Page 28 of What a Widow Wants

He’d have to look in on Lord Skelton, his longtime neighbor, and let him know he’d returned to Buckinghamshire. If Skelly was home, he’d at least have a companion to knock about with while he sorted out the mess his estate agent had left him. Mr. Farrow had given his notice not quite a week ago, which had precipitated Matthew’s unexpected return to Hunter’s Cross when by all rights he should have been heading to Kent for Lady Cavendish’s house party.

And Fanny.

It had hurt abominably to write to Lady Cavendish at the last moment, bowing out of her invitation—Fanny’s invitation so she’d told him in Brighton—and the chance to see his love again. The ache in his heart whenever he thought of Fanny only stiffened his resolve to see her ensconced here, mistress of his estate. He gazed at the empty place beside him, imagining her sitting there, his countess talking with him, laughing, teasing him as she sipped her tea and they spoke about their plans for the day. He must write to Fanny as well, explaining his absence this past weekend and perhaps inviting her to come to Hunter’s Cross for a visit. Once here surely he could persuade her to say yes to his suit.

“Good morning, Matthew.” His sister, Lady Beatrice Hunter, sailed into the breakfast room, dressed in a deep red riding habit, and sat down in the very seat he’d been thinking of as Fanny’s, bursting that bubble of whimsy.

“Good morning, my dear. You are riding this morning?”

“Of course. Aren’t you after three dull days of sitting around?” Bea raised her eyebrows, giving him her don’t be a fool look from crystal blue eyes. At the impossible age of seventeen, his oldest sister had insisted on leaving the schoolroom and taking her place next to him and their mother in the household and in local society. God help her suitors next year when she made her come-out.

“Yes, I’ve called for Spartan and am about to ride out to the Downs, to see if Lord Skelton is at home.”

Beatrice wrinkled her petite nose and waved her hand in dismissal. “Do not worry on that account. Lord Skelton hasn’t gone anywhere in an age. His sister Sarah complained to me last week that he never goes anywhere after the Season, making her life a misery.” She paused to signal the footman. “James, a plate full with tea and toast, please.”

“How can Lady Sarah’s life be a misery? Skelly dotes on her and their mother.” Matthew swallowed the last of his coffee.

“Too much doting is not a good thing. He’s always underfoot, she says. She can’t pay a call but he’s escorting them, then holding them to his schedule. The same thing if they go into Aylesbury, he tags along. Why can’t he take himself off like you do and let them have some peace?”

James entered with her plate and Beatrice eagerly slipped her napkin into her lap. “Thank you, James.”

“More coffee, James, please.” Matthew indicated his empty cup. “Well, Bea, I was going to ask to accompany you on your ride this morning, but now I dare not for fear of making your life a ‘misery.’”

“Brother, you would have to remain here longer than two weeks for Mama and me to even realize you are in the house.” She forked a bite of eggs and sausage into her mouth and chewed vigorously.

“Well, I may have to do just that. Mr. Farrow’s departure has made it impossible for me to leave until I can get a new manager installed here. The estate will not run itself, you know.”

“You cannot blame Mr. Farrow, Matthew. I’m sure he would have prevented his wife’s father dying so suddenly if he could. As it was, they had to go and quickly, for her mother was in such a state of grief Mrs. Farrow believed she would die herself if they did not assist her.”

“I don’t fault the man. Family needs do come first, however, it could not have come at a worse time.” Both for the estate and his personal life. Matthew accepted his coffee and savored the hot bite of the dark brew. “Ahh.”

“Ugh, how can you drink that without anything in it, Matthew?” Beatrice shuddered and grabbed her teacup, sipping her well-sugared tea avidly, as if in fear someone might force coffee down her throat instead.

“It is an acquired taste, I grant you, but I enjoy its invigorating effect very much. Do you wish to ride with me to Skelton’s?”

“Yes, please. Sarah will be happy for the visit and your company is always much better than riding with a groom. I will tell Perkins to tell Mama when she wakes so she will not fret about me.” Her plate almost empty, Beatrice patted the napkin to her lips and rose, bringing Matthew to his feet as well. “I’ll meet you in the front hall.”

“In ten minutes or I leave without you. We’re missing the best part of the morning.” He grinned as she strode out of the room. Bea was a dear and he’d be sorry to lose her next year. He couldn’t help but think some gentleman would snap her up before the first month of the Season was out.

“The post, my lord.” His family’s butler of twenty years presented several letters on a silver salver.

“Thank you, Gates.” Picking up the lot, Matthew glanced at each before setting them on the table. Time enough for them after his ride. The handwriting on the last one, however, caught his attention. No one of his acquaintance made their Ls with that swooping elegance save Fanny. He plopped back into his chair and popped the seal, his heartbeat speeding inside his chest, and began to read.

* * *

Matthew seethed during the entire, interminable ride to the Downs, anger and fear warring within him by turns. Fanny’s letter, while gently admonishing him for his absence at the house party, had made one thing abundantly clear: She held no loyalty to him whatsoever. The woman he loved, who he knew loved him, had made an assignation with one of the worst rakehells in London. That she had not gone through with the tryst was immaterial. The shock of the betrayal had hit him so hard he’d sat in a daze until Beatrice had come in search of him.

The letter made it absolutely clear that Fanny was determined to live an independent life, one in which he would figure only as a lover, not a husband. He wanted nothing more than to curse loudly into the refreshing morning air that washed over him as they galloped across the fields of Hunter’s Cross. Beatrice’s presence precluded him from such a wild display, so he urged Spartan on to greater speed. How fortunate his sister rode as well as any man and therefore kept up with him easily, though he might have to answer a pert question or two about his hell-bent flight when at last they arrived.

That Fanny might never become his countess twisted his heart. He’d wanted nothing more ever since he’d first met her, at her come-out ball over ten years ago now. Ten years of bitter hurt beginning with her refusal of him and her marriage to Lord Stephen. God, but he’d been patient. With the war raging, he’d bided his time the first few years. Tarkington had been a reckless fellow, a known risk taker within his unit, so there was every chance Fanny would end up a widow sooner rather than later.

When she’d come to him three years into the marriage, her tender heart gravely wounded, he’d comforted her in every way possible, and rejoiced anew. Divorce was unheard of, a scandal to ruin them both, still he’d begged her to run away to the Continent with him. With any luck, Tarkington would divorce her, then they could marry and live quietly at Hunter’s Cross. The ton’s censure meant nothing to him if Fanny would be his wife.

Instead she’d returned to the blackguard after four months of absolute bliss spent with him. Her family had contracted measles in the epidemic that had raged that year, dying one after the other. In her grief, guilt over her affair with him had overcome her and she’d broken with him and returned to Tarkington. He’d understood the reason for her actions at the time, still, her desertion had cut to the bone. Returning to his estate to recover, he’d eschewed London in fear of seeing her again. Out of sight, out of mind, they said. They’d been wrong. Not a day had gone by that he hadn’t thought about her, missed her with a depth of longing that had harrowed his soul.

By rights he should have moved on with his life, taken a wife and done his duty to the earldom by putting an heir in his nursery. But the hope of winning Fanny simply wouldn’t die. So he’d avoided entanglements with the daughters of his neighbors and thrown himself instead into the pastimes he loved: shooting, riding, racing, and boxing. When Kinellan had sent word of Stephen Tarkington’s death at Waterloo, he’d been mad to race to London and declare himself, but his friend had counseled caution, which Matthew, once again full of hope, had heeded and bided his time throughout Fanny’s year of mourning.

Now it seemed his patience had, in the end, come to naught. He’d declared himself to Fanny time and again in these past months to no avail, yet still he’d hoped. This latest betrayal, however, had finally killed hope. Fanny would continue to refuse him, more enamored of her freedom to flit from man to man than of the one man who loved her. At last, it was time to let her go.