Charming Sir Charles (Dashing Widows Book 5) Read online

  Published by Anna Campbell

  Copyright 2017 Anna Campbell

  Cover Design: © Hang Le

  ISBN: 978-0-9975307-7-3

  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.

  License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Acknowledgments:

  To my dear friend Annie West

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Pursuing Lord Pascal

  About The Author

  * * *

  Chapter One

  * * *

  Hanover Square, London, May 1829

  When London’s handsomest man married a lovely Dashing Widow, half the world turned out to witness the event.

  Sally Cowan, Countess of Norwood, stared in astonishment at the surging crowds around St. George’s. She cast a doubtful glance across the open barouche to where Amy Mowbray, today’s bride, sat, resplendent in heavy silk the color of new butter. “Oh, dear, I hope the carriage gets through the crush.”

  “Of course it will.” Amy smiled back with the poise that was new since she’d fallen in love with Lord Pascal. “Nothing’s going to spoil today.”

  It turned out Amy was right. The crowds gave a loud and sustained cheer as the bride and her attendants arrived. The mass of people parted to form a clear path toward the row of pillars across the church’s entrance. They cheered again when Sally, Amy’s sister Helena, and her sister-in-law Morwenna stepped down, and more enthusiastically still when Amy stood before them in her full glory.

  Despite her miserable experience as a wife, Sally loved weddings. Especially big, extravagant ones where the bride and groom were deliriously in love. They reminded her that not all men were ignorant swine like the late Lord Norwood, and that not every marriage was a grim ordeal like hers had been.

  She had no interest in taking another husband, but she very much approved of her friends finding their perfect matches. And today’s wedding was undoubtedly a perfect match. She’d been looking forward to this ever since the start of the season, when Amy caught the dashing Lord Pascal’s eye.

  “Pascal will be dazzled,” Sally said. “Amy, you’re a vision.”

  “Thank you,” Amy said. “You know, I have you to thank for today. If you hadn’t convinced me to come to London and kick up my heels, I’d still be whispering sweet nothings to my Herefords.”

  “Instead of to your besotted bridegroom,” Sally said in a teasing tone. “Believe me, I take full credit for how events turned out.”

  “You do look lovely, Amy.” Morwenna’s dark blue eyes glittered with unshed tears.

  Sally caught Morwenna’s hand and pressed it in silent comfort. Inevitably this must bring back memories of her own wedding to Captain Robert Nash, a union which ended tragically when Robert drowned off the coast of South America.

  “No tears, Morwenna,” Helena, Lady West, said, although her eyes were suspiciously bright. “Otherwise Amy will run off and find some cattle to talk to, instead of staying here and getting married.”

  Amy, famous for her farming expertise, stood uncharacteristically docile, while Sally twitched at her skirts to straighten them. “You know, the dairy cows in St. James’s Park aren’t far away.”

  “Amy…” Sally said in warning.

  “Don’t worry, Sally and Hel.” Amy gave a gurgle of happy laughter. “I’m not going anywhere. Not even the discovery of a new disease in beef cattle could lure me away from Pascal today.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.” Silas Nash, Lord Stone, strode up to them and kissed his youngest sister’s cheek. “Good morning, Helena, Morwenna, and Sally. You look beautiful, Amy.”

  Amy smiled at Silas, and Sally again noticed the strong resemblance between brother and sister. Both tall and tawny and striking, in contrast to Helena’s flashing dark good looks.

  “Thank you. You’ve scrubbed up pretty well yourself.” Amy sniffed ostentatiously and gave Silas a smile. “Not a hint of compost, I’m delighted to note.”

  Silas, a renowned botanist, laughed without resentment. “Caro checked before she let me out.” As ever when he mentioned his beloved wife, his expression warmed. “And she banned me from entering my greenhouse this morning.”

  “Bravo, Caroline,” Sally said drily.

  She stifled a pang of envy when she saw how joy had transfigured the usually prosaic Amy. Sally had never been in love, and couldn’t imagine she ever would be, now she reached the advanced age of thirty-one.

  At seventeen, her parents had pushed her into marrying a man she’d quietly grown to despise, although she’d always presented a brave face to the world. Norwood’s death in a riding accident four years ago had released her to a widowhood that she’d thoroughly enjoyed. And intended to enjoy even more.

  But observing Amy today, Sally couldn’t help recognizing that freedom wasn’t the only thing a woman could hope for in this life.

  Unsuitable thoughts, when she should be devoting her attention to her friend’s nuptials.

  Silas extended his arm to Amy. “Ready?”

  “Eager.” She slid her gloved hand into the crook of his elbow.

  “Well, you have done this before,” Helena said slyly.

  Amy’s smile was beatific. “No, I haven’t.”

  Even cynical Helena wasn’t proof against Amy’s happiness, and her voice softened. “No, indeed you haven’t.”

  Her heart brimming with elation for Amy and regret that such a transformative love had forever passed her by, Sally firmed her hold on her bouquet of violets and lily-of-the-valley. She took her place in front of Silas and Amy. Helena and Morwenna lined up behind the bride. A flourish of music from inside the church, and they moved forward.

  The church was crowded, too. Sally glanced around the elegant congregation and saw so many people who had become important to her over recent years. Lord and Lady Kenwick and their family. Caroline, Lady Stone, who had banned her husband from his horticultural experiments this morning. Sally’s dear niece Meg, her protegée this season. A few pews back, Meg’s handsome suitor, Sir Charles Kinglake.

  Sir Charles looked breathtaking in a black coat that emphasized his broad shoulders and impressive chest. Admiration made Sally’s heart skip a beat. What a fine figure of a man Meg had caught for herself—if the chit could just bring the elegant baronet to the point of proposing.

  When he
noticed Sally looking at him, he sent her an approving smile. A dimple appeared in his lean cheek and laughter lines deepened around his dark eyes.

  She so appreciated how he always acknowledged her as a person in her own right. After all, as Meg’s widowed aunt and chaperone, most men would consider her an inconvenience. Gratitude for his exquisite manners made her silly heart perform another leap. Even for a woman past the giddy age, it was a thrill to have all that masculine appeal focused on her.

  Sir Charles was all that a girl could wish in a husband. Kind, sophisticated, rich. And madly attractive as well. Rich brown hair the color of strong coffee. Deep brown eyes. Tall and strong and vigorous. And an exceptionally nice smile.

  Sally found herself smiling back at him as she walked up the aisle in front of Amy.

  Meg was such a lucky girl.

  Perhaps once Meg was safely married, Sally would revive her plan to extend her experience beyond her husband’s inept fumblings. She might be too old to make a love match, but she wasn’t too old to enjoy an amorous adventure or two, by heaven.

  Norwood had been hopeless in bed, on the rare occasions when he joined her there at all. Whereas something about Sir Charles’s air of effortless self-assurance hinted that he knew just what to do when he had a woman in his arms.

  Today’s wedding confirmed her decision. Why should Amy have all the fun? Soon, she’d choose a first lover who was just like Sir Charles. A good man, but not so good that he didn’t know how to pleasure her. It was time she discovered just what put that spark in Amy’s hazel eyes when she looked at her bridegroom.

  Sally ought to be blushing. These profane thoughts weren’t appropriate in a church.

  At the altar, she stepped aside and watched Amy present her hand to Gervaise Dacre, Lord Pascal, who today definitely lived up to his reputation as London’s handsomest man. His golden good looks were extraordinary, nor could anyone mistake the glow of adoration in his deep blue eyes when he looked at his bride.

  Amy was a lucky girl, too.

  Well, once she’d married Meg off to Sir Charles, Sally intended to be another lucky girl. The only man who had shared her bed was unworthy of the honor. The next man she chose would show her just what she’d been missing all these years.

  * * *

  Chapter Two

  * * *

  Silas and Caroline hosted the wedding breakfast at their opulent house in Half Moon Street.

  Sally paused for a moment near the ballroom’s French doors, open onto the lush spring garden. Even London’s capricious spring weather blessed today’s festivities. Around her, conversation buzzed, spiked with joyous laughter, making it difficult to hear the string quartet Silas had hired for the occasion.

  “The ranks of the Dashing Widows are thinning,” Sir Charles said, coming up beside her and passing her a glass of champagne.

  Sally turned from studying the jubilant newlyweds to bestow a wide smile on the tall man in perfectly tailored formal black. The day’s romantic atmosphere must be affecting even her prosaic soul. At the sight of him, her heart performed that odd little wobble again.

  “Someone told you about our pact, did they?”

  “I went out celebrating with Pascal, Kenwick and West last night.” He regarded his full glass with a lack enthusiasm that amused her. “In their cups, they gave me the story behind the nickname.”

  She, Morwenna, and Amy had made a pact to have some fun in society and set aside old, unhappy memories. They’d taken as their example the first three Dashing Widows, Caroline, now Lady Stone, Fenella, now Lady Kenwick, and Helena. Eight years ago, all three women had put off their mourning and gone out to find love and new, fulfilled lives.

  “I won’t mind at all if I’m the last Dashing Widow standing.” His easy manner settled her unsteady pulse and reminded her how remarkably comfortable she’d always felt with him. “I’d be delighted to see Morwenna find happiness, too.”

  Sympathy turned his brown eyes velvety. “How long is it since her husband was lost at sea?”

  “Nearly four years. At first, I wasn’t sure bringing her to London was a good idea, but lately she seems to be finding her feet and enjoying herself.”

  Sir Charles took a sip of his champagne and tilted his eyebrows to where Morwenna stood talking to a dark-haired man in a blue coat. “Garson seems to be enjoying her.”

  “I don’t think…” Sally said in shock.

  Then she closed her mouth and studied her lovely black-haired friend, striking in a lavender gown that turned her blue eyes purple. Eyes that were once dull with sorrow, but which now sparkled as she laughed up at the tall man, looming over her with a rapt expression on his face.

  “How on earth did you notice that and I didn’t?” She and Morwenna—and Amy until today—shared a house this season, but they didn’t live in each other’s pockets. Nonetheless if Morwenna had accepted Garson’s advances, surely Sally would have guessed.

  Sir Charles shrugged, reminding her again of the imposing width of his shoulders. “You’ve been too busy chaperoning Meg to take note of your friends’ romances.”

  Sally cast a fond glance to her pretty niece, who was deep in conversation with Vernon Grange, Lord West. If she knew Meg—and of course, she did—they were discussing equine bloodlines. West bred champion racehorses, and Meg had been horse mad since before she could walk. “Luckily she’s not much trouble.”

  She returned her attention to Morwenna, who was no longer the wan, grief-stricken waif of a few months ago. Was it possible she’d taken Lord Garson as a lover? He was at least ten years older than she was, but he was an attractive man. Anyway, Sir Charles was nearly ten years older than Meg, and Sally was in favor of that match.

  “You know, I don’t think they’ve gone that far,” Sir Charles murmured in her ear. “Garson has his sights on Morwenna, but I believe he’s seeking a wife rather than a mistress.”

  Sally flinched at how easily he’d guessed what she was thinking. She shot him a disapproving glance. “If you were any sharper, you’d cut yourself.”

  He laughed. He had a nice laugh. He had a nice voice, low and deep. She couldn’t think of a better husband for Meg. His natural warmth boded well for a contented married life.

  “So now Garson is pursuing Morwenna, I’d say the days of the Dashing Widows are definitely numbered.”

  Sally tried her champagne, enjoying the crisp flavor with its hint of dryness. A little like Sir Charles’s conversation, in fact.

  From the first, she’d enjoyed talking to him. He was a sensible, intelligent man, qualities Meg mightn’t appreciate fully at this stage. But Sally, having lived with a man neither sensible nor clever, knew that in the long term, her niece would come to value Sir Charles’s good sense. “I’ll have to gather some more Dashing Widows together, so I can keep the tradition going.”

  “Why on earth should you?” He settled that autumnal gaze on her, and his tone was thoughtful. “After all, you’ll be married again yourself.”

  Sally jerked, and spilled a few drops of her champagne, luckily on the floor, not on her lovely bronze silk dress. She struggled to keep her voice from betraying how his words had sent a cold chill down her spine. “Oh, I’m well past marrying age.”

  “Utter nonsense,” he said, with more emphasis than she thought her statement deserved.

  Sally shook her head and smiled. “Oh, perhaps some old codger might take me on, to make his life comfortable and run his house. But where would be the fun in that?”

  “There wouldn’t be any.” Sir Charles frowned at her. “You speak as if you’re pushing fifty. When anyone with eyes can see you’re an attractive woman in the prime of life.”

  “Why, thank you, sir,” she said with an exaggerated flutter of her eyelashes. “You flatter me.”

  He didn’t smile back. Which was odd. His sense of humor was another of the many things she admired about him. “Sally, I’m serious.”

  Startled, she stared at him, while disquiet stirred in her stomac
h.

  Sally? Surely they weren’t on terms where he should use her Christian name. She bit back a protest. If he was to marry Meg, she supposed she couldn’t insist on the letter of propriety.

  Had he been standing quite so close before? She’d never been so conscious of his height and power. The urge to deliver another frivolous answer withered under the unusually somber expression in his dark eyes.

  “I’m too old for romance, Sir Charles.” She placed a slight weight on his title. “And I have no other reason to marry. I’m well provided for. I have a lovely home. I have wonderful friends.”

  “What about companionship?” Her assertions left him visibly unimpressed. “Specifically of the masculine variety.”

  Her lips tightened. “A lover, you mean?”

  He gestured with his champagne glass. “If you like.”

  Good God. What an extraordinary conversation.

  In the two months he’d been in London, she and Sir Charles had never ventured into such murky waters. If they’d discussed love, it was always in connection to mythical beings in a painting. Venus and Mars. Cupid and Psyche. Diana and Actaeon. A thousand cupids flitting across canvases heaving with carousing gods and goddesses. Sir Charles was a famous art collector.

  She shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other and wished to heaven that Helena or Caro would come and rescue her from this odd conversation. But they were both on the other side of the room, curse them. “You put me to the blush, sir.”

  The tilt of Sir Charles’s eyebrow hinted that he heard the off-kilter note in her answer, and his smile held an unfamiliar grimness. “You’re too old to blush, Lady Norwood, if I paid one ounce of credence to this drivel you’re spouting.”

  “Well, really,” she began hotly, smarting at his sardonic tone, but stopped before she said something unforgiveable. To her relief, Meg was heading in their direction.