Tempting Mr. Townsend (Dashing Widows #2)

Chapter Five

T he winter dawn was a pale glow on the horizon when Anthony strode up to the door and brought the heavy lion-headed knocker down with a crash. At his side, bonny, brave Fenella Deerham stood silent, but he felt her willing him to tread carefully. Odd how she could do that. He'd never in his life been so aware of another person's thoughts. If anyone asked him, he'd wager he could repeat every word that she wasn't saying right now.

By the time the bolt scraped back, he was half frozen and stamping his feet to restore circulation. In the growing light, Fenella looked pale with cold and worry. He wished propriety permitted him to put his arm around her—purely for warmth, of course.

But one did not hug a lady without invitation. Even if she'd been snuggled up against him all night, soft and fragrant and alluringly female.

The door squeaked open to reveal an old man. “Mr. Townsend. We were expecting you.”

The butler's words roused tentative hope. “Good morning, Probert. Are the lads here?”

“Yes, sir. They arrived last night.”

Anthony drew what felt like his first full breath since he'd discovered Carey missing from Eton. Joy bubbled up inside him like a fountain until he wanted to fling his arms around Fenella and dance into the house.

“Are they well?” she asked, to Anthony's regret withdrawing her hand. Having her on his arm gave him the same sense of rightness he'd felt when he first saw the Beeches.

“Yes, madam. They arrived tired and hungry, but nothing a good meal and some sleep won't fix.”

“Oh, thank God,” she whispered, sagging with relief. Tears glittered in her fine blue eyes. Anthony caught her elbow, as much an excuse to touch her as to stop her falling.

“Probert, this is Lady Deerham.”

She stiffened her backbone and gathered her composure. “Good morning, Probert.”

The butler bowed, giving no indication that an unchaperoned tonnish lady bowling up to the house at daybreak was unusual. When they all knew how improper it was.

Probert stepped back to allow them into the hall. Black and white tiles covered the floor. A glass dome crowned the lofty space. A curving double staircase rose to unite into one a story above. The space was breathtakingly impressive, but that didn't explain why it made Anthony's heart sing. He was a plain working man, but from the first, the Beeches had been home.

Anthony struggled to think through the storm of relief. “Please send a groom to the school to let them know that the boys are here.”

“We sent a message when they arrived, sir.”

“Thank you.” He turned to Fenella. “Shall we roust them from their beds?”

To his surprise, she shook her head. “No, they need to rest after their adventures. I can wait, now I know they're safe.”

The more he saw of her, the more he liked her. “Shall we look in on Brandon? We'll make sure we don't disturb him.”

Her grateful smile proved unsettling for Anthony's heart rate. “Oh, I would like that.”

“Where did you put them, Probert?”

“In the blue and green bedrooms, sir.”

“Excellent.”

“I'll wake cook and have her start breakfast.”

“Thank you. We've been traveling all night. Sustenance will be welcome.”

“How is Carey's nurse?” Fenella asked.

“Still poorly, I'm sorry to say, but she rallied when she saw the boys. She told young Master Carey off very sharply for running away from school. After that, she looked better than she had all week.”

Anthony laughed appreciatively. “Good for her.”

“Mr. Townsend, I may be speaking out of turn, but it was clear Master Carey's motives were good, however ill-advised his actions.”

Anthony cast Fenella a wry glance as he gestured her toward the graceful staircase. “So I understand, Probert. If someone could sort out some coffee in the next few minutes, they'll have my eternal gratitude.”

“Immediately, sir. And I'll set the fire in the morning room.”

As they climbed the stairs, Fenella was fine-drawn with tension. He knew her mind wouldn't rest until she'd seen her son with her own two eyes.

Anthony carefully opened the door to the green bedroom, grateful it didn't creak like the front door. The curtains were closed, but he made out a heap of blankets and a tuft of fair hair. This must be Brandon. Carey was as swarthy as his uncle.

Fenella released a shuddering breath as she ventured a couple of steps inside, before retreating on soundless feet. She lingered in the doorway, her face luminous with love, and Anthony had to look away. It was like looking into her soul, and the experience was too heady for someone little more than a stranger.

Reluctance weighted her movements as she shut the door on her sleeping son. Anthony touched her arm in silent comfort, propriety be damned. Swift heat slammed him. Because inevitably, he wanted her. Even shouting at her, he'd wanted her.

He spent his life dealing in the world's finest goods. Silks. Porcelain. Glassware. Expensive trinkets to arouse the appetites of jaded rich men—and women. He'd early learned to appreciate quality.

Fenella Deerham was quality from head to toe.

“Wake him up and talk to him,” he whispered. “I know you want to.”

Her smile was wistful, and to his surprise she didn't break the contact. “Of course I want to. But he'll be exhausted.”

Beautiful and unselfish. She really was a jewel.

And a lady, he reminded himself. Counted among the bluest bloods in the land. While Anthony Townsend's blood was as common as mud.

The world might say he looked too high in setting his sights on Sir Henry Deerham's widow. He wasn't so humble as to agree.

Thoughtfully he opened the next door along the corridor. Carey was a more restless sleeper than his friend. He'd kicked the blankets to the floor, and he lay slantwise across the mattress, his white nightshirt tangled around his wiry body.

Grief pierced Anthony. William had been just such a wriggler. “He's so like his father.”

Sympathy softened Fenella's expression. “Those echoes of a lost loved one are painful—and wonderful, aren't they?”

“You understand.”

“Of course I do.”

“Is Brandon like his father?”

“No, more like me, but occasional moments—expressions or gestures—turn him into Henry's spitting image.”

When she mentioned her late husband, her voice held a special note. Anthony couldn't doubt that she'd loved the man she'd married. Nor had he missed the way she'd referred to her love for Henry Deerham in the present tense.

He was ashamed to admit that he wasn't nearly as unselfish as she was. Unworthy jealousy soured his gut.

Their whispered conversation had lasted too long. The long, lean boy in the bed, all arms and legs, stirred and made a sleepy sound of inquiry. “Uncle Tony?”

“Sorry to wake you, old son,” he said. “Go back to sleep. It's still early.”

Instead of obeying, Carey pushed himself up against the pillows and regarded Anthony warily from under a thick shock of black hair. “You're livid, aren't you?”

Fenella's eyes focused on Anthony in a silent plea for mercy. In truth, his anger had faded. With both lads safe, this adventure concluded happily.

And Carey's antics had cast Fenella Deerham in his path.

Which didn't mean his nephew would evade a stern lecture about responsibility. But not at the crack of dawn. And not when the dark eyes watching him so charily were such a reminder of William.

“I'm not pleased,” he said drily. “But a month on bread and water will be punishment enough.”

“Bread and…” The boy's thin face broke into an uneasy smile. “You're joking.”

“Maybe,” Anthony said. “You'll find out at breakfast.”

“You're a good sport, Uncle Tony. Papa always said so.”

“Well, let's hope your father was right.”

The lad yawned widely. “Papa was always right.”

“You've given quite a few people a fright. Not least me. I was worried that you ran away because you hated having me as your guardian.” It was a difficult admission to make, but the thought had tormented him from the first.

Carey shot him a direct look. “Of course I don't hate you being my guardian. I hate…I hate that my parents aren't here, but I like you, Uncle Tony. And you've been devilish kind to me.”

He had to clear a lump of emotion from his throat before he spoke. “I hate that your parents aren't here, too.”

“Because you have to look after me?”

Apparently he wasn't alone in needing reassurance. “No, because I miss them.”

“I do, too.” Now he wasn't awaiting the wrath of God—or at least his uncle—Carey turned his drowsy attention to Fenella. “Cor, Brand didn't exaggerate about his mother being a looker. The miniature doesn't do her justice.”

She laughed. “Why, thank you,” she said unsteadily. “I think.”

“Mind your manners—and your language, young man. You're still on thin ice, remember?”

“Yes, Uncle Tony,” Carey said in a subdued voice, but mischief glittered in his eyes. “Good night.”

“Good morning,” he corrected. “And we'll see you later.”

As Anthony pulled the door shut behind them, there was a drowsy murmur from the bed. “Thank you, Uncle Tony. I knew you'd turn up sweet when we came to the sharp end.”

“Brat,” he said, and Carey chuckled sleepily in response.

“You said he was afraid of you,” Fenella said as they started down the corridor.

“I thought he was,” Anthony said in a wondering voice. “I've got not much more than a peep out of him since his parents died.”

“Perhaps you weren't at ease with him either. And you both had to deal with a terrible tragedy.”

“I didn't know what to do with myself, let alone how to comfort a grieving child.” He cleared his throat. “Carey should have been on the yacht, too, but he broke his arm the day before, climbing out of a cherry tree.”

“And you worried about his lack of spirit.”

“He's been a perfect angel the last few months. I should have realized that spelled trouble. This escapade is the first sign that he's still got the old imp inside him.”

To his surprise—and pleasure—she slipped her hand through his arm. There was the usual jolt of male response, but with something sweeter and deeper flowing under it. Difficult to recall that he'd only met her last night. They talked like old friends.

“Perhaps he's coming to terms with losing his parents. I hate it when people talk about getting over a loss—you never do.” Her voice was sad. “But life goes on regardless.”

“You needed so much courage to carry on.”

Her smile was self-deprecating. “I wasn't brave at all. I've hidden behind my widow's weeds since Waterloo. But early this year, two dear friends got sick of my moping and hauled me out of hibernation. We made a pact to be the dashing widows.”

“The dashing widows? I like it. And I reckon you do yourself an injustice. Only the dashingest widow would take off into the night with a loudmouthed stranger.”

She laughed as they descended the steps. He recognized that he was losing his head over this lovely—and dashing—widow.

“Put like that, I sound quite outrée, don't I? And I soon recognized that your bark was worse than your bite. At least when it came to me. It was patently clear that you were mad with worry.”

“Carey's lucky he wasn't at your house. I wouldn't have been nearly so calm.”

“Oh, you might have scolded him, but I doubt you'd have done much more.”

They reached the ground floor and turned toward the morning room. The aromas of bacon and coffee reminded him that he'd been on the road all night. By now the sun was up and in the stark light, he saw the weariness on Fenella's remarkable face.

She paused in the doorway. “What a lovely room.”

The morning room was decorated in the Chinese style popular last century, and its high windows overlooked a wilderness of garden, turned to enchantment with frost and early sunlight. Probert and two footmen arranged covered dishes on the sideboard.

Anthony stood beside her, ridiculously pleased at the praise. “Thank you. I thought we'd have breakfast here.”

“I really should wash my travel dust off first.”

Of course she must. Heat prickled the back of his neck. What a clod he was, not to offer her some privacy when they arrived. He nodded to a footman, who left to send up a girl from the kitchens. “I'll have a maid show you to a bedroom.”

“And with your permission, I'll check on Mrs. Penn. I might be able to help. Also I'd like to send a note to London, letting the household know Brand's safe.”

“You can spare half an hour to tidy up and have something to eat.”

The warmth in her smile banished his awkwardness. “You're right. All that can wait.”

A fresh-faced country girl came in and curtsied. “My lady, my name is Susan. I'll show you upstairs.”

Fenella delayed to lay one slender hand on Anthony's arm. “Don't fret about Carey. You've both suffered an appalling loss, and you have a lot of adjustments to make. But love on both sides will smooth the way. You just need time to work out how to proceed. Kindness and patience will win the day.”

Her eyes glowed as if she had every faith in him. Looking into her bonny face, he found himself believing her.

“Thank you,” he said, wishing she'd keep touching him, but she left to follow Susan upstairs.

In a daze, he drifted across to sit at the round mahogany table, barely noticing when Gregory the footman placed a steaming cup of coffee before him.

He could blame his distraction on lack of sleep, or his overwhelming relief at finding the runaways. But he hadn't built his business empire from nothing by avoiding unwelcome truths. He wasn't going to start lying to himself now.

Unromantic, mundane Anthony Townsend was falling helplessly in love with a fine lady who, by rights, shouldn't spare him a glance. And he had no idea what in Hades to do about it.