not to complain. I’m aware there are many excellent reasons to marry, excluding love, yet sometimes the heart outwits the brain. I had hoped…”
What a fool he was, talking to a statue at five and thirty years of age. He fell back into the grass, stretching out as far as he could in every direction, closing his eyes. Why did he feel like he’d just drank an entire jug of curdled milk? Sour. Churning. Sick. Like he wanted to run until he couldn’t smell or taste it anymore.
The grass near his ankles swished, and the breeze made the tree branches creak, and a soft, startled squeak broke through the silent night.
His eyes popped open. The clouds had rolled away from the moon, and it bathed the garden in pale yellow light, illuminating a woman’s face. She was a collection of shapes and impressions in the moon’s dim glow—wide eyes, pale skin, parted mouth,and white teeth, all of it collected beneath a cloak, the color of which the night hid well. The moon shone around her head like a crown.
He curled up, propping himself on his elbows behind him, unable to look away. She seemed a fairy spirit sent to tempt him. A moon maiden meant for mischief.
“You scared me,” she gasped, clutching her cloak to her chest. Her voice was soft as morning with a rich Scottish brogue. She took a fortifying breath and shook her fears away, dislodging the hood of her cloak, which fell down her back, revealing a halo of copper to tease the moon crown the sky had coronated her with.
He jumped to his feet as a cloud rolled over the moon, irritated. With himself for scaring her or with her for the snap of accusation in her voice? His brain sank claws into the irritation. “You almost trod onme.”
“One does not expect to find gentlemen growing in the garden. Besides,younearly tripped me.” Cast once more in shadow, he possessed only her voice to interpret her by, but that gave all he needed. Tart and strong. She did not waver in her annoyance.
“One does not expect to find… women walking… in the… garden.” Hell. That’s exactly where one expected to find them walking. Too tired to make sense. He chuckled.
She did, too, and his ire melted like fog in the morning sun. He should be indignant, but he didn’t have the energy for it. Easier to let himself be charmed by her boldness, amused by her repartee.
“Is this an English habit I’m unaware of?” she asked. “Lying in the grass at night? Seems odd, but as this is my first time in London, I’m willing to admit I have much to learn about its customs.”
Humiliation should be flailing him alive right now. But the humor in her voice kept embarrassment far away. Perhaps yesterday, or even this morning, he’d have pulled himself up tall, lifted one disproving brow, and refused to participate in her idle chatter. But God, he was tired of being so damn serious all the time. And he faced a lifetime of seriousness soon. What was one night of idle amusement?
A blessed reprieve, that’s what it was.
