Always the Widow by Emily E.K. Murdoch

Chapter Four

The sun had barely risen by the time Jacob Beauvale closed his front door behind him quietly to ensure none of his servants heard their master creep in at the crack of dawn. He leaned against it, safe within his own walls, wishing he had never left.

Damn.In his wildest dreams, he had never expected to find Elizabeth so…well. Alluring? Was that the right word for the intensity of feeling she stirred within him?

She was beautiful, no doubt about it. No wonder the blasted man kept her almost locked up in that house. Elmore was a jealous man, unable to accept anyone looking at his beautiful wife.

Jacob’s body ached. She had kept him up half the night, the little minx, but he could not say no to her. Not after she had been deprived for so long of a loving touch.

A smile crept over his face as he remembered their frantic, almost possessive lovemaking—and then later on in the night, their slow, more tender, more careful lovemaking.

Still leaning against his door, Jacob let out a long slow breath. He had wanted her, and he had got her, but that was…that was something he had not expected.

If he was not careful, he would find himself tempted to return and give her more pleasure. Speak with her. Spend more time with her. Know her in more ways than one.

Jacob shook his head. He was no young buck of seventeen; he would not be so foolish as to fall in love with a married woman!

He went to bed her, and bed her he did. It was best to stop there.

“And how was your early morning walk, your lordship?”

Jacob grinned as his butler appeared as though from nowhere with the innocent inquiry. Alone of all his servants here in Bath, Stewart was the only one who knew of his nighttime wanderings.

“Thank you, Stewart,” Jacob said airily, pulling off his greatcoat. “Yes, it was very good. Very good indeed.”

It was rare for Jacob to speak at all of his midnight conquests, and the butler raised an eyebrow as he helped his master out of his riding boots.

“I ask particularly, your lordship,” Stewart continued delicately, “because you must have enjoyed yourself most heartily. Are you aware of the time?”

Jacob glanced at the tall grandfather clock. “Yes, ’tis eight o’clock.”

“Excellent, but Lady Romeril is not,” the butler said smoothly. “She is here.”

“Wh-Here?”

Jacob stared at his servant in absolute horror. Here he was, only just returning home dressed in yesterday’s clothes, unshaven, and exhausted after making love all night!

Stewart nodded silently.

“B-But why?” asked Jacob aghast, rubbing his chin and feeling the stubble of yesterday’s growth. “At this hour? Here? Now?”

“I am unsure, my lord, but I would recommend a rapid visit to Labbe.”

Jacob nodded and turned to run up the staircase to find his valet, who was waiting for him with a shirt in one hand and two cravats in the other.

“Lady—” began Jacob in haste.

“Romeril, yes, I am aware your lordship,” interrupted Labbe. “Please do not concern yourself, my lord. We have at least five minutes. I have informed her that you are currently in the bath.”

Relief washed over him, but there was still a flicker of tension in Jacob’s heart. Lady Romeril’s mere presence was usually enough to terrify a debutante, make a gentleman quake in his boots, and smarten up anyone who wanted to be accepted into society.

So what on earth was his godmother doing here—and so early?It was almost criminal.

Thankfully his valet had been prepared, and Jacob found himself scrubbed, shaved, and dressed in just over the five minutes.

His reflection in his tall looking glass proved that he was, at least, half-human and almost presentable—but Jacob could not help but wonder whether a five-minute nap may have been all the better.

Half the night had been lost—no, gained with Elizabeth’s touch. What need had he for sleep?

Jacob could not help but smile at his reflection. It had all been worth it. Worth it to hear Elizabeth shout his name.

“Lady Romeril, my lord.”

Jacob jumped as his valet spoke. For a moment, he had been half a world away—or more precisely, seven streets over where Elizabeth was sleeping in that soft and inviting bed.

“Yes, yes, Lady Romeril,” he said hastily. “Breakfast room?”

That was where he found his unexpected early morning guest when Jacob descended the stairs and opened the door. His godmother had happily invited herself in and was at this moment slathering butter onto a piece of toast.

It was impossible not to smile. Jacob had known Lady Romeril for his entire life, and she had a fearsome reputation in society. Able to make or break a lady’s reputation, invitations to her balls and card parties were coveted, and a single disparaging remark had been known to lose a gentleman his honor.

Jacob had no fear of her, however. She may strike terror into the hearts of others, and he had, of course, a healthy respect for her, but it was difficult to be afraid of a woman who had chased him around the garden playing pirates twenty years ago.

“Finally,” she said imperiously. “I was beginning to be concerned you were not here, Jacob.”

He grinned. She was a good old stick, really. “If I had known you wished to breakfast together, Lady Romeril,” he quipped, “I would have got out of the bath quicker!”

His guest frowned, but a smile was never far from her lips for her favorite godson. “Join me, young man. We have much to discuss.”

Her words did not strike terror into his heart—he was far too accustomed for her grandiose nature for that—but Jacob did stop at the sideboard to help himself to a large cup of coffee before he sat down.

Anything to keep him sharp.His mind was still swimming with Elizabeth, and if he was not careful, he would get lost in their discussion about…whatever it was.

After all, Lady Romeril was an excellent sparring partner.

“This is hardly a breakfast for Lord Westray,” she began as he finally seated himself, gaze taking in the meager toast and marmalade offering. “Your father would consider this a precursor to breakfast proper. No eggs? No ham?”

Jacob shrugged as the hot, bitter coffee hit the back of his throat. There it was, the jolt he needed to ensure he could concentrate. “You know, I hardly think about the title. ’Tis just there, a part of my name. Being a lord isn’t nearly so fun as it looks, I’m afraid.”

“Evidently,” Lady Romeril said pointedly. Her toast sat on the plate before her, untouched and ignored. “Your parents would have been horrified.”

Jacob’s nonchalant smile faded. No one could have predicted the accident. He had seen the newspaper articles, clipped and saved by a previous butler, and discovered by Jacob when hunting for his letter from Cambridge in the study at Westray Manor.

A boating accident.No one’s fault, no blame to be apportioned. It had taken both Lord and Lady Westray, and little Jacob, only five years old, had inherited the title his father had laughed about.

“I’ll never give it up, you know, my boy,” he used to say with a grin. “Die? Me? I wouldn’t dare leave your mother. She’s the one who tells me what to do and what my opinions are!”

And his mother would laugh and tap him on the shoulder and tell him not to speak such rot, and they would laugh.

Jacob could not remember the day the news had come. He only remembered being bundled in the night into a carriage and taken to a house far more imposing than his own, and there had been Lady Romeril on the steps, ready to welcome him with a grim expression.

She had raised him. Her favorite friend’s daughter had married the dashing Lord George Westray, and when Margaret had given birth to an heir, who else but Lady Romeril to be godmother?

“Do you really think they would be disappointed in me?” Jacob asked his godmother.

Lady Romeril’s fierce gaze softened. “No. No, your mother loved her baths, too. I remember her first debutante ball—one of mine, naturally—she almost missed the opening set because she spent too long soaking in that tub of hers.”

Jacob leaned forward. He had not been forbidden from asking questions, exactly. It had hurt at first. Their loss had been absolute, and over time not asking became a habit.

How do you ask about your parents, their thoughts, their wishes, their hopes, their quirks into banal questions?

“And my father?”

Lady Romeril snorted and took a large mouthful of her toast before replying. “Your father? Late for anything? He would have been out for a ride long before the sun was up—but I did not come here to reminisce about your parents. I need to discuss something of the greatest import with you.”

Jacob’s mouth went dry. Surely it was not possible—the gossips of Bath had not already found out about his illicit liaison with the wife of Elmore Howard!

His blood ran cold, and he reached for the coffee to keep his hands occupied.

How could he have been more careful?He had told no one of his plans—Stewart did not count; the man knew what he did but not with whom—and no servants had seen him at Elizabeth’s house.

That he knew of.Jacob tried to remember every moment in that house, but it was impossible.

Besides, a housemaid could have walked past Elizabeth’s bedchamber door at just the wrong moment, and that would be the end of their secret.

Lady Romeril was glaring. “You should get married.”

Jacob almost laughed with relief. Nothing to do with Elizabeth, then.

“My dear Lady Romeril, I have no interest in getting married,” he said smoothly, all nerves forgotten. “And I flatter myself by considering five and twenty still young!”

“Old enough to wed,” said Lady Romeril flatly. “Old enough to find a nice young lady, good family, good breeding, that sort of thing, and settle down.”

It was impossible to prevent his thoughts from flittering to Elizabeth. She had settled down. She had expected a husband and gained nothing but a brute.

“Not every marriage is happy,” he said aloud. “I am happy now. Why take the risk? Why threaten my happiness now with the potential for a similar or lesser happiness within matrimony?”

And, though he did not say this thought aloud, how could that woman, whoever she was, even think to compare to Elizabeth? No, if he wanted to bed another woman, he would first have to get Elizabeth Howard out of his mind.

Lady Romeril was watching him carefully. “Nonsense. All marriages find happiness, of a sort. Perhaps not in the way people expect.”

Why was it so difficult to pry his thoughts away from Elizabeth?

Perhaps because he hoped to bed her again. Jacob could not lie to himself; he had never been one to hide his intentions.

Would she want to repeat the experience?His whole body tingled as he considered it. Would he be permitted to touch her again?

“Jacob Montague Richard Beauvale, are you listening to me?”

Lady Romeril’s almost shout was finally enough to sear through Jacob’s mind.

“Now, do not misunderstand me,” he said quickly, attempting to bluff his way through the conversation. “I have always appreciated and attended to your guidance, Lady Romeril, and will always be grateful for your insight, but—”

“I promised your mother that, if the worst should happen…” Lady Romeril had initially interrupted her young godson, but her voice trailed away as emotion overcame her.

Jacob swallowed down the knot of pain creeping up his throat. They were British. They did not talk about these things.

Lady Romeril cleared her throat. “If the worst should happen, and it did, that I would care for you. I may not be the softest godmother, and there are plenty in society who would argue I have been too hard on you, but…but I have done and continue to do my best.”

Her sadness was palpable. Jacob swallowed again. Talking about his feelings had never been something to avoid, necessarily. It was just not done.

“I have never had any complaints,” he said softly, unable to meet her eye.

His gaze caught movement in the corner of his vision, and when he looked up, Lady Romeril was drinking from her teacup.

When she placed it down, she said in a stronger voice, “Excellent, so we are agreed. I will keep an eye out for you, Jacob. I am sure to find someone for you in no time. A winter wedding is always so lovely.”

“Hang on there a moment!” Jacob protested, staring at his godmother’s satisfied grin. “That is not what we agreed to at all.”

Lady Romeril was smiling. “Oh, Jacob. I was not sure, I will admit, but now that we have had this little chat…”

A flicker of uncertainty rippled through his body. Not sure? Not sure about what?

“You never bothered much about paperwork, did you, when your parents died? Never thought to read their wills?”

Cold ice flowed into Jacob’s heart as a sense of foreboding forced a shiver down his spine. This did not happen, not really. Oh yes, there was always some chatter at the club about a friend of a friend who found there was some godawful will that he must adhere to, or risk losing everything—but that was just guff, surely!

It never actually happened.

“Of course not,” he said shortly. “I was a child when they died. You know that better than anyone, Lady Romeril. ’Twas you who took me in.”

There was a knowing glitter in her eyes as she said, “Yes, I was appointed your legal guardian until you came of age. Now that you are of age, and have been for a few years, there is a codicil to those wills you should probably know about.”

It wasn’t foreboding any more. This was why she was here then, and so early. She had discovered a codicil in his parents’ will, and it would require him to do…

What?

“You have a tidy income, Jacob,” said Lady Romeril quietly. “Four thousand a year, is that right?”

Jacob nodded wordlessly.

“And you know, of course, that it will only increase upon the day of your marriage.”

“My—my marriage?”

Lady Romeril sighed. “You are five and twenty, my boy, and you never thought to look into your inheritance? You thought four thousand a year was your lot in life, and you never desired more? Gentlemen never bother with these things!”

Jacob opened his mouth to argue but then closed it again. He had almost no interest in those sorts of things; it was true. He had a comfortable income, one that permitted him to do what he liked, and so that’s what he did. What he liked. The idea he could increase his income had never crossed his mind.

“The codicil was added after your mother…when it was clear there would be no more little Beauvales. That leaves you their sole heir, but your father wanted to encourage you, shall we say, to continue the family line. That is why, when you marry, your income will…increase.”

“Increase?”

Her smile was broad now. “I think the exact wording is, ‘Once my son weds a woman of whom his guardian approves, Jacob Westray, Lord Beauvale, will come into his full income of sixteen thousand pounds per annum.”

There was ringing in Jacob’s ears. He could not have heard correctly. Sixteen thousand pounds was…it was the income of a duke! One did not merely have twelve thousand pounds a year handed to them on a plate!

Well. Down the aisle of a church, anyway.

“Someone—someone you approve of?”

Lady Romeril’s grin widened. “What is perhaps more pertinent is that in the terms of the same codicil, if you marry someone I do not approve of, you don’t only forfeit the increased income, but you lose the fortune you have. I think that four thousand would go to one of your distant cousins. Gerald, is it? I can never remember names.”

This time, Jacob could not prevent his mouth from falling open.

Lose his fortune?Lose all his income, merely because Lady Romeril—the most particular woman in all of Christendom—did not take a fancy to his bride?

It was ridiculous! It was scandalous, it was…

Jacob smiled wanly. Precisely the sort of thing he would do to his own son if he had an heir and was concerned the family name would die out.

Perhaps he was more like his father than he thought.

Steeling his nerves, Jacob attempted to think. He had no particular desire for marriage, but he wasn’t against it. He was not fussed, really, as long as the woman in question was pretty and kindhearted.

How hard would it be to find a woman like that?And surely Lady Romeril could find him one of those, making her pre-approved, as it were.

Jacob had no delusions of grandeur when it came to matrimony. He knew love matches were hardly common, and the idea that one could grow to like one’s spouse, even have a companionable friendship, was typically the aim.

And heirs, of course.

“I suppose I am in your hands,” he said aloud with a wry smile.

But his godmother had already risen to her feet. “I know,” she said in a smug voice. “I shall inform you when I find a young lady suitable. Good day, Jacob, and make sure you eat something. These breakfasts are paltry. You will fade away if you are not too careful.”

And with a sweep of skirts, she was gone.

Jacob leaned back in his chair. So, he was officially on a bride hunt. Well, he had expected to marry in a few years and had even considered finally asking that matchmaker, whatever her name was, to give him a hand. If Lady Romeril was offering the same service, and that service—rather than costing him a pretty penny—would bring him twelve thousand more a year, who was he to complain?

A vision of Elizabeth seared through his mind. Damnit, but he would be hard-pressed to find a woman like her for his bride.

Beautiful, charming, kind. Intelligent, too, that trick with the jewelry. No one had guessed.

But she was already married and to an idiot. He couldn’t see Elmore’s mother permitting a divorce—a divorce! What was he thinking?

Jacob firmly put Elizabeth as far from his mind as possible. She was married, and not to him. He could take her as his mistress, true, but…

A few minutes were lost in heady imaginings of Elizabeth as his mistress. But the specter of his wife, a woman with no face but who loomed over them, disrupted those happy thoughts.

He pushed the wife firmly away and returned to the delicious thoughts of Elizabeth. What tantalizing evenings alone…

“The morning post, my lord.”

Jacob jumped. It was all very well having a servant who could move about the house soundlessly, but it did rather test one’s heartstrings when he did so.

“Thank you, Stewart,” he said aloud, taking the single letter from the silver platter held out to him. “That will be all.”

“Very good, my lord.”

The door closed behind the butler with a snap as Jacob looked down at the only missive to arrive. There was a crest on the back, one he did not recognize. He did not recognize the handwriting once he had opened it, but his gaze scanned down to the bottom.

E. H.

E. H? Who on earth was…

Elizabeth. Jacob hastily looked at the top of the letter as his heart leapt. A letter from Elizabeth.

Lord Westray,

Thank you for your visit yesterday evening. I was intrigued by your proposal and was pleased to have accepted it. Thank you for the kindness you have shown me. I will, I believe, be forever in your debt.

However, I must advise you that I believe it will not be possible for me to accept that particular type of kindness again. I must consider many things, and I do not believe it right to trouble you for such help, even in times of need.

I cannot put into words what that evening meant to me. I think you understand me. I have no regrets, and will hope you have none likewise, but you must see I cannot risk him finding must tread my own path.

Yours faithfully,

E. H.

After all his hopes, after the wonderful plans he had to show her just what life and love should be…

She was afraid of her husband. That was clear in every line, particularly where she had thought better of herself and attempted to cross out her words.

Elmore Howard had a grip on that clever wife of his, and she knew it. There was nothing he could do about it, and he was surprised at the grave disappointment weighing on him.

Blowing out a long breath, he placed the letter back in its envelope and smiled. It looked like he was on the hunt for a bride, after all.