Leave a Widow Wanting More by Charlie Lane

Chapter 4

Each step Sarah took squeezed rainwater out of her boot, not that it mattered. She sloshed through puddles anyway. Lord Hellwater better have a dry house with a roaring fire or she’d expire before she could convince him to sell the first edition of Gulliver’s Travels to Mr. Hopkins.

And did she have a plan? No! Even if she’d constructed one before the heavens opened up, her shivering would have knocked it right out of her head. She could barely concentrate on anything other than the wet. And the cold. And her ruined, soggy boots. And how much it would cost to replace them. She clenched her jaw to keep her teeth from chattering. It would all be worth it. When Lord Hellwater gave her the book, Mr. Hopkins would forgive her sins. She would save her job.

And she’d never read at work again.

There it was—12 Drury Lane, Lord Hellwater’s residence. Why a lord would live here, among actors and eccentrics, was beyond her but also of no consequence. She wasn’t here to understand the man. She was here to get the book.

And to get warm. A new goal, but important nonetheless. She climbed the three steps and lifted and dropped the bronze knocker three times. She waited. Nothing. Frowning, she lifted and dropped the knocker three more times.

Nothing.

Wait. Muffled voices, laughter, from behind the door. She tried the doorknob. It rotated smoothly in its nest.

She released the knob like it was a hot coal. She couldn’t just enter someone’s house, an earl’s residence, at that! He’d have her swinging before she could feel her toes again.

But she was cold.

I can’t.

And wet.

Absolutely not.

And she needed that book.

Biting her lip and turning her head, she reached for and turned the doorknob. Perhaps she could pretend she wasn’t culpable for entering a peer’s house uninvited if she didn’t look while doing so. Eyes closed, she pushed the door open. Warm air rushed to meet her, and she ran in, not wanting to let the delicious heat escape into the rain. She turned into the door as she stepped across the threshold, shutting it and leaning her forehead against the warm, solid surface. Eyes still clenched tight, she reveled in the heat, afraid to turn around.

More laughter floated toward her, clearer this time. Great Gutenberg, she should open her eyes, turn around, and stop acting like a ninny. If she was going to traipse, without invitation, into the house of a man she’d not met, she should at least stop pretending she’d not done so. Right. Sarah opened her eyes. She turned quick, pressing her back against the door, her gaze flying everywhere at once. The entry hall looked quite ordinary. She could be in a Mayfair residence. The few she’d seen in her lifetime had the same gleaming wood trims, marble floors, and fashionable wallpaper.

“Quite nice,” she mumbled to the empty space.

“Thank you, but from whom shall I tell the master such compliments come?”

“Ack!” Sarah clutched her chest. “You scared me!”

A man in a somber gray suit stood in a doorway near the staircase. “You don’t look like an actress,” he said. “Or an opera singer.”

“I’m not!”

“What are you then?”

Odd question, that. Quite out of the way of usual conversation. She chewed on her bottom lip, considering her answer. “I’m a bookshop girl, I suppose.”

He raised an eyebrow. He didn’t believe her, the rat.

Sarah shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, each movement sending a squiiiiiish, squiiiiiish echoing throughout the room. Okay, perhaps he was right not to believe her. She certainly wasn’t currently looking her respectable best. She raised her chin anyway. “I’m here to see Lord Hellwater.”

“I assumed. Being from a bookshop and all.”

Was this Lord Hellwater’s butler? Sarah didn’t have much experience with the upper crust, but she was fairly certain the help didn’t converse with guests the way this man did. Was he Lord Hellwater himself? Oh, damn, if that were true. What a debacle!

Sarah concentrated on not chewing her lip and asked, “Are you he? Him? I mean, are you Lord—”

“I’m not.” The man took off down the hall, toward the laughter. “Come along!”

Sarah trotted to catch up. “Oh! Yes.”

When she walked beside him, he said, “You’re the second today.”

“Second what?”

“Book person.”

Oh no. If she was the second that meant—

The might-be-a-butler opened the door, ushering her into the coziest room she’d ever entered—the blazing fire, the deep-green velvet curtains pulled tight at the windows, the two armchairs nestled companionably next to the fire, and, in one of those chairs, Lord Eaden glowed like a rising sun.

Two pairs of male eyes met her own. One pair lit with amusement, the other with … fear?

Lord Eaden stood so abruptly the armchair teetered on its hind legs before settling with a thunk on the floor once more. “Mrs. Pennington!” He strode forward, towering over her before she could say a word in return. He glowered down at her, exchanging the earlier fear for anger.

Sarah peeked around him for a better view of the other fellow. “Lord Hellwater?” she inquired.

The man rose. He was large like Lord Eaden, but where the adventurer held his bulk in his massive arms and shoulders, the earl held it in his belly. He was rather crumpled, too. Each article of clothing seemed to battle against him. His waistcoat was flung open, his cravat wound untidily around his neck, and his shirtsleeves were rolled up to reveal beefy arms with a profusion of hair.

Sarah stepped around Lord Eaden and dipped a curtsy. Great Gutenberg, were those growing dark spots on the rug around her feet from her dripping dress and cloak? How mortifying. She took a steadying breath. Nothing to do but forge forward. She needed that book.

Rising from her curtsy, she looked him straight in the eyes. “Are you the Earl of Hellwater?”

“I am he of that thrice-cursed name. And you are a sprite come down with the storm to do me mischief. Tell me, are you an Aerial or a Caliban?”

Sarah blinked. Was that a Tempest reference? She laughed. “Eep!” Iron arms clamped around her, lifting her from the ground until she hung over one of Lord Eaden’s hard, muscled shoulders.

Sarah beat on Lord Eaden’s back. It was like a marble rock and brought more harm to her than him. “I am not a bag of flour!” She pounded anyway. “Put me down at once!” Pound, pound. Ow. She shook out her hand as his arms tightened like a corset around her legs, and he carried her across the room. “What’s the meaning of this?! Ack!” Then she was falling through space, plunked down onto the armchair he had so recently vacated. It was blessedly warm and smelled of leather and orange. His scent. She’d noticed it when turned upside down over his bloody shoulder! She stood abruptly, as much to confront Lord Eaden as to save the earl’s chair from her soggy skirts. “Wh—”

Lord Eaden turned to the earl. “Do you have something that will fit her?”

Hellwater eyed her, stroking his jaw. “I do. It’ll be a bit off in the bosom. But—”

“Good,” Lord Eaden snapped. Apparently, no one would be allowed to complete their thoughts as long as Lord Eaden was in the room. “Have Gabriel fetch them.”

Hellwater chuckled, turning to the man who was apparently a butler. They mumbled together as Lord Eaden returned his attention to Sarah, snatching her hands.

“My lord!”

He pulled her closer to the fire. She couldn’t complain about that. The heat warmed her chilled bones. Delicious. He placed her directly facing himself in front of the fire and lifted his hands to her chin, where he promptly set to work releasing her bonnet strings. His eyes pierced her with icy determination. “I do not care what stupid motivation brought you here in the rain.” The bonnet strings remained stubbornly tied, so he abandoned the effort and yanked the hat forward over her face.

“Ow! My ears!”

His eyes widened, and he gently folded her ears under the ribbons before extricating the hat from her head.

She should have protested the intimate contact, but she was too fascinated. His movements combined gentleness and force—an odd combination. It made her want to reach out and soothe whatever obviously ailed him.

“I don’t care what brought you here,” he repeated, throwing her hat to the side where it seeped water into the carpet.

Sarah’s heart sank as the rug darkened underneath her bonnet. She would never be able to repay his lordship. The rug probably cost more money than she’d seen in her entire life.

Lord Eaden pressed her chin so she looked at him and not the disaster ruining Lord Hellwater’s fine rug. “Listen. I will take care of you. Do not fear. The female constitution is weak, but I am strong. Your husband will not lose his wife.”

What? Now, which of those was she supposed to respond to first? “My husband’s not likely to care, being dead. And if you think I need yo—”

Lord Eaden bent down until his face glowed mere inches from hers. “Widowed?”

She nodded. “But that hardly matters—”

He spun her around in circles, cutting off her protest. The twists and turns of his mind were dizzying. She didn’t need the added physical spin to throw her balance off further.

Truly. The situation was well past absurd. She stopped the spin and shoved at him, only managing to push herself away from him and the fire. The cold seeped between them and she fought back a shiver. She fought back regret, too. He was wonderfully warm.

He reached out and pulled her back in. “Strip down after Gabriel brings the gown,” he instructed. “Don’t think to save the shift for modesty’s sake. Take every bit off. Then, stay by the fire. Oh!” He turned to the earl who waited, watching, near the door where Gabriel had been but a few seconds ago. “Have Gabriel bring blankets, too.”

“Naturally,” the earl drawled.

Lord Eaden’s gaze traveled over her stringy hair, her soggy shoes. “I’ll take care of it all.” He chucked her under the chin like she was a dispirited child. “No worries, Mrs. Pennington. We’ll wait for you in Hellwater’s office. Gabriel will tell us when you’re appropriately dressed and you’ve seen the doctor.”

“Doctor?” Sarah and Hellwater asked together.

“I don’t need to see a doctor,” Sarah objected.

“She looks fit as a fiddle to me, Eaden, if a little soggy. But that will be right as rain in two shakes of a lamb’s tail, thanks to your quick thinking.”

Lord Eaden’s voice brooked no arguments. “Have Gabriel send for the doctor.” He turned back to Sarah and rubbed his hands up and down her arms. “Of course you need the doctor.”

“I don’t. No matter what ridiculous assumptions you have about women’s constitutions, I’m as healthy as can be. Always have been. A little rain and chill won’t fell me.” She sneezed. “Damn,” she muttered, sniffling. She would sneeze after such a boast.

He glowered again, but as his eyebrows folded into an angry V over dark eyes, his hands gentled, stroked down her arms, and engulfed her own hands. “See. It’s already started.”

Sarah’s throat turned into dried parchment, as brittle as autumn leaves. Those hands—large and brawny in the bookstore this afternoon, holding Gulliver’s Travels—now seemed closer to bear paws, huge and warm and very dangerous. She wanted to melt into him, an ice sculpture thawing to life under his warm ministrations. But she pushed against the desire, tearing her eyes from the sight of her small hands drowning in his. “What’s started?”

“We’ll not speak of it.” He patted her knuckles, dropped her hands, and strode for the door. “We will return to check on you after the doctor’s examination. Never worry.” His voice had the overconfident ring of someone trying desperately not to worry.

Lord Eaden dragged the earl, whose eyes lit with amusement, from the room, and Sarah studied the closed door until Gabriel knocked. He brought dry clothes and left, promising the doctor had been sent for.

Sarah took the garments back to the fire. The clothes were ten years out of style, but then, so were her own. She shrugged, disrobed, and redressed. Lord Eaden might be touched in the head, but she was dry and warm. Even her hair had begun to dry in ringlets around her neck and face, so she undid the ruined coiffure and spread it out before the flames to dry more quickly. As she waited for the doctor, she considered Lord Eaden’s odd behavior. Did he think himself some sort of knight gallant? His behavior earlier in the bookstore would not have led her to believe it. But she’d not imagined the fear in his eyes when he’d first seen her dripping wet in the doorway. Why feel fear for a complete stranger, especially a stranger who was also a rival for Gulliver’s?

A knock on the door heralded Gabriel and the doctor, so Sarah shook the question away and refocused. She needed that book, and now.