Tempting Mr. Townsend (Dashing Widows 2)

Caro squared her shoulders and looked directly at the man she loved. Her jaw was set in an obstinate line and her hands clenched at her sides. But Fenella saw the terror shining in her eyes. "You could have both."

Her offer didn't noticeably cheer him up. He ran his hand through his hair and looked grimly at Caro. "I promised I wouldn't pressure you about marriage."

"I know." She paused, then spoke in a hurry. "But asking me to marry you after six blissful months doesn't count as pressure."

Silas took a couple of moments to examine what she said, then such naked joy filled his face that fresh tears sprang to Fenella's eyes. Not altogether with happiness for her friends. Caro's courage threw her own lack of daring into stark relief.

"Do you mean it, sweetheart?" he asked in a hoarse voice.

Caro's laugh cracked with emotion, but her reply rang with confidence. "Yes, I do."

Silas caught her hand and stared into her eyes. "Caroline Beaumont, the love of my life, would you do me the inestimable honor of becoming my wife?"

Caro smiled with an elation to match his. She lifted one hand to touch his face with such tenderness that it set Fenella's lonely heart aching anew. "Seeing you asked so nicely, my beloved Lord Stone, I just have to say yes."

"Oh, my love," he said in a broken voice and hauled her into his arms for a fervent kiss that paid no heed to their audience.

"At last," Helena said, looking justifiably smug. "I'll ring for champagne."

Chapter Fourteen

* * *

Anthony devoted the morning to chopping wood behind the hay barn. He wasn't much use for anything else these days. There was nobody around to bother him—which suited him fine. In the past two weeks, the outdoor staff had taken to scattering toward the farthest corners of the estate to avoid their irascible master.

He couldn't say he blamed them.

Since Fenella had left, his mood had grown increasingly black. For the first few days, her parting words had convinced him she'd relent. He'd leaped on every mail delivery as if it offered a reprieve from a death sentence.

In London, he'd been as excited as an infatuated schoolboy at the thought of seeing his inamorata, but they hadn't encountered each other. Not even Brand's safe return to Curzon Street had provided a forbidden glimpse.

A hundred times, Anthony had been on the verge of ordering his carriage and setting out in pursuit of his elusive darling. After all, women liked to play games—perhaps Fenella tested his purpose by saying, "Don't touch me," when she really wanted him to lay siege to her.

But something always stopped him. Probably her austere expression when she'd asked for time.

Time! Such a little word to cause this agony of soul and body.

For a glorious, too brief interval, he'd held Fenella Deerham in his arms and the world had turned into heaven. The idea that she'd allow him no more left him wandering in darkness. The only thing that kept creeping despair at bay was mindless, vigorous physical labor. Which was why he was outside on this freezing day, working like a navvy, instead of sitting back and giving orders like the aristocrat he'd never be, no matter how he tried.

The thought that his coarse manners might have repulsed fastidious, wellborn Fenella Deerham made him want to smash something. And as a result the house had firewood into the next decade.

He sank the ax into a block of wood, hearing that satisfying split, tugged it free, then raised his head from his furious activity. Someone drove a carriage at speed toward the yard on the other side of the stable block.

Swearing under his breath, he brushed the sweat from his face. What bloody idiot intruded on him, expecting a fair hearing? His temper heated as he shrugged on his shirt and marched around the stable to see who was brave enough to disturb his fit of self-pity.

His heart slammed to a stop. His hand opened and the ax clattered to the cobblestones.

A stylish carriage bowled toward him at a cracking pace. Holding the reins with an aplomb that would

take his breath away, if he had any breath left, was the woman he'd once called a useless ornament to society.

With a flourish Fenella drew the horses to a neat stop, making the high-stepping blacks arch their necks and stamp their hooves. Her bonnet had fallen back and dangled from two bright yellow ribbons. Her fine golden hair curled around her face in wild abandon that reminded him how she'd looked lying in his arms. A flush marked her cheeks and her eyes glittered.

A useless ornament? This woman could conquer worlds with a mere flick of her elegant fingers.

Those brilliant blue eyes found him. "Did you mean it?" she asked in a hard voice he'd never heard her use before.

With the question, hope lurched into vigorous life. Immediately deciphering her question, he grinned in delight as though he hadn't spent a fortnight eating his heart out over her. "Of course."