Practical Widow to Passionate Mistress (Transformation of the Shelley Sisters 1)

‘Ross…’ Meg stretched out a hand to him. ‘Please do not assume what my answer will be. I do not know my own mind, truly I do not. I cannot promise you anything.’

‘Not even hope?’

‘No.’ Meg threw back the covers and pulled her nightgown over her head. ‘I am sorry. Not even that.’

However ambivalent the feelings of their employer and his housekeeper it was clear that Damaris and Perrott regarded the entire trip to London as a holiday. Even the action of the post chaise, one of the infamous yellow bounders, was not enough to dampen Damaris’s spirits. ‘Just like being at sea in Uncle Henry’s fishing boat,’ she said cheerily as Meg stared fixedly out of the window and tried to settle her mind on something other than her stomach or Ross.

They spent the first night at Ashburton, the second at Andover. On both occasions Meg and Damaris chastely shared one room and Ross and Perrott another and they dined together in a private parlour. Ross kept all conversation at meals strictly impersonal and passed the time in the post chaise reading a fat file of correspondence and making notes. Damaris and Perrott played cards or watched the world go by and Meg brooded. She felt oddly lonely, despite having three companions.

Her deep thought had brought no answers by the time the carriage drew up in front of a house in Clarges Street. They were in Mayfair, Ross told them, and she needed no more than that and one glimpse of the house to know they were in the very heart of fashionable London. The railings were ornate, the front door with its brass work was wide and the passers-by had a certain air about them that reduced Damaris to nervous giggles until Perrott elbowed her sharply.

‘The knocker is on the door.’ It gleamed, as did the paintwork and the windows. There was a cook who doubled as housekeeper when the family was away and it appeared she knew her business.

‘I wrote to warn them to expect us,’ Ross said as the door opened.

‘My lord.’ The butler at the door was younger than Heneage, his tail coat of a sharper cut, his bow more precise. The London touch, Meg thought with an inward smile. Ross looked back as though waiting for her to precede him, then must have recalled her status, for he went through the door leaving his little entourage of country servants to follow in his wake.

I could walk up these steps on his arm. Lady Brandon entering her smart town house. Fantasy. And besides, she loved him for himself, not for possessions or title.

‘Woodward.’ Ross nodded to the butler as two tall footmen went to retrieve the bags. ‘This is Mrs Halgate, the new housekeeper at the Court, Perrott, my valet, and Damaris, Mrs Halgate’s maid. You will see to their comfort, I am sure. Mrs Halgate, would you be so good as to take tea with me tomorrow afternoon so we can discuss any changes you wish to make here?’

‘My lord.’ Meg bowed her head. ‘I will make a list.’

‘Well?’ Ross enquired as Meg curtsied and took her place behind the tea tray. ‘Thank you, Felton, that will be all.’ The footman took himself off and Meg set out the tea cups looking delightfully domestic. But she was pale. How was she feeling? He had missed her in his bed and to talk to, but he was wary of giving the servants here any cause for suspicion about her status.

‘Very well, my lord. This is a pleasant house, if somewhat dark and cluttered.’

‘That was not what I meant, Meg. Have you been giving any thought to my proposal?’

‘I have thought of little else.’ She poured the tea, then skimmed the surface of both cups with the mote spoon, concentrating, it seemed to Ross, on the simple task to avoid looking at him. ‘Milk or lemon, my lord?’

‘Lemon. Meg, have you an answer for me?’

‘No.’ She passed him the fragile Worcester cup. Her hand appeared steady until he saw that the surface of amber liquid trembled. ‘My thoughts run in circles, my conscience keeps me awake at night and—I ache for you.’ She put her own cup down with a clatter. Her composed face crumpled and Ross was half out of his chair before she waved him back.

‘No, it is all right. I am tired from the journey and learning about a new household, that is all.’

‘They treat you with respect?’ He wanted to hold her, tell her to weep if she wanted. He was doing this to her and he hated himself. But not enough to stop. ‘I spoke to Woodward and Mrs Richmond, told them that you were an officer’s widow, a lady forced by circumstances to take this post.’

‘They are most respectful. But, no, Ross. I do not have an answer for you.’

‘Come with me tomorrow,’ he said on an impulse, fighting not to show disappointment or impatience. He wanted to take her in his arms, kiss her until all her rational thought, her conscience, her modesty, flew out of the window and all that was left was a quivering, yearning woman in his arms. But that was not his Meg. That was not who he needed. ‘I have to go into the City first to sign papers, but today’s meeting has dealt with most of the important matters, I will not take long. Then we can see the sights together.’

‘Alone?’

‘In an open carriage with a footman up behind. I believe there is a barouche in the mews. Surely there is sufficient excuse on a first visit to London to make such an expedition unexceptionable?’

‘Yes, I expect there is,’ Meg said, an edge to her voice that was either anger or tears. ‘You are a master of temptation, Ross.’

He had to be content with that, he thought later, spreading out the paperwork from his London lawyer and attempting to concentrate on the knotty question of lease renewals on a row of speculative houses towards Tavistock Square. But Meg’s face kept coming back to him. There had been dark shadows under her eyes, she had lost weight—and she had little enough to lose in the first place—and when she spoke there was strain in her voice, even when she said something light.

Am I bullying her? He dropped his pen, heedless of splashes, rubbing his hands over his face to try to clear his head. But she had not feigned passion when they made love and she was a strong woman, strong enough to say no if she meant it. If she was certain. Which meant she was not certain and that was cutting into her sleep and her peace. While she was still unsure, then there was hope.

Ross flattened the architect’s drawings under his hand and made himself study them. After five minutes he realised they would make more sense the right way up. Why was he feeling like this? The world was full of women: attractive, intelligent, eligible women. Women who would be passionate in bed. Women who could make him smile. If Meg turned him down, he had to find only one of those women. There was no need to feel as though her refusal would be a tragedy. None whatsoever.

Chapter Nineteen

‘I found a guidebook in the library. And as we are in the City I suggest we start h