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Sir Malcolm turned his attention to Hugh.
“Who has a twin sister?”
“I was just saying I wish your Mrs. Kendall had a twin sister to cook for us.”
“Yes, I wager you do.” Sir Malcolm gave a hearty laugh.
Lord Carey leaned toward Lady Seymour.
“I suspect you will have many guests eager to be invited to your table this season.”
Lady Seymour waved a hand in the air.
“La, I pray I shall be well enough to entertain now and then. Of course, Lord Carey, you and Lord Grayson are always welcome at our table whether I am up to joining you or not. Sir Malcolm and Dawn will be glad of your company any time.”
“Why, I thank you,” Lord Carey said. “If tonight’s repast is any indication, we shall avail ourselves of your hospitality frequently.”
“And now, I beg leave to retire for the evening. It has been a most fatiguing day.”
Lady Seymour stood, as did Mrs. Neville.
Hugh rose with the others and bowed his good evening and thanks. He was sorry to see Mrs. Neville follow her mother from the room. Just as he was beginning to feel more comfortable near her, she was gone.
The men sat again, and the footman brought a bottle of port. The conversation between his father and Sir Malcolm turned to the news from the Vienna meetings on the peace settlements. Arrangements were being made for the Little Corporal, as they called Napoleon in some circles, to be exiled to Elba where he could occupy himself with ruling a tiny island instead of most the continent of Europe.
Hugh let his gaze linger on the fruit bowl. He had not studied the varieties of pear trees that grew in England. Perhaps one of the books he brought along had a section on fruits that would tell him more. He would have to see what information he could find from the cook as well. His thoughts drifted back to Mrs. Neville watching him savour the pear. Her eyes were…
“…to lose so many young men. Dawn’s husband had been gone only a few months when he was killed…”
What the blazes? Dawn Neville is a widow!
******
Dawn tiptoed out of Teddy’s room, pleased he was sleeping soundly. Her mother was settled for the night too, all the potions and draughts dutifully measured out and consumed, the draperies adjusted and readjusted, the oil lamp positioned and repositioned, the bedclothes arranged and rearranged. At last, with a familiar sigh of self-pitying tribulation, Lady Seymour had whispered good night.
Dawn closed the door of her bedchamber behind her, threw herself onto the bed and tore the ribbons from her hair. What she wanted to do was cry, weep away her frustration, so carefully masked for the last few hours. Instead, she flopped over onto her stomach and sank her face into her pillow. How could Father have humiliated her like that?
She would never have believed he would do such a deceitful thing as to take a house next door to Lord Grayson, then dangle her before him like a prize sow at market day.
She slammed her fist into the feathers and wiped away a tear. When her father had whispered in her ear that Lord Grayson was a widower, just as they were all making their introductions, she had been tempted to excuse herself entirely. She wished she could hide away and never reveal the depths of her mortification. But something, some sense of daughterly duty, some aversion to impropriety kept her in her place.
This was so unlike her father. Completely out of the ordinary. Never before had Sir Malcolm hinted that he would interfere in her life. Oh, once or twice, or perhaps three times he had suggested she might eventually look for a second husband.
She would never marry again. Her only aim in life was to raise her son without interference. She had seen how a new husband could be envious of his wife’s children. Peg’s new husband sent her little son off to board with the vicar several parishes away. Peg never got to see him. Or Maria, also a widow from Peter’s regiment. Her new husband wanted his own son and though he was never cruel to Maria’s fatherless child, he definitely treated him as an outsider in his family.
Though people always told her little Teddy needed a father, she knew better. She had heard even worse stories than Maria’s and Peg’s. Now her father installed the family right on top of an eligible widower like Lord Grayson. Dawn gave the pillow a final thump, then clutched it to her chest. It was so odious, so awkward, so obvious.
But, had it been obvious to Lord Grayson? The man hardly gave her a second glance except when they spoke about the pear. He had not acted like a man on the lookout for a second wife. It was his father who had carried on most of the conversation. Perhaps Grayson was just as much a dupe in this situation as she was.
Dawn fluffed the pillow, set it in place and smoothed the cover. She had to admit that Lord Grayson was quite attractive, in a distant sort of manner. Most of the time at the table, his thoughts must have been far, far away. His dark hair lay in casual waves, his brown eyes set deep under generous brows. The wide forehead, the chiselled features, all were handsome in a very classic way. Peter’s face had been more boyish, with golden hair and light blue eyes. In height Peter had been about the same, just less than six feet, but Lord Grayson had a more muscular build.
She reached for the miniature of Peter she kept by her bed. It was rather a poor likeness, a hasty job by a second-rate artist, but it was all she had. She often tried to recall every detail of his face, and sometimes she thought she remembered his looks exactly. Other times, she admitted reluctantly, the particulars were blurred.
Her tears fell faster now, altered from vexation to sorrow and regret. Theirs had been a short courtship and an even shorter marriage. In all they had known each other only seven weeks, though in their youthful exuberance, they promised each other everything, adoration, passion, and joy. But he would never come back. No matter how much she had prayed the announcement of Peter’s death had been an error, she knew from the letters she received from his fellow officers, that he had died in Spain.
She shivered and blew her nose. A self-indulgent tantrum would not change the situation. Her father was pushing her at Lord Grayson, and the target was either oblivious to the fact or completely uninterested. Whichever it was, she must spend the summer here, some of the time in his company. Her father would never consent to take them home, and her resistance would only provoke his most obstinate reaction. Sir Malcolm’s good nature was well known, almost as ubiquitous as his stubbornness.
She curled herself around the long-suffering pillow. Lord Grayson seemed unaware of her father’s intentions and anything but eager to know her. As the heir to the earldom, no doubt he would look to the highest circles of the ton if he needed a second wife. She had never even had a London season, having married Peter before her mother had convinced any of their relatives to take on her presentation.
