Reginald Moore gestured to the oak tree beyond his window. “This isn’t amusing, Clara.”
He made room so Clara Blackstone, the widow of his former business partner, could stand between him and the farce occurring outside.
She drew in a sharp breath. “No, of course not, Reggie. It’s downright dangerous.”
Beneath his bedchamber window, a young lady—one he’d previously thought to be above such foolishness—hung from a high branch wailing pitifully. Her legs kicked in the air ineffectually, her hair—fallen from its moorings—blinded her to the full extent of danger. Beneath her, her father stood shouting up at the branches and Reggie feared she might faint from the parental scolding and lose whatever precarious hold she had.
Her miserable shrieks gathered strength and then a particularly high and desperate one made him shudder. “Why do you think she attempted the climb and came to be stranded?”
“I imagine she heard the rumor that you sleep with the window open and was attempting to further her acquaintance with you. It is entirely your fault the local lasses are forced to ridiculous measures to catch a glimpse of you. If you could be the least bit pleasant, and do the pretty once in a while, things would go much better for you. Now you’re officially out of mourning the town speaks of nothing but what a grand matrimonial prize you are.” She sighed softly. “One of them means to have you, but the size of the tree was clearly a small concern in Miss Allen’s mind when she set out to catch you.”
Reggie let his gaze linger on the widow beside him. Almost equal to his height, he had a fine view of Clara Blackstone’s features. She was exceptionally pretty: flawless pale skin, full rosy lips, but her soft doe brown eyes no longer sparkled with warmth as she spoke. Was that a hint of sadness in her tone?
What had caused today’s disappointment? He’d give everything he had to make her smile again. “More’s the pity. Did it not occur to the chit that the span of the tree fell somewhat short of my window?”
Clara leaned closer to the glass and her black bombazine gown whispered across his leather-encased foot. Another distraction, added to the shock of her surprising invasion of his bedchamber. He’d never imagined she’d seek him out here for conversation, but he could certainly grow used to such intimate moments. “That truly is a matter the girl should have taken into account before the attempt, isn’t it?”
He kept his distance from the glass and from his friend’s widow. Neither the spectacle below nor the temptation before him was safe for closer inspection. Not yet at any rate. One day soon, however, he hoped to make a marked change in Clara’s situation. But he had to be patient and wait for the conclusion of one last matter. Then neither hell nor high water would prevent him having his way, of speaking of his feelings, and securing Clara as a permanent fixture in his life.
Clara’s shoulders sagged. “Ah, the gardener has brought ‘round a ladder.”
“Good grief,” Reggie groaned, “is Andrews to fetch her down? Well, we’ll have two burials to attend to now.”
“No, not Andrews, the younger gardener—the tall strapping Welshman.”
Hearing Clara describe another man with such glowing approval in her tone unnerved Reggie. He frowned at her somber attire, thankful that her involvement with the situation below the window hid his annoyance. He had waited patiently for Clara to put her husband’s death behind her and notice how much he worried for her welfare and happiness. These months of wretched celibacy couldn’t be for naught.
“Hmm, he’s climbing up after her.” Clara pressed a hand to the glass, fingers splayed close to the action. She gave no further commentary, but a sigh passed her lips.
As always, his glance fastened on her ring finger. A single band of gold still encased it. “I think I have kept you in the country too long if the servants are beginning to appeal to you.”
Clara chuckled, a rich throaty laugh that distracted him more the longer he knew her. Once, when deep in his cups, Acton Blackstone had boasted of Clara’s passionate and willingly experimental nature. Those vulgar words, spoken months before his death, had tormented Reggie for more days and nights than he cared to think about. He watched constantly for signs that she would recover her zest for life but so far, he saw little indication that she missed the pleasures of the flesh. If she was indeed the bold seducer her husband claimed, charming a gardener would require little more than a crook of her dainty finger.
Reggie would stand on his head, naked, if such a feat might excite her passions in his direction.
Her lips turned up in a gentle smile. “I think his actions romantic, but no doubt you wouldn’t care a whit for that, would you?”
He forced out a merry laugh. “You know me so well.”
Actually, she knew very little of him because he’d purposely kept her at a distance: playing the controlling tyrant to her weeping widow. Dragging her to the country for her health in the face of the scandal created by others had been entirely for his benefit. In London he had no excuse to linger in her drawing room. As his guest, he could spend every moment of the day by her side. Deceiving her about his true motives had been surprisingly easy.
Even still, she was in mourning for a man she was ridiculously lost without. Reggie had stood as her friend, adviser and protector through it all: the deaths, the scandal, the inquest and finally mourning.
He had worn the willow for six months in memory of a wife who was, at best, a shocking flirt. At worst, a shameless temptress who had betrayed her husband and best friend by engaging in an affair with Acton Blackstone, his business partner, and leading them both to their deaths. Mourning such despicable partners seemed a sham to Reggie. Only Clara’s grief was real.
“That I do, but you needn’t fear any longer. Miss Hastings stands with both feet on the ground and a disapproving parent is waiting to take her home. I do wonder how she will ever be able to look at you again.”
Reggie swayed closer to Clara and drew in a deep breath. “With luck, she won’t.” The subtle scent of rosemary clung to her skin and he wondered if she’d been lurking about the kitchen gardens again, inhaling cook’s herbs and driving the old woman to distraction.
Clara turned and her distended belly brushed his hip. She blinked, as startled by the contact as he was and for very similar reasons. Reggie avoided touching her because she carried her late husband’s babe. With a few months left ‘till the happy arrival, Clara kept to the strictures of their society and tried to hide her state. Even from him. “Now, Reggie, there is no need to take that unforgiving tone. She is very young and has, with luck, learned her lesson. Do try to be nice to her.”
She shook a little as she finished her lecture and again her belly brushed him. On impulse, he laid his hands on either side of her swollen stomach. Her skin was hard, not soft as he expected. Warmth seeped through the thin gown and enveloped his fingers with sensations he should, by rights, fight at least till she’d cast off her mourning clothes.
Her breath caught when he didn’t draw away. “Reggie?”
Driven by need, a devilish curiosity he couldn’t fight anymore, he caressed her babe through the gown. “Shh, love.”
Although whispered, his endearment sounded shockingly loud in the bedchamber. He slid his fingers slowly over the bump and when he stopped, something small and hard pushed against his palm. His gaze flew to Clara’s and he was fairly certain he gaped like a village idiot. “The child moves?”
