Page 2 of For The Love Of A Widow

Daniel took a tentative sniff at the room, but smelled nothing amiss. The lingering aroma of duck soup and pheasant was all that was recognizable.

A footman pulled out the chair beside Lettie, and Daniel moved to his place, all but falling into the waiting chair as his mind whirled.

“Port, your grace?” the servant asked as he placed a plate of plum pudding before Daniel.

The thought of eating anything made his stomach roil. “No, thank you.” He waved the servant off.

Reluctantly, Daniel glanced to his right at Lettie. She stared at her plate but made no move to pick up her utensil, or address him after her initial snide remark. Her brow was pinched, and her lips pressed together in a frown. He wanted to inquire as to what he’d done to irk her or deserve her avoidance at present.

“My heavens. The stink is growing!” Lady Percival retrieved her kerchief from her sleeve and waved it before her face before pressing it to her nose. “What in all of creation is Cook doing?”

“It is not Cook, Mother,” Lady Lettie mumbled, picking up her fork and pushing the pudding around on her plate, but still she made no move to take another bite.

“Then what is it?” Percival demanded.

Lettie cocked her head in Daniel’s direction and let one simple word free. “Him.”

Daniel chuckled. “I assure you, my lady, it is not I.” Lord and Lady Percival turned to scrutinize him as if noting for the first time that his jacket looked to have been trampled by a herd of livestock before Daniel had slipped it on. “Verily, I smell nothing out of the ordinary.”

If he’d known he was to face an inquisition, Daniel wouldn’t have turned down the glass of port.

It was Lettie who exhaled next. “Your grace, you reek of scotch and”—she paused, leaned ever so slightly toward him, and breathed in a shallow sniff, her nose immediately wrinkling as she recoiled— “and… is that lemon verbena?”

Daniel pulled the lapel of his coat to his nose.

Ah, lemon verbena, the intoxicating perfume of Mademoiselle Sabine.

He glanced back to Lettie, who now leaned as far away from him as possible, her arms crossed and a knowing look in her eyes.

Could she know of Daniel’s mistress?

If Sabine could ever be called such by any one man. He’d only met the opera singer a fortnight before, and after a particularly trying evening watching man after man place their name upon Lettie’s dance card, Daniel had given in and sent a note, requesting for Sabine to join him for a meal the following night.

Instantly, the songstress filled the place Lettie had always been meant to fill, the void left after his father’s death the year before—his mother having succumbed many years prior. He’d begun to look forward to afternoons and nights spent at the woman’s quarters off Drury Lane and not utterly alone in his townhouse with only servants for companionship—or following in Lettie’s wake like a besotted fool.

“Mother, Father.” Lettie stood, and the footman quickly pulled her chair back. “I have something I need to discuss with the pair of you—oh, and your grace, as well.”

A spot of unease prickled the hairs at the back of Daniel’s neck at her formal request.

Her chin tilted up with confidence; however, her hands shook slightly as they wrung her dinner serviette.

“Certainly, my daughter,” Barclay said. “What is it?”

Her face paled and took on an unfamiliar green tone. “I wish to end my betrothal to Lord Linwood.”

“What?” the duchess screeched, her high-pitched voice causing Daniel’s head to pound.

“Colette, what is this about?” The earl set his utensils aside and stared up at his only child, his brow pulled low in question. “You and Daniel have been promised to one another since childhood.”

“Do not be silly, girl,” Lady Percival said. “Sit down and finish your pudding. The carriage will be brought round shortly, and we will be off. An evening outside this house will do you good—clear your head, as it were.”

Daniel had never questioned the duchess’s ability to act as if another hadn’t spoken, but it was only reinforced when the woman retrieved her spoon and bent over to steal a bite of pudding from her husband’s plate.

“I will not be going.” Lettie’s voice echoed in the cavernous room, silencing the scrape of the duchess’s spoon as it took a second swipe at the earl’s pudding. “Daniel, please inform my parents that you do not wish to marry me.”

“I—“ All thought evaporated as Daniel sat up straight, glancing between Lettie and her parents, his liquor-addled mind clearing. Their families had settled on the match years ago. It wasn’t something he’d ever questioned; only saw it as an inevitable occurrence in his future. Daniel had no issues with Lettie or their betrothal. Though a tad idealistic, Lettie was poised, graceful, and witty. All things he’d been raised to desire in a wife. That she was also beautiful did not go unnoted.

“Tell them, Daniel,” she demanded, turning to stare down at him.