To Wed The Widow (The Reluctant Bride Collection, Book 3) [Ebook]

The room erupted into hushed whispers and excited laughter and the very Honorable George Sinclair breathed it in deeply and thought to himself, for the first time, that it was good to be home.

He hadn’t missed England. India had sunk into his bones; the heat, the food, the never-ending roar of life. He hadn’t wanted to leave; he mourned the fact that he’d never be able to return.

India had sent him home a changed man. He’d never be warm again; his greatcoat was now a permanent part of his wardrobe no matter how brightly the weak English sun tried to shine. Food would never taste again; flavorless, spiceless, and missing that now familiar bite. And he stayed as far from the country as he could because the silence was too much to take.

That, and his brother the earl.

He was too much to take as well.

But here, in town, with the excitement of balls and the roar of life and the rules, here George Sinclair found what he hadn’t realized he’d been missing.

Scandal.

The noise level somehow both increased and decreased at the same time as she entered and he turned to look at just who could cause such a commotion.

Her golden hair piled high atop her head, her plunging neckline peaking coyly from beneath row upon row of jeweled necklaces.

She paused, looking down on her subjects and they looked back, twittering and fluttering, and Sinclair thought that it was not enough. There should have been trumpets fanfaring and fireworks exploding because a regal queen had deigned to grace them with her presence.

Sinclair poked his friend in the side. “Just who, pray tell, is that?”

George St. Clair looked to where his friend pointed and fingered his cravat. “Mmm. The widow.”

Sinclair trembled with delight. “She has an epithet? The widow? How very intriguing.”

“A richly deserved one. She has had five husbands, all dead within one year of the wedding. The last, rumor has it, died whilst in bed and under her. Two weeks ago.”

Sinclair jolted when he realized her dress was black. That she was in mourning. Her dress skimmed here and flared there, and despite the color said nothing about mourning.

Sinclair’s eyes followed the curves and flares and he said, “Lucky scoundrel.”

St. Clair snorted and Sinclair looked at him with an eyebrow raised. “Is that not the most fervent wish of every man? To die naked, in bed, and beneath a beautiful woman riding him into everlasting oblivion?”

“It is apparently many a man’s wish because she has no lack of suitors.”

“But not you?”

“I require a man be cold in his grave before I start in on his widow.”

Sinclair looked again at the woman, at the long limbs and golden hair that gave proof that some Viking had pilfered and pillaged somewhere in her blood line.

Her black dress not stark but richly adorned, making her pale skin even paler, her golden hair even more golden.

Sinclair sighed. “Mourning suits her.”

“It does.”

Sinclair looked at his friend, noting the lines on his face and the tired look in his eyes that eight years had wrought.

“It’s suited her well for nearly a decade and with a handful of husbands. Remember that, Sin, before you become too enamored.”

“You don’t like her?”

St. Clair looked back at the woman, studying her, and when their eyes caught across the room, she smiled and made her way toward them.

“I know you will like her. And I have no wish to stand over your grave, my friend.”

Sinclair laughed. “I may like her, I may acquaint myself with all England has to offer now that I must, but marriage? Should I lose my mind, the earl will surely take it upon himself to find it for me.”

St. Clair clapped his friend on the back, smiling despite himself. “It’s good to have you home, Sin. And you can count on me, as well, to take up that task if it becomes necessary.”

“See? It is good to be home. I can play with whatever delectable scandal that crosses my path as long as you two are watching over me like clucking hens.”

“We wouldn’t need to if you didn’t look at scandal like a boy getting his first glimpse up the milkmaid’s frock.”

The widow snaked through the crowd, close enough now that she might be able to hear their conversation, and Sinclair said, “I have matured, my friend, since then. And I assure you that I can keep my wits about me in the presence of such beauty. Long golden locks and, oh my, crystal blue eyes.”

St. Clair shook his head. “All the better to snare her prey.”

The widow stopped in front of them, flicking open her fan to wave it idly. “Talking of me, Mr. St. Clair? You are always so flattering.”

He bowed, stiff and just this side of disapproving. “May I introduce Mr. George Sinclair. And this is Elinor Rusbridge Lemmon Gilberti Wooten Headley, Lady Haywood. Did I leave any out, my lady?”

She laughed, a low amused sound that would make any red-blooded man think of silk sheets and naked limbs.

Sinclair bowed theatrically enough to make up for his friend’s lack of manners. Flamboyantly enough to snag her attention to him.

The widow said, “George Sinclair and George St. Clair? However will I tell you apart?”

Sinclair leaned toward her. “Just remember, my lady, the sinner and the saint. And then forget the saint.”

Her smile peeked out from behind her fan and she whispered conspiratorially, “Forgotten.”

Sinclair leaned in even closer and didn’t whisper. “Good.”

They laughed, sharing in their little joke, and St. Clair bowed, leaving his friend to fend for himself. Sinclair was reminded of just what a good friend the man was.

The widow watched St. Clair’s back as he walked away from them, her fan still waving slowly.

She said, “I’m surprised he left you here, with me. I thought I heard you were good friends, back in the day.”

“Good friends, we are. The only friend I willingly put pen to paper during my long years in India.”

“The friendship must be more one-sided than you realize.” And in her words was the truth that it was her St. Clair didn’t like.

Sinclair shook his head. “My friend. Who knows me better than myself. Who knows it is very hard to distract me once I’ve seen something I like.”

She turned her eyes to him, dismissing St. Clair.

She waved her fan, still smiling, and studied his coiffed brown hair. His cravat. His waistcoat.

He waited for her to say she liked what she saw as well but out came, “And how is India? As uncivilized as one hears?”

Sinclair jolted at uncivilized. He’d been gone a long time, perhaps he was out of practice at this particular game.

“It is wonderful, and until but a moment ago, I was devising numerous schemes to get back there. Now, though, I find England and her wares intoxicating.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere, Mr. Sinclair.”

He murmured, “Excellent.”

Her fan sped up, their eyes caught. The crowd pushed her closer and she said softly, “Do you know why your friend Mr. St. Clair doesn’t like me?”

“I assumed it was a personal failing.”

She laughed, her hair moving precariously atop her head and he noticed there was gold tinsel woven through it.

“It is. My personal failing.”

He sniffed and her dark musky scent surrounded him.

He said, “I have known George St. Clair since our school days and you for but one minute, and I can assure you, it is not your personal failing.”

She was still laughing when she shrugged one shoulder, a surprisingly Gallic gesture for so Nordic a complexion.

“I like torturing him. I can’t help it. And I wonder if I can wind Mr. St. Clair so tight that he will shatter.”

“It can’t be done. Trust me.”

“So you think I should give it up? Admit defeat?”

Sinclair nodded. “I think you should expend your energies on a more worthwhile cause.”

Their eyes were nearly even, she was such a tall woman, and her hair towered over him. She only had to lean in to whisper in his ear, “I don’t give up. I don’t admit defeat.”

She pulled back, rapping his forearm with her fan hard enough to sting, and turned away from him.

She said over her shoulder as she walked away, “But you should perhaps listen to your friend, Mr. Sinclair. I like to play with my prey.”

The widow.

The name swirled around Elinor in the overheated ballroom. Loud whispers behind fluttering fans, appreciative glances from the men, glares from the women.

The ton had long ago decided what kind of woman she was, title or no title. And they weren’t entirely wrong.

She’d buried husband number five not two weeks ago and she was out socializing?

Unheard of! How shocking! The gall of the woman!

She’d mourned a full year with husband number one. The aging viscount who’d wanted a pretty, young wife to care for him in his twilight years. Who hadn’t cared just how muddied her family tree was since he already had his heir. And his heir already had an heir.

And if a pretty, young woman had wanted a husband only for his title, for the respect he could paint her with, she couldn’t have picked any better.

He’d given her his name– the name she even now answered to, four husbands later– had planted a child in her, and only one year later had made her a widow. With a title! Money!

Except the child hadn’t lived. And there hadn’t been any money. Not for her.

And husband number two had become a necessity. Along with better solicitors.

Elinor searched the ballroom, smiling vaguely and waving her fan. Meeting the wide-eyed stares of the debutantes, the narrowed glances of the dowagers.

The married men she ignored. The old men she flirted with.

She batted her eyelashes at the young men, touching her fan to her lips and making them blush.

She wasn’t set on any one man, yet.

A certain kind of man, certainly.

George St. Clair would have fit the bill if he wasn’t so…George St. Clair.

And you could call Elinor Rusbridge any kind of woman you liked but she was a realist. George St. Clair would never fall for her or her plan. He would be work for an uncertain reward.

His tanned friend there, fresh from India, was a possibility. He wanted some fun. The kind of fun Elinor had never given to any man she hadn’t been married to before, though she’d certainly been offered it.

She’d been married five times, and she knew the easiest way to get to that state was to make a man dizzy with desire. And not let him get undizzy until after the wedding.

Husband number two had been flabbergasted that a widow could be as tight-legged as a blushing virgin. Had, really, lost his mind in his pursuit of her.

A merchant, his money made from trade, his desire for a wife of title, a woman of lineage even if it was only a step up from his, the lovely man had given her everything he’d owned.

She’d made his reward well worth the wait. And they’d been happy for that one year.

Husband number two had also been honored with a full year of mourning. He’d choked on a soup bone and left her his fortune, after all.

After his death and her subsequent inheritance, she’d had the pick of the ton.

It was a lesson Elinor had learned well. It wasn’t a title that granted respect, it was money.

She supposed she could have stopped with the husbands after number two. It was number three that had turned her into a caricature for the society columns.

But she’d wanted more.

She always wanted more.

This husband, this time, required a different plan than a pretty face and knowledgeable eyes and tight legs. More than a beautiful woman whipping a man into a frenzy. It would require skill and timing. And luck.

She was not entirely certain she could pull it off, and the uncertainty of it was making her extremely picky.

A cup of punch was suddenly thrust at her, a hand cupped her elbow.

“Looking for me?”

She turned, a smile on her lips and steel in her voice. “I wasn’t.”

Golden blond hair a shade less lustrous than her own and blue eyes a smidgen less sparkly looked back at her.

“Father is turning in his grave at the spectacle you’re making.”

“I doubt it.”

“Subtlety, Elinor. Subtlety,” he said, and her brother sounded so much like their father that Elinor nearly shuddered.

He kept his hand on her arm, tight enough to hurt. “If you’re not looking for me, who are you looking for?”

“Who do you think the widow is looking for? Why are you here?”

“I was invited. As a special guest.”

“That seems unlikely.”

He waved behind her and when Elinor turned, there was the hostess frowning at them.

“You should go reassure her that your attentions aren’t straying, brother dear.”

“Oh, she knows about you. She has her own family ghosts; she knows about embarrassing relations.”

Elinor didn’t even feel the dig. “And her husband? He doesn’t care about special guests?”

Her brother put a fist on one cocked hip and said in a sing-song voice, “Not this special guest. This special guest is helping her redo her wardrobe to outshine Lady Westin. This special guest has no interest in the boudoir except what pattern the wallpaper is.”

Her brother was very good at choosing what kind of special friend would most suit his purposes and Elinor didn’t doubt he would keep himself out of the lady’s bed.

She said, “And how much his commission is when he gets her to replace it.”

Alan squeezed her arm tighter, trying to get her to flinch, to drop the cup.

“You’ve chosen your path, my lovely sister. I’ve chosen mine.” His eyes flowed up her hair and he said, “Not all of us have such beauty to sell to the highest bidder.”

She quoted her father, even if the words left a bad taste in her mouth. “Beauty and brains. The deadliest combination.”

Alan’s face tightened. “Never forget, Elinor, which of us got the lion’s share of brains.”

The rage and jealousy that flowed from her brother was old, a wound that could never heal. A wound her father had picked at and spit on until there was no love to lose between the siblings.

It didn’t help that poor husband number three had come between them. He’d chosen her over her brother.

The Italian Stallion. Marcus. And Elinor still mourned him, her first friend, in her heart.

He’d been beautiful. Tall and manly and fashionable. Everything a gentleman should be.

And everything a gentleman really was.

A completely different man when he was in the comfort of his own home than he was out in society.

Elinor had fallen for it, all of it, and it was only her excellent solicitors who’d kept her from losing her hard-earned money to her brother and his lover.

Their year of marriage had consisted of one shock and lie discovered after another. One year of scheming and fighting, and then gradually clinging to each other in the storm of her brother’s rage and hate and jealousy.

Husband number three had been the only man who’d seen inside her, who’d known who and what she really was. The only man who’d snuck into her heart, and she into his.

And then, a fall from his horse, a broken neck, and the widow had been born.

She’d mourned him in public for only six months and she’d tightened in the waist of all her dresses, fashion be damned, to prove there was no posthumous child. She’d used those extra six months to choose more wisely. To be more sure of her next husband.

Elinor patted her brother’s cheek with her free hand. “You got the lion’s share of something, my loving brother.”

His hand jerked around her arm, the feeling in her fingertips getting fainter the longer he held on and she smiled wider at him. Proving just who was getting to whom. Hoping she could prove it before her hand went all the way numb.

George Sinclair sidled up to them, then stopped suddenly when he saw Alan. He looked between them, then down at the hand still gripping her elbow and the cup of punch in her hand.

He looked down at the two cups in his hands and then back up into her eyes. “Oh. I thought you wanted punch. Isn’t that what you said?”

He sounded simple and lost, and Elinor smiled at him wide enough to make him blink and really lose the use of his faculties.

She said, “Here he is! And he’s brought me punch, how sweet. Toddle back to our hostess, brother, before she finds someone else with impeccable fashion sense.”

Elinor smiled brightly at Mr. Sinclair, forcing herself to hold on to the cup until her brother was gone and out of sight. Pins and needles raced down her fingers as the blood came rushing back and she switched hands quickly before she dropped the confounded punch.

George Sinclair watched her and took a sip from one of his cups. He made a face, then said, “Brother?”

Elinor took a cautious sip, turning it into a healthy gulp when the punch tasted just fine to her.

“You can pick your husband, you can pick your dog. You can’t pick your brother.”

He thought about that for a long moment. “Yes. I have my own brother. They should be outlawed.”

She snorted, a very unladylike and punch-filled sound that turned into a short coughing fit.

Mr. Sinclair watched her, still sip-sip-sipping, and when her coughs subsided said, “I don’t have a dog, though.”

She cleared the remaining cough from her throat. “I have three. Mastiffs.”

“Mastiffs! In London?!”

Everyone within a ten-foot radius turned at his shout and when Elinor had recovered from her involuntary jump, she started laughing at the red tinge to his face and sheepish look.

He muttered, “It’s much louder in India. I haven’t yet acclimatized myself to the quiet.”

Elinor chuckled, listening to the loud laughter of the crowded room and wondering just how loud India could be. She sipped her punch, forgetting her brother and her arm and thinking it was too bad about George Sinclair.

He was…intriguing.

An intriguing husband would certainly be different than her normal fare.

Except she’d met his brother. And she agreed, he should definitely be outlawed.

And there was his friend St. Clair who would keep a calm head under pressure.

They could both foil her plan. She needed someone more certain.

She turned her head away from George Sinclair and scanned the crowd.

He drew her attention back with a somewhat quieter, “How do you keep three mastiffs happy in London? I was thinking of a Pomeranian. Keep him in the pocket of my greatcoat.”

Elinor tried not to smile at the image. Tried to give him the cold shoulder, chase him off, but he leaned in and whispered, “And then when my brother gets too close, let the dog loose. Yap yap yap yap.”

He laughed and Elinor laughed with him. “I would love to see you do that to the Earl of Ashmore.”

“I see you’ve met him.”

Elinor sternly insisted to herself to stop laughing. “I have. Are you quite sure you’re related?”

He sighed, heartfelt. “I would give anything to be proved I am not. Alas.”

He tipped his cup up, finishing it and starting in on the next one, and she tried again to look away. To stop wasting time with him.

But she said, “My brother wouldn’t be scared off by the yapping of a spoiled Pomeranian. I assure you it is quite as funny when you open the door and let loose three mastiffs.”

She snickered at the memory. Mr. Sinclair didn’t join her, and there was a little less laughter in his eyes when he looked at her. He looked down at the arm she was still favoring.

“Brothers. Should be outlawed.”

She turned her head away from the tone in his voice. At the outrage and understanding.

She caught the gaze of George St. Clair, off in a corner watching them. She stared unblinking at him, and he her, until finally she nodded imperceptibly.

George St. Clair had already lost one friend to the widow. Elinor knew he wouldn’t let her have another.

No matter how intriguing he was. No matter that she hadn’t been the cause of husband number four’s death.

Hadn’t been the cause of any of their deaths.

But the rumors circulated, and the whispers were too delicious to be sullied with the truth.

That Elinor Rusbridge was simply supremely unlucky.

One could say it was her husbands who had been extremely unlucky, but she liked to think that all of them had had the best year of their life before their untimely deaths.

Husband number four, and the reason for George St. Clair’s supreme dislike, had been a quiet, kind man.

No one had thought she’d been serious about him, including the poor man himself.

But Elinor hadn’t wanted anymore drama.

She’d wanted quiet. Peace. Children running under foot and a husband who was easy to please.

They’d settled in the country and Elinor had resolved to herself to be the perfect country wife. Not too adventurous in bed, just solicitous enough out of it.

Her staid, conscientious husband had taken it upon himself to visit a sick neighbor in the rain and had left this world courtesy of putrid fever.

Elinor had decided she was none too fond of the country. Her mourning had lasted two months.

Mr. Sinclair looked to where her attention had gone to.

“Friends. Should be outlawed, as well.”

“That friend, absolutely. Have you ever seen him smile?”

“Too serious for it. Too much responsibility.” He closed his eyes, shuddering. “A responsible man.”

“You don’t seem to suffer from the affliction.”

“Thank you,” he said and she laughed. Again.

He said, “May I stand firm against the lure of responsibility despite all attempts at recruiting me.”

Elinor decided she must put a stop to this at once. He was far too entertaining.

She said, her voice cold and disapproving, “Friends are rare, Mr. Sinclair. You should treasure yours.”

“I do. Especially the kind that lets me enjoy my mistakes first and then saves me from them after.”

She lifted an eyebrow. “Mistake?”

“His word, not mine. And obviously I was not talking about you.” He ducked his head into his empty punch cup and muttered, “And obviously I have become as uncivilized as you have accused me.”

“Obviously.”

But her lips wobbled with the effort it took to keep from smiling.

She turned abruptly away from him, deciding that verbally sparring with him would simply never work and physical distance was required.

He followed at her elbow.

“But what about my reward?”

“…for?”

“Chasing away a brother. I think a dance should do it nicely.”

“I’m in mourning, Mr. Sinclair.”

He looked at her dress, sliding his eyes leisurely down, down, down.

“I can see that.” His eyes roamed back up, clearly enjoying the view. “I’ve never seen mourning look quite so beautiful.”

The reality was she’d been in mourning for the last ten years. Owned nothing but black clothing, black veils, black gloves and fans.

She looked down at the dress that was beautiful and striking despite the color, and lifted the hem of her gown just enough for her black heeled shoe to peek out.

She smiled. She did look good in black.

She said, “I shall simply have to return the favor someday and chase away your brother. I would hope I could be as off-putting as a Pomeranian.”

Mr. Sinclair came to a full stop and Elinor turned when she realized she’d lost him. He stood stock still, his eyes far away and unseeing, a smile lighting his whole face.

She wouldn’t have called him a beautiful man. Somewhat ordinary looking, except for the blond streaks in his light brown hair. His eyes an indiscriminate blue, faded and washed out.

Add to that his too-tanned skin, so unfashionable.

But he was one of those people. One of those people who became more beautiful with each moment they were in your company. The kind of people you looked forward to meeting with, the kind of people you missed when they were gone. The kind of people who were so happy and delightful that there was no hope in being anything but the same when they were near.

Elinor was not one of those people.

She was the kind of people you saw more and more of and liked less and less. She was the kind of people who became what she needed to get what she wanted. Showing the world what she wanted them to see and keeping the real her locked up tight.

She was the kind of people whose husbands found absurd ways to die after a year of her company, no matter how she tried to be what they wanted.

Two weeks.

She’d been widowed two weeks ago and here she was, hunting again.

Husband number five had been young. Three years younger than herself. Hearty and hale, the third son of a baron whose family had disapproved of her, of course, but hadn’t seen any better for the boy.

She’d been tired of her husbands dying and had thought his age would protect him. Had thought his age would protect her.

She’d been wrong. His age had only made him silly and careless. Had made him think he was invincible when all it took was a prodigious amount of liquor, falling asleep in his favorite chair with his chin to his chest, and never waking back up.

And here was her current predicament.

She couldn’t be distracted by a man who made her laugh when she couldn’t get what she wanted from him.

This husband had to prove himself before the marriage, and then be gentleman enough to still go through with it.

Mr. George Sinclair might have been that man. If he didn’t look at responsibility and shudder. If he didn’t have a brother who would laugh at her demands when she made them. A friend who watched him like a hawk, to swoop in and yes, save him, in her moment of triumph.

She had to find just the right man, and she would use whatever she had to get what she wanted.

Want was all she had.

This husband would give her a child. This husband would not leave her alone should he tire of her company after a year.

She would find her last husband.

And it wasn’t this man smiling brightly at her and saying, “I’m imagining you yapping at my brother.”

George Sinclair came to the conclusion sometime after the lovely Lady Haywood had swept away from him that he had indeed left any sort of charm he’d once depended on on another continent.

His friend St. Clair had been no help when he’d gone to complain at his lack of progress with the woman.

St. Clair had only continued to watch her and say, “Don’t bet on it. She’s simply playing a different game this time.”

“The ‘I’m not interested’ game?”

St. Clair turned his head just enough to note the frustration on Sinclair’s features. “Is her lack of interest making you want to chase after her like some lovesick ninny?”

Sinclair tracked the woman, not hard to do with that hair standing a foot above every man in the room and the black dress snagging everyone’s attention amidst all the brightly colored frocks.

“I object to the description but see your point, old friend.”

“I should write to the earl and tell him what kind of woman has grabbed your attention.”

Sinclair shook his head sadly and patted his friend on the shoulder. “I don’t know what has happened to you, George.”

St. Clair pushed himself off the wall he’d been propping up and said, “I grew up.”

He walked away to find some other entertainment now that the widow was leaving his adopted ward alone.

Sinclair watched him and thought no three words had ever sounded so sad.

One week later, Sinclair’s brother, along with his countess and four daughters, arrived in town.

Sinclair gave the benefit of the doubt to his friend and decided it wasn’t because St. Clair had sent that letter as he’d threatened.

No, the earl came because it was the season. And the countess loved everything about the season.

Sinclair was ordered to appear at the earl’s London residence, and Sinclair obeyed.

Everyone obeyed the earl.

Except the countess.

Sinclair would enjoy that about her, had in the past loved the countess unreservedly for it, but she’d recently become the source of all Sinclair’s problems.

Why couldn’t the woman simply obey her husband and pop out an heir?

Four girls. Ye gads.

The earl had sent a missive to his wayward brother shortly after the birth of the latest, informing him that he needed to come home. What with travel times and finishing up business, it had taken Sinclair over a year but here he was bouncing his youngest niece on his knee and saying over her squeals, “Why couldn’t you have been a boy?”

She showed him her gummy smile and shoved a wet and well-loved fist into her mouth. And squealed so loud that Sinclair stopped missing India.

His oldest niece, just turned eight and so serious and such a little version of the earl that he wanted to throw her into the air and make her squeal to prove she was still a little girl, scolded him.

“Uncle George. Even if it’s the truth, some things shouldn’t be said out loud.”

Camilla looked at her littlest sister with a worried expression. “I don’t want her to feel bad.”

George stopped bouncing but it did nothing to stop the squeals so he shouted, “Do you feel bad that you weren’t a boy?”

Camilla took her time thinking about it. Then raised her chin. “No. Although I know it would have been easier, Papa says he doesn’t need a son. That’s why he has you.”

George’s lip curled and he flopped against the back of the sofa.

The earl had him.

And that’s why he’d left India to come back to this chilly, bland country.

The earl needed him. The earl had ordered him home. To start learning his duties, to help with the responsibilities.

George shuddered.

To find a wife who could produce the next generation’s heir. Or rather, to be there when the earl found one for him.

Everyone obeyed the earl, even if they had run halfway across the world to escape him.

George hated his brother, and he loved him. Didn’t, under any circumstance, want to become him.

But George Sinclair was the earl’s heir, up to and until such time as the countess produced the real one, and with every passing year, the chance of that happening grew smaller and smaller. Damn the woman.

The countess swept into the room, no doubt following the squeals still erupting loudly from her offspring, and smiled warmly when she saw George entertaining his nieces.

He glared at her, at her still trim figure, the smile that shone in her eyes despite a decade married to his brother, the love and pride that showed on her face when she looked at her children. Even the youngest, who was supposed to be a boy.

She pecked George’s cheek warmly before settling next to him on the settee.

She glanced at the nursemaid, hovering nearby, ready to swoop in the moment Mr. Sinclair grew tired of squeals and pink, cherubic cheeks.

The woman had a long wait coming. George remembered bouncing Camilla on his knee when she was this age. He remembered spending an unfashionable amount of time with her tucked in the crook of his arm, spending an unseemly number of dinners at his brother’s dining table.

Happy being a part of the family. Happy to bask in the reward and none of the responsibility.

The countess said loudly, “Let the nurse take her, George. She is too much.”

“I like too much. I like too loud.”

“Then you may retire with her to the nursery.”

He sighed, gave the baby one last bounce, and handed her off to the nursemaid.

The nurse shut the door behind her and the room filled with peace and quiet. George hated it, but the countess settled back into her seat happily.

“I don’t know why every child gets progressively louder. Camilla was a mute in comparison.”

“This Camilla? The one sitting right here so nicely, not saying a peep? I thought she was a mute.”

Camilla scolded him again. “Uncle George.”

He’d obviously left the poor child to the earl for far too long. She sat quietly in her chair, her back straight, her hands folded in her lap. Her long brown hair was tied back with an oversized blue bow and her pretty dress was spotless.

He remembered her loud baby squeals and her fat, pink cheeks.

Remembered the earl quietly mourning on her first birthday that she hadn’t been a son. But there was always the next child. And there was always his brother, George, eh? Wasn’t that what the spare was for?

There was always his brother, the spare.

Who’d booked passage to India the next week.

The countess had written to him unstintingly during his self-imposed exile, and George knew his warm welcome home was all because of her. She’d refused to let the girls grow up not knowing their uncle. Refused to let the uncle not know every little detail about the girls.

He loved his sister through marriage despite the fact that him being here was all her fault. Didn’t know how his brother had got so incredibly lucky.

The countess smiled at her oldest daughter. “She is on her best behavior. On account of our guest.”

“Papa said if I was good I could eat dinner with you. In the dining room.”

She sounded so incredibly excited about it that George had to bite his cheek to keep from laughing. Or crying.

“And who is this lucky guest to be graced with Lady Camilla’s presence? Oh, gad! Don’t tell me it’s started already. What horribly suitable vir–” The countess jabbed him in the side and he said, “What horribly suitable lady have you invited for dinner?”

Format: EPUB
Length: 59,000 words, ~215 pages
Publication date: October 9, 2014