Pursuing Lord Pascal (20 page)

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.

“What about you, Caro?” Helena asked. “This
gray day has us stripping our souls bare. We’ve started telling the
truth. We may as well continue. What frightens you?”

Gathering her dark, confused thoughts,
Caroline stared blindly into the fire. Pictures from the barren
past filled her mind. Her austere girlhood, the only child of
elderly parents with rigid ideas of behavior. Her
seventeen-year-old self marrying stodgy, tongue-tied Freddie
Beaumont with not a shred of romance to brighten the occasion. Ten
dreary years as a farming baronet’s wife in wet, windy
Lincolnshire, with no company but the equally dreary neighbors and
a prize dairy herd. This last uneventful year in London as she
waited out her period of mourning for a man who had left little
impression on her, however much she might pity his untimely
death.

“Caro?” Fenella prompted gently. “Helena’s
right. If we can’t be candid with one another, who can we be candid
with?”

Caroline swallowed to shift the boulder of
emotion jamming her throat. Guilt at not grieving for Freddie as a
wife should. Lifelong dissatisfaction. A burning need to forge her
own path. She loathed the restrictions of mourning. To use Helena’s
terminology, she’d kicked against convention like a half-broken
horse in a narrow stall.

But her festering restlessness had a deeper
cause. She was no different to Fenella and Helena. She too was
terrified. And the admission nearly choked her.

She straightened until her back was stiff as
a ruler, the way she’d been trained to sit as a girl groomed to
marry her father’s wealthy godson Frederick Beaumont. “I dread that
what’s to come will be as dull as what’s past. I dread that I’ll
die without ever having lived.” She met her friends’ eyes. “And I
have a raging hunger for life.”

“Oh, Caro.” Fenella placed one arm around her
shoulders and squeezed. “It’s not too late.”

“We all deserve some excitement,” she said
huskily, finding comfort in Fen’s hug. “I feel like I’ve been
locked away in the dark all my life. I’ve spent twenty-eight years
waiting. I’ve never had a chance to laugh and dance and carry on
romantic intrigues.”

“What’s stopping you now?” Helena asked.
“You’re beautiful and rich and ripe for adventure.”

As her fretfulness drained away, Caroline
dredged up a smile for her friend. Then the smile widened as she
considered what Helena had said. Truly what was stopping her now?
Nothing but cowardice. The fear of the unknown, even if what she’d
known had made her feel buried alive.

Well, no longer. Her parents had gone.
Freddie had gone. She remained, and it was up to her to seize her
liberty with both hands. If she didn’t, the only person she’d have
to blame was herself.

She sucked in another breath, and for the
first time in over a decade felt her lungs expand without
restriction. On a sudden, intoxicating surge of hope, she rose from
the spindly chair. “I’m definitely rich and ripe for
adventure.”

“Once you’re out of mourning, you’ll be the
most dashing widow in London,” Fenella said.

“I shall indeed.”

Fenella smiled at her. “When you set your
mind to something, you make sure you achieve it. I so admire your
strength.”

“My father called it blind stubbornness,” she
admitted. “He tried to beat it out of me, but he never did.”

“Thank goodness,” Helena said. “You wouldn’t
be nearly so interesting if you just accepted your fate. In fact,
you’d still be wiping the mud off your shoes in Lincolnshire.”

“I am determined to make a new life, one
where the decisions are mine.” Caroline shifted until she could see
both women. “In fact, why don’t we all leave our old, sad days
behind? Why don’t we all become dashing widows?”

Helena’s dark eyes flared with excitement.
Predictably Fenella looked less enamored with the idea. “I can see
you both dazzling the ton. I’m not like that.”

Refusing to let Fen shrink back into her
seclusion, Caroline caught her hands and hauled her to her feet.
“You’re the prettiest girl I know, Fenella Deerham. You’ll dazzle
the ton purely by turning up.”

“I’m not sure,” Fenella murmured.

Less impetuously, Helena stood and crossed
the room to join them. “Don’t you want to dance the night away and
drink champagne and flirt with handsome gentlemen?”

Fenella still resisted the rising mood. “I
don’t want to marry again.”

Caroline laughed, caught up in the idea of
breaking free of stifling limitations. “Dashing widows don’t have
to marry. They’ve done their duty. Dashing widows have fun.”

A reluctant smile tugged at Fenella’s lips.
“I can’t remember the last time I had fun.”

“There you are, then,” Helena said. “We’ll
all be dashing widows.”

With a giddy laugh, Caroline stepped across
to ring for a servant. “We’ll be the most dashing widows the ton
has ever seen.”

“Count me in,” Helena said, and for once her
expression held no trace of irony.

“Fen, you can’t turn the terrible trio into a
desperate duo,” Caroline urged.

Fenella still looked unconvinced. “It’s so
long since I was out in society.”

“I’ve never been out in society. My father
wouldn’t pay for a season when the match with Freddie was already
arranged,” Caroline said. “Helena will have to be our guide.”

Helena’s lips twitched. “Heaven help us,
then.” Earnestness deepened her voice. “Come and join us, Fen.
We’re not asking you to run a steeplechase in your petticoat. We’re
just inviting you to chance a step out of your safe little cave.
You commit to nothing more than wearing colors and attending a
party or two.”

Something new sparked in Fenella’s eyes,
banishing her customary melancholy. She raised her chin with
un-Fenella-like brio. “Very well. I’ll do it.”

“Wonderful,” Helena said, hugging her with
un-Helena-like exuberance.

The butler entered the room. Caroline greeted
him with a smile and caught his surprise at the festive atmosphere.
Another signal, should she need one, that it was time she crawled
out of her slough of self-pity and made plans for her
independence.

“Hunter, champagne.”

“Caro, at five o’clock in the afternoon?”
Fenella asked, shocked.

Hunter bowed, his imperturbability back in
place. “Very good, my lady.”

Caroline beamed, the pall of boredom and
frustration shifting from her shoulders. She felt light enough to
float up into the cloudy winter sky. From what she saw of her
friends, they too had found fresh purpose on this February
afternoon.

“Why not? Dashing widows drink champagne
whenever they feel like it. What better excuse than a toast to our
glittering success?”

May 1820

The Grosvenor Square house stood transformed.
Spring had arrived and with it a release from the pall of mourning.
Caroline had thrown herself wholeheartedly into the season, and
tonight’s ball was the culmination of her campaign to win society’s
acclaim.

She halted in the doorway to her crowded,
noisy ballroom, at last able to catch a breath. Holding what turned
out to be a brilliant success of a party required diligent
attention. But finally, everything was in place and she was ready
to have fun. The orchestra played a lively quadrille; a lavish
supper was ready and under Hunter’s capable supervision; she’d
greeted all her guests, delighted at how many people had accepted
her invitation. Of course society was curious about rich Lady
Beaumont, so recently out of mourning. But she could see already
that tonight curiosity veered toward approval.

Helena was dancing with a red-haired fellow
whose name escaped her. Fenella danced, too, her pale prettiness
flushed to vivacity. She wore a sky blue dress in the first stare
of fashion—it was so pleasing to see her in something other than
gray. Both friends had worked like Trojans with Caroline to ensure
that the launch of the dashing widows was a triumph.

“You’re looking revoltingly pleased with
yourself, Caro,” a deep voice murmured in her ear.

Pleasure warmed her and extending her hand,
she turned with a smile. “Silas, I wasn’t sure you’d tear yourself
away from your greenhouses long enough to come.”

Silas Nash, Viscount Stone, was Helena’s
older brother, the cleverest member of a notoriously clever family.
Soon after coming to London, Caroline had met the noted botanist at
Helena’s house. She’d immediately liked his humor and kindness. And
his handsomeness had offered a welcome distraction during the dull
days of her seclusion. A handsomeness of which he remained
refreshingly unaware.

“I wouldn’t miss this for the world. You’ve
arrived with fireworks.” He bowed over her gloved hand, hazel eyes
glinting up at her as he bent.

He always treated her as if they shared a
joke that the rest of the world had missed. It made her feel
special.
He
made her feel special. When she came to London,
unhappy and uncertain, she’d been deeply grateful for his support.
Tonight, happy and confident, she remained deeply grateful. “Helena
has been talking.”

He straightened and released her hand.
“Perhaps she dropped a hint here and there about the evening’s
finale.”

She couldn’t contain a smug smile. “My party
is a great success, isn’t it?”

“It is indeed.” He regarded her from under
tawny eyebrows, his gaze sharp. “I congratulate you on your victory
over society.”

She flicked her fan open and cast him a
flirtatious glance as she fell into their familiar bantering. “I
intend to enjoy myself.”

“You deserve to kick up your heels a little.”
The fondness in his expression made her heart swell. She wondered
if he knew quite how much his friendship meant to her. His
immediate approbation had done wonders for her self-assurance when
she’d been new in Town. Without it, she doubted she’d have had the
nerve to claim a prominent place in the ton.