A Scandalous Affair (The Merry Widows 3)

In celebration of his impending attendance, she’d worn one of her best gowns to impress. It showcased her assets most becomingly and oh, how she hoped it would please him. She’d caught his gaze falling to her chest more than once when they’d spoken at the ball.

Her skin tingled at the memory.

When her husband had died, she’d believed she didn’t need another man in her life. One was just enough. George had been kind, twenty years her senior and gentle. So gentle, he’d rarely raised his voice to her, let alone unleashed even a hint of passion. The man had been so staid, so steadfast. He’d even had the decency to die in his sleep.

Not an adventurous hint in his body, ever. She’d mourned him properly but realized much to her shame, she didn’t particularly miss him. Believed she’d never have need for a man, since they didn’t seem to do much for her.

Funny how one glimpse, one dance with Hartwell, and he immediately piqued her interest.

Perhaps the allure was the mystery he presented. Everyone said he was one thing but she saw another. The warm glow in his eyes, the lonely, almost haunted expression he hid from many. She knew without a doubt he was interesting. Pretending to be something he wasn’t.

“Madam.” The rough clearing of a throat caused Daphne to turn and she found her brother’s butler, Smythe, standing before her, his expression dour. “The Marquess of Hartwell is here to see you.”

“Oh, please send him in.” Eagerness made her heart swell and she smoothed her hands over her hair, hoping Hartwell would like it. “Do I look a fright, Smythe?” she asked, suddenly nervous.

He scowled for a long moment, his eyes narrowed as he examined her. Giving a stiff shake of his head and a harshly whispered, “No,” he turned on his heel and exited the room.

Daphne sighed. She knew he didn’t approve of her living with Hugh. Smythe didn’t approve of anyone, not even Hugh. He’d been their father’s butler, for God’s sake. The man seemed to have every intention to die in a Huxley household.

Within moments, Smythe escorted Hartwell into the dining hall, offering a quick bob of his head before he scurried off muttering under his breath. Hartwell shot him an odd glance over his shoulder—most likely he’d heard his grumblings—before he turned his head and his gaze met hers.

All the air escaped her lungs as she drank him in. He was impeccable in his dark suit and cream silk waistcoat, his blindingly white cravat knotted perfectly beneath his square chin. He appeared freshly shaven, his dark brown hair carefully pushed back from his forehead, his equally dark eyes warm as they gazed upon her. A hint of nervousness lay within, just beneath the surface, and she vowed then and there to ease his apprehension.

“My lord.” She bobbed her head in deference and gave a little curtsy. “Thank you for coming this evening.”

“And thank you for inviting me, my lady.” The stiff formality of his voice worried her. As did his assessing gaze, which swept across the room with ruthless efficiency. “Am I the first to arrive?”

Oh, dear. The moment of truth was upon her, and only mere seconds after his arrival. Should she lie and pretend others would soon make their appearance? Or would it be best for her to blurt the truth and be done with it?

Nibbling on her lower lip, she dipped her gaze to the floor for the briefest moment before she dared to look at him once more. He watched her, eyes locked on her mouth, and she released her teeth’s grip on her lip, embarrassed. “Everyone is already here, my lord.”

He looked about the room again, his dark brows drawn downward in seeming confusion. “Where are they?”

“They’re right here.” She waved a hand between the two of them, indicating they were it. “You are my only guest this evening, I’m afraid.”

“Did the others cancel?”

He really didn’t get it, did he? She almost wanted to laugh but was afraid her reaction might offend. “No. You see, you’re the only one I invited.”

Realization dawned. She saw it in the way his lips parted, the widening of his brown eyes. Slowly, one side of his mouth lifted in a lopsided smile and he slowly shook his head. “You’re rather bold. Aren’t you taking a risk?”

She lifted her chin defiantly. “One I’m most willing to make. I’m no longer an impressionable young girl. Widows are generally left alone. Society doesn’t scare me.”

“Well, consider yourself quite lucky because they seem to frighten me on a daily basis,” he murmured, his lips immediately clamping shut as if he regretted admitting that particular fact.

Daphne appreciated the confirmation. She’d had a feeling that was his issue and he’d all but admitted it. Reaching out, she brushed the tips of her fingers against his forearm, admiring the firm muscles beneath the fine fabric of his sleeve. “Perhaps you just need a bit of advice to ease your social distress.”

“Advice?” He sounded intrigued.

“Well, perhaps.” She turned away from him and walked the length of the dining table, trailing her fingers along the sharp edge. All the while, her mind whirled with ideas. It was brilliant, really, her impulsive suggestion. They could continue seeing each other under the pretense of her helping him when really, she wanted to get to know him better, see if they had common interests. And perhaps—perhaps lure him into something more substantial.

A little smile played upon her lips. She was certainly wicked. If her husband saw her behaving in such a manner, he would drop dead from shock. She never believed she had it in her but there was something about this man that made her want to throw all propriety aside. To think of her own needs and indulge in something purely for her pleasure.

“I’m not a patron of Almack’s but I could be of help to you,” she finally said.

“How do you think you can help me?”