In the Widow's Bed

Jonathan skirted a trio of fluttering debutants, keeping Lizzy between him and their attempts at flirtation. Lizzy was correct in her assessment of Warminster’s guests, a gaggle of numbskulls indeed. Except for Lady Jocelyn of course. She seemed very promising. “I cannot imagine why the notion of marriage so disgusts you,” he said.

Lizzy dug her heels in. “Well, you’re a fine one to talk. The day you consent to undertake matrimony is the day I might do the same. Lucky for me that day will come when my hair has altered to the brightest silver for I cannot imagine the fastidious Lord Selwood married.”

The same argument. Another venue. He wasn’t as fastidious as his sister claimed. He just required a certain level of intelligence in a woman. Associating with Lord Warminster’s set had not thrown such women into his path until the pretty Lady Jocelyn had come out this spring and seemed a likely candidate for a wife. Like him, Lizzy required intelligence in a potential spouse. Yet as Jonathan looked about them he wondered if there was anyone here he could encourage.

Not Peters. Or Ridgeway. Perkins seemed an amiable chap. He’d have to have a word later and see if he couldn’t be encouraged. Then he could work on softening Lizzy to the idea. How did one disembark one’s sister from the family home when she was dead set against the happy union of marriage? The way things were going, she’d still be joining him for breakfast on the day he died.

“Oh, bother—”Lizzy slouched—“now he is a persistent numbskull. Mr. Perkins is coming this way again. If he keeps this up I’ll have to geld him to keep him at bay. Why will he not take a hint? Au revoir, Selwood.”

“Bonne chance, enfant!”

With a stubborn glare for her pursuer, Jonathan’s long-legged sister bolted from the ballroom. Perkins craned his neck to watch her flight, and he did appear to consider setting out in pursuit, but then he shrugged and limped to a chair, snatched up a glass of champagne from a passing footman, and settled into the cushions.

Why would any gentleman in his right mind seriously consider Lizzy, with her coltish charms, a candidate for matrimonial felicity? She’d be likely to conk the poor gent on the head before the wedding night started.

Depressed, Jonathan accepted Lizzy’s continued presence at his breakfast table for as long as they both shall live.

“Why so great a sigh, Lord Selwood?” Lady Warminster murmured at his side. “Are you searching for a dance partner and unable to catch the lady’s eye?”

Jonathan spun, an honest smile lifting his lips. “I was considering it. Would you care to dance with me, Lady Warminster?”

“But of course.” Her eyes sparkled with humor. “I know you to be a fine dancer so I have no fear for my toes.”

Jonathan’s gaze dropped to the lower edge of her gown. “Such delicate toes. Have they been much trodden on this evening?”

“Perhaps.” She glanced around. “I believe the last waltz of the night is about to play.”

“Perfectly timed then, my lady.” Jonathan drew her arm through his. Delicious warmth dragged a deep-seated need to the surface. Her scent—violets if he was not mistaken— lured him to lean close. But true to her words, when the current set ended, the orchestra announced a waltz with a short violin piece. Fate was certainly favoring him this evening with regard to one woman.

Lady Warminster settled into his arms and flowed with him into the dance. Despite the fatigue of the late hour, she moved lightly, perfectly pliant in his arms as they swirled around the polished parquetry. “How has your evening progressed?”

“Oh, as well as ever.”

Jonathan glanced down at her face. Her gaze drifted over his left shoulder, examining the crowd lining the floor. After a few turns Jonathan inched her closer, pulling her deeper into his arms until her startled gaze rose to meet his.

“You appear to be searching for someone, my lady?”

Her face pinked and her gaze fell to his chest. “No. No, of course not.”

With Lady Warminster pressed closer against his body, he could see why her stepson held concerns. The plump curves of her breasts made Jonathan’s mouth water. Any gentlemen would risk scandal to sample the view this daring new gown displayed.

“Liar,” he whispered as her gaze flickered over his shoulder again to the crowd lining the dance floor. “Your attention has wandered from me already. The other gentlemen have surely noticed. Most embarrassing.”

Lord Plimms circled the ballroom floor in puce satin, his gaze lingering—if Jonathan wasn’t mistaken—on the shift of fabric over Lady Warminster’s rump. Jonathan maneuvered them further away.

She glanced up. “Whatever do you mean?”

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Jonathan snorted. “If a lover is what you seek you could do better than inviting Plimms to your bed. The man is certainly poxed.”

Lady Warminster’s cheeks colored a deeper red. “I wasn’t considering him. Not really.”

“Good. There are far more worthy men you should consider ahead of Plimms.”

Jonathan let the silence lengthen then drew to a halt when the dance ended. He bowed over her hand, but tucked Lady Warminster’s arm through his to lead her from the floor, avoiding the lurking gentleman. Plimms appeared ready to approach, but Jonathan scowled and changed course through the crowd until the reforming dance lines stood between them.

When they stopped, Lady Warminster slipped from his grasp. “You surprise me, my lord. I shouldn’t expect you’d approve of such a decision. Not with you being Warminster’s closest friend.”