Lord Romney's Exquisite Widow (2 page)

He was nearing twenty-five years and was still not wed. His father was eager to see him settled down and then sent off to the West Indies or South Africa to oversee either of his sugar plantations. George was not overly keen to go, yet if he had a spouse who delighted in a bit of adventure, mayhap it would not be so very unpleasant.

He continued to muse, which was how he found himself only half attending to the prattle of Miss Hemming not some quarter of an hour later. She was secured as his partner for the next half an hour at least.

“And Mama told me not to wear the pink, for she said it was not at all as becoming as the blue, yet I could not see how she was correct, so I wore the pink anyhow, and is it not lovely?”

“Huh?” George started. What had she been speaking of? Something about her gown, perchance? “Oh, yes. The gown is charming.”

Miss Hemming beamed and then opened her mouth to commence once more.

To be sure, she was not overly tedious. There were worse things for a young lady to speak of, like the absurdity of someone
else’s
gown, for instance. He simply could not abide it when a woman blathered about another merely because of what she chose to wear.

He felt the tugging on his sleeve before he was brought back again to present. “Do you not see? Over there. What is that poor new girl wearing? She could not be more than twenty, and she has a lace cap about her head. She looks a veritable dowd. And her gown! Why, it is purple. Who would wear such an unfashionable color to an assembly such as this?”

Was she disapproving of what another was wearing? Frowning to perceive that Miss Hemming would do precisely what he believed she would not, he followed where her fan was pointing, then froze. His heart nearly flipped within his chest. For it was none other than Miss Catherine Polten—nay, Lady Romney now. He had heard that her husband was deceased, but not once in his wildest imaginings did he expect her to return to London.

“Lord Hamson, whatever is the matter with you? You appear as though you have seen an apparition.”

He had—oh, he had. The spirit of his past. The memories were fleeting—a few balls, six afternoon visits, and drives around Hyde Park. Yet, there was hope in her looks back then, and laughter that had filled his ears with music.

Suddenly, his heartbeat began to escalate, and his breathing became much more labored.

“Lord Hamson, would you prefer to sit out the next dance? Truly, you have not budged a centimeter for these thirty seconds at least, and we are beginning to create a scene, standing here without you taking me on the floor. Whatever has captivated you so thoroughly? The lady looks oddly dressed to be sure, but not to cause this much confusion.”

He started out of his reverie and glanced around him. “Forgive me, Miss Hemming. I seem to have completely lost my manners.”

She followed her gaze to where he continued to glance back. “Do you recognize the woman I was speaking of? The lady with the absurd lace cap?”

“Yes, I do. Or I did. It was long ago.” He shook himself. “However, I am present again, and eager to join in the throng once more.”

For the rest of the two sets, George was good to his word and did just that, though all thoughts of conversing with Miss Hemming in confidence seemed to flutter away. It took every ounce of concentration he could muster to remind himself to be patient and wait to reintroduce himself to Lady Romney later.

Miss Hemming continued on with her prattle, and George endeavored as best he could to listen attentively, but every so often, he could feel his attention returning to the lovely lady who was even then walking over to his side of the room.

She was with a gentleman and a lady. The two most definitely were a couple—perhaps the new earl and his wife? For his life, George could not recall what Charles Romney looked like. However, he would recognize Miss Poleton—er, Lady Romney—anywhere.

And now that he thought about it, precisely why was she wearing that silly lace cap? Yes, she may have been married and a widow now, and wearing it would be deemed proper. Yet honestly, it did nothing for her, and she was attending a ball besides. Even his own mother seldom wore her caps to balls.

Though he was attempting to stay focused on Miss Hemming, he was not remiss to the point that Lady Romney had yet to notice him. Perhaps she did not recall him at all. It did not matter. He had been a fool three . . . no, she had been married for three years, at least that’s what the papers said, and widowed one. Therefore, it had been four years since he had decided to ask for her hand. Now that she was here again, it was as if the heavens had gifted him with an incredible opportunity, one he should embrace fully and send his foolish pride packing. She was such a one to turn your life topsy-turvy for.

Why, he had only been in Lady Romney’s presence less than half an hour, and he was in blasted raptures over the chit. Enough was enough. If he did not know better, he would be mooning over her like a lovesick calf before the night was through.

His father’s words came back vividly in that moment. “George, my son, life rarely allows you a second chance. Be careful enough not to wish you could go back and change something. However, if an opportunity presents itself, grab hold and right the wrong, for it is a rare gift indeed to be able to do so.”

Finally, the music ended, and with a determined step, he gave Miss Hemming back to her mama with the usual courtesies. He bowed low and then abruptly turned and walked toward the small group. This meeting was long past overdue.

CHAPTER THREE:

Catherine’s mouth fell open when in astonishment, she beheld the dashing Lord Hamson approaching. She did not know where to look. Her heart began to beat fast, and her breathing was exceptionally erratic.

Sophia and Charles’ conversation tittered to a stop as he halted in front of them. “Good evening, Lady Romney.”

His voice, his smile—he was still here in London. How could her world be so perfect as to have the young lord here, and participating at the same ball, no less? “Thank you, Lord Hamson.” Her voice was stable, thankfully, belying the inner turmoil she felt. “Good evening to you as well.” She extended her hand and he kissed the top, sending an array of tinglings through her gloved fingers up to her elbow. It took a few moments before she came to her senses and remembered the company with her. “Excuse me. This is my stepdaughter and stepson, the Earl and Countess of Huntingdon.”

“It is a pleasure.” He bowed, but his gaze did not leave hers. Oh, how she had missed that particular look.

The Romneys and Lord Hamson exchanged pleasantries, but Catherine did not pay much attention. Her mind seemed to be in a continuous whirling loop, repeatedly asking itself if he was truly there before her.

She had nearly convinced herself that she was indeed dreaming when Lord Hamson interrupted her reverie and asked, “Forgive me, Lady Romney, but would you do me the exceptional honor of taking a turn about the room?”

Disoriented, Catherine glanced over to Sophia. Her eyes were wide and full of questions Catherine had no intention of answering anytime soon.

She did the only sensible thing. “Of course. I would be delighted.”

As if her fantasy had become real, Hamson pulled her toward him and then nestled her hand in the crook of his elbow. They walked several steps around guests until they came to a clearing where the people were scarce. Then he halted his steps and looked at her for a moment, truly taking it all in, as if he were witnessing a miracle of sorts. And perhaps he was. Heaven knew she certainly felt that way, being on his arm like this after such a long time.

Hamson’s gaze grew warmer, and his faint dimple peeped out. “Thank you for walking with me. I know of nothing more perfect for my happiness than this exact circumstance.” 

Catherine flushed again and then glanced away before feeling brave enough to meet his eyes once more.

“Forgive me.” He cleared his throat. “I am embarrassing you with my flattery when we should be conversing instead.” He stood a bit straighter and then declared with sincerity, “Before we continue on, there is something I feel I must express. I offer my condolences for the loss of your husband. I hear he was an excellent man. It must have been very painful for you.”

Yes. Without warning, an unexpected feeling of shame swept through her, and she attempted to understand where it came from before replying, “Thank you. You are too kind. He was a very remarkable man.”

“And how are you?” Thankfully, his steps began to pick up again. “Have you been able to rally your spirits this past year? Or have you not recovered fully?”

How could she answer such a thing? Does one ever recover from the death of someone else? “I am not at all prepared to reply at the moment, though I can assure you, I am very much recovered. Of course I am, or I would have not come to London.”

Those eyes seemed to tug at her for an age before he said, “Forgive me once more. I am making a complete cake of myself. Here I am, reuniting with an old friend, and everything is coming out all sixes and sevens. Perhaps we should discuss lighter things.” Suddenly, as if he remembered they were attending a ball, he asked, “Would you care to dance?”

She shook her head and looked away. “No, thank you. It is nice to walk with you. Even if we are to speak of uncomfortable truths, it is better to be here like this than amongst several other people at the moment.” Catherine could feel a faint blush rising to her cheeks.

“I fear—I hardly know if you remember me. It has been a few years now.”

“I certainly recall you.” She smiled and then glanced down, not sure what to do.

“So how do you get on? How was—forgive me if I ramble. I am not certain how to speak with you.”

“Nor I you.” She unexpectedly laughed. “It is all rather stumbling about, is it not?”

“More than you know. Mostly because I do not want this to end, yet I do not even know how to begin. It is as though spring has truly shone herself here in London, and that glimmer of hope at finding you again has made it difficult to converse.”

She took a deep breath. “Lord Hamson, allow me to be frank. Though our friendship grew quickly during my season, in retrospect, we spent only a bit of time together. Nevertheless, may I impress upon you how much I enjoyed that period in my life? How much joy those few short months brought me? Is this something a widow may say? I do not know my place in society now, and am rather confused by it all.”

He grinned and swept her out the door to an adjoining drawing room. There were a few smatterings of people around, but it was much quieter in here. Lord Hamson took her across the way to a couple of vacant chairs toward the back. “Would you sit with me and let us become acquainted again?”

“I would be most happy to, now that we are out of that room and away from all the prying eyes.”

“Good, good.” He waited until she had made herself comfortable and then began. “I too enjoyed our time together. You were by far the most interesting of the misses who came out your year. Nay, not just that year—all years, for I have never met your equal.”

“Thank you.” She chuckled and caught his attentive eye. “‘Interesting’ may be the perfect word for it.”

“Oh, bosh! You should know I had no intention of the remark coming off in such a way. You kept my interest very much during that time.” He took a deep breath. “There are so many things I wish to ask you, but I do not want to seem presumptuous.”

She waved her hand. “Lord Hamson, we are old friends, you and I. Pray, ask me anything. If it makes me uncomfortable, I shall tell you.”

“You have not altered a bit.”

“Neither have you,” she was quick to respond.

“Nay. I am losing my hair!” He looked chagrined.

Though she could not see at all what he was speaking of, it caused her to laugh anyway. “What a ridiculous thing to say to a lady.”

“Is it? My vanity may not support itself much longer if I continue to look more and more like my father.”

All she noticed were the same kind eyes, the dashing smile with the rascally dimple, his strong jaw.

“Good heavens! I promise you, women do not give one fig for a man’s hair. We care so much about his character and charms and kindness to others, the least in our thoughts is something that trivial.”

“What a wonderfully fascinating answer. What about you?” he asked. “Do you have a skaggle of children now running around at home?”

“Children!” Catherine snickered. “Oh, how I wish. That would have made my days much more enjoyable in the country had I such creatures to look after.”

He gave her a quizzical look, but thankfully, did not inquire further. Instead, he asked, “How was Kent and married life? I often thought of you.”

“Did you?” The bittersweet feeling of such an admission was almost unbearable. She took a deep breath and then said earnestly, “Lord Hamson, I do not dream of knowing what your intentions were four years ago. However, I would like you to understand how deeply sorry I was to have caused you any pain, if I did.”

He looked toward the rug and rubbed his lips together. She had not one notion what was going on in his mind, but the silence was certainly deafening.

Catherine held her breath, and then he spoke.

“I was wounded—I cannot tell a falsehood about such a thing. Your engagement came about so suddenly, I could not believe it had occurred. We had formed a bit of a bond, you and I. Then in the next moment, it was shattered.”

Four years of wondering if he had ever favored her were answered at this silly ball. “Thank you for your admissions. For my part, I wanted so much to do what would please my parents, I accepted Lord Romney, though the question of you and your intentions always remained.” She clenched her hands around her fan. “I am sure you are aware I did not have a choice in the matter. Lord Romney’s proposals did not require a dowry of my parents. Rather, he paid a very handsome sum for my hand, and it has blessed my family greatly, s o I cannot regret what happened.”

“Yes, but he was as old as your grandfather.”