To Woo a Wicked Widow

Book 1: Widows' Club

by Jenna Jaxon

Genres: Women's Fiction; Regency Romance; Historical Romance

Synopsis

Lady Charlotte Cavendish is still the spirited girl who tried to elope in the name of love. That dream was thwarted by her father who trapped her in a loveless, passionless marriage. But now widowed, Charlotte is free to reenter the giddy world of the ton—and pursue her desires. Hardly a typical widow, she remains innocent of pleasures of the flesh. Yet now that her life is finally her own, she intends to keep it that way. Nash, the twelfth Earl of Wrotham, is beguiled by Charlotte at first sight—and the feeling is mutual.

When he receives her intriguing invitation to a house party, the marriage-minded lord plans to further their acquaintance. But even he cannot sway her aversion to matrimony, and only with great restraint does he resist her most tempting offer. For unbeknownst to Charlotte, the misadventures of the past are revisiting them both, and bedding her could cost him everything—or give him everything he ever wanted.

Release date: March 27, 2018

Publisher: Lyrical Press

Print pages: 352

Sample

London, May 1810

Moonlight streamed into the mews, brightening the night and making Lady Charlotte Fownhope draw back into the shadows of the stable. She strained to hear sounds from her father, the Earl of Grafton’s, town house, but only the clink of bridles came to her ears as Edward, her groom, led her chestnut mare and his horse into the light.

“You should have taught me to saddle her. Then I could have helped you.” She came forward to take the reins.

“I’ll always be here to do that for you, my lady.” He smiled, his white teeth a flash in the swarthy, handsome face, then leaned down to kiss her.

His warm lips caressed her, calmed her even as the comforting scent of horses and leather that hung about him enveloped her. This was where she belonged, in Edward’s arms. Not with Lord Ramsay, her father’s choice for a husband.

A horse snorted and Charlotte jumped back. “We must be off. Dinner will last only so long. With luck, no one will look in on me but my cousin Jane, so we will have until the morning before they know I am gone.”

Edward nodded and cupped his hands to give her a leg up.

Once in the saddle, she gathered the reins and waited for him to mount, her stomach tightening with excitement. “You know the way?”

“Yes, we take the Great North Road as far as York, then over to Manchester and up to Gretna Green.” He slid into the saddle. “We’ll be on horseback the first two days. They won’t expect that. They’ll be looking for a carriage.” He reached over and grasped her hands. “You’ll be all right on horseback for so long?”

She nodded, prompted to sit up straighter. If she had to spend a week in the saddle to be with Edward, she would do it. “Let’s go.”

They walked the horses out of the light, into the darkness of the underpass, keeping quiet until they were at the end of the row of stables. Charlotte resisted the urge to look over her shoulder to see if they had been pursued. They had been careful. They would succeed. She drew her black cloak around her shoulders against the now-chill wind.

At a nod from Edward, she tapped her horse and Bella started into a quick trot. The clop, clop of the hooves on the cobbled streets soothed her. After months of planning, they were on their way at last.

Several hours later, Charlotte and Edward slowed for another tollgate. They had passed through four already, and after the first, Charlotte had turned the bag of coins over to him to take care of the fees. A twinge in her hip, an ache in her thigh muscle told her that her body had begun to feel the strain of constant motion in the saddle. When they finally stopped for the night, she doubted she would want to climb back on Bella tomorrow.

Slowed to a walk, her mare nickered, and from somewhere behind the toll gate another one answered. Charlotte patted her withers and glanced at Edward.

“Tollkeeper!” he called, rending the silent night. After a moment he called again, still with no result.

“He must be dead asleep.” The wind had risen, causing Charlotte to tug her cloak closer.

“Dead drunk’s more like.” Edward dismounted, strode to the tollhouse door, and knocked.

The door jerked open. A huge hand grasped his shoulder, dragging him inside.

“Edward!” Charlotte dropped the reins, peeled her aching leg from around the horn of the sidesaddle, and slid to the ground. She must get to Edward. As her boots hit the dirt, two men appeared from nowhere.

“Ha, got ya!” They grabbed her arms, their rough fingers digging painfully into her flesh.

Terror shot through her veins, stopping her breath in her throat. Still, she managed to pull back and forth, trying to break free. No use. Their big hands clamped down on her like a vise as they hustled her toward the toll booth.

“Edward! Help! Someone, help!” Charlotte shrieked as they dragged her toward the building. Dear Lord, they must be highwaymen. She had heard sickening stories about the dangerous criminals who roamed the roads, preying on unlucky travelers. Her stomach twisted.

At the threshold they loosened their grip to get her through the door. Charlotte swung around and raked her fingernails down one man’s face.

He bellowed and pushed her away, into the house.

She wheeled toward the other man, bent on a similar attack, but stopped, shocked at the tableau before her.

The flickering light of the hearth revealed a large man holding Edward’s head down on a crude plank table, a pistol pressed against his temple. The tollkeeper in his nightshirt and cap, eyes wide, face pale, stood in front of the fire, staring at the scene. To the left of the table stood her father.

All the strength ran out of Charlotte’s legs and she began to sink toward the floor.

The man she had wounded grabbed her arm and hauled her up. “No, you don’t. That’s all, your lordship. Just the two of’em.”

Leaning on his silver-knobbed walking stick, her father fixed his dark eyes on her, his mouth a black line between thin lips.

Charlotte’s heart thudded painfully in her chest. The light flickered, dimming to a dull gray as she began to slump again. Oblivion would certainly be preferable to what her father surely had in store for her.

Cold water hit her face and chest, forcing her back into consciousness.

“You will be awake to see this, Charlotte.” Her father thrust a stoneware mug at the tollkeeper, who clutched it to his chest as if it were a shield. Then her father nodded to the man with the pistol.

“No! You cannot kill him.” Charlotte wrenched her arms out of the man’s grasp and lunged for the gun.

The side of the pistol slammed into her face, knocking her to the floor. He cocked the piece and returned it to Edward’s head.

“Thrush, here, had the audacity to try to take what is mine.” Her father’s voice shook, his fury rising with each curt word.

Through her wavering vision, her father’s face appeared impassive in the uncertain light, his voice now emotionless as he peered down at her. “If you assisted him in this, then his blood is on your hands much more so than mine.”

“If you kill him, you will have to kill me as well.” Narrowing her eyes at him, Charlotte carefully picked herself up off the floor, hatred of him so intense it must be oozing through her skin. “I will tell everyone exactly what you have done to Edward. As a peer you may be above the law, but you are not above the censure of the ton. I will make sure that they have every detail of his death and our elopement until the scandal-broth scalds you to death. If you want scandal, Father, I will choke you with it.”

He chuckled, adjusting his grip on his walking stick. “Sometimes I wish you were my heir, Charlotte. You have a better mind than Caldwell, and much more of me in you.” He sighed and rubbed the knob of his cane. “Pity you’ve begun to rave like a lunatic. I doubt you will like Bedlam, my dear. I would dislike having to put you there, but if you tell such grievous lies, what else am I to do?”

A wave of horror washed over her. Tales of the appalling conditions of the infamous hospital had sickened her. Her arms broke out in gooseflesh. Bitter bile crawled up the back of her throat. Tears trickling down her cheeks, she looked at Edward, who hadn’t moved the whole time.

He mouthed silently, I love you.

Staring at him, she raised her voice until it rang to the rafters. “I love you, Edward.”

“Sickening pap.” Her father pursed his lips as though a bad taste filled his mouth. “I should kill you, too.” He nodded to the man with the pistol. “Cates.”

“Tollkeeper!”

The shout from outside froze everyone.

Dear God, a savior. Charlotte opened her mouth, only to have the dirty hand of her captor slam over it before she could shout.

“Attend to your business, tollkeeper.” Her father’s words were clipped as he stared down at the little man. “Leave me to mine and you will be rewarded.”

Eyes wide, the tollkeeper nodded and headed for the door with shaky steps.

Charlotte elbowed her captor, wrenching her body this way and that, trying to break free. She bit down on the hand that muzzled her and stomped in an effort to mash his foot.

The howl the blackguard sent up was music to her ears. He jerked his hand away, swearing.

“Help! Oh God, help me. Someone!” She screamed so loudly something in her throat tore.

“Charlotte!” Her father slammed his cane down on the table an inch from Edward’s face, making her jump back. “Andrews, for God’s sake, stifle her.”

Andrews grabbed her again, putting his arm around her neck. She almost gagged at the sour smell of his coat.

The door burst open and a tall man holding a large pistol strode in, the tollkeeper scuttling behind him.

Cates whipped his gun around, training it on the stranger.

The man, who seemed to tower over everyone in the room, obliged him by leveling his weapon on Andrews. Glancing from one figure to another, his gaze finally rested on Charlotte. “What the devil is going on here?”

His deep, commanding voice sent a thrill of hope through her.

“None of your affair, sir.” Her father once again leaned on his cane, his mouth pinched. “You may pay your toll and be on your way. This is a private matter.”

The stranger, bundled against the cold in a blue peacoat and black felt hat with the brim pulled down shading his eyes, shook his head. “I think not.” He nodded toward Charlotte. “I heard the lady scream. I’ll hear what she has to say.”

Andrews tightened his hold and Charlotte’s vision started to gray again. A loud thwack sounded near her ear and the arm smothering her loosened and fell. She coughed, then drew a deep, clean breath. Her father’s henchman lay at her feet. The stranger now stood next to her, his gun pointing at Cates. Hope stole through her breast once more.

“Tell me what’s going on, miss.”

“I apprehended this horse thief,” her father spoke up before she could say a word, “and was about to administer justice when you came along. As I said, it is a private affair.”

“That’s not true.” Charlotte turned to their rescuer, her heart thundering. She must convince him to help them or Edward would die. “My betrothed and I were eloping. My father found out and waylaid us here. They are going to kill Edward.” Her heart lurched at the sound of the words spoken aloud. She searched the man’s face, praying with every fiber of her soul that he believed her. That whoever he was, he was a match for her father and his men. “Please, I beg of you, you must stop them.”

“He was stealing my horses, taking my daughter as a hostage for ransom.” Her father cut his eyes toward Cates.

Charlotte tensed. What would the wretched man try next?

“The lady seems rather enamored of her kidnapper, which I find odd if what you say is true.” The stranger gestured to Edward. “What do you have to say, sir?”

Edward tried to rise, but Cates slammed the butt of the pistol into the back of his head. He fell forward onto the table.

“No!” Charlotte shrieked, her stomach twisting anew. She darted toward the still figure.

Her father grabbed her arm and jerked her behind the table next to him. His fingers dug into flesh, biting even through her clothing.

The stranger swung his pistol around, pointing it at her father’s face. “Because you didn’t want me to hear his reply, I’ll assume it would have confirmed the lady’s tale.”

“And if it did, you have no authority to aid and abet their illegal flight to Scotland,” her father countered. “My daughter has not reached her majority; therefore, I am fully within my rights to keep her from making such a mésalliance.”

“Quite correct, sir. If she is your daughter, she does fall under your dominion. This man, however, does not. And you certainly have no authority to kill him.”

“That was never my intention.”

“Oh yes, it was.” Charlotte tried to pull away from her father, but his strong grip on her upper arm pinned her next to him.

“I think I will take the lady’s word over yours, all the same.” The stranger smiled, and a chill ran down Charlotte’s spine. “Get him on his feet.” He gestured with the gun to Edward.

Cates glanced at her father, who nodded. The henchman grabbed Edward by the back of his coat and hauled him up.

Groaning and groggy but able to stand, Edward stared at her, the anguish in his eyes matching the ache that tore at her heart.

The stranger clasped him about the waist and they backed toward the door.

“Make sure you do not take any of my horses.” Her father finally released his grip on her aching arm. Shaking it loose, she ran toward the door, shouting, “Take the chestnut mare. She’s mine.”

Cates blocked her way, but moments later the muffled sound of hoofbeats told her they were away, Edward safe at last. Her shoulders slumped and the tears began to flow once more, relief at his escape warring with the hollow ache of her heart. She would never see him again. If she could die right now, she would count herself blessed.

“Wake up Andrews and bring my carriage around.” Her father barked out the order to Cates. Glaring at the tollkeeper, who was now cowering in the corner, he tossed a gold sovereign on the table. “For your trouble and your silence.” At last he turned his attention to Charlotte, his lips twisted in a snarl. “You will fill an ocean with those tears before I’m through with you.”

He grabbed her arm again and pushed her out the door into the chill air and pale moonlight that would be the rest of her life. Oh, yes. Death would have been a blessing.

“My lady, wake up.” The insistent voice of her maid scarcely penetrated the fog of exhausted sleep Charlotte had fallen into early that morning. She grunted and turned over. If she never woke up she’d be perfectly happy.

“My lady.” Rose shook her shoulder. “Your father wants you downstairs immediately.”

Oh, God. Charlotte groaned and burrowed deeper under the covers. The reckoning she’d known was coming had arrived. Too heartsore to be afraid, she crawled out from beneath the covers. Best to get this over with, take her punishment as she always had at her father’s hands, so she could come back here to mourn Edward’s loss in private.

She peered at herself in the mirror and wished she had not. Her face was badly bruised where Cates had hit her. Rose would be hard pressed to cover the purple marks on her cheek even with cosmetics. And her arm throbbed from her father’s brutal grip. Still, her heart ached more than her body. She wanted to be happy that Edward had escaped, but she couldn’t ignore the empty pit in her heart.

An hour later, she entered her father’s study, fighting not to wince as she straightened her shoulders and raised her chin. Unless she met the man with strength, he would trample her and never look back. She stood before the huge, worn mahogany desk, exactly as she had every time she’d displeased him in her eighteen years.

He continued writing, not even looking up to acknowledge her presence. Another of his ploys.

Remaining still, she stared at his hand as he made the small, neat letters. The trick was not to say a word. Allow him to make the first move.

At last he signed his name with a flourish, set the pen down, and capped the ink. Then he raised his head and looked at her. And smiled.

Charlotte’s stomach sank. The smile meant triumph. It meant whatever the punishment he had set for her, he had gotten his way with it. She firmed her lips. She’d not give him the satisfaction of seeing her fear.

“Well, your little indiscretion of last night has cost us the Ramsay alliance.” He leaned back, his hands clasped.

“It has?” She couldn’t keep the surprise out of her voice. The settlements for her marriage to Lord Ramsay had already been signed. How had the betrothal been broken?

“Ramsay caught wind of your little escapade. I’m not sure how, but I’ll find out which servant talked. They will never set foot in a decent household again.” He tapped his forefingers together. “Nevertheless, he knows that my daughter tried to elope with her groom and now refuses to have you.”

Well, good for Lord Ramsay. She had nothing against the man except that she didn’t know him and certainly didn’t love him.

“I could have forced the issue, but he has agreed to be discreet about the reason he now finds you objectionable. I have broken the betrothal on your behalf. Perhaps next year I will give him your sister Agnes.” His intense stare made Charlotte’s skin crawl. There would be worse news to come. “She’s much more biddable than you ever were.”

“Thank you, Father.” Not that this situation pleased her much more than marrying Ramsay. Of course, now he’d have to send her down into the country to wait for him to choose the next-most-advantageous match for her. A plan with merit, for being out of his presence was a boon. Even had she found a man this Season at least palatable to her, her father would never allow her to marry him unless the alliance served his purposes.

“But do not despair, Charlotte. You shall have your wedding, and on schedule.” His eyes twinkled and her stomach sank even further. “I have called in a favor from an old friend. He has agreed to marry you and take you off my hands.”

“An old friend, Father?” Dread built slowly in her chest. This must be her punishment.

“Sir Archibald Cavendish. You remember him, I daresay. He’s been my guest often enough at the hunting lodge in Kent.”

Her breath stopped. No. That was not possible. Marriage with . . . “Sir Archibald? But . . . but he’s your age.” And balding and as big around as he was tall. The last time she’d seen him, two years ago at the lodge, he’d been so drunk he stank of whiskey and the strong clove scent he wore in his cologne made her sneeze. Now she’d be expected to marry the man? She had to clutch the back of the chair in front of her.

“Two years younger, but that’s of no consequence.” The jubilant tenor in his voice told her he was enjoying her horror. “Sir Archibald is just the man to curb that spirit of yours.”

“I won’t do it. You cannot make me marry that nasty old man.” She had spoken with her cousin Jane when she’d been betrothed to Ramsay and been informed that English law required her to consent to her marriage. Well, she would never willingly agree to this alliance. Being a spinster or anything else was better than being that man’s wife.

“Oh, I think you will, daughter.” He leaned toward her, menace etched in every line on his face. “Because it is Sir Archibald or the lunatics at Bedlam. Any woman who would disgrace herself by running off with a servant would easily be deemed mad by the authorities. I have sent inquiries to one of the physicians on the board, telling him of your irrational behavior and asking if they would admit you if you do not see reason.”

“You would really do such a thing to me?” He would. She had no doubt.

“It is your choice, Charlotte. I will not have scandal in my house. Had you behaved according to your station and married Ramsay, we could have avoided these less-appealing options.” He sat back again, cold, emotionless. Triumphant.

He had her trapped. She could not choose the asylum if she expected to live. Edward had not wanted that for her, even at the cost of his own life. She swallowed hard and prepared herself for the inevitable. It would have to be the odious Sir Archibald. Perhaps she could persuade the man to leave her in the country while he gallivanted around and thus spend as little time with him as possible. At least there was that hope.

With a heavy sigh, Charlotte nodded. “Then I accept Sir Archibald’s suit. You can inform me of the wedding details when you have arranged them.” She clenched her hands and spun on her heel, determined to leave the study without seeing her father’s gloating face. Before her tears rained down again, as she knew they would, the ocean her father had predicted just beginning.

London, June 18, 1816

Lady Charlotte Cavendish squeezed into the upstairs retiring room at Almack’s, shaking in her new yellow slippers, half in excitement, half in terror. The parlor was already crowded with gaily dressed women eager to show their patriotism for the Waterloo veterans. She, on the other hand, attended for an entirely different reason—a reason that gave her joy for the first time in six long years.

Charlotte glanced around, unnerved by the crush of people. She was unused to such crowds after five years of marriage and a year of mourning. Surely she could find a bit of unclaimed wall where she could wait for her cousin, Jane, Lady John Tarkington, and contemplate the freedom she’d celebrate tonight. Not the normal return to society by a grieving widow. Then again, she had never grieved one day for the odious Sir Archibald. Considering she was still a virgin, she could hardly be called a normal widow at all.

She danced out of the way as two portly matrons hurtled past her.

“And then she said Lord Fairfax dragged her into the library . . .” The ladies moved off, heads still together, oblivious of the others around them.

Charlotte ran her hands over her skirts, checking for tears. She had never seen so many people here before. Had half of London turned up? Spying an open spot, she hurried toward it, tread on the hem of her gown, and stumbled against the cream-colored rear wall.

Drat. She turned her back to the wall and inspected the edging of the garment. The modiste had apparently cut it a little too long despite her exacting measurements. Why hadn’t she noticed this at home? The lace wasn’t torn, however. She sighed in relief, relaxing just a little. There was no reason to be nervous about rejoining society, yet she was on pins and needles. She must compose herself and wait right here for Jane so her clothing would not be further mussed.

She glanced down, smiling in satisfaction at her gown, which the seamstress had delivered yesterday. The fresh confection, cut daringly low in both front and back, in the most delectable shade of deep primrose yellow, boldly announced her eagerness to engage in life anew.

Time now to re-emerge, like a bright butterfly from a twelve-month cocoon, to stretch her wings. Charlotte fidgeted, shifting from one foot to the other, full of pent-up energy after years spent suffering through an empty marriage to a man she had never loved. I’d have better spent the past twelve months grieving the loss of Edward. Or perhaps I should have mourned my stepson Hal. He set me free.

Harold Cavendish, her husband’s second son, had died at Waterloo. When the news had reached Sir Archibald, he’d suffered an attack of apoplexy and died. His elder son, Edgar, now Sir Edgar, held the title to the baronetcy. What a pity the fates of the sons had not been reversed. Charlotte had always gotten along well with Hal. Edgar was another matter entirely.

Near the entrance, the press of women seemed to thin a bit. She strained to see through the throng that still surrounded her. Drat. Had the dancing begun before her cousin arrived? She didn’t want to miss a moment of tonight. Cocking her head, she strained to hear through the soft din of voices. Snatches of discordant notes drifted in from the ballroom as the orchestra tuned up.

Why hadn’t Jane arrived? Charlotte eyed the doorway, willing her cousin to appear. As the first social function Charlotte had attended since her mourning ended, this fete represented her bid for freedom and she did not intend to miss a moment of the ball.

Thanks to her father’s treachery, not since her ill-fated flight to Gretna Green had she experienced one moment of love or tenderness with a man. Her aging husband had made it quite clear on their wedding night that he would not demand his marital rights. He’d never given her a reason for his disinterest, although she had her suspicions. During the next five years, however, he’d been as good as his word, never so much as putting a foot over the threshold of her bedchamber. A circumstance for which she gave thanks to God nightly—Sir Archibald had been short, potbellied, with breath like an old chamber pot. Charlotte had often wondered who she despised more, her husband or her father.

What she wouldn’t give to just once know the long-denied pleasure of a man’s attentions. She imagined herself on the dance floor, held in the arms of a dashing gentleman who would sweep her around the room as if they trod on air. He would smile for her alone and perhaps hold her a bit more tightly than was proper. She would laugh and flirt with him, without a care in the world beyond who her next partner would be. Yes, she had dreamed of this night for years.

Her blood beat a quick rhythm in her veins. The air had grown quite stifling. Alarmed, Charlotte pulled out her fan and plied it vigorously. She simply could not faint here! Not before setting a foot on the dance floor.

Had she known Jane would be this tardy, she would have accompanied her to Lady Darlington’s crush. Instead, Charlotte had preferred to have more time to dress, to perfect her first impression after so long an absence. If Jane didn’t arrive soon, however, she might give in to desperation. Might even be tempted to go into the ballroom alone. A dreadful way to call attention to herself, but she’d been waiting all her life for this moment.

As if summoned by Charlotte’s frantic need, her cousin rounded the corner into the retiring room. Panic receded. Charlotte breathed deeply and waved to her. Ever since they were children, Jane’s presence had had a calming effect on her. Though truly sorry for the loss of her cousin’s husband, she had been grateful when Jane had moved into the London town house with her and provided her with advice on widowhood.

“Oh, Jane!” Charlotte hugged her slight frame. “I thought you would never arrive.”

“I told you to come with me, Charlotte. Then you wouldn’t be in such a state.” Jane straightened the topaz and gold necklace around Charlotte’s neck. “You seem ready to fly to pieces.”

“I am.” Charlotte laughed, so giddy now the flickering candlelight spun. “I’m so tired of waiting.”

“Well, you likely will still have your share of that once we enter.” Jane nodded toward the ballroom. “We will probably have a devilish time attracting any attention at all from the gentlemen.” She frowned and flipped open her fan. “That is a major concern, my dear. The Season is all but over.”

Charlotte nodded. Now that they could accept any invitation they liked, the invitations had ceased to arrive.

“Our mourning ended at such an unfortunate time of year.” Jane started toward the doorway. “What few events remain will not likely be well attended by gentlemen seeking to marry. The most eligible have either been brought up to scratch already or have managed to escape and think themselves safe for another year.” She stopped and nodded to an acquaintance. “Despite the numbers drawn to the fete tonight, I fear we will find dancing partners scarce.” Jane sounded miffed, but Charlotte smothered a smile at her words. She doubted her cousin would sit out a single set unless she chose to. Jane had always had a way with men.

“Then by all means, let us hurry to make our presence known.” Charlotte bit her lip. Prickles of excitement coursed down her glove-encased arms. The moment she had waited for had arrived. Once again she would enter the giddy world of the ton. Shoulders straight, a pleasant smile carefully gracing her lips, Charlotte swept toward the glittering ballroom, ready for life to begin again.

“Demmed slim pickings this late in the Season, eh, Wrotham?”

Blandly surveying the crowded ballroom, Nash, twelfth Earl of Wrotham, had to agree with his friend, George Abernathy.

“Well, none of them showed great promise, even when out in full force in April. Too young and too silly if you ask me.” A shame too, as Nash had determined he would do his duty and marry this year. He’d come into his title unexpectedly, only eighteen months before, and at thirty had no time to waste putting an heir in his nursery. Life was a chancy thing.

“You may be right at that.” George surveyed the room, his usual look of boredom unchanged.

“I suppose we must wait and hope for a better crop during the Little Season.” Nash sighed as several young ladies, dressed in all manner of frothy pastel gowns, congregated not ten feet from where he stood. He smiled pleasantly to acknowledge them, all of whom he’d stood up with before, but none of. . .