The Frenchman's Widow Read online

  Finally, she saw the look she’d hoped for. Some little indication he still thought of her, in spite of the angelic, yet morally flawed creature down the path.

  He took her hand. “You’re married?”

  “Recently widowed.”

  He lifted his chin a notch and his eyelids lowered. “My condolences.”

  “I really must be on my way, Lord Prescott. Thank you for saving my parasol from certain destruction.”

  He stepped aside, but cleared his throat as if what he had to say hurt. “Imogene, where are you staying? I’d like to see you.”

  “You are seeing me, but since I’m only here for a few days, I don’t see how that will be possible. And it’s very impractical, if you think about it.” Imogene nodded with perfect manners. “Good day, Jack.” She walked on and didn’t look back.

  She pressed one hand between her breasts and pushed into her stays, hoping she could catch a breath before she swooned in front of him. Imogene hadn’t returned to England to entertain thoughts of Jack Davenport, but she could tell it would take a Herculean effort not to do so.

  Breathe.

  She couldn’t deny it—there was still the vain hope she could break his heart as thoroughly as he’d broken hers. Revenge might be a poor man’s tool, but that didn’t mean educated men weren’t tempted.

  * * * * *

  Charlie’s ordination, of course.

  Jack bit his lip, contemplating her reappearance and subsequent departure, her arse wiggling as she walked away from him. His boyish hellion had all but disappeared, to be replaced by something even more alluring, if it were possible.

  He knew he would see her again, just not in this moment. Some day in the future, when he was free. Some day when the time was right. And it wasn’t today.

  Imogene wouldn’t have come back to London for any other reason but family. Jack had just not imagined that she would, or rather he had hoped that she would but believed her pride would keep her away.

  And Charlie hadn’t said a word.

  Her brother had received his honors degree and the college had provided a glowing testimonial for his ordination, even if he was younger than many candidates. Diligent study had come naturally to him once Jack had helped him into Harrow.

  Imogene had turned a haughty shoulder to his request to see her, but he would find a way. He doubted she would be so reticent in a quiet, private room.

  Charlie’s ordination might be his only opportunity to whisper those last few unsaid words. He’d nursed an odd and old wound since her abrupt departure five years ago. Until she was gone, he had not realized what a bright star she had been.

  He supposed it was for the best. Better a swift and brutal end than one that lingered, causing her jealousy and hurt. He’d been promised to another. His wife.

  The park was as crowded as usual, though there was no possibility Catherine hadn’t seen him talking to Imogene.

  “Who was she?” Catherine asked, as she placed her hand in his palm, needing assistance just to stand, what with her ungainly middle and swollen feet, or so she continued to remind him.

  He tried to ignore the accusatory tone of her question and turned toward Marjorie Lundquist, assisting her to her feet as well. Jack ignored his wife’s comment.

  “How is the Colonel?” Jack asked Marjorie, the daughter of one of London’s richest non-titled gentlemen and a friend to Jack’s father.

  “Papa is offering a tract of Essex’s best land for the man who will marry me. You’d think I would have an offer by now. He worries I’ll be left alone,” Marjorie said.

  Jack laughed.

  “If you would only spend more time in London, I’m sure a man could be found,” Catherine said.

  “I need to be with Mama.” They spoke a few more words. All the while Jack petted the white pooch. Marjorie stroked the dog’s head, her fingers touching Jack’s hand in the process. He did not bother to return her gaze. Not with his wife next to him. Not for any reason that might suggest they shared an unspoken thought. Since his marriage there were plenty of women who’d cast glances in his direction.

  “And I must be going,” Marjorie said. “It was lovely to see you both.”

  She ran her fingers over the dog’s head again and glanced up at him, her lashes sweeping becomingly.

  “Good day, Miss Lundquist.”

  Catherine entwined her hand with his arm. “Well?” she said as they walked again.

  “Well what?”

  “Who was she?” The sharpness in her tone was unnecessary and accusatory.

  She, who had no right to censure. He’d been faithful to his marriage. “Imogene—Madame Pierre LeClerc. Late of Paris.”

  “And how do you know her?”

  “Through her brother, Charles Farrell.” It was the opposite actually. He knew Charlie because of Imogene.

  “The minister?” she asked with brows sharply raised.

  “Soon to be.” His answer seemed to satisfy her, as it should. There was no reason for her to suspect a liaison, past or present other than that by nature she was untrusting. Unless Shiffington had used the information as a wedge between Jack and Catherine. Knowing him, it was entirely possible.

  “What are you going to do with that vile thing?” She wrinkled her nose as she glanced at the pooch.

  The small poodle had settled happily. Stroking the dog’s fur, he hadn’t realized he still held the dog and that he ought to be looking about for its owner. Imogene had always been a distraction, more so since he’d sunk into soul-destroying ennui because of his marriage. “Maybe the boys would like to have a dog?”

  “They would, but I would not. Can you not tie it to a tree and dispose of the foul creature?”

  When a young girl dressed in a plain dress and with ribbons in her hair ran up to him with open arms, Jack was relieved he would not have to make a decision that would have displeased his wife. He’d learned the difference between apathy and hell very quickly.

  The boys, however, would have liked a dog. A poodle would have been an annoyance, but perhaps a faithful collie when the time was right.

  “How on earth did you manage to talk me into walking in this heat?” she asked.

  “The doctor said a regime was important to your health. You want this birth to go well, do you not?”

  “This is the last one, Jack. I don’t want another baby. I mean it this time.”

  Between the lines, she was implying no more intercourse, but she was too refined to say it outright. She had been telling him no since the moment she’d believed she was with child. Who was he fooling? She had been telling him no since the day of their wedding.

  Catherine started a discourse on Lady Forrester’s ball, which they had attended last night, but Jack’s thoughts were far from his wife’s side as they strolled toward home.

  Imogene.

  Simple. True.

  Pure at heart. Foul-mouthed hoyden.

  In those first, few short weeks, he had grown used to her early morning adoration, waking beside her while she sat cross-legged on the bed, watching him as if his eyes opening were the most important thing happening to her at that moment.

  And then fucking her as if they but played in the park. How had he not recognized what he could have had with her? The price would have been high. He would have had to give up everything for her. And at the time, he had been too shallow to realize everything really was nothing. Everything had seemed so important then.

  To be in her bed once more...

  There was something utterly perfect about waking and seeing her smile at him for no reason at all.

  His marriage had given rise to plenty of misgivings and regrets, none of which could be solved by Imogene’s appearance at this exact moment. In fact, she was a temptation his vows would not withstand. Jack had given up lying to himself months ago. He hoped Imo had the fortitude and intelligence to stay away, because he had neither.

  While he could resist every woman in London, he could not resist Imogene. He woul
d not. It was a sinful, impossible decision but one that brought a simple joy to his otherwise mundane existence with Catherine.

  “What is she to you?” Catherine asked, staring up at him—hard and angry. Piqued.

  “Who? Madame LeClerc?”

  “She’s no more French then I am the Queen. And yes, Madame LeClerc. You haven’t heard a word I’ve said since you set the poodle aside. You’re only looking at her because I’m ungainly and fat. Were my corsets cinched so tight—and believe me, they will be the moment I have this babe—I’d have every man looking my way as well.”

  Jack’s melancholic mood wasn’t particularly agitated by her words. She’d had a sharp tongue since the day of their vows. It had taken him less than three months to work out her moods and sore spots, and he conveniently sidestepped them.

  It had taken many, many months to find out why she behaved with such bitterness toward him. He still could not believe she’d taken Geoff Shiffington as her lover.

  “Perhaps we should walk another loop around the park,” he said. “The doctor wants you healthy.”

  “Jack, I’m not a racehorse. My feet hurt and I long to sit in my favorite chair and have Nell rub my toes.”

  “Then we best get you home before you founder.”

  Once they arrived at the Prescott townhome, Jack assisted Catherine to her room. He had little to say to her anymore; perhaps he never had.

  He left Catherine with her lady’s maid. Instead of secreting himself in the library, mulling the state of his life, he walked to the mews and saddled his horse.

  He was unhappy. He performed his duties with perfection, appearing at the right balls, dancing at appropriate intervals with his wife, winning enough at the gaming tables. He was everything the beau monde expected of an earl with an attractive wife and young family. Except he was painfully, miserably unhappy.

  Imogene’s presence only shined a bright light on his desolation.

  Of all the women in London he might have married, he had chosen Catherine. The one woman who actually hated him.

  Or she had grown to hate him as she had grown to love someone else. Thankfully, she was discreet, as was required of a married woman of the ton. He had never demanded to know the name of her lover. But he’d found out quite by accident one afternoon when he’d walked in on an intimate conversation between the lovers. The awkwardness couldn’t be covered with smiles and a hastily requested tea tray.

  He’d been faithful to his vows, once made. He’d been faithful, since he was very aware the child Catherine carried was not his. Oh, she had seduced him once she was aware of her condition.

  How could he blame her when he had been fantasying about taking his own mistress?

  God, how long had it been since he’d laughed?

  Inside the stable stall, he flipped the blanket over Belle Star’s middle. She turned her head and neighed softly, probably wondering why they were riding for a second time today. He gripped the horn and cantle, lifted the saddle over the horse and attached the front cinch.

  “I know. If I had a dog instead of a horse, I wouldn’t take my frustrations out on you. Do you know how to fetch a stick?” he asked.

  The horse neighed again and shook her head, rattling the silver buckles of her leather harness.

  He reached under for the flank cinch and pulled. “You’d have more sympathy for me, if you had a wife.”

  “Needin’ help, my lord?” Brody asked, appearing in the door of the stall. He wore the same brown jacket every day with a brown houndstooth vest. Their conversations rarely revolved around anything other than horses or riding.

  “Thank you. I am about to finish, Mr. Brody.”

  “Another ride?”

  “’The wind of heaven is that which blows between a horse’s ears.’ Or so the Arabians say.”

  “And they would know. Ah, she won’t mind another run. Some animals weren’t meant to be cooped up.” He rubbed his rough hand over Belle Star’s snout and then pulled a small chunk of brown sugar from his pocket.

  Jack reached for the bridle. “You spoil her, Brody. When I turn toward the stable, she always seems to have the bit between her teeth.”

  “A firm hand, my lord. So she knows who is master, aye?”

  “I’ve never been so deluded.” He led Belle Star from the stable and set a boot to the stirrup.

  He kicked Belle Star lightly and she trotted through the mews alley, her hooves echoing against the cobblestone and on to the street.

  Imogene Farrell.

  “Imogene,” he said, longing for her as he hadn’t since those weeks after he returned from his honeymoon. Had he said her name aloud once since she had gone?

  Well, he had, but in casual conversation with Charlie or Danny—those few times when he’d been overwhelmed with the desire to know what had happened.

  In Paris. Fine. She’s not coming back.

  But not a word of her being married.

  And that indefinable way people changed during a long absence? He wanted to cup her face and stare into her eyes. He wanted to examine every inch of her to see if it really was her beneath the new veneer. She was not dressed in torn trousers or dirty jacket. Nor a simple day dress. She wore a sophisticated, fitted dress of Parisian design and she wore it with the confidence of a refined woman.

  Could five years and marriage change a person in such a way?

  Merde! Could anyone make him laugh like she did?

  Like she had.

  He wanted to laugh with her again.

  Chapter Two

  King’s College London was rife with the enthusiasm of youth and the intellectual pursuits of the new age, all buoyed by the common faith of the Anglican Church. Jack dismounted and walked toward the commons where he usually met Charlie.

  He wanted to talk with Imogene. He wouldn’t take no for an answer. And Charlie was the person to help with that goal.

  After his honeymoon tour, Jack had returned to London and found Imogene gone. He took responsibility for Charlie, though Charlie had seemed unconcerned by her absence, much the same way he accepted all of life’s mysteries.

  As Charlie grew into a man, Jack learned that Charlie kept his feelings and fears well hidden. Imogene’s departure had seriously affected him, but school and religious study anchored him after the Farrells were blown to the winds. Danny Farrell had approved of Jack’s plan to place Charlie in school at Harrow and left for Deal, to protect his own hide.

  The Farrells might have been scattered, but their roots were in London. It was only a matter of time before Imogene returned.

  Jack had long grown accustomed to Charlie Farrell’s knowing looks, the wide-eyed penetration that viewed the condition of both Jack’s mind and soul. But Charlie had been diligent in keeping Imogene’s secrets in spite of Jack’s gentle probing for information.

  Oxford might have been a better college for Charlie’s spiritual ambitions, but Jack had selfishly hoped, and encouraged, Charlie toward King’s College. The truth was Jack hated the idea of Charlie being away from him, since he was the last connection to Imogene Farrell. Once a year he saw Danny, the oldest brother in the Farrell family, when Jack visited the farms during holidays. They corresponded regularly, their association purely business.

  However, he and Charlie had become friends, lunching periodically and enjoying a unique friendship. Imogene was the only forbidden topic. Jack had even confessed to the failings in his marriage, as if Charlie were already ordained and qualified to dispense advice on forgiveness and duty.

  Not surprisingly, Charlie had turned into a wise young man, a carryover from his serious and spiritual nature as an orphaned child. Imogene had told Jack the story of how they’d found Charlie—no one had come forward to claim him as their child and the Farrells happily took him to bosom. Charlie never spoke of those circumstances; Jack sometimes wondered if he’d had to make himself forget. One of those mechanisms required to survive.

  When Charlie was fourteen, they had walked along the strand to th
e Old Gateway entrance to the college. The Church of St. Mary-le-Strand stood guard, its sharp steeple pointing skyward. Jack could almost hear the joy in Charlie’s heart when he saw the place. Jack had every intention of providing for Charlie and had paid for his tuition and board—at Harrow and then at King’s College.

  Had Charlie ever mentioned it to Imogene?

  And now Charlie was graduating.

  A bittersweet angst weighed upon Jack’s chest. He cared for Charlie as he might a younger brother. One of his family.

  Jack stood, hat in hand, as he watched Charlie hurry toward him, his robes flying behind and a leather satchel in his left hand, which contained The Book of Common Prayer, a King James Bible, Religious Affections and Pia Desideria, or at least that was what he was reading two weeks ago when Jack had last seen Charlie.

  “Lord Prescott,” Charlie said. His smile and countenance was nothing short of sainted serenity. “I wasn’t expecting to see you until Friday.”

  “I know. I was just out riding.”

  They turned and walked together along the Strand.

  “And Lady Prescott? How is she?”

  “Short-tempered and ready to be relieved of her burden.”

  “And what will she do with another son?”

  “I think she prays for a girl and the end of her childbearing.”

  “Indeed.” Charlie stopped and faced Jack. “What is it you need to see me about?”

  Charlie’s expression was so full of earnest innocence, what with his high, flush cheekbones, the smattering of freckles and his combed hair that willfully tumbled over his forehead. He had just reached the same height as Jack but still bore the lanky awkwardness of youth.

  “Well... Well, I saw Imogene earlier today. You didn’t tell me she was coming to your graduation.”

  “My lord, Imogene does as she wishes, without consulting me for advice.”

  “Is she staying in London?”

  He shifted, gripping his leather satchel in front of him with both hands. “Yes. And I do know where, but please don’t ask it of me. She told me you parted amicably. She also told me her life was her own.