Tempting Mr. Townsend (Dashing Widows 2)

He didn't smell like a villain and a bully. He smelled like a healthy male in his prime, and much as she fought it, that evocative scent reminded Fenella how she'd missed a man's physical presence over the last lonely years. After Henry's death, she'd missed his cheerfulness and unwavering devotion. She'd missed sharing her joys and sorrows with him. She'd missed his love.

But her proximity to Mr. Townsend was an uncomfortable reminder that she'd missed Henry's body, too. Not just the act of love—although she'd woken from countless sensual dreams to the aching realization that Henry Deerham lay in the grave's eternal embrace—but the pleasures of having a man about the place. Masterful, direct Anthony Townsend couldn't be more different from laughing, goodhearted Henry Deerham, but despite her antipathy, tonight's journey stirred senses long dormant.

She mightn't like Mr. Townsend. In fact, she was convinced she didn't. But plastered to his side, she was inescapably aware of his overpowering masculinity. And that made her ashamed. She'd been a good and faithful wife to Henry. Thinking of another man in…those terms made her feel like she broke his trust.

True to his word, when Mr. Townsend stopped to change horses, he waited only long enough for the ostlers to hitch up the new team before he set off once again. Fenella felt him silently daring her to complain, but she made no request for a delay. He misunderstood her if he imagined she meant to impede this desperate hunt.

More biting cold and breathtaking speed, and gradually her reasonable side gained the upper hand. Resentment became less satisfying by the minute. While Mr. Townsend's comment had been unfortunate, he'd been half out of his mind with worry about Carey. And perhaps there was a shred of truth in what he'd said, much as she loathed admitting it. Since Henry's death, she and Brand had depended so closely on each other.

She was on the verge of saying something inane about the weather, if only to ease the bristling atmosphere, when Mr. Townsend spoke for what felt like the first time in hours. "We're lucky with the full moon."

"Yes."

For the life of her, she couldn't think of anything to add. She fidgeted with the rug he'd pushed at her when they started out. His care for her comfort had surprised her when he'd been so set on leaving her behind.

As they covered another mile without speaking, she sensed his disappointment at her lack of response. So far, she'd avoided looking at him. Not because she was angry—by now, she was over her huff—but because staring at him intensified that unacceptable female awareness. Now she couldn't help snatching a quick glimpse at his set, angular features. He looked hard and purposeful, as she'd come to expect, but also discouraged.

Hours of travel on an icy night stretched ahead. She should say something, if only to break this prickly silence. They had the boys in common, but she flinched from inviting more criticism.

She was at the point of asking how far they had to go to his estate when he spoke again. "I'm sorry, Lady Deerham. I have no right to judge the way you raise your son. It's none of my business."

To her surprise, instead of graciously accepting the apology, she found herself explaining. "You weren't entirely wrong. I did coddle Brandon after Henry died at Waterloo. I couldn't help it."

"You must have loved your husband very much."

"I do. I always will." She stared sightlessly over the horses' ears to the road winding between the fields. Thick hedges rose on either side, creating an illusion of intimacy. "I hope—I know—since then I've always acted in my son's best interests, despite my instincts to keep him close and safe beside me. You have no idea how difficult it was to send Brand to school, but he needed some masculine influence."

"Now the school hasn't proven the safe haven you'd hoped."

"No."

"Tragedy can strike anywhere," he said softly. "Look at William and Jenny. A storm out of nowhere on the loveliest day in summer."

Fenella gripped her gloved hands together in her lap. She was physically weary, but too keyed up to sleep. Her mind was in such turmoil, she felt as alert and on edge as a mouse in a cat club. Strangely, despite their short but rocky relationship, talking to Mr. Townsend kept her from falling victim to phantom horrors. Something about him inspired confidence. His strength and solidity perhaps. More likely his self-assurance.

"Were you close to your brother?"

"Aye."

Again, Fenella recognized the sorrow beneath the clipped response. "Perhaps that's why Carey and Brandon so swiftly became friends—they both lost people they love."

Mr. Townsend sighed. "Brandon has you. Poor Carey drew the short straw when he was left in my care."

His bitterness surprised her. "You don't mean that."

His lips twisted in self-derision. "Don't I?"

"You obviously love the boy. When you burst into my house, you were beside yourself with fear. And as your ward, he'll never want for anything."

"Anything material, at least. If they're to thrive, children need more than food in their bellies and somewhere to sleep."

"But he must know you love him. I picked it up immediately, even through the bluster."

"Perhaps I should bluster at him more often so he understands," Mr. Townsend said dourly.

She bit back her impatient response that if his guardian just told Carey that he loved him, the problem would disappear. Living with a husband and a son had taught her that males preferred to sidestep direct declarations of feeling, however useful they might be.

"Then you just have to try harder to show him that you love him," she said calmly. "For a start, you could spend more time together."