A Widow for the Duke

Readers - this is book 2, better read after To Tame a Baron.

Dear Sister,

There is no such thing as boredom. Only boring people. I promise to write so you do not perish from boredom, but we must set aside our mischief-making, for men do not act as boys and Eton is where I shall become a man. Promise me you shall make friends outside of Rebecca. I am sure you will make a friend of the Vicar’s daughter, bribery aside, probably already forgetting about me as I write.

Your brother,

Sebastian

Sebastian, the Duke of Warrick, believed himself to be a simple man. This was perhaps a bit of a stretch, but the only other recourse was to admit to himself he was a man entrenched in the perplexity of his feelings. Sebastian didn’t like to ponder on feelings.

In fact, he decided to continue believing himself to be a simple man, as Sebastian was not in the habit of honesty. If he took a moment to reflect, to consider the knot that sat in his belly over the last few days, then he would have to admit he knew the cause of that knot.

Cornflower blue eyes and two shy dimples.

Women had taken over his manse, they ruled every room in a flurry of skirts and muslin, chittering and chattering, giggling. It was enough to drive a man to drink.

So, he did.

Eleanor, his newly wedded sister, had departed with Blackmore—his closest friend and confidant—to Bath. Of all places. Leaving him here with Mrs Shaw and Lady Charlotte, along with the horde of children that followed Charlotte like little ducklings.

Mrs Shaw—Eleanor’s closest friend and confidant—was now a resident, having moved out of the vicarage after her husband’s passing. Her two little ones, quiet little church mouses at the best of times and little hellions at the worst, were her near-constant companions. If they weren’t following Charlotte around with the farmer’s horde of children.

Sebastian didn’t understand the turn of events. His sister stealing away with Blackmore, his friend, while leaving him here with her friend. He couldn’t very well turn out Eleanor’s companion, it wouldn’t be proper, not that her being here was proper to his salacious fantasies of the former vicar’s wife.

By God, not only was she a vicar’s widow, but she had also been the daughter of one as well, and here he was gritting his teeth and gripping his brandy as he tried to block out the sound of her singing to the gaggle of children. Blocking out the sound of her soft, sweet voice to choke back the absolute want.

The manor was large, fit for a dozen families to stay and visit if needed. Plenty of rooms and hideaways, and yet he had found himself in the drawing room, in the middle of the day, as Charlotte played the pianoforte, while Mary—Mrs Shaw—sang to the unusually quiet children in front of them.

They sat cross-legged in front of the two ladies, forgoing the rather delicate chaise lounges and gilded chairs.

Sebastian always found himself here during this time, which was usually either story time or song time, before their naptime. Charlotte had made it her mission to care for Mr Murray’s children after his wife passed in childbirth. With it being harvest season, the farmer was struggling with their care and as a tenet of his land, it was his duty to ensure his tenets were taken care of, tykes and all. Charlotte took their stewardship of the people very seriously, and with Vicar Shaw passing on, there was a gap that could be felt.

Charlotte cared for the children more days than not, and her and Mrs Shaw kept a regular schedule. Sebastian began to look forward to their midday routine. Drawn in as he was to her voice, whether reading poetry to the ducklings or singing, he couldn’t stay away.

Sebastian shifted in his chair, a dark, heavy monstrosity his father favored, quite out of sync with the rest of the décor, but something neither he nor Charlotte wanted to part with. Even years later, he would occasionally catch the grief on the face of his father’s widow when he or Eleanor brought up the late duke. Their marriage had been short, but Charlotte had loved his father dearly.

Mrs Shaw noticed his shifting, darting a glance over to where he sat by the fireplace. She smiled a little as she continued to sing, the shy dimples peeking out. Her hair, usually so carefully tucked into a chignon, was loose—streaming strands of fine silvery blonde cascading down her shoulders. Her modest dress was lavender, as she was still in half-mourning for her husband, and the color suited her creamy skin. Sebastian’s eyes dipped down, taking in her plump, heavy breasts, and the way the fabric clung to her full hips and tapered waist. He wondered, not for the first time, how plump her arse would be.

No, he was not an honest man, nor was he a simple one. Sebastian would not admit what those dimples did to him, nor think about the dichotomy of feelings he had toward Mrs Shaw.

He would not think about the way he wanted to serve her tea, kneeling in front of her like a beggar, feeding her the choicest tidbits and delicacies as he starved, treating her like the noblewoman she should have been born as. While those thoughts painted pretty fantasies for the type of man he wanted to be—for her—they were nothing like the dark daydreams he couldn’t help but entertain.

It wouldn’t do for him to think of those. And so, he sat and listened to her pretty voice and strangled his near-constant lust of the late vicar’s widow.

When she finished her song, Mary clapped her hands with the children, her dimples prominent as she smiled.

Charlotte went to gather the children and shooed them out of the room.

“Ben has made scones!” Charlotte cried to the horde, urging them out of the room. Blackmore’s son was an absolute patisserie genius and Sebastian found it nearly impossible to resist following the children to the kitchens. The only reason he didn’t was because of Mary.

Sebastian went to help her gather up the music sheets. She gave him a shy smile.

“Your Grace,” she said, curtsying.

“I really do think we’re past such formalities,” Sebastian said for what must have been the hundredth of time.

“We must be role models to the children with our manners,” Mary replied, allowing Sebastian to take the sheath of papers from her. He stacked the papers on the top of the pianoforte, turning his back to her.

“There are no children present.”

“Ah, but it is the epitome of good manners to always display them even without any onlookers.”

Sebastian heard the amusement limning her words. He turned around and faced her. “How long have we known each other, Mrs Shaw?”

Mary gazed up at him through her silvery-blonde eyelashes. “A long time.”

“And would you say we are friends?” The devil inside Sebastian nudged him on, prodding him to wade into dangerous territory. He was always so careful with Eleanor’s friend. Always removed, detached. He had to be, otherwise her very presence threatened his careful, meticulous control.

Mary clasped her hands together and raised an eyebrow, asking a silent question and not responding. He thought he saw a hint of a smile.

“And do friends not call each other by their Christian name?”

“You are the duke,” was her response.

“But I am Eleanor’s brother first. And I am Albert’s friend second. And I should think through the years we have known each other; we can discard such manners.”

“And did you and my husband speak so intimately to one another?”

Sebastian swallowed, the soft question she asked was a dangerous one. Albert and he had shared things that would have her blushing. The vicar may have seemed pious, and he truly was a man of God, but the man had a sordid past. A past which allowed him to understand Sebastian’s vices. “We did.”

“I cannot imagine my husband calling the duke by his given name.”

“Your husband called me many things.” Mary chuckled, perhaps thinking of those choice words her husband would have called him. Albert had not been one to withhold judgement. The words he had used to describe Sebastian ranged from wastrel to rogue to saint. Sebastian thought of Albert’s impassioned speeches with fondness.

“I suppose Sebastian was one of the kinder ones.”

And just hearing his name on her lips… his gaze dipped down to her cupid bow mouth, the color of strawberries and cream. “Indeed.”

Sebastian took a step forward, not realizing he did so until Rebecca came bustling in the room and the noise of her entering caused Mary to step back. Rebecca was miffed about being left behind when Eleanor left with Blackmore, and she made it known by exaggerated huffing and grumbling.

“Well, aren’t you two just cozy,” Rebecca huffed, gathering the teacups that had been left around the room. “Not even a year in the ground—is her husband—and the master of the house sidling up to her like she’s a ripe fruit to be picked. Shame on to you, you rogue.” Rebecca mumbled under her breath.

Rebecca was getting on in her years, and as those years thickened her joints, and rounded her shoulders, whatever had kept her from speaking her mind aloud was fading away as quickly as her brown hair. She had been Eleanor’s nursery maid and seemed a permanent fixture. Sebastian thought she had been old when he was just a boy in short pants, now she was ancient but still fiery and full of opinions.

Mary’s lips thinned into a straight line and her shoulders shook. It took a moment for Sebastian to realize she was holding in her laughter. Sebastian’s lips curled upward.

He bowed first to Mary and then to Rebecca. “I take my leave of you two fine ladies.”

And he promptly left the room.

“Aye, run away boy, before I take my belt to you!” Rebecca called out.

Mary’s silvery laugh followed him out the door.