Leave a Widow Wanting More by Charlie Lane

Chapter 11

Henry sniffed himself one last time before stepping down from his coach. Better. Significantly. It probably wouldn’t help his cause. He hadn’t known her long, but he could tell Mrs. Pennington wasn’t a woman easily swayed by superficial details. He’d discovered through the years, though, when it came to getting what he wanted, taking every precaution helped.

He looked up at the sky—cloudy, gray, British. His skin itched for the sun and heat.

But if he could accomplish this one goal, and if he could travel victorious to Cavendish Manor and his children on the morrow, then he’d be back in Egypt by month’s end. It would be worth every single gray, rainy day.

He looked at the boy standing on the street next to him. James Pennington, clean and well-clothed, was a handsome boy and Henry’s most persuasive argument. If James Pennington didn’t help Henry convince Mrs. Pennington to marry him, she would never be convinced.

James slanted a glance at Henry. “We should have bought her something. Women like jewelry. And flowers. Right?”

As he and James had strolled along Bond Street this afternoon, Henry had thought on what he’d like to buy her. Everything. But he’d not bought a thing, not even a ring. Never presume victory. It was the surest way to failure. Besides, she was a woman who had taken care of herself and her son for the last fourteen years. Those years had made her resilient, independent, self-sufficient. He doubted she’d be comfortable accepting clothes or anything else from him at this point in their relationship. And he couldn’t afford to spark her discomfort.

Henry leaned a shoulder against the bookshop, crossing his arms over his chest and one ankle over the other. He tipped his hat up to look at James directly. “Your mother will not be persuaded by those things.” Shouldn’t the boy know that about his own mother? James needed a masculine education, not an academic one. He stored the detail away as “point one” in the coming battle with Mrs. Pennington. “We’ll wait here.”

“Why? She’s almost done for the day. Let’s go inside.”

“But she’s not done yet. It would be disrespectful to interrupt her. It would lengthen her work. Do you wish to increase your mother’s labor and delay her moment of rest?”

James blushed. He blushed easily, it seemed. “No, of course not. You’re right.” He leaned against the wall next to Henry, copying his crossed arms and ankles. Henry grinned. It wouldn’t take much to get the boy going in the right direction.

The bell above the shop door tinkled, and Mrs. Pennington stepped into the waning daylight.

Henry removed his hat in preparation for battle. “Good evening, Mrs. Pennington.”

“Ack!” She jumped, her hands fluttering to her stomach. “Lord Eaden! Must you always surprise me? I don’t know why I’m surprised, though. I partly expected you to come back.”

She’d been thinking of him. Good.

“Hello, Mum!”

“James?” Mrs. Pennington’s brows drew together. Her head swung from her son to Henry, then back again. Then between them once more. “I’m confounded. Though I should not be surprised to find myself so once more.” She slid a glance at Henry. “You leave me in a state of permanent confusion.”

“Allow me to un-confound you, Mrs. Pennington. I ran into James this morning.”

“I’m afraid I’m no less confounded.”

James stepped forward. “It’s more like he ran me down, Mother.”

She frowned. “What?” Her eyes darted about her son’s form.

“The boy’s fine, Mrs. Pennington. No injury was done.” Henry pierced James with the same look he’d used on his girls when they were younger. “I think you’d better explain from here, James. You have something to say to your mother, do you not? Or do I have something to tell her?”

James dropped his eyes to his shiny new Hessians, then straightened his shoulders and raised his gaze to his mother’s. “I’ve not been responsible, Mother. In fact, I’ve been careless with your money, ungrateful for all you do for me. I’m sorry. Lord Eaden helped me see today that I am the man of the family, and I should not take stupid risks with the fruit of your labor.”

A colorful apology, but a sincere one. No need for Mrs. Pennington to know how James had almost lost her money in a gaming hell. He wouldn’t try that again.

Mrs. Pennington blinked, her eyes suspiciously wet. Zeus! He needed to find some tea or chocolate or maybe a book to make it better. He bounced on his toes. Which direction should he run to fix it, to fix her?

She sniffed once, blinked twice, then turned clear eyes to her son. “James, just don’t tramp through muddy streams quite so often, yes?”

Unflappable to the very end.

Henry wanted her. Not just to save her from a life of drudgery. Not just to give her son good clothes and a large family. Not just to provide his daughters and wards with a mother. Henry wanted Sarah, the woman with the steel back and soft heart.

Mrs. Pennington flung herself at her son. Henry chuckled when, after a mere count of five the boy shrugged out of her embrace. James was rash but good. She’d done well in raising him. Even if Mrs. Pennington rejected his proposal for a third and final time, at least Henry had helped her with James and saved her from losing her last coins. He patted his breast pocket. He kept the coins safe there, next to his thumping heart.

When had he turned into such a silly old man? Mrs. Pennington was an intelligent woman. More than likely she’d not given the last of her savings to her son. Surely she had a bit saved up somewhere.

But not enough.

Henry could give her enough. Henry held his arm out to her. “We thought to take you for a treat, Mrs. Pennington. Dinner at my hotel. The three of us and my two assistants.”

She hesitated, teeth worrying her lip, fingers clutching her skirts. She looked hungry, thin as a whip, pale as a shroud. He wanted to scoop her up and carry her to Steven’s Hotel. But Henry had seen wild creatures before. He did nothing, kept his arm outstretched, his eyes warm on her.

Finally, she unclenched her skirts and wrapped her fingers around his forearm. “James, you are hungry, yes?”

“Famished, Mother.”

She nodded. “We accept your invitation.”

He pulled her close to his side, surprised to feel the soft curve of a hip through the thin gown. Not all skin and bone, then. She hid soft surprises he itched to explore and discover. The point of contact flamed outward, shooting through the rest of his body. He needed her. He cleared his throat and his head. “Technically, Mrs. Pennington, the invitation extends from both myself and young James.”

“Mm. So, you ran my son to ground today. For what reason?”

“I saw him leave the shop this morning. We were going in the same direction. You said the boy enjoyed my work.” Henry shrugged. “I thought he might like to meet me.”

“Pompous man.”

He grinned.

Mrs. Pennington watched her son saunter ahead of them, and Henry drank in the sight of her. And the smell of her. She smelled of books and tea and he wanted to drink her in, open her every page, learn her every secret.

“Lord Eaden?”

Such a rich voice, too. “Yes?” he asked.

“James’s clothes are quite nice.”

“Ready-made.”

“By what tailor, and for what other boy? And most pressingly, for what price?”

Henry chuckled. He removed most of her coins from his pocket and held them out to her. She’d want to pay something for James’s new suit. “To the point, I see. You are a very focused creature. I shall strive to emulate you then and focus on my point.”

“Which definitely should be how much you paid for my son’s clothing.”

“Enough.”

Her face clouded. “Enough for what?”

“To persuade you to marry me.”

“Ah. I thought so. This is another point on your list of points in favor of matrimony.”

“It is. Is it the tipping point?”

She chuckled, her face alight before clouding over. “James is an expensive child to keep, no question. But I’ve taken care of him on my own for years. I can continue to do so.”

“No doubt, my dear. I’ve no doubt of that at all.”

She peered up at him. “Do you really not doubt me?”

He scoffed. “I’m no fool, madam. Why would I doubt your capabilities when there is such evidence in their favor?”

“Mm.” The single syllable contained much to Henry’s ear—pride, mostly. “It’s much to think of, Lord Eaden. It’s not a decision to make lightly, not even if it means a more certain future for my son.”

“If you took it lightly, I would not admire you as much as I do.”

She nodded, and they walked toward New Bond Street. Their bodies moved well together, despite their differences in height. Did she feel it as Henry did, the compatibility of their bodies? And their minds. Which one was headier—the heat having her close sent straight to his groin or the delight she awakened in his mind? Didn’t matter. Brain, body—a dangerous combination. He needed to distract himself, to find a way to block her potent pull. “How was your day, Mrs. Pennington?”

“Informative.”

“You do work in a bookshop.”

“Hm. Yes.” She looked thoughtful, then decisive. “Tell me, in your book on burial rituals, why did you write about crocodiles?”

She’d been reading his books. He liked his books, even though he hated what people had done with them. The relationship between reader and writer was a complex one, the sharing of ideas an intimate act. Did she feel the same?

He peered into her face. “You didn’t read the whole thing, then?”

“I confess, no. I’m trying not to read during work hours. It displeases Mr. Hopkins.”

“Bah. Hopkins. You wish to know of crocodiles?”

“Yes. Please.”

“Crocodiles are sacred in Egypt. At least two of their gods we know of have crocodile heads. One, Ammit, plays a pivotal role in the afterlife.”

“How so?”

“Ammit eats hearts.”

She stumbled, though the path beneath them was smooth. Clinging to his arm, she steadied her steps. “Eats hearts. Fascinating.”

Just so. He’d wanted to name the entire book Consider the Crocodile, but his publisher hadn’t approved. “In Egyptian mythology, the gods place the hearts of the dead on a scale and weigh them against a feather. All hearts that balance the scale against the feather are considered good enough to go on to the afterlife. All hearts heavier than the feather are fed to Ammit. Those souls die forever.”

“Gruesome. No wonder James loved your book so much.”

It was gruesome, but also just. It was better to have your heart eaten and your soul snuffed out than to suffer an eternity of hellish torment.

Beside him, Mrs. Pennington shivered.

He placed a hand over hers. “How are you feeling?”

She looked at him, merriment in her eyes. “Fit as a fiddle.”

“You shivered.”

“The prospect of having my heart eaten …” She shivered again.

He snorted. “It seems to me your heart might put the feather to shame.”

She stopped their progress and pulled away from him. Twisting her hands in front of her, she watched James walk farther ahead then drew in a breath, and seemed to conquer whatever ailed her. Henry enjoyed watching the process of her gathering fortitude for whatever it was she was about to say.

“Did you truly come back to issue a third proposal of marriage?”

“You know I have.”

She smirked. “Third time’s the charm?”

“No. That suggests luck. Luck doesn’t obtain much of anything important. I’ve come prepared this time.” He resisted looking toward James. He kept his eyes pinned on hers. “The first time I proposed I did so on a moment’s whim. The second time, I’d determined that my whim was logical and correct, but I was not in the best of states to make a persuasive argument.”

She eyed him from boots to hat. “And you are in a better state now?” she asked.

While James had been fitted for new clothes, Henry had returned to Steven’s for a bath and a shave. He knew he didn’t make a shabby picture. “I believe I am prepared.” Not only had he added a concrete point to his list of reasons to marry him in the form of young James, but he’d also come up with the correct words to entice her.

Henry stepped closer and untwisted Mrs. Pennington’s hands. Folding them in his own, he said, “Mrs. Pennington, we just met yesterday, but I believe we have much to offer one another. I’ll not repeat those arguments I made yesterday. You know them as well as I. Instead, I’ll say what I did not and should have.” He’d not said words like he was about to say to any woman in over five years, and he’d never said them to anyone on so short an acquaintance. But they must be said. They were true, he found, despite it all. He reached a hand to her temple where a curl had escaped her simple chignon. “I think you’re exquisite. I think you’re smart. I think you’re brave. I think there’s no woman in England I’d rather marry half as much as you.”

She blinked several times. Her mouth parted slightly. Her chest rose and fell faster than it had moments before.

“I have one more argument, and it may be my most persuasive yet.”

“Oh?”

He snaked his arm around her waist and pulled her against his chest. He dipped his head until their noses touched. “Always put your best argument last.” His lips brushed hers before sinking in to drink long and full. The kiss was to him like water to the desert-lost soul. Her soft curves pushed against his chest, her long, strong back beneath his fingertips, all overwhelmed his senses.

When her hands flattened against his chest, flexed, then roamed upward to wind around his neck, he moaned, then parted her lips with his tongue to drink of her more deeply.

She let him make a spectacle of them both in the street until he was convinced, completely and utterly, of her answer. He grinned in their kiss, pulling away to view her flushed face.

“Well?” he asked. “Are you persuaded?” He needed to hear her say it. Yes.

Her hands still curled around his neck, and she stood on tiptoe, leaning against him. Her body resting against his for balance, for stability, felt like perfection. Better than the hot Egyptian sun. Better than a soft bed or warm bath. Better than being back at Cavendish Manor.

She smiled, bit her lip. He knew what her smile meant. It meant victory. He might as well celebrate by helping her bite her poor mistreated bottom lip. He bent to do so.

“She said yes, then?” James smiled broadly at them from down the street.

Sarah (no more Mrs. Pennington when she’d soon be Lady Eaden) turned in his arms, gasping at the sight of her laughing son.

Henry whispered in her ear, “Well? Do you say yes?” Say it, Zeus, please.

Her whole body seemed to thump in Henry’s arms as she looked vaguely over Henry’s shoulder. Her shoulders rose and fell with soft breaths, then she pulled away from him.

He tugged her back, as much to regain the closeness her retreat had denied him as to take one last chance to change her mind.

She placed her hand, small and delicate, on his chest, close to his stuttering heart. That touch did something to him, entranced him. He felt like a wild beast calmed, tamed. He wrapped his arms around her waist. When she spoke, it was with a laugh. “I was about to say yes, James, but you interrupted me. Tell me, would you like a new father?”

“Only if he’s a baron. And has been to Egypt a time or two.”

“Ah, well, then. I think you’re in luck.”

Henry’s ears rang with victory bells. The muddy streets, the foul smells, the laughing teenage boy all melted away. He’d won. He would have a wife, and his girls would have a mother. Sarah would have everything his money and standing could provide. And he’d leave gray, dreary England behind him by month’s end.