The Marriage Maker and the Widows
The Marriage Maker and the Widows
Summer Hanford
Lisa Boero
Tarah Scott & Laura Chandler
Mary Lancaster
Scarsdale Voices
This is a Scarsdale Voices romance and is part of The Marriage Maker series written by Tarah Scott and Sue-Ellen Welfonder.
The Marriage Maker and the Widows: The Marriage Maker
Copyright © 2019 Scarsdale Publishing
All rights reserved
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Cover Design: dreams2media
Cover Art: Period Images
Editor: Kimberly Comeau
SP
The Marriage Maker and the Widows
Virgins are overrated. Women of experience. Women who know what they want. Women who don’t need a man—at least for nothing more than the pleasures only a man can provide. These are the women men desire.
It takes a man of worth, of steel determination, to capture one of these beauties…especially when she doesn’t want to be caught, and I know from experience, they take great pains to avoid the marriage trap. Why give up her freedom, nights spent with lovers who worship her body as only a lover can? Nae. The man who sets his sights on one of these women must forgo conventional wisdom. Poetic words of love fall on deaf ears, for many men have confessed their devotion in brilliantly lit ballrooms and under moonlit skies. This female creature has no desire to be tamed beyond the pleasures of one night.
A man who loves this woman must be ready to give his soul to save hers.
Fate often watches in perverse glee when these women pass within a hair’s breadth of these men, blithely unaware of their hero’s existence.
But fate didn’t plan on me, The Marriage Maker.
Rake Ruiner
The Marriage Maker
Book Twenty-One
The Marriage Maker and the Widows
Summer Hanford
Chapter One
Charlotte’s lips curved in a slow smile as she settled her cheek against Rivington’s broad chest. He wrapped a strong arm about her. The silken sheets whispered as he gathered her close. Idly, his strong fingers traced a pattern along her bare skin, skimming the curve of her waist. Thoroughly content, she draped an arm across the muscles of his chest. All around them candles flickered, burned low.
He was wonderful, her Englishman, and precisely what she needed to break her string of disastrous liaisons. Charlotte didn’t know why she hadn’t thought of dallying with an Englishman before. Unlike Scotsmen, who thought more with their hearts than their minds, the English were cold. A well-bred English gentleman was wonderfully aloof. He would be hard pressed to realize he was experiencing an emotion, should he ever have one, unless she chose to inform him. She could count on an Englishman not to fall in love with her and ruin their affair with an offer of marriage.
Especially this Englishman. Rumor had it, Samuel Rivington came to Scotland to escape a swarm of past lovers and their vengeful menfolk. Nearly forty, possessed of a great fortune and never wed, he was obviously committed to the same thing she was—unfettered enjoyment. And he certainly knew how to go about achieving it, for there was one way in which he was decidedly not cold or aloof.
She’d no trouble understanding his success with her sex. Tall, darkly handsome, with hazel eyes that shifted color with his mood, and a smile that dared a woman to kiss him, Rivington could have nearly any woman with merely a look. Add wealth and a willingness to shower his lovers with jewels and other rarities, and the man was well-nigh irresistible.
Charlotte’s eyes drifted closed. She inhaled the scent of his shaving soap, brandy and the perspiration of their exertions. It was marvelous to have a man in her bed who she needn’t kick out immediately for fear he’d wake in the morning all calf-eyes, a proposal on his lips. For once, she need not employ Vivian’s advice: ‘Don’t let them sleep in your bed, Charlotte. Men are like puppies. They’re adorable when they’re new, but if you aren’t strict with them from the start, you end up with an old dog lying about. One that snarls when you bring new pups home.’
Vivian, widowed twice to Charlotte’s once, was her mentor in the art of merry-widowhood. She’d taken Charlotte into tutelage after her second husband and Charlotte’s first had killed each other in a duel. One fought over Vivian’s affections.
Charlotte pushed the thought aside, the only shadow on an otherwise convivial friendship. Vivian had apologized profusely. She’d promised she hadn’t any notion Charlotte actually loved her late husband or she wouldn’t have permitted his advances.
Realizing she was dwelling on misfortunes of her past rather than enjoying her present, Charlotte burrowed closer to Rivington’s warmth. She concentrated on the steady sweep of his fingers across her skin, letting the motion soothe her. Through closed lids, she could see the flicker of candlelight, noted how the glow that filled the room dimmed as one or two flames guttered out. With single-minded absorption, she focused on his slow, even breaths, the rise and fall of his warm chest beneath her cheek. Yes, it was pleasant to have him there.
Finally, her contentment regained, she let out a languid sigh. “Mister Rivington,” she murmured, nearly asleep, “I daresay you’re perfect.”
Muscles tensed beneath her arm. “Am I?”
His voice wasn’t the low, cajoling tone she expected, or even the horrified one she belatedly realized her words deserved. Instead, the two short syllables were spoken in excitement. Charlotte was instantly wary.
He sat upright, pulling her with him to lean against the headboard. “You cannot know how much it pleases me to hear you say so.” His arm tightened about her.
A panicked, caged feeling surged to life in her chest. Charlotte tamped it down. He was her unfeeling, notorious English rake, after all. “Oh?”
“I’ve been longing to reveal my true feelings.” He hugged her again.
Hugged. Not caressed. Not stroked. Hugged. The urge to let lose a string of frustration-born invectives coiled to life in her gut.
“I recognized you as a kindred spirit, of course, and so held my tongue,” he continued. “Our similarities were much of my initial draw, though a far second to your beauty.” He placed a gentle, almost chaste kiss on her forehead.
Her frustration blossomed into a near-rage that begged screaming and pulling out her hair. Why must they always force her to break their hearts?
“I know how I react when a woman declares she holds true affection for me.” Rivington’s voice, once so sensual to her ears, grated with the joy it held. “I’ve been terrified you would discover how greatly I’ve come to esteem you and break things off with me.”
Charlotte pulled free of his embrace. She sat up and swung her bare feet to the thick floral carpet. Shoulders sagged with defeat, she said, “Get dressed.”
A large, warm hand swept down the length of her spine. “But we were having so much fun undressed.”
She sighed. If only she’d followed Vivian’s advice and sent him away sooner. “Yes, we were. Now get dressed and go home.”
She could practically feel his frown. “I misinterpreted your sentiment,” he finally said, tone flat. “You do not care for me as I do for you.”
She nodded, sending strawberry-blonde locks sliding along her shoulders. The room, bathed in flickering candlelight and honeyed scent, seemed suddenly more oppressive than luxurious. She held her breath, waiting for his reaction.
To her relief, she heard him slide to the other side of the bed and stand, permitting her to breathe again. In her experience, most men were so baffled by rejection, they left quietly. It was in the days after she refused them that they became bothersome, which was why she would go ‘round to Vivian’s first thing in the morning. A full day of shopping was in order, for her home was always the first place her rebuked lovers sought her.
Unfortunately, Rivington was not most men. Instead of departing in a wounded huff, he came around the bed to kneel before her, glorious to behold, even if unwished for. He caught one of her hands and brought her fingers briefly to his lips. She regarded him sadly. The fault wasn’t his. Her heart was simply incapable of returning the emotion that illuminated his hazel eyes.
“I realize your feelings are not as strong as mine,” he said. “Ours need not be an exclusive union on your part. I’m sensible that you already have the one thing marrying me cannot offer you, freedom.”
His smile beckoned, but she caught the pain in his eyes when he gave her permission to stray and noted that he did not try to claim he would. He was well and truly besotted, her poor English rake. “It would be unfair to you, to accept a sentiment I am unable to return.”
“Only you would be so caring as to refuse me for my sake. Can you not see how your consideration for me serves to increase my love?”
Charlotte winced. He’d gone a
nd said it, love. She hated that hollow utterance. Her late husband had used it incessantly, all the while dallying with countless women. Until he’d discovered the true emotion behind the word. Unfortunately, he’d discovered it with Vivian.
Rivington’s thumb caressed her hand. “I know you don’t want for anything, but I am very wealthy. I can offer you comfort and freedom you’ve never known.”
She shook her head, wishing he would give in easily, for both their sakes.
“I’ve fifteen years on you,” he added, a hint of panic entering his tone. “You’ll surely outlive me. I will leave you everything.”
She grasped at that, hoping logic might prevail. “Yes, what of your fortune, and your family name? I am barren.” She pressed through the pain of the utterance, sharp even after years of acceptance. “You know this about me.” They’d discussed as much at the start of their affair, for Rivington, rake though he was, was exceedingly responsible. “You will need an heir, to carry on your family name.”
“Damn my family name.” His gaze searched hers. “I don’t care what happens after I die. I care about what happens now, while I live, and I want to live with you by my side, Charlotte. I love you.”
She pulled her hand free to slide her fingers along his jaw, dark now with stubble. “But I don’t love you, Mister Rivington, and I do not want to marry you, or any man, for so long as I live.”
She could read heartbreak in his eyes. Sorrow filled her to see him in such pain, but she kept her visage firm. She’d long since learned kindness was not so kind. It offered hope where there was none.
“Charlotte—”
“Mister Rivington, I must ask you to leave my home,” she said sharply.
He watched her for another long moment. Finally, he nodded and stood. In silence, he moved about the room collecting discarded garments, some of which he pulled on. Charlotte remained where she was, silent. Finally, boots unlaced but on, coat askew and vest and cravat bundled under one arm, he turned back to her.
“I will leave, but it is not over between us.” His voice was an odd mixture of anger and pleading. “Tomorrow, I shall return.”
She said nothing, waiting. After several painful moments, he left off glaring at her and quit the room. Charlotte let out a sigh and collapsed backward onto her silken sheets. Poor, poor Englishman.
Chapter Two
Charlotte arrived at Vivian’s stately townhome earlier than was socially acceptable. Too early, in truth, for anyone to call. Vivian was her dear friend, however, and the situation was dire.
A bouquet of hothouse roses had arrived with the sun, followed by a vase of early spring blooms at seven o’clock. At eight came a jeweler’s box with a lovely mother of pearl and diamond bracelet, the carrier giving her butler, Cuthbert, no opportunity to turn the gift away. At nine, a group of angel-voiced children had taken up song on her doorstep.
Charlotte hadn’t dared wait for the tenth hour of the morning. She’d ordered her carriage and went straight to Vivian’s. Now, skirt held high in both hands, Charlotte raced up the front steps of the imposing, Greek-inspired structure. She darted her gaze about, worried Rivington, intelligent as he was, might be lurking in wait. As she and Vivian had been nearly inseparable for almost three years, an astute man would easily guess the path of Charlotte’s flight.
The door opened. Vivian’s butler, Victor, bowed as Charlotte swept into the foyer. She listened to the heavy oak door thud closed behind her with a sense of relief.
“May I take your cloak, Missus Fairhaven?” Victor asked.
Charlotte nodded and unfastened the garment, a thick green wool to ward off the morning chill. “Thank you. Is Vivian awake yet?”
Victor nodded as he draped Charlotte’s cloak over one arm. “Missus Lamont is in her boudoir, yes.”
Charlotte hid a grimace for the scandalous French word, which Vivian insisted her staff use. “Has she had her tea?” It didn’t do to disturb Vivian before she had her morning drink in her hands.
“I believe it’s a coffee and brandy sort of morning.”
Charlotte arched her eyebrows. “I didn’t realize she’d such auspicious plans yesterday evening.”
Victor cleared his throat. “Shall I have tea sent up?” he asked, wise enough not to comment on his mistress’s affairs.
“Yes, thank you, Victor, and, if you please, should anyone come here seeking me, or gifts arrive for me, I am not here.”
“I understand,” Victor said with a grave nod.
With a parting smile, Charlotte headed up the curved white marble steps. They were too ostentatious for her tastes, and had been abominably expensive, but they did create an impressive display. All along their sweeping trajectory, as she ascended, the cream and gold striped walls were set with paintings of Vivian. In the portraits, she stood at different heights on the steps, their stark whiteness and curve displaying each gown she’d been painted wearing to perfection. The gowns, various vivid shades, in turn displayed Vivian’s assets, from her trim waist to her golden locks. Her portrait painter had even captured the coy glitter of her blue eyes. Despite three marriages, one ongoing, in every portrait, Vivian stood alone.
A knock brought a familiar maid to Vivian’s sitting room door. The conservatively dressed girl, for Vivian didn’t take well to competition, curtsied and stepped aside. Charlotte offered a nod, then crossed to Vivian’s bedroom. There, she found a second maid, this one gathering garments strewn with impressive abandon. One shimmering silk stocking even dripped from the crystal-caked chandelier. With another nod, Charlotte pushed open the white and gold ornately carved door to Vivian’s innermost chamber, her boudoir.
Vivian reclined on a favorite cerulean fainting couch, clad only in a robe, a confection of similarly colored silk and cream lace. A slender arm, blue veins enviably visible through her milky skin, was draped across her eyes, leaving only a pert nose and wide lips visible. Bright curls tumbled about her shoulders, their lemony color unmarred by pink and coppery tones, as were Charlotte’s.
“Did I ask to be disturbed?” Vivian snapped.
Charlotte stopped in the doorway, expression sardonic. “No. You prefer to do the disturbing.”
Vivian’s arm dropped. She blinked slightly bloodshot blue eyes. “Charlotte, darling. How lovely to see you. What are you doing in my doorway? Do come in. Did you send for tea?” An elegant arm arced toward the small, gilt and mirror-flecked table set beside her. “Or would you care for coffee with brandy? It truly is just the thing, you know.”
Charlotte shook her head. She closed the door quietly, then crossed the thick carpet to settle into a stiff brocade armchair. “You know I cannot abide either coffee or brandy.”
Vivian shrugged. “Who can? It’s when you mix the two that you have something.” She flashed a wicked smile. “Much like marriage and affairs.”
So, Vivian had conquered another wedded gentleman. Her insistence that there was little sport in seducing an unattached gentleman was a sore point between them. “And how is John this morning?” Charlotte asked sweetly.
“John?” Vivian blinked rapidly, her confusion clear.
“Your husband.”
“Oh, Mister Lamont.” She shrugged. “I haven’t the faintest notion how John is. Why would I?”
Charlotte shook her head. John Lamont was a kind man. She’d say he deserved better, but Vivian hadn’t wed him under any pretenses. She was unapologetically who she was.
“I do wish he’d have the courtesy to die, as both of my previous husbands did,” Vivian added, draping an arm over her eyes again.
As the second of those husbands had died dueling Charlotte’s husband for Vivian’s love, the comment was in poor taste. Charlotte knew the statement for the punishment it was, but not if she was being reprimanded for passing judgement or for mentioning John. She declined to issue a return volley. She hadn’t come to squabble. “Rivington asked for my hand last night.”
Vivian let out a long sigh. “You’ve ruined another perfectly good rake. Soon, there won’t be anyone left for the rest of us to play with. Which rule did you break?”