A Lord For The Wallflower Widow. Ann Lethbridge

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      ‘Only if you refrain from going to another,’ Avery said drily. ‘You were lucky tonight.’

      ‘I know. And besides, tonight was my last night here. I am due home tomorrow. I’m on my way down from Oxford. I can’t delay any longer or Papa will worry. He’s not a bad old chap, but he does fuss so.’

      Very lucky indeed. Avery wished he had a papa who cared enough to fuss over him.

      ‘Buy a nice gift for your mama and buy a new waistcoat for yourself and go home.’

      The boy sank back against the squabs, his expression thoughtful. ‘Thank you, sir. I will.’

      The boy might be naive, but he wasn’t stupid. Avery wondered if he would have been so sensible at that age. He stepped back and the hackney coach clattered off into the night.

      He strode down the street and turned into the alley that ran behind Mrs Greystoke’s shop. There was an odd feeling in his gut. A sense he might be making the worst mistake of his life. The gold plate on the door identified the residence of a Mr Arnold Thrumby. He hesitated. Did he really want to do this?

      Her expression, the instant acceptance of his rejection, swam before his eyes once again. If nothing else, he could not allow her to continue to believe she was not worthy of his attentions. Damnation and how the hell was he to do that? He’d just have to play it by ear. The way he always did.

      He knocked.

      After a few long moments, the peephole opened. ‘Who be knocking at respectable folks’ door at this time of the night?’ a deep voice grumbled.

      ‘A visitor for Mrs Greystoke. Lord Avery. I am expected.’

      Hopefully the lady would not give him the lie. Though he would not put it past her to deny him entry. She was not like any other woman he had ever known. Which accounted for some of his fascination.

      Footsteps retreated and a little later returned. ‘She says you best come in.’

      The elderly porter opened the door and stood back. ‘At the end of the hall there.’ He indicated with his thumb. He locked and bolted the door and sat back down at his post.

      So much for her safety. The porter needed a swift kick somewhere it would hurt for letting a man visit the lady in the middle of the night.

      The door to Mrs Greystoke’s apartment stood ajar, allowing a small bar of light to escape into the corridor. He pushed it open and stepped inside.

      She was sitting at the kitchen table facing the door, wearing an old brown woollen dressing gown pulled tight around her form. A heavy rope of brown hair curled over her shoulder and rested on her generous right breast. At her throat, a fragment of lace peeped out from the enveloping gown and skimmed the hollow of her throat. The scrap of frill was a nod to her femininity. And it was the most erotic sight he had ever beheld.

      Slowly he raised his gaze to her face. ‘Mrs Greystoke. Good of you to see me at this late hour.’

      ‘Lord Avery?’

      Her voice held a question, though her face was perfectly calm. A calmness she wore like armour to hide her worry. But the tremble in the hand that clutched her robe close gave her away.

      He shouldn’t have come. ‘I don’t suppose you would offer me a cup of tea?’

      She stared at him for a long moment.

      He really should not have come.

      She rose from her chair, tall, magnificent, composed. ‘Very well.’

       Chapter Four

      He wanted a cup of tea at this late hour? What did he think this was? A tea house? To calm her thundering heart, she busied herself with stirring up the coals and filling the kettle of water. To her mortification, she realised he was still standing with his back against the door. Watching her. And taking up far too much space in her little kitchen.

      ‘Please,’ she said. ‘Sit down.’

      He moved with cat-like grace across the small space and took the chair against the wall beside the kitchen table. It didn’t help. His watchful presence unnerved her. She should have told the porter to send him away. Of course she should. But then she never did anything she was supposed to do. Except for marry Greystoke. And look what a mistake that had turned out to be.

      He said nothing. Why didn’t he say anything?

      She was hopeless at small talk.

      She kept her back firmly pointed in his direction, until finally there was no more excuse to avoid his gaze. She carried the tea tray to the table and set it down. She sat opposite and poured his tea. She recalled he liked lots of sugar and cream and put plenty in before handing him his cup.

      ‘Thank you.’ His deep voice resonated around the room.

      ‘I—I don’t have any biscuits, I’m afraid. I gave them all to Jeb. For his journey. To Kent. I haven’t had time to bake more.’

      He stirred his tea, took a sip. ‘Excellent.’

      She blushed like a schoolgirl at the compliment.

      He leaned against the chairback. Relaxed. Confident. Elegant. Whereas she felt as if her hands were too large for her arms, like an ungainly colt.

      ‘Was there something you wanted?’ she blurted. So awkward. And her blush went from warm to scalding.

      He put down his cup. ‘I have been considering your proposal.’

      The blood drained from her head. ‘No. I mean I made a mistake. I wish you to forget it.’

      A brow lifted. He tilted his head. ‘I wish you would hear me out.’

      She turned her face away. Embarrassed. Mortified. Angry at her stupid impulse. ‘I beg you will say no more on the matter. You were clearly insulted by what I asked.’

      ‘Mrs Greystoke, I apologise if I was rude. I ought to be used to the gossips by now.’

      She drew in a shuddery breath. ‘But I think ladies do not generally ask for your services so bluntly.’ She tried a smile. It felt weak. She straightened her shoulders. ‘Let us say I have changed my mind.’

      ‘Have you?’ His voice sounded wistful. Almost regretful.

      Again the horrible blush. She’d done nothing but dream about the what ifs all day. What if she had flirted with him? What if she had enticed him? What if she had been someone other than Carrie Greystoke, daughter of a merchant and as blunt as a darning needle?

      He reached across the table and took her hand, gently, lightly, his thumb brushing across the back of her fingers. Tingles shot all the way up her arm. She drew in a quick breath. Never had she felt anything so startlingly sensual. Her inner muscles clenched.

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