“Connery’s the cause of it,” he said, his chin on his fist.
“Connery!” Darien said with a laugh, and chomping down on his cigar, he grinned at Freddie. “Is there nothing to which you will not stoop in blaming your losses?”
“I swear, it was Connery! I knew him to be a scoundrel . . . but the vicar’s widow?”
Darien almost choked on the cigar. “Beg your pardon?” he asked, lowering the paper he had been reading.
“Ah, well then—that has your attention, does it not?” Freddie said. “Even a scoundrel such as you must be nonplussed by it, eh? Quite shocking, really.”
“What exactly did you hear?” Darien pressed him. “I am acquainted with the vicar’s widow, and I can assure you, she’d not consort with anyone, and particularly not the likes of Connery.”
“Tell it to Westfall, then, will you? He claims to have it on very good authority that Widow Becket has been seen about town with Connery, and in some locations that are of less than good repute,” Freddie said as he casually looked about the roomful of gentlemen.
“Westfall is quite certain of it, is he?” Darien pressed.
Freddie chuckled. “What then, Montgomery? Jealous, are you?”
Darien frowned lightly at the news.
“What now?” Freddie exclaimed. “You’re positively sullen!”
“I wouldn’t want to see a good woman debauched, that’s all.” He instantly wished he hadn’t said it—now Freddie was watching him intently. So he added, “Unless I’m the one to do the debauching.”
Freddie laughed roundly at that, slapping his hand on the table and drawing the looks of a few.
He waited on the corner of Park Lane, near the Hyde Park entrance, because he knew she’d come across the park on her way to the church, just as she did every Wednesday when returning from her rounds. He had in his hand a bouquet of spring flowers, purchased for a tidy little sum on Bond Street.
He stood back, out of the heavy foot traffic, smiling and nodding politely at the many ladies who promenaded past, winking at those who dared to stare back. He might, had he been more engaged in the art of flirtation, involved one or more of them in light conversation, but he could think of little else but Mrs. Becket.
When at last she appeared, striding across the park, her feet encased in sturdy boots, her bonnet a bit askew, and the empty basket on her arm swinging in a rhythm only she knew, he thought she was a most desirable woman, far more desirable than any other woman on the street just then.
She did not see him as she darted across the street, dodging carriages and horsemen and hacks; and she seemed quite caught up in her thoughts as she strode purposefully along, one hand on the top of her bonnet to keep it from sliding any further. It wasn’t until he stepped into her path that she came out of her fog, and her face, rosy from her walk, broke into the wreath of her smile. She was, he noted, quite happy to see him.
“My Lord Montgomery!” she exclaimed as she came to a halt and peered up at him with her soft green eyes. “You must truly enjoy walking in the park, sir, for rare is the sun-lit day that I do not encounter you here.”
“Do you honestly believe it is merely the park that brings me here, Mrs. Becket?” he asked, smiling lopsidedly at her coy remark. “Indeed it is not, for I have professed my esteem of you on more than one occasion,” he said and pulled the flowers from behind his back, holding them out to her.
She gasped with surprise and delight, her face lighting up, and she instantly clapped her hands together at her chest. “What beautiful flowers! They look as if they belong in the king’s garden!”
“A king’s garden?” He scoffed. “Their exquisite beauty and vivid colors bring to mind a certain widow. They belong with you, Mrs. Becket.”
She laughed as she stepped forward to inhale their scent. “You are too kind, Lord Montgomery, indeed,” she said, stepping back again. “But you know very well that I cannot accept such a token from you.”
“And why on earth not?” he demanded.
“Because, my lord, it is improper.”
“Ach!” he said with a dismissive flick of his wrist. “What is proper, I ask you! Shall I bring you flowers when they’ve laid you in your grave? No, madam, I refuse to honor your maidenly notions. If I admire a beautiful woman, I will not be ashamed to let her know that I do,” he said and stepped closer, pressing the flowers toward her.
With another pleasing laugh, Mrs. Becket took the flowers. Her long fingers brushed lightly against his; she put her face to the flowers and inhaled, then carefully put them in her basket. As a breeze wafted through, she caught her bonnet atop her head and smiled up at him. “I wonder,” she said, her eyes narrowing playfully, “how many bouquets have you delivered this fine day? Surely I am not the first woman to cross such a public path as yours today, sir.”
“There have been scads of women before you, all worthy of my admiration. But you are the only one to receive my bouquet.”
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“Mmm,” she said skeptically.
“Shall we walk?” he asked.