Page 55 of To Woo a Wicked Widow

“Well, I doubt they will accost me in the little time I wish to be out. Please saddle my horse now.” She firmed her tone to a command. If it took that to get her way in this, so be it.

“Yes, my lady.” The boys spoke in unison and jumped into action. In less time than it had taken to persuade them, Charlotte found herself up on Ajax and headed out the stable door with the admonition to be careful ringing in her ears.

A thrill of power rushed through her. She had gainsaid someone and gotten her way for the first time since her marriage. Even if they were only stable boys in her employ, she hoped it boded well for her coming meeting.

She headed the gelding toward the park, just in case the grooms were watching. When she topped a rise near a stand of trees, she turned left and struck out for the road that led to the drive at Lyttlefield. According to Lord Wrotham, Wrotham Hall lay two miles farther down the road. A quick ride on a cantering horse, he had declared. She decided to test his word and touched her heel to Ajax.

In what seemed truly no time, Charlotte turned between the huge carved marble pedestals, lions rampant as though daring her to enter and beard her lion in his den. She ignored the fanciful thought and continued to canter down the drive, until the grand edifice of Wrotham Hall came into view.

Nothing the earl had said about his home had prepared her for the vast mansion that rose before her. She slowed Ajax to a trot, eventually stopping completely to gawk at the amazing structure. A yellow-white Palladian house sprawled amid manicured lawns, woodland rising in the distance behind it. Three stories high and perfectly proportioned in width, with four flattened columns, two on either side of the front door, the house appeared to be a model of Georgian architecture. The symmetry and grandeur quite took her breath away. To be mistress of such a house, to put her own stamp on this magnificent estate, would be such an exciting challenge. Much more so than her efforts at Lyttlefield, which she had enjoyed immensely.

Finally recalled to her purpose, Charlotte urged her mount forward. By the time she had arrived at the front portico, a groom had appeared to hold her reins and assist her to the ground. She thanked him, marched up to the imposing oak and ironwork door. Focusing only on her purpose, she summoned all her courage and raised her hand to the knocker.

* * *

Nash stared at the list of names, fighting not to crush it in his fury. He needed the information it contained, although he’d read its contents often enough he’d almost committed it to memory. Six of his tenant families had been attacked in the last week by this gang of what purported to be ex-soldiers. Unable to secure work after the war, they had taken matters into their own hands by robbing and pillaging in hopes of stealing enough for their families to survive.

Nash shook his head. Soldiers. He could scarcely credit it.

He’d received the report late last night and this morning, he’d ridden out to the latest victim, James Wright, a wheelwright by trade. What he had found had not been pretty. He closed his eyes and swore under his breath.

There was a knock at the door, and Acres opened it to announce, “Lady Cavendish is here, my lord. She’s in the small reception room.”

Nash’s head jerked up. Charlotte? He tossed the list onto his cluttered desk and all but ran from the room. He strode swiftly into the green chamber and stopped. She stood in the middle of the room, severe in a black riding habit, but with a ravishing hat sitting jauntily on her head, its ostrich feather trailing over her shoulder. Like an invitation to likewise run his fingers down her back.

“My lady, what a lovely surprise.” Nash rushed toward her and raised her hand to his mouth. He let his lips linger as he studied her face. What could have brought her here without a companion?

“I am so pleased to see you, my lord. I recently returned from London and wanted to call on you.” She stared back at him, eyes bright, smile wide. Then she squeezed the hand he still kissed. Not as if to say, “Let go.” Rather as though . . . good Lord, was the woman flirting with him?

Taken aback by this possibility, Nash released her hand and bowed. “I am delighted to see you again as well, my lady. When I heard you had removed to London, I feared we would be deprived of the pleasure of your company for quite some time to come. I am pleased to see that those fears were unfounded.”

Her brilliant smile went straight to his heart.

“Please, my lord. I believe we are beyond the formalities. Will you not call me Charlotte?”

A rush of hot blood shot from his head straight to his groin. His breathing came sharper and a metallic taste flooded his mouth.

“I would be delighted to do so . . . Charlotte.” The name sounded like liquid gold.

Her eyes crinkled, as though she enjoyed it as well.

“Then you must call me Nash.”

“Nash.” She tried it out, elongating the single syllable, savoring it.

His heart raced like a runaway carriage.

“You have been well, Nash?” Her eyes sparkled and she hummed with the same energy as that night at Almack’s.

“I have been very well, thank you.” The memory of his errand this morning, unfortunately, sobered him from the giddy aura her presence had created.

“Is something wrong?” Even her frown was charming.

“I rode out earlier to see one of my tenants who had been burned out last night.”

“What?” The flirtatious woman fled like a lantern snuffed; in her stead was an outraged landowner. The lines on her face deepened. “Who?”

“James Wright, the village wheelwright, is the latest victim of the gang that’s been terrorizing Kent for the last two months.” He motioned her to a leather wing-backed chair and sat in its companion beside her.