A Lord For The Wallflower Widow

Untouched and alone…could he awaken her senses?

Part of The Widows of Westram

When widow Lady Carrie meets charming gadabout Lord Avery Gilmore, she is shocked by her intense reaction to him.

She’s never before longed for wifely pleasures, and it takes all of her courage to propose that he show her them! He might be taken aback by her request, but as Carrie learns firsthand, this lord will take the challenge very seriously...

The Widows of Westram miniseries

Book 1—A Lord for the Wallflower Widow

Look out for the next story, coming soon!

“Ann Lethbridge’s talent for penning deliciously naughty and smart love stories shines... A zippy, delightful read.”

—RT Book Reviews on Rescued by the Earl’s Vows

“A charming, highly romantic story filled with engaging characters.”

—RT Book Reviews on An Innocent Maid for the Duke

In her youth, award-winning author ANN LETHBRIDGE reimagined the Regency romances she read—and now she loves writing her own. Now living in Canada, Ann visits Britain every year, where family members understand—or so they say—her need to poke around every antiquity within a hundred miles. Learn more about Ann or contact her at annlethbridge.com. She loves hearing from readers.

Also by Ann Lethbridge

Secrets of the Marriage Bed

An Innocent Maid for the Duke

Rescued by the Earl’s Vows

Rakes in Disgrace miniseries

The Gamekeeper’s Lady

More Than a Mistress

Deliciously Debauched by the Rake

More Than a Lover

The Widows of Westram miniseries

A Lord for the Wallflower Widow

And look out for the next book coming soon

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

A Lord for the Wallflower Widow

Ann Lethbridge

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-07420-9

A LORD FOR THE WALLFLOWER WIDOW

© 2018 Michèle Ann Young

Published in Great Britain 2018

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

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www.millsandboon.co.uk

This book is dedicated to Lilly,

a very special young lady who recently came into

our lives. Lilly, you may never read Grannie’s stories,

but provided you grow up a strong, sensible woman

like your mother you will make me very proud.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Epilogue

Extract

About the Publisher

Prologue

April 1812

Redford Greystoke, Earl of Westram, forced himself not to look away from the three black-clad, heavily veiled ladies arraigned before his desk. It broke his heart to see them. Beneath those veils hid three beautiful young women. Two were his sisters, the other his sister-in-law. All of them widowed on the same day, at the same hour. Their husbands had been absolute idiots. Their loss left him numb.

From being an earl with a brother as heir and a spare hopefully in the offing, he’d become the last male member of his family with three destitute women to support. The very reason for their presence here and the reason for the animosity filling the air.

‘You will remain under my roof,’ Red repeated firmly. ‘There is no more to be said on the matter.’

‘Redford.’ Lady Marguerite, his sister older than him by two years, had taken the role of spokesperson. She spoke quietly enough, but nevertheless with underlying heat. ‘You cannot tell us where we shall reside.’

The trouble with widows was that they thought of themselves as independent women.

‘I can, if I am to foot the bill.’ Damn. Now he sounded like a truculent schoolboy. ‘Let us be clear, ladies. I do not have the funds to set you up in your own establishments, whether I might wish to do so or not. You will reside with me in Gloucestershire until your period of mourning is over. At which time, I will be more than happy to open the London town house from where we will set out to mingle with our fellow peers.’

Lady Petra, his other sister, glared at him. Despite the veil hiding her face, he knew exactly the look directed his way when she was crossed. Petra was a master of glares. ‘If you think I could ever marry anyone else...’ A handkerchief in a black gloved hand disappeared beneath her veil. She sniffled.

He mentally cursed. ‘No one is forcing you to do anything. If next year you do not wish to attend the Season, or go to balls, you may stay at home.’ But knowing women as he did, he had no doubt they’d be bored within a few months of isolation in the country and begging to attend a ball or Almack’s.

His sister-in-law, Carrie, the woman he hoped like the very devil was carrying his brother’s heir, put an arm around Petra’s drooping shoulder. ‘It is all right, lass,’ she said softly.

He liked Carrie Greystoke. A great deal. She was a practical no-nonsense woman, though she must have had a momentary loss of reason when she’d agreed to wed his harum-scarum brother. Fortunately, since her husband’s death, she had been a rock of good sense in the eddying currents of grief and shock.

Sometimes he thought she was almost too calm. The kind of calm that he suspected hid quiet desperation. He forced the thought aside. All three women were baulking at his proposal and he needed to marshal all his faculties if he was to prevail.

‘Pluck up your courage, Petra,’ Marguerite said. ‘No need for tears because a bunch of idiots went off and got themselves killed.’

Marguerite had also wept on his shoulder when the news had been delivered. The fact that she now had her emotions under control was a very good thing. He hoped.

Petra, who had lost not only her husband and lover but her very best friend in the world, buried her head on Carrie’s shoulder and sobbed.

Red wanted to bury his head in his hands and weep, too. For a few short weeks, he’d thought he was finally able to see his way clear of the debt left him by his father. Until the earth crumbled from beneath his feet, leaving this gaping abyss. He still didn’t know what had sent these women’s husbands off to join Wellington’s army. Some sort of wager was the only explanation he’d been able to glean from their friends. Whatever it was, it had been the most nonsensical ridiculous prank—He cut the thought off. There was nothing he could do about the past. The future was his concern now.

The thing that had shocked him the most was the extent of Jonathan’s debts. They had eaten up every penny and more of the wealth brought into the family by his marriage to Carrie. Red still could not believe he had not known that his brother had dipped so deeply in the River Tick.

And what his father had been about, letting Red’s two sisters marry men without prospects, he could not imagine. Except that his father had been overindulgent where his daughters were concerned, giving them whatever their hearts desired. Which was why they were being so dashed difficult now.

‘I think it would be best if you would let us at least try to manage on our own,’ Carrie said, over his sobbing sister’s head. ‘We won’t be a burden on you, Westram. I promise you that.’

If Carrie supported his sisters’ mad scheme, then he was lost. Sensible and down to earth and as stubborn as they came, she would never give in. Perhaps it would be best if they learned first-hand that they were like babes in the woods when it came to the real world. Then they would listen to reason. His reason.

He threw his hands in the air. ‘As you wish. I will give you the period of your mourning to try this experiment. I can afford very little in the way of allowances.’ He shot Carrie a look of apology. ‘I am so sorry, but all the money you brought to the marriage has gone to pay Jonathan’s debts.’ Jonathan had also charmed her father into handing over what should have been her widow’s portion to invest in what his brother had called a sure thing on the ’Change. If her father had talked to Red beforehand, he would have disabused him of the notion. And maybe Jonathan would still be alive today. ‘I would replace what my brother misappropriated, if I had it. I do not. Perhaps in time...’ He tailed off, sick at heart. His sisters were no better off. He was appalled that their husbands had left their affairs in such disarray. He sighed. ‘I will give you the use of Westram Cottage in Kent provided you can keep yourselves on that property within your allowances.’ He glared at them. It was the only way he could maintain his dignity. ‘I will be checking.’

They’d be back knocking on his door within a month.

Marguerite rose. Carrie did likewise, helping his younger sister to her feet. As always, he was taken aback by the woman’s height compared to that of his sisters. His family tended to be on the short side.

‘Thank you, Red,’ Marguerite said, her voice warmer than it had been since this discussion had started. ‘You will not regret it.’

Oh, yes, he would. Of that he had no doubt.

The ladies filed out.

Red poured himself a brandy and swallowed it in one gulp.

Chapter One

April 1813

Carrie Greystoke carefully dusted each shelf, as she had done every morning since the little shop had opened three days before. She replaced what she considered the shop’s pièce de résistance, a sumptuous leghorn bonnet decorated with handmade flowers and cherry-coloured ribbons, in the window and took up her position behind the counter. Hope however, was beginning to fade.

In the three days since the doors of First Stare Millinery had opened not one customer had entered the little shop. If she didn’t sell something soon, they would likely have to admit defeat. The thought of going to the landlord to admit her error in thinking she and her sisters-in-law could sell the product of the hard work they had put into the bonnets these last few months was humiliating.

Mr Thrumby, a friend of her dead father’s, had taken a chance in renting her the shop. For her father’s sake. Perhaps if it had been located on Bond Street rather than the less fashionable Cork Street... But then it would have been far too expensive. As it was, they’d had to pool all of their meagre resources to pay the first month’s rent on this narrow little establishment. Shelves lined one wall, displaying bonnets on little stands. The glass-topped counter behind which she stood had been an extravagance, but was an absolute necessity to display the painted fans, lacy gloves and embroidered slippers also made by her sisters-in-law.

* * *

After an hour, she slumped on to the stool. Perhaps she should rearrange the window again? What on earth was she to tell Petra and Marguerite? They would be so disappointed when she returned home in two days’ time with nothing to show for their efforts.

A shadow fell over the window display.

Carrie straightened and pinned a smile on her lips.

The shadow passed on. Her heart sank.

‘I be back, missus.’

Jeb, their young ruddy-faced lad of all work at Westram Cottage, had brought her up to town the day before the shop opened. It was he who had built the shelves and carried in the counter she had purchased in a down-at-heel shop in the Seven Dials. He’d also helped her furnish the room she used as lodgings at the back of the shop, since it was too far for her to travel home to Kent each evening.

Marguerite had not been happy about this last arrangement, but had given in when Carrie agreed to come home to Kent with Jeb as her escort every Saturday night in order to attend church with them in the morning. They planned that she would return on Monday afternoons with new stock for the shop.

Not that they would be needing any new stock. They still had all the old stock left.

‘Did you deliver all of the flyers to the addresses I gave you, Jeb?’

‘Yes, mum.’

The flyers had been another costly idea they could ill afford, but she had to get the word out about their offerings somehow. An advertisement in the newspaper would have reached more people, but was horribly expensive.

Unfortunately, she had no way of knowing if the flyers had got into the right hands. Perhaps she should go and stand at the entrance to Hyde Park and hand them out herself to passers-by. Not just any passers-by, but ladies of quality with good fashion sense.

It might work.

She would go about five this afternoon. Fortunately, she was still largely unknown to society as she had not been introduced to very many people of the ton before her hasty marriage to Jonathan. In addition, their wedding had been a tiny family affair, because her father had been at death’s door. Why Jonathan had even singled her out... She squashed the thought and the accompanying pang.

Face it, Carrie. He’d chosen her because he’d been looking for a way out of his money troubles. Somehow Father must have learned of this circumstance and, worried about her future once he passed away, had made Jonathan an offer he couldn’t refuse. Carrie had known none of this when she’d arrived in London before the Season began. Jonathan had been pointed out to her by her aunt when she went on her first carriage ride in London. He’d bowed to her and she’d agreed with her aunt that he really was a most handsome gentleman. The next day he’d arrived at her door on a morning call and a few days later had proposed.

Everyone had said it was love at first sight. She’d been a complete fool to believe such nonsense.

In hindsight, it was as plain as the nose on her very plain face—he’d only married her to get himself out of debt. If she had known, she would never have agreed. Not even to please her dying father, who had been thrilled to see his daughter become one of the nobs. She certainly hadn’t expected her bridegroom to take to his heels the morning after the ceremony. No doubt he couldn’t stand the thought of living with his plain, middle-class, gruff wife. That had hurt dreadfully. Worse yet, he’d not even done her the courtesy of coming to her bed on their wedding night.

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.