Wicked Mourning

Wicked Mourning

Heather Boyd

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

Wicked Mourning

Copyright © 2011 by
Heather Boyd

Cover Design by
Heather Boyd

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any electronic or mechanical means—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without written permission.

For more information visit:
www.heather-boyd.com

Widow, Clara Blackstone, is a faithful woman who has mourned her philandering husband for the last six months. Sheltered from pity and whispering tongues at a friend's country estate, Clara awaits the birth of her first child with mounting confusion. Despite the tiny life growing inside her, she dreams of passion in Reggie's arms. And the erotic fantasies grow more compelling every day.

When Reginald Moore's wife died in the arms of her lover, Clara's husband, he whisked pregnant Clara away from false friends to his country estate to avoid the strain of the scandal. After six months of pretence, Reggie is done mourning his faithless wife and, despite his originally noble intentions, he longs to have Clara in his bed - unborn child and all.

But are his skills of persuasion enough to convince Clara to set aside her grief for a faithless man and choose a new life with the one who stood by her, no matter the obstacle?

Author's note: this story contains a red hot romance between two wicked mourners around one rather large baby bump.

A regency short romp.

Dedication

To Fred, my lifelong adviser and partner in crime. May you always follow the straight and narrow path.

Chapter One

Reginald Moore gestured to the oak tree beyond his window. “This isn’t amusing, Clara.”

Reggie made room so Clara Blackstone, the widow of his former business partner, could stand between him and the farce occurring outside.

At the sight, 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.

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 that 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. One of them means to have you, but the size of the tree was clearly a small concern in Miss Allen’s mind.”

Reggie let his gaze stray to the widow standing 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? “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?”

Reggie kept his distance from the glass and from his friend’s widow. Neither the spectacle below nor the spectacle 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, 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. Reggie had waited patiently for Clara to put her husband’s death behind her and notice how much he worried for her welfare. These months of wretched celibacy couldn’t be for naught.

“Hmm, he’s climbing up after her.” Clara pressed her 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.

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 welfare because in
London
he had no excuse to linger in her drawing room. Deceiving her about his true motives had been surprisingly easy.

Yet, even still, she was in mourning for a man she was ridiculously lost without. Reggie had stood 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 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.

Her breath caught. “Reggie?”

He moved his fingers over her skin a little. “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 eyes flew to Clara’s and he was fairly certain he gaped like a village idiot. “The child moves?”

A tender smile tugged at her lips. “The child moves quite a bit, actually.”

Clara covered the back of his hand with hers and she pressed him tighter against her flesh. The child kicked harder that time. Stunned and completely enthralled by the movements inside her, Reggie relaxed, letting one hand slide around Clara back while keeping the other against her belly. Her stomach rippled beneath her gown and he smiled at the child’s antics.

Her light breath brushed against his jaw and when he glanced at Clara’s face, he found her eyes had closed, a small half smile playing across her very kissable lips. Instead of shocking her with his touch, he’d managed to make her happy. Beneath their joined hands, the frolicsome babe kicked again and then grew still.

After some minutes, Reggie wondered if the child would move again.

“Ah, my little scamp is resting. He has kicked a treat this morning.”

“He does this every day?”

Clara nodded, a dreamy sigh escaping again. “And often at the most inopportune times.”