Always the Widow by Emily E.K. Murdoch

Chapter Six

Four months later…

If they didn’twant people in the audience to yawn, why did they make the place so damn stuffy?

Jacob could barely keep his eyes open, and he stifled another yawn as the sounds of the opera washed over him. Yes, it was an impressive production. The lead soprano, in particular, sang some beautiful notes, and the costumes were outstanding.

Another yawn threatened as Jacob shifted in his seat. It was warm in the opera house, the seats were comfortable, the darkness in his box was welcoming, and all he wanted to do was sleep.

He wouldn’t, of course, for he knew Miss Worsley would never forgive him.

He glanced at her and smiled. She was leaning onto the edge of the box, eyes wide, a smile on her face as she watched the performance, utterly transfixed.

He wasn’t sure whether it was the music, the singing, the pageantry, the sheer spectacle that an opera offered, but he had found no other courting activity that gave her so much pleasure. The fact that it permitted him to sit in a comfortable seat with a glass of wine and no need for him to talk was just another bonus.

That last thought made Jacob squirm with guilt, but he could not help it.

She was hardly a stranger to him. Miss Worsley and he had been raised in the same circle of society, and he had seen her at numerous balls over the last few years. Pretty, charming, and wittier than half the gentlemen in his acquaintance, it had only been after that somewhat awkward introduction by Lady Romeril that he had considered her more seriously.

And the last four months had been…well, was there a better word than fun?He could not think of another way to describe it. Walks with Miss Worsley and her parents, evening dinners, card parties, even a ball or two as the Season picked up.

She was nice. A pleasant enough girl and pretty enough to stir him a little. He enjoyed her company. He knew no ill of her, and while that was certainly not the most romantic thought, he was sure she understood this was not intended to be a love match.

Lady Romeril had pushed him to propose after a week of courting, of course.

“Jacob Westray, I do not know what you are waiting for!” she had snapped one evening after Miss Worsley’s carriage had taken her home. “She is precisely what you are looking for, and I approve, so the codicil is complied with. Why are you not asking for her hand?”

Jacob had not known then, and he was unsure now.

He would be upset if she was harmed; he was not a monster. But Miss Worsley did not invite close companionship or intimacy.

In fact, the time when she came alive most was when she watched opera. A dramatic change of the music, and she gasped, gaze darting to the side of the stage where another character had entered.

Jacob smiled. Seeing her happy, seeing her smile, it was pleasant.

Pleasant. Jacob took another gulp of red wine, the spicy heat burning his throat and giving him the courage he needed to do what he must.

When one met a woman utterly made for you…

Elizabeth’s face swam into his mind, and he pushed it away. It was foolish, this fleeting fantasy.

How he felt with her was nothing in comparison to how he felt when with Miss Worsley. The two sensations were incomparable.

Elizabeth was older, to be sure, but that had not created any problem as she had rocked underneath him, the pleasure he was giving her making her cry out…

Jacob coughed and crossed his legs. It would not do for Miss Worsley to see him aroused, especially when it was not for her.

He was a fool to think of Elizabeth. It had been months ago: two conversations, one night. That was all.

Yet, he had connected to her more than any other woman. Speaking with her, bringing her to climax after climax, watching the ecstasy transform her, leaving all her cares and worries behind.

That damned letter had broken his heart. Within the week, days after giving more pleasure and joy than he could remember, he had heard the news.

Her husband had died. Lady Howard was now a widow.

And he had known what was right. Jacob was no fool. Lady Romeril had ensured he had been brought up correctly, and he knew his place—and that was certainly not at Elizabeth’s side.

“Oh, really!”

Miss Worsley’s whisper as she stared agog at the stage interrupted Jacob’s thoughts, but only for a moment.

The temptation to rush to Elizabeth, to comfort her during the most challenging time, had been very strong.

But he was no cad. Despite all his best intentions, he had been unable to promise himself there was no part of him hopeful the loss of her husband would lead to a renewal of their…could he call it an arrangement?

It had felt wrong. Worse, it felt predatory. No honorable man would have gone near her at that time, when she was most vulnerable.

And there was nothing wrong with Miss Worsley.

A shriek. Jacob saw the soprano, having discovered her man loved her no more, had taken a rather dramatic approach to solve the problem.

A sob. He glanced at Miss Worsley, a tear slowly falling down her cheek.

She was a lovely girl, really, and there were no grounds to disagree with his godmother. He was unlikely to find better—at least, substantially better. A girl a little richer would undoubtedly be less pretty. One who was better at cards would probably be less witty.

One could not have it all.Jacob smiled and tried not to think of Elizabeth.

No, it was all for the best, his plan for this evening. He would propose tonight.

He did not have a detailed plan, to be sure. Jacob had heard of some chaps who spent weeks worrying about asking the love of one’s life to marry them, some of them getting very het up about it.

A chap he knew had his marriage arranged by a matchmaker. It had not turned out entirely poorly, although as far as Jacob could make out, he had not even ended up marrying her in the end.

But Miss Worsley was not a romantic, and so Jacob had no concerns. He had brought her to see her favorite opera, after all. What was romance if not people shrieking as they died on stage in the most ridiculous way?

No, Miss Worsley was highly convenient. They would settle down together, be as happy as could be expected, and raise a few sons.

The normal, dull way of things.

There were sobs now throughout the opera house. Everyone seemed very affected by the prolonged death scene of the soprano, and Miss Worsley had reached for a handkerchief and was dabbing her eyes delicately.

Jacob smiled. She was a good old sort, but not a patch on Elizabeth. No woman he had ever met matched her.

Could things have been different with the widowed Elizabeth Howard?

Perhaps. But that was a different person’s life.

Anyway, he had no comprehension of where Elizabeth was. She wasn’t in Bath. No one he knew had seen her since the funeral—not that he had been able to make too many inquiries. The last thing he wanted was awkward questions.

In the end, he had bribed one of the housemaids—Annabelle? Abigail?—who had said her mistress wished to mourn at home, and had only had a few ladies for tea once, to keep her mother-in-law happy.

The soprano’s final note echoed, and the applause erupted as the curtain came down. Miss Worsley had risen to her feet, as had a few others, and Jacob reluctantly put his hands together.

“I do not know how you are not affected!” Miss Worsley laughed as chatter rose for the interval, dashing away her last tears.

Jacob smiled back. “I knew it was coming, of course.”

“So did I, but the emotion of that singer, what a woman!” said Miss Worsley with great feeling. “Even knowing the tale, I was overcome. It’s such a sad story.”

“You are a very good person, are you not, Miss Worsley?”

Tucking away her handkerchief, she met his gaze with a smile. “After weeks—nay, months of all this courting nonsense, you would think you could just call me by my Christian name. Sophia.”

“What? Oh, yes. Sophia.” It felt very intimate somehow, in a way Jacob was unaccustomed to.

It made sense. He was going to propose in a few minutes anyway, and they would undoubtedly be on a first-name basis after that.

“Now, I must go and powder my nose,” Sophia said in a sweep of skirts.

She was gone before Jacob could reply. The box felt empty with only one person in it.

Looking out at the crowd, which had packed the opera house, Jacob was overwhelmed with the temptation to pull out the letter he had carried with him since that fateful morning.

He knew he shouldn’t. He shouldn’t even have it with him—he should have burned it after receiving it.

In the wrong hands, it was an incriminating letter at best, a damning letter at worst.

But he couldn’t help it. Jacob pulled out Elizabeth’s letter from his waistcoat pocket, the only proof they had ever experienced each other, that it had not just been a dream.

His gaze moved down the short page to the section that always made his stomach lurch.

However, I must advise you that I believe it will not be possible for me to accept that particular type of kindness again.

Jacob sighed. The spark he had felt with Elizabeth, that attraction which had drawn him to her…none of that existed between himself and Sophia.

She was an excellent match, and Lady Romeril was, as ever, correct. If he wanted to secure her, he needed to act. There was a limited supply of pretty and intelligent women.

As though his thoughts had summoned her, Sophia opened the door to the box and smiled as she sat down.

Everyone expected it. She probably did, for she was no fool. What was he waiting for?

“Thank goodness I have not missed the start of the next act—you never know, really, how long they make the interval in some of these productions.”

“Miss Worsley,” started Jacob.

Sophia raised an eyebrow.

He could not help but smile. “Sophia. I think we know each other quite well, don’t we?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“And we like each other, do we not? We enjoy one another’s company?” He had not expected it to be this difficult. The closer he got to asking her, the further away he seemed to get.

Sophia examined him with a sardonic air. “Jacob Beauvale, are you attempting to propose marriage?”

Feathers ruffled, Jacob nodded. “I had not got there yet, but yes. Marriage.”

She nodded. “Good. I accept. Do you think they will attempt fireworks on stage in the final act? I heard they tried it in London, with quite disastrous results.”

Jacob blinked. He could not have heard her correctly. After his protestations of…well, perhaps not. But he certainly had been about to profess his affection for her.

Sophia’s smile widened. “Jacob, I think you know me sufficiently to know romance is not something I have sought. I am not a romantic. I never have been. I wish for respect, reputation, and a place in society. Besides, I know what my parents expect of me. You are pleasant enough, and I think we will be happy.”

Jacob’s mouth fell open. He had not expected tears of joy, but he had thought…well, that Sophia would be flattered by his proposal. If he had ever got to make it.

“You are a good man, and you will not make unreasonable demands of me,” Sophia said, her smile turning mischievous. “And besides, Lady Romeril mentioned the codicil to me. And you know about my previous engagement.”

Jacob closed his mouth. He certainly did not know.

“Ah,” said Sophia lightly. “Well, ’tis a very sorry tale but not one that will surprise. I was engaged to be married, and he decided to end it. It makes sense that with your codicil, you would choose someone you can stomach, and in a small way, I am flattered. We will be married, and we will be happy.”

Jacob blinked again and attempted to take in this new information. A previous engagement. That would explain her disdain for emotional attachment. She merely wanted respectability and a home. It was to expected. When a woman could not earn her bread, she had to inherit a larder or marry the baker.

He was still unsure whether he had proposed to her, or she had offered for him, but it was done.

“Just do not break my heart, Jacob,” she said. “It’s already been stretched and pulled. I cannot…we are engaged, and that is an end to it.”

They were engaged.In a few months, Miss Sophia Worsley would become Sophia Beauvale, Lady Westray, and they could begin the rest of their lives together.

And perhaps most importantly, Lady Romeril would stop nagging him—about this, at any rate.

“Oh, look!” Sophia was leaning on the edge of the box and looking at the other spectators as she waited for the stage to be occupied once more. “Isn’t that the Countess of Chester? Honora something?”

Jacob shrugged. “I never met the Chesters—though I think they were at the Axwick wedding?”

“And there are the Lymington girls, and the Devonshires, of course,” she continued, her gaze roving over the rows. “Oh, and Elizabeth Howard has decided to re-enter society. What a drab black gown, how dull.”

Jacob’s heart fluttered painfully. “Where?”

His now fiancée was far too well-bred to simply point. “The box opposite us, and then one to the right. There, with the dowager countess. I wouldn’t wish for a mother-in-law like that, I can tell you.”

Jacob’s gaze followed her instructions, and there she was. The black gown was certainly very demure, but then that was to be expected for a woman only four months into her mourning.

It was odd, though. Elizabeth looked beautiful, her skin radiant. But something…something looked strange. He just couldn’t put his finger on it.

“’Tis a shame, really,” Sophia said nonchalantly. “Before too long, she will have to leave society again and go into confinement.”

“Confinement?”

She looked at him with a strange smile. “Did you not hear? I am not surprised, the gossips only found out a few days ago. Mrs. Howard is with child. After years of marriage and nothing, she will have to raise his child alone.”

A punch to his stomach would have rocked him less. Jacob’s mind was all over the place, unable to comprehend her words, attempting to understand each part separately.

Elmore’s good looks could be ignored, as could the pitying note on Elizabeth’s previous barrenness.

Elizabeth was with child.

“I am barren. There…there would be no child.”

How was it possible that he had not known this?Why had no one—but of course, to the world, there was no connection between the Widow Howard and the rake, Lord Westray.

“That…that is unusual, is it not?” He managed to keep his voice level. “A—what, a posthumous baby?”

Sophia nodded. She was looking down at her program with no interest in their conversation.

“Yes, and of course, the dowager countess is delighted,” she said, turning a page. “No heir, you see. To the Earldom of Lenskeyn. Why do you not know all this, Jacob?”

He shrugged, still feeling as though he had run into a brick wall. He had never been introduced to the dowager countess; he was far too inferior in her world.

But even he had heard the rumors about the elder Lady Howard to know she was entirely formidable and obsessed with the lineage of her sons.

But none of that mattered. Elizabeth mattered—Elizabeth and her child.

“I suppose she is quite far gone, then,” he said slowly. How could he ask without drawing suspicion? “Almost ready to return to confinement, as you say.”

“Oh, I do not think so,” said Sophia, still perusing the program. “I think ’tis almost five months, now. She has some time to enjoy society’s thrills.”

Five—five months.

Jacob’s stomach lurched, and a powerful urge to rush out of his box, around the back of the opera house, and to storm into the Howard box came over him.

It was his child.

At least, it could be. The dates—yes, the dates certainly added up.

His child. His gaze flickered to Elizabeth again. Yes, there was the swell of her belly, almost hidden by the folds of her gown.

Only she would know whether she had allowed that damned Elmore to touch her in the last few weeks of his life, but he would guess not.

And that would mean—that would mean…

The chatter in the opera house grew as more people returned to their seats, all eagerly anticipating the final act.

He could have a child in the world. Elizabeth could be pregnant…pregnant with a little Beauvale.

A strange concoction of emotions flowed through his heart, shock masking anger.

How could she have hidden this from him?

True, her letter had been clear, she had no desire to see him again.

But did not the existence of a child overrule that particular restriction? Why had she not contacted him as soon as she realized she had conceived? He did not expect her to turn up outside his door, not when in mourning, but how difficult would a letter have been?

Jacob glanced at Sophia, who thankfully had not noticed anything was amiss.

“Look, ’tis about to start!” she whispered excitedly.

As she spoke, the curtain rose, and the orchestra started up, but Jacob noticed not a single moment of the final act of the opera.

How could he concentrate? Damn and blast it. He had forced himself into a bloody corner.

If their conversation had been but ten minutes later, if he had known there was a child from his loins…well, he would not have proposed to Miss Worsley.

What was he going to do?