A Lord For The Wallflower Widow. Ann Lethbridge

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      That particular rejection had hurt to the core of her soul. And still did, when she listened to her sisters-in-law giggle about the joys of the marriage bed during the long winter evenings at Westram Cottage when they’d been working on fabricating the hats and bonnets they now hoped to sell. Not that she’d ever told them the truth about her wedding night.

      ‘Put what is left on the counter, Jeb, please. It is time for you to return to the cottage. I am sure the other ladies have all manner of things for you to do.’

      Jeb scratched at his unshaven chin. The poor fellow had been required to bed down with the horse in a stables some distance from the shop, since there was no place for him to rest his head here.

      ‘Are you sure, mum? I don’t like leaving you here alone. A bed of iniquity Lunnon is. Me ma said so.’

      ‘I will be perfectly fine. The locks you have added to the doors and the bars on the windows will keep me quite safe. And Mr Thrumby’s man is more than a match for any intruder.’ Mr Thrumby’s man guarded the back entrance at night.

      Jeb’s expression remained doubtful, but she kept hers firm and unyielding.

      ‘As you wish, Mrs Greystoke.’ His formal use of her married name was his way of administering an admonition. But it was worse than that. It was a lie. She never really had been Mrs Greystoke. Not properly. Little did anyone know the use of her married name made her resentment of her husband burn like acid.

      She forced her mind back to more mundane topics. ‘I will see you back here on Saturday afternoon.’

      He touched his forelock and left.

      Now she really was on her own.

      She slid open the top drawer of the counter, removed three of the lacy embroidered handkerchiefs and put them in the front window. Handkerchiefs were not as expensive as bonnets. A cheaper purchase might lure someone in. She shifted the bonnet to present a more intriguing angle and returned to her stool.

      One sale. Then she would be sure she was on the right path.

      * * *

      Lord Avery Gilmore, younger son of the Duke of Belmane, stepped out into the street and blinked in the light of mid-morning. The porter of the gaming hell where he’d spent the last many hours slammed the door behind him. Avery grinned. His night had been reasonably successful. His pockets were plump enough to ensure not only that there would be food on his sister’s table for a few more days, there would plenty left over for coal for his fireplace and a bottle of really fine brandy.

      He never came home empty handed. After his father had thrown him out of the family for refusing to marry the woman Papa had chosen, he’d had years of living by his wits on several continents to hone his skills at the gambling tables. Last night and into this morning had been more successful than usual. Perhaps Lady Luck had turned her smile his way.

      Which was a good thing. All these years of living abroad, he’d become adept at supporting himself, but having learned of his sister’s struggles from his older brother, he now felt financially responsible her, too. At least until her husband could earn enough to support his family as a barrister, which would hopefully be soon, since he had recently been called to the bar and accepted for a pupillage in chambers.

      Finally, after last night, Avery could truthfully tell Laura not to worry about money, at least for a while.

      Blithely, he strode for his lodgings, but halted at the sight of a very pretty bonnet in a window polished to a mirror-like shine. A cleanliness one didn’t often find in the backstreets leading off Bond Street. He crossed the street to take a closer look, avoiding the dollops of horse manure and the vagabond lounging in a doorway. Fellows like that would cut your purse in the blink of an eye if you weren’t careful.

      Avery knew all about cutpurses and their ilk. The owner of the Ragged Staff, the establishment he’d just left, had accused him of being a fraudster, because he had so easily seen through the house’s ploy to trick him out of his winnings. For a moment, it had looked as if he might have to fight his way out of the hell, but for the interference of some of the other customers, who were only too happy to see someone win for a change.

      Pigeons for the plucking they might be, green as grass, too, but they were also gentlemen.

      Avery wavered a little on his feet as he stared at the bonnet displayed in the window. He shook his head to clear it. Too much cheap brandy, though he was nowhere close to foxed. His unsteadiness was more from lack of sleep, though he had no doubt he would have the devil of a headache later. He squinted at the hat. The violets and primroses decorating the crown were not real, as he’d thought at first, but silk. He didn’t want the hat, but he did want a posy to offer to Mrs Luttrell later. The poor little pet pined for such marks of attention. Would silk flowers raise her spirits?

      The confection blurred. Dash it. He was a little more in the bag than he had thought. He really needed to go home to bed. But he also needed a gift...

      Silk flowers lasted longer.

      No doubt they would also cost a great deal more. Still, Mimi Luttrell would be more compliant with such a mark of attention. And for once he had blunt in his pocket.

      He entered the narrow shop.

      A tall, remarkably tall, young woman rose to her feet behind the counter. Her face was not pretty exactly, but handsome, with fine grey eyes and a mouth that begged to be kissed even as she frowned. Why was she frowning?

      Gad, she really was tall. Not quite his height, but close to it.

      ‘Good day, sir,’ she said, her voice pleasantly deep. ‘How may I be of service?’

      He stared at her in surprise. Outwardly, she looked like a shop girl in her dun-coloured gown and prim cap, but she sounded like a lady, for all that there was a trace of the north in her accent.

      Plush full lips pursed in disapproval. ‘Is something wrong?’

      He dragged his gaze from her mouth to her face. Brought his mind back to the task at hand. He gave her his most charming smile. ‘Nothing wrong at all. I simply had not expected to find such a lovely lady brightening my morning.’

      The frown reappeared. ‘It is after midday, sir, and this is a ladies’ millinery shop. Perhaps you mistake where you are?’

      He swayed on his feet, surprised by her lack of response to his smile. He had smiled, he was sure of it. ‘I beg your pardon, but I certainly do know where I am. Your shop has a remarkable array of very fine bonnets.’ That compliment ought to cheer her up. ‘And you, I notice, have remarkably beautiful eyes.’

      Astonishment filled her face. ‘Sir—’

      Clearly, he was not up to snuff this morning, or else the lady was not of a flirtatious bent. ‘How much for the violets, madam?’

      The floor shifted uneasily beneath his feet and he propped a hip against the counter.

      Warily she backed up, her expression puzzled. ‘Violets?’

      ‘Yes, violets. In the window.’

      ‘There are no—Oh, you mean the ones on the bonnet. They are not for sale.’

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