He looked her lazily up and down, his fine mouth drawn in a tight line. The years had been good to him. If anything, he was even more handsome than she remembered, with his thick dark hair, brilliant blue eyes, and the face of a warrior angel. His broad shoulders were encased in somber black, and he towered above her own diminutive frame.
“Your Grace,” he replied, his voice deep and commanding. “I’m very sorry for your loss.”
“As I am for yours,” she murmured, guilt assailing her that she hadn’t made some attempt to contact him when a series of illnesses and accidents had befallen first his uncle, then older brother, then father, leading to his miraculous inheritance of his uncle’s title.
He held her gaze for a long moment, and in his eyes, she wasn’t certain if she saw love or hate. Whatever it was, it still burned bright. As it did for her, even after all these years. What was he telling her by coming here today? Had he come in support, because he still cared about her, or because he hated her and wanted to see her at her weakest?
She wished she could talk to him further, find out how he’d been doing since they’d last spoken, but he had the reputation of a scoundrel, a wastrel, someone who was not quite accepted in polite society, despite his lofty title. She hadn’t greeted anyone else this way, and if she didn’t walk away now, she feared what it might cost her. Her reputation was truly the only thing she had left.
“Thank you so much for coming,” she said remotely, calling on all the lessons she’d learned as the duke’s wife. She knew how to be cutting and remote. She knew how to hide her emotions.
Still, the act of turning away cost her dearly. For just a moment, a kernel of heat had thawed some of the coldness within her, and as she faced down the year of deep mourning she’d be expected to observe, she became quite certain that what was left of her heart would freeze completely.
She’d nearly rejoined Natalia when an older woman stepped into her path. Lady Katherine Wyndam was a staple of London society, and although Clarice had been introduced to her, she didn’t know her well. She was likely in her fifties or sixties and walked with an elaborate mahogany cane with a huge sapphire in the handle.
“That wasn’t well done of you, my dear,” Lady Wyndam said quietly, though the twinkle in her dark eyes belied her somber tone. “No doubt all of London will be talking about it by morning.”
“Talking about what?” Clarice asked coldly, in no mood to play these games.
“About how you nearly flew across the room to greet Lord Chatham, after having taken no notice of any of your other guests this afternoon.”
“He’s an old friend,” Clarice whispered, this validation of what she’d feared making her curse her foolish heart. She’d managed to stay completely respectable during her marriage to the duke, even though she’d had plenty of opportunities not to be, and yet this was what would destroy her reputation? Two minutes of conversation with an old friend in a room full of people? Sometimes the rules of polite society made no sense at all.
“I know who he is,” Lady Wyndam replied, guiding her toward a remote corner of the room so that they wouldn’t be overheard, though Clarice had no idea what she could want. “I also know what he once meant to you.”
Clarice’s eyes widened in shock. She hadn’t thought anyone knew about her relationship with Roman. She’d never even told Natalia, who was her dearest friend and confidant.
Reaching into her reticule, Lady Wyndam took out a small, engraved card.
Wicked Widows’ League was engraved across the front, along with an address.
“These next few months will be difficult for you,” Lady Wyndam told her. “But you’re not alone. We widows have to stick together.” She smiled gently. “When you’re ready, come and see us. We offer many ways of helping you adjust to your new role and can offer friendship and companionship during the dark days to come.” Her gaze shifted to Nigel. “Although you might want to turn to your handsome earl for comfort, it’s not the right time for that. First, let us help you make certain that the new duke doesn’t make a pauper out of you.”
Wicked Widows? It sounded... naughty. Clarice blinked, a little overwhelmed by everything the old woman had said. “Why would you help me? You don’t even know me.”
Lady Wyndam smiled. “We were once all where you stand now, my dear. Some of us loved our husbands, and some of us hated them. But no matter the circumstances, this world can be a very harsh place when the man who protected you from it is gone.”
Tears stung Clarice’s eyes as she tucked the card into the pocket of her hideous gown. “Thank you, Lady Wyndam. I don’t think I can adequately convey how much your words have comforted me. I am feeling very alone today.” Although every fiber in her being wanted to look over her shoulder and gaze upon Roman one last time, she forced herself to hold the older woman’s gaze.
Lady Wyndam reached out and squeezed Clarice’s hand. “We’ll get you sorted, Your Grace. And then we’ll see what we can do about your young earl.”
WHAT THE HELL AM I doing here?
Roman St. John watched Clarice walk away from him, her slim shoulders squared beneath the hideous mourning gown, and cursed himself all kinds of fool for having come here today. He didn’t know what he’d expected, exactly. This was her husband’s funeral, and she couldn’t very well have a private conversation with him. Everyone had been watching, and he feared that the mere fact that she’d greeted him personally might cause unwelcome repercussions.
She’d seemed happy to see him, though he couldn’t be certain with her face hidden behind the veil.
All he knew was that when he’d heard that the Duke of Clayton had died, something he’d long thought dead in him as well had sprung back to life. He’d had to see her, had to assess for himself whether she truly grieved for the old duke or was glad to be rid of him at last.
Lady Wyndam stopped Clarice on her way back across the room, undoubtedly to chide her for speaking to a reprobate like himself on the day of her husband’s funeral. He ground his teeth in frustration. The last thing he’d intended was to cause a scandal.
But some little part of him had hoped that she’d been secretly pining over him and regretting her decision to obey her father and marry the duke instead of him all these years. That she’d take one look at him, throw herself into his arms, and beg his forgiveness for breaking his heart.
He scoffed under his breath and looked away. He’d like to pretend that he didn’t still carry a torch for her, that he hadn’t given her a second thought since she’d walked away from him, but in truth, no matter how many conquests he’d made—and those had been legion—she’d always been the one he couldn’t shake, no matter how hard he tried.
He’d been nothing back then—the spare of a spare—and he couldn’t really fault her for accepting the duke’s suit. If she’d had a son, the boy would have inherited one of the loftiest titles and richest estates in the kingdom. But now, after a string of tragedies, he was an earl in his own right. Finally worthy of the daughter of a marquess...
He cut off the foolish thought as his gaze landed upon Nigel Sinclair, the duke’s nephew.
