Lord Garson’s Bride (Dashing Widows 7)

Caroline gestured, sloshing her tea into the saucer, and spoke with sudden urgency. “We all have the right to offer our opinion. It’s what people do when they care.”

Annoyance banished Fenella’s distress, thank goodness. For a few moments there, Caroline had worried that her usually serene friend might dissolve into tears. “So you too believe I should forget the best person I’ve ever known, a faithful husband, a loving father, a brave soldier?”

For safety’s sake, Caroline set her cup on the tea table before she slid into the chair beside Fenella’s. When she took Fenella’s hand, she wasn’t surprised to find it trembling. “You’ll never forget him. And neither you should. But Henry wouldn’t want you to hide away from the outside world, not when you’re young and beautiful with so much to give. The man you’ve described would never be so mean spirited.”

Fenella’s grip tightened. “I’m not brave like you and Helena. I’m comfortable in my rut. The truth is that I’m afraid of facing the world again, especially without Henry by my side.”

“It’s brave to admit your fear,” Helena said from the sofa in an unusually subdued voice. “And you’re wrong about my courage. I might act as if I’m ready to take on the world, but I’ve already had one disastrous marriage. Choosing a pig like Crewe, especially when I defied my parents to have him, puts my judgment in serious question.”

“Oh, Helena.” Fenella’s lovely face softened with compassion. “You’ve learned from your mistakes. And you were so young then.”

“We were all young,” Caroline said in a low voice. “We’re still young.”

Freddie had been young, too. But at least he’d led the life he chose. Until illness struck him down, he’d been blissfully happy in the muck and mire of his fields. Caroline realized that if she died tomorrow, she’d never done a single thing she wanted. That seemed even more of a waste than Freddie’s lingering death. She’d devoted three long years to nursing him. She’d emerged from those harrowing days painfully aware of life’s brevity and how easily the years could slip away with nothing to show for them but drudgery.

“What about you, Caro?” Helena asked. “This gray day has us stripping our souls bare. We’ve started telling the truth. We may as well continue. What frightens you?”

Gathering her dark, confused thoughts, Caroline stared blindly into the fire. Pictures from the barren past filled her mind. Her austere girlhood, the only child of elderly parents with rigid ideas of behavior. Her seventeen-year-old self marrying stodgy, tongue-tied Freddie Beaumont with not a shred of romance to brighten the occasion. Ten dreary years as a farming baronet’s wife in wet, windy Lincolnshire, with no company but the equally dreary neighbors and a prize dairy herd. This last uneventful year in London as she waited out her period of mourning for a man who had left little impression on her, however much she might pity his untimely death.

“Caro?” Fenella prompted gently. “Helena’s right. If we can’t be candid with one another, who can we b

e candid with?”

Caroline swallowed to shift the boulder of emotion jamming her throat. Guilt at not grieving for Freddie as a wife should. Lifelong dissatisfaction. A burning need to forge her own path. She loathed the restrictions of mourning. To use Helena’s terminology, she’d kicked against convention like a half-broken horse in a narrow stall.

But her festering restlessness had a deeper cause. She was no different to Fenella and Helena. She too was terrified. And the admission nearly choked her.

She straightened until her back was stiff as a ruler, the way she’d been trained to sit as a girl groomed to marry her father’s wealthy godson Frederick Beaumont. “I dread that what’s to come will be as dull as what’s past. I dread that I’ll die without ever having lived.” She met her friends’ eyes. “And I have a raging hunger for life.”

“Oh, Caro.” Fenella placed one arm around her shoulders and squeezed. “It’s not too late.”

“We all deserve some excitement,” she said huskily, finding comfort in Fen’s hug. “I feel like I’ve been locked away in the dark all my life. I’ve spent twenty-eight years waiting. I’ve never had a chance to laugh and dance and carry on romantic intrigues.”

“What’s stopping you now?” Helena asked. “You’re beautiful and rich and ripe for adventure.”

As her fretfulness drained away, Caroline dredged up a smile for her friend. Then the smile widened as she considered what Helena had said. Truly what was stopping her now? Nothing but cowardice. The fear of the unknown, even if what she’d known had made her feel buried alive.

Well, no longer. Her parents had gone. Freddie had gone. She remained, and it was up to her to seize her liberty with both hands. If she didn’t, the only person she’d have to blame was herself.

She sucked in another breath, and for the first time in over a decade felt her lungs expand without restriction. On a sudden, intoxicating surge of hope, she rose from the spindly chair. “I’m definitely rich and ripe for adventure.”

“Once you’re out of mourning, you’ll be the most dashing widow in London,” Fenella said.

“I shall indeed.”

Fenella smiled at her. “When you set your mind to something, you make sure you achieve it. I so admire your strength.”

“My father called it blind stubbornness,” she admitted. “He tried to beat it out of me, but he never did.”

“Thank goodness,” Helena said. “You wouldn’t be nearly so interesting if you just accepted your fate. In fact, you’d still be wiping the mud off your shoes in Lincolnshire.”

“I am determined to make a new life, one where the decisions are mine.” Caroline shifted until she could see both women. “In fact, why don’t we all leave our old, sad days behind? Why don’t we all become dashing widows?”

Helena’s dark eyes flared with excitement. Predictably Fenella looked less enamored with the idea. “I can see you both dazzling the ton. I’m not like that.”

Refusing to let Fen shrink back into her seclusion, Caroline caught her hands and hauled her to her feet. “You’re the prettiest girl I know, Fenella Deerham. You’ll dazzle the ton purely by turning up.”

“I’m not sure,” Fenella murmured.