A Lord For The Wallflower Widow

When she spread the garment out on the counter and put her hand between the layers of fabric, Avery almost swallowed his tongue. The robe was so sheer as to be almost invisible and there were strategically placed openings that were revealed as the lace trim fell to one side.

What the devil was Mrs Greystoke doing, showing garments like that to a respectable woman? All right, so Elizabeth had accepted his offer of escort in a fit of pique when her husband left town to go on yet another spree with his friends for the fourth time in a month. The poor dear was feeling neglected, but she was still a modestly brought up girl—

‘What do you think, Lord Avery. Will Roger like it?’ she whispered in his ear.

A man would have to be dying, or at the very least dead from the waist down, not to like the idea of the curvy Lady Fontly in such a shockingly revealing negligee. Unfortunately, all Avery could think about was seeing Mrs Greystoke in the gown. She was so lusciously tall, it would look far better on her than the petite Lady Fontly.

‘Yes,’ he said a little more tersely than he intended. ‘It is deliciously wicked,’ he added a little more warmly.

‘Would you like to try it on, Lady Fontly?’ Mrs Greystoke asked.

‘May I?’ Lizzie asked.

Mrs Greystoke smiled. ‘You can use my private quarters at the rear of the shop. Tansy will be happy to help you.’ She looked back at him. ‘Gentlemen are not permitted.’

Liz looked relieved. ‘Do you have it in any other colours?’

‘We do. One for every day of the week.’

Liz giggled. ‘Good lord. Really?’

Mrs Greystoke inclined her head. ‘Really.’

Avery inhaled a breath. His forte was helping ladies choose outer garments that showed them off to advantage. Things such as this were best left to the women themselves. Or their husbands. He didn’t want to be facing pistols at dawn over such a trifle. ‘The colour you have there would suit you very well,’ he said, smiling. ‘Try it on. You can always try a different colour if you decide you do not like it.’

Elizabeth took the whisper of fabric and lace and followed the shop assistant into the back of the shop.

‘And how are you, Lord Avery?’ Mrs Greystoke asked.

Since there was now no one else in the shop he gave her his best charming smile. ‘A little surprised, I must say.’

‘At our new venture?’

Our? Who were the others? She had said her husband was dead. ‘Yes. I thought you were a milliner.’

‘Oh, we discovered a demand for something no one else was offering. We thought it a suitable addition to our inventory, since most of our customers are ladies.’ She gave him a considering look and lowered her voice. ‘How is Mrs Luttrell?’

‘She is well, so far as I am aware.’

A crease appeared in her forehead as she considered the implications of his remark. He had the decided urge to kiss that little frown. To taste it with his tongue. To smooth it away with his thumb.

‘If you should see her,’ Mrs Greystoke continued, ‘give her my thanks for sending her friends along. If there is ever anything I can do for her, I would be most happy to return the favour.’

Good old Mimi. She had kept her word, then. Was that the reason he had hesitated about returning here? Because he feared she might have not done so and that he would discover Mrs Greystoke more desperate than before?

‘I will let her know, but I believe she is away at the moment. At a country house party in Sussex.’

‘Oh, I see.’

What did she see? Ah. Did she think he was doing something underhanded with Lady Fontly in the other lady’s absence? ‘Yes. We parted on the most agreeable terms.’ He emphasised the word ‘parted’.

Her frown deepened and the disapproval in her expression said she had drawn some conclusions she did not like. He quelled a faint sense of hurt and the urge to explain. It was none of her business how he chose to support members of his family.

A moment later, Elizabeth emerged with a neatly wrapped package in her hand. She looked ready to explode with excitement. ‘I love it.’

‘Did you wish to purchase a hat also?’ Mrs Greystoke asked.

‘Yes. Yes, I do.’

They agreed on the summer bonnet Mrs Greystoke had already recommended and when she wrote up the bills, she wrote one to Lord Fontly. The other she wrote to Lady Fontly. ‘In case you wish to keep it as a surprise,’ she explained.

Or in case she wanted to wear it for Avery, he thought, feeling a little bitter at her misjudgement, despite knowing how it looked.

Mrs Greystoke handed him the hatbox. ‘Enjoy your purchase.’

When she said those last words, she was looking at him. Oh, yes, she really thought him some sort of Lothario.

Fortunately, Elizabeth did not notice her misunderstanding.

Annoyed at Mrs Greystoke and feeling slightly ashamed of himself, he left the shop.

* * *

The next morning as Carrie swept the front step and the narrow path in front of her window, she could not help wishing the shop had a better location. Mr Thrumby had warned her more than once to keep her door locked and bolted at night and not to linger in the street during the day. Fortunately for her, he and his wife occupied the upstairs rooms, the stairs to which were reached by way of a hallway that passed her back door. He kept a porter on duty at that back entrance, both day and night, so there was always someone nearby who would come at her call.

Hearing the sharp tap of footsteps on the pavement, she lifted her gaze from her broom to glance up the street. A familiar figure strolled towards her. Lord Avery. Behind him a door slammed. The gambling hell Mr Thrumby had warned her about no doubt. There could be nowhere else he was coming from at this time in the morning.

Why did men gamble away their fortunes in such places? It was so utterly irresponsible. They ruined themselves and they ruined their families. They also gambled away their lives for the sake of some foolish bet. As her husband had. Furiously, she brushed at the paving slabs, as if she could sweep away the memory of her wedding night along with the news of his death in some terrible battle in Spain a few weeks later. She wanted no truck with any man who gambled.

As if she could sweep away Lord Avery along with the memories. Even if he was the most handsome, most charming fellow she had ever met.

He removed his hat and bowed. ‘Good day, Mrs Greystoke.’

Blast. She had meant to whisk herself inside before he reached her shop. Hadn’t she? She straightened and met his gaze. She couldn’t believe how haggard he looked, how tired and drawn, and yet his usual charming smile curved his lips and his eyes warmed as they rested upon her face.

An answering warmth trickled through her veins. ‘Lord Avery.’ She couldn’t believe how breathless she sounded. It must be all that vigorous sweeping.

‘Up and about early this morning, aren’t you?’ he said.

She folded her arms across her chest and narrowed her gaze. The first time he’d visited her shop he’d been quite bosky. This morning he simply looked tired. ‘As are you. I have to make ready for my customers.’

His smile broadened. ‘Indeed. And here I am.’

She frowned. ‘The shop is not yet open.’

His smile changed from charming to wheedling. ‘Surely you will not make me come back later.’

‘What did you want?’

‘Another of your delightful posies, naturally.’

She sighed, but inside her chest her traitorous heart was galloping like a runaway horse. ‘Come in, then.’

He followed her into the shop and she went behind her counter. She felt more comfortable, more in control when there was a solid piece of furniture between them. She spread out several little sprigs on the counter. ‘These are all I have at the moment.’

He stared at the array ‘Did you make any of these?’

What an odd question. ‘I helped make the pink roses and the yellow sweet peas.’

‘I’ll take the roses.’

‘I really would not recommend those for Lady Fontly. The yellow would be better for her colouring.’

He grinned. ‘It is not for Lady Fontly.’ He tucked the spray of flowers into his buttonhole. ‘It is for me.’

‘Oh,’ she gasped. ‘That was why...’ Surely not.

He raised a brow. ‘That was why what?’

Heat raced up her face to her hairline. ‘Nothing.’

He chuckled. The deep rich sound sent a shiver down her spine and made her want to giggle like a girl not yet out of the schoolroom.

‘It was why I asked if you had made any of them,’ he said. ‘I wanted something to remind me of you. I need cheering up today.’

He was flirting with her. She felt uncomfortable. Awkward. What was she supposed to do? Should she be flattered or annoyed? Better to ignore the whole thing than make a fool of herself. ‘Will there be anything else, Lord Avery?’

He gave a little grimace. ‘No. That will be all, thank you, Mrs Greystoke.’

She wrote up her bill. ‘Why do you do it?’ Oh, there went her brusque tongue again, asking questions regarding things that were none of her concern.

He leaned a hip against the counter. ‘Do what?’

‘Gamble. You must have been up all night, you look so dreadful.’

‘That bad, hmmm?’

She nodded. She forestalled the urge to ask if he had won or lost, but he seemed so weary, she guessed it was the latter.

‘I do it to keep the wolf from the door, Mrs Greystoke. To put food on the table. Coal in the hearth. To keep body and soul together.’ He sounded bitter.

The son of a duke needing to earn a living? ‘Surely...’

‘Surely what?’ His tone was suddenly dark, even a little dangerous.

She handed him the bill. ‘I beg your pardon. It is none of my business.’

He glanced down at the paper in his hand and back at her face. ‘You were going to ask why a man in my position, the son of a duke, needed to earn his living in such a manner.’

‘Oh, please. I have no wish to pry.’

‘My papa is a man with high expectations of his sons. I have disappointed him and therefore I am to make my own way in life.’

She knew all about parental disappointment. ‘Why not engage in some sort of gainful employment?’ She winced. Dash it, she sounded disapproving.

His lip curled and his smile became mocking. ‘You sound just like my father.’

Mortified, she began to put the rest of the nosegays back in their places in the drawer. ‘I beg your pardon. It is not my place to judge.’

The kettle on the hob began to sing. She raised her gaze to meet his. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’

He looked surprised. And then pleased. ‘That is the best offer I have had in the last twenty-four hours. But I would hate to interrupt your morning.’

‘It is no interruption. I went to sweep the step while I waited for the kettle to boil. Would you throw the bolt on the shop door for me? No lady goes shopping at this early hour.’

He did as she asked and then followed her behind the curtain into her private quarters. Very small quarters, she realised as his large form seemed to take up most of the space in the little kitchen-cum-sitting room-cum-dining room. And more recently a place for ladies to try on naughty night attire.

She winced. And then there was the alcove curtained off, where she slept. Perhaps he wouldn’t notice.

‘Please, sit down,’ she said.

He took one of the two chairs at the small kitchen table while she busied herself with the pot and tea leaves.

‘This is where you live?’ he asked, his voice full of curiosity. ‘All alone?’

‘This is where I stay during the week while the shop is open. I go home at week’s end to collect more stock.’ She glanced over her shoulder to discover he was frowning.

‘London is not a safe city for a woman on her own,’ he said.

‘I am perfectly safe. My landlord, Mr Thrumby, lives upstairs and his man keeps an eye on my safety.’

He looked less than satisfied. She hadn’t expected him to care about her well-being. It surprised her and warmed her in odd ways. Something inside her chest seemed to soften.

She brought two cups of tea to the table along with milk and sugar on a small tray. ‘Please, help yourself.’ It was hardly the sort of elegant tea a lady would serve in a drawing room, but she was pleased to see him adding cream and sugar to his cup and sipping the tea appreciatively.

She felt bad for him. While he had not said in so many words that he had been disinherited by his father, clearly it must be the case. A gentleman such as he would have no trade, no skills, to fall back on, so it was no wonder he gambled. And then there were his special ladies. Mrs Baxter-Smythe’s sly words returned to her mind. A terrible idea entered her head. Terrible and exciting and awful. Terrifying.

So awful, yet so awfully tempting. She struggled to think of a way to phrase her question. Her request.

He leaned back in his chair with a boyish smile. A smile quite different from his usual practised charm. It made him seem more endearing. ‘That is the best cup of tea I have had in a long time.’

As a general rule men like him, charming handsome men, made her feel uncomfortable. She always felt awkward, as if her arms were too long and her feet too big. Lord Avery, on the other hand, made her feel...womanly. Even attractive. She could not help beaming back at him. ‘Thank you.’ She took a sip of her own tea.

A friendly silence descended. It felt companionable. As if they had known each other for years.

She put down her cup. ‘I wanted to ask you...’

He tilted his head in question. ‘What?’

‘I am not sure how to put it?’

‘Ask away.’

‘Do you also earn money from the ladies you escort to my shop?’ The words were too blunt when she had meant to be tactful.

He stiffened. ‘What makes you ask?’ he said. His voice was calm, but his eyes were cold. Shuttered.

She repressed a shiver. Oh, dear, why hadn’t she left well enough alone. ‘Something Mrs Baxter-Smythe said.’ Dash it, she should never have opened her mouth. She had spoiled everything.

His lips thinned. ‘Mrs Baxter-Smythe is jealous because I do not count her as one of my special ladies.’

‘Ladies you escort while their husbands are out of town.’

‘Exactly.’ He put down his cup. ‘And, yes, they do pay for my services.’ He picked up his hat.

He was going to leave and she still hadn’t asked her awful question. ‘Can any lady hire your...services?’

His eyes widened, then narrowed. ‘Are you asking for yourself?’

Heat rushed all the way up her face to her hairline, but she was not one to hide behind a lie. ‘I am.’

He put his hat down and shook his head. ‘I am not sure I fully understand what it is you are asking me. The ladies I escort are all wealthy and married. Single ladies present too many complications since I am single myself.’

She twirled her cup on its saucer. Did he think she was looking for a husband? ‘I am not seeking anything permanent, I assure you. I would prefer something...’ She frowned and set the handle of the cup at the proper angle.

‘Something?’ he prompted. His voice held a distinct chill.

She glanced up. His lips were still a thin straight line. ‘Brief,’ she blurted. In for a penny in for a pound her father always used to say. ‘One night. I am willing to pay, of course. Whatever the other ladies pay.’ She still had a little of her personal allowance for the month left over.

His eyebrow lifted. ‘Let me get this clear. You wish to pay me to bed you.’ His tone was grim.

Embarrassment rushed through her in a hot tide. Oh, why had she said anything at all? But having done so, she pressed on, her cheeks hotter than fire. ‘As you can imagine, there are particular disadvantages to being alone. I simply thought that...’ She gave an awkward laugh.

‘I do not bed my special ladies for money, Mrs Greystoke.’ His tone was as dry as dust. ‘I merely serve as their escort in their husband’s absences. And since you do not have a husband, the arrangement would not work.’

He was trying to let her down gently, to couch his rejection in kinder terms. She didn’t believe him for a moment. She had seen the looks that had passed between him and Mrs Luttrell. And Lady Fontly. She wasn’t such a fool as to think the ladies merely wanted him to take them shopping.

Resentment spurted through her and a healthy dose of disappointment. She should have known all his flirting with her was nothing but a hum. ‘You don’t have to lie, Lord Avery. You can simply say no thank you.’

‘You may, of course, think what you wish, Mrs Greystoke, but I would advise you not to listen to gossip.’ He clapped his hat on his head and strode out of her shop.

Clearly, he viewed her offer as an insult. Something in her chest shrivelled.

* * *

‘I win!’

The men around the table groaned as the young fellow opposite Avery laid down his cards and scooped up the guineas in the centre of the table. ‘Waiter, more wine here.’

Astonishment broke Avery broke free of his reverie. He glared at the rapidly disappearing gold. Money he needed for Laura and her family.

‘I’ve no luck tonight,’ one of the other men said.

Another threw his cards down in disgust. ‘I need a drink.’

The whist table broke up.

Avery stared at his hand. He should have won. His skill was legendary among London’s gamers, which was why he had been reduced to gambling in hells like this one, where he would meet men who were not aware of his reputation. Amend that, he thought bitterly. His skill had been legendary. These past few days he’d been unable to concentrate. Not only was he losing at the tables, he’d been avoiding all of his social engagements, including a request from Lady Fontly to suggest a new hairdresser. He knew just the fellow who would have put a considerable sum of money in his pockets.

And now this.

The conclusion he’d been avoiding for the past few days became unavoidable. He needed to see Mrs Greystoke and get the dashed woman out of his head. He could not stop remembering the way she had looked at him when he had refused her offer. It wasn’t the hurt in her eyes that haunted him, it was the acceptance.

She had expected his rejection.

He rose from his seat.

‘What? Giving up already?’ His opponent, Giles Formby, a young gentleman from Surrey, frowned. ‘Don’t you want a chance to recoup your losses?’

Avery shook his head. He wasn’t such a fool as that. ‘Another day.’

Craddock, the hell’s owner, sidled up to Formby. ‘You won’t beat me so easily.’

Giles’s opponents perked up.

‘If you’ll take a bit of advice from someone who knows gaming,’ Avery said to the younger man, ‘leave now, while your dibs are in tune. Come, I’ll find you a hackney outside.’

Formby hesitated, then nodded. ‘You are right. It is getting late.’

Craddock shot Avery a hard look. ‘The night’s young yet, gents.’ His smile became oily as he turned it on Formby. ‘Surely you ain’t leaving yet, young sir? Not when lady luck is looking kindly upon ye.’

The young man glanced at Avery, who raised a brow. He didn’t want to alienate Craddock, but nor did he want to leave a wet-behind-the-ears boy to the cardsharp’s tender mercies. Avery won by skill, Craddock would use any means at his disposal to relieve the young man of the money he had won.

No one who did not pay for the privilege was supposed to win in this place. Including Avery, who paid a percentage of his winnings for a place at Craddock’s tables. Avery had contributed a considerable sum of money over the past couple of months. He hoped Craddock would let him get away with leading the mark out of trouble, at least this once.

He leaned close to the young fellow’s ear. ‘I know a place where the wine flows free and a man can find himself cosy between the sheets.’

Giles swallowed. ‘A brothel?’

Damn, but the boy was a fool. Had Avery ever been that innocent? ‘A very exclusive place I know. Want to go?’

Giles nodded eagerly.

Craddock frowned, but let them leave without another word. No doubt he assumed that Avery had another plan to get his fingers on the boy’s money, so he would be receiving his share later.

Outside in the brisk evening air, Avery pushed Giles into a hackney. ‘Where do you live.’

Giles looked puzzled. ‘I am lodging in Golden Square. Number three. Why?’

Avery gave the address to the driver.

‘I thought we were going to a brothel?’

‘You are going to a place where you don’t have to pay for wine and you have clean sheets waiting. You will thank me tomorrow. And so will your parents.’

The boy looked chagrined at the reminder of his parents and then grinned broadly. ‘Won’t Pater be proud when I tell him I won. After all his warnings about gambling hells, too.’

‘Only if you refrain from going to another,’ Avery said drily. ‘You were lucky tonight.’

‘I know. And besides, tonight was my last night here. I am due home tomorrow. I’m on my way down from Oxford. I can’t delay any longer or Papa will worry. He’s not a bad old chap, but he does fuss so.’

Very lucky indeed. Avery wished he had a papa who cared enough to fuss over him.

‘Buy a nice gift for your mama and buy a new waistcoat for yourself and go home.’

The boy sank back against the squabs, his expression thoughtful. ‘Thank you, sir. I will.’

The boy might be naive, but he wasn’t stupid. Avery wondered if he would have been so sensible at that age. He stepped back and the hackney coach clattered off into the night.

He strode down the street and turned into the alley that ran behind Mrs Greystoke’s shop. There was an odd feeling in his gut. A sense he might be making the worst mistake of his life. The gold plate on the door identified the residence of a Mr Arnold Thrumby. He hesitated. Did he really want to do this?

Her expression, the instant acceptance of his rejection, swam before his eyes once again. If nothing else, he could not allow her to continue to believe she was not worthy of his attentions. Damnation and how the hell was he to do that? He’d just have to play it by ear. The way he always did.

He knocked.

After a few long moments, the peephole opened. ‘Who be knocking at respectable folks’ door at this time of the night?’ a deep voice grumbled.

‘A visitor for Mrs Greystoke. Lord Avery. I am expected.’

Hopefully the lady would not give him the lie. Though he would not put it past her to deny him entry. She was not like any other woman he had ever known. Which accounted for some of his fascination.

Footsteps retreated and a little later returned. ‘She says you best come in.’

The elderly porter opened the door and stood back. ‘At the end of the hall there.’ He indicated with his thumb. He locked and bolted the door and sat back down at his post.

So much for her safety. The porter needed a swift kick somewhere it would hurt for letting a man visit the lady in the middle of the night.

The door to Mrs Greystoke’s apartment stood ajar, allowing a small bar of light to escape into the corridor. He pushed it open and stepped inside.

She was sitting at the kitchen table facing the door, wearing an old brown woollen dressing gown pulled tight around her form. A heavy rope of brown hair curled over her shoulder and rested on her generous right breast. At her throat, a fragment of lace peeped out from the enveloping gown and skimmed the hollow of her throat. The scrap of frill was a nod to her femininity. And it was the most erotic sight he had ever beheld.

Slowly he raised his gaze to her face. ‘Mrs Greystoke. Good of you to see me at this late hour.’

‘Lord Avery?’

Her voice held a question, though her face was perfectly calm. A calmness she wore like armour to hide her worry. But the tremble in the hand that clutched her robe close gave her away.

He shouldn’t have come. ‘I don’t suppose you would offer me a cup of tea?’

She stared at him for a long moment.