The Seduction of Lord Stone

Published by Anna Campbell

Copyright 2015 Anna Campbell

Cover Design: © Hang Le

ISBN: 978-0-9863160-5-0

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems - except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews - without permission in writing from the author, Anna Campbell. This book is a work of fiction. The characters, events, and places portrayed in this book are products of the author’s imagination and are either fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

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Grosvenor Square, London, February 1820

T
he world expected a widow to be sad.

The world expected a widow to be lonely.

The world didn’t expect a widow to be bored to the point of throwing a brick through a window, just to shatter the endless monotony of her prescribed year of mourning.

Outside the opulent drawing room, fashionable Grosvenor Square presented a bleak view. Leafless trees, gray skies, people scurrying past wrapped up beyond recognition as they rushed to be indoors again. Even inside, the winter air kept its edge. The bitter weather reflected the chill inside Caroline, Lady Beaumont; the endless fear that she sacrificed her youth to stultifying convention. She sighed heavily and flattened one palm on the cold glass, wondering if there would always be a barrier between her and freedom.

“You’re out of sorts today, Caro,” Fenella, Lady Deerham, said softly from where she presided over the tea table. While Caroline was this afternoon’s hostess, habit—and good sense—saw Fenella dispensing refreshments. She was neat and efficient in her movements, unlike Caroline who tended to gesticulate when something caught her attention. Fenella would never spill tea over the priceless Aubusson carpet.

“It’s so blasted miserable out there.” Caroline still stared discontentedly at the deserted square. “I don’t think I’ve seen the sun in three months.”

“Now, you know that’s an exaggeration,” Helena, Countess of Crewe, said from the gold brocade sofa beside the roaring fire.

How like Helena to stick to facts. On their first meeting, this intellectual, sophisticated woman had terrified Caroline. She’d since learned to appreciate Helena’s incisive mind and plain speaking—most of the time.

Nor would anyone have predicted Caroline’s friendship with Fenella. Fenella was gentle and sweet, and at first, Caroline had dismissed her as a bit of a fool. But after a year’s acquaintance, she recognized Fenella’s kindness as strength not weakness, a strength that threw an unforgiving light on her own occasional lack of generosity.

She’d met Helena Wade and Fenella Deerham at one of the dull all-female gatherings designated suitable entertainment for women grieving the loss of a spouse. Their youth—all three were under thirty—had drawn them together rather than any immediate affinity. But somehow, despite their differences, or perhaps because of them, Caroline now counted these two disparate ladies as her closest friends.

With another sigh, Caroline turned to face the room. “I doubt I’d have survived my mourning without you two.”

Helena paused in sipping her tea, her striking dark-eyed face with its imperious Roman nose expressing puzzlement. “That sounds discomfitingly like a farewell. Do you plan to abandon us for more exciting company once your official year is up?”

Fenella regarded Helena with rare reproach. “Don’t tease her. She’s only saying what’s true for all of us.”

“Exactly, Fen.” Caroline sent the pretty blonde in the plain gray dress a grateful smile. “Trust our resident dragon to puncture my sentimental bubble.”

Helena, slender and elegant in her widow’s weeds—Caroline envied her friend’s ability to create style from crepe and bombazine—watched her thoughtfully, not noticeably gratified by the declaration. “Nonetheless your seclusion ends next month. No wonder you’re champing at the bit.”

Horsy terms littered Helena’s conversation. She was by reputation a punishing rider, although bereavement had curtailed her exercise.

“Aren’t you?” Caroline crossed to extend her delicate Meissen cup for more tea.

“Devoting a year of my life to the memory of a brute like Crewe is hypocritical at the very least. Not to mention an infernal waste of time in the saddle.”

“Seclusion must chafe when you didn’t love your husband,” Caroline said, taking a sip.

Helena’s gaze didn’t waver. “You didn’t love yours either.”

Caroline wanted to protest, but the sad truth was that Helena was right. Freddie had been a stranger when she’d married him, and their years together hadn’t done much to increase the intimacy. Marriage was a cruel yoke, uniting such an incompatible pair. Even crueler that she’d been forced to follow Freddie’s dictates as to where they lived and what they did. Mourning him was the last obligation she owed her late husband. Once the year was over, she meant to enjoy her independence and never surrender it again.

“Helena!” Fenella said repressively as she refilled the other cups. “We both know Caro was fond of Beaumont.”

Helena’s laugh was grim. “The way she’s fond of a dog, Fen?”

In the stark afternoon light, Fenella’s beauty was ethereal. “You’re unkind.”

Helena shook her glossy dark head. “No, I’m honest. Surely after all these months, it’s time we spoke openly to one another.” A trace of warmth softened her cool, precise voice. “Because you’ve both proven my salvation, too. I would have run mad without you to remind me that other people have feelings, Fen. Caro, I never have to pretend with you. And for some reason you both seem to like me anyway.”

Helena generally steered clear of emotion. This was the closest she’d ever ventured to confidences. Surprised, Caroline studied her, seeing more than she ever had before. At last, she glimpsed the deep reserves of feeling lurking beneath that self-assured exterior.

“Mostly,” she said in a dry tone, knowing Helena would take the response the way it was meant.

“So did you love Frederick Beaumont?” Helena persisted.

Poor Freddie, saddled with a weak constitution and an unloving helpmeet. Hatred would have been a greater tribute than his wife’s indifference. How sad for a decent, if tedious man to die so young. Sadder that nobody in particular cared that he’d gone.

“No,” she said hollowly, at last voicing the shameful truth. “Although he was a good man and he deserved better from me than he got.”

Freddie should have married a stolid farmer’s wife, not a restless, curious, volatile creature who dreamed of the social whirl instead of milk yields and barley prices. By the end of Caroline’s ten years in Lincolnshire, she’d felt like she drowned in mud. She sucked in a breath of London air, reminding herself that now she was free.

“Well, Crewe deserved considerably less than he got from me,” Helena said sourly. “He wasn’t even any good in bed. If a woman must wed a degenerate rake, the least she should expect is physical satisfaction.”

Fenella was blushing. She always looked about sixteen when she was embarrassed. “Well, I loved Henry. And he loved me.” She sounded uncharacteristically defiant. “I’ll always miss him.”

Fenella’s happy marriage always filled Caroline with a mixture of envy and disbelief—and guilt that she couldn’t mourn Freddie with an ounce of the same sincerity. But if she needed an example of the dangers of a close union, she merely needed to glimpse the sorrow in Fen’s fine blue eyes.

Helena regarded Fenella with fond impatience. “You were lucky to have a good man, Fen. But Waterloo was five years ago, and you’re still wearing half mourning. Isn’t it time to start living again?”

Fenella paled at Helena’s unprecedented candor. She rarely heard a word of criticism. Caroline had long ago noticed that Fenella’s air of fragility made people treat her like glass, ready to shatter at the slightest rough treatment.

“You don’t understand. It’s different for me,” Fenella stammered.

“Because of your son?” Caroline asked, wondering for the thousandth time how different her marriage might have been if God had granted her children. Would she have felt so trapped, so frustrated, so useless? Who knew?

“Brandon’s only ten. He needs me.”

“And you’re only twenty-nine,” Helena retorted. “You need to look for love again.”

“I don’t want love,” Fenella said stiffly. She bit her lip and turned a tragic gaze on her friends. “It hurts too much to lose it.”

With that stark statement, confirming Caroline’s doubts about even a loving marriage, the spate of confidences slammed to a shuddering halt. A desolate silence descended on the luxurious room. Only the crackling fire and a spatter of raindrops on the windows broke the quiet.

Eventually Helena smiled, but Caroline saw the effort it took. “I’m sorry, Fen. I’m as blue-deviled as Caro. It must be the weather. I have no right to harangue you.”

Caroline gestured, sloshing her tea into the saucer, and spoke with sudden urgency. “We all have the right to offer our opinion. It’s what people do when they care.”

Annoyance banished Fenella’s distress, thank goodness. For a few moments there, Caroline had worried that her usually serene friend might dissolve into tears. “So you too believe I should forget the best person I’ve ever known, a faithful husband, a loving father, a brave soldier?”

For safety’s sake, Caroline set her cup on the tea table before she slid into the chair beside Fenella’s. When she took Fenella’s hand, she wasn’t surprised to find it trembling. “You’ll never forget him. And neither you should. But Henry wouldn’t want you to hide away from the outside world, not when you’re young and beautiful with so much to give. The man you’ve described would never be so mean spirited.”

Fenella’s grip tightened. “I’m not brave like you and Helena. I’m comfortable in my rut. The truth is that I’m afraid of facing the world again, especially without Henry by my side.”

“It’s brave to admit your fear,” Helena said from the sofa in an unusually subdued voice. “And you’re wrong about my courage. I might act as if I’m ready to take on the world, but I’ve already had one disastrous marriage. Choosing a pig like Crewe, especially when I defied my parents to have him, puts my judgment in serious question.”

“Oh, Helena.” Fenella’s lovely face softened with compassion. “You’ve learned from your mistakes. And you were so young then.”

“We were all young,” Caroline said in a low voice. “We’re still young.”

Freddie had been young, too. But at least he’d led the life he chose. Until illness struck him down, he’d been blissfully happy in the muck and mire of his fields. Caroline realized that if she died tomorrow, she’d never done a single thing she wanted. That seemed even more of a waste than Freddie’s lingering death. She’d devoted three long years to nursing him. She’d emerged from those harrowing days painfully aware of life’s brevity and how easily the years could slip away with nothing to show for them but drudgery.