The Mistaken Widow. Cheryl St.John
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rooms after dinner. If he didn’t come for her, she could ask one of the servants for help. Sarah wasn’t worried. When William grew insistent, Mrs. Trent would come looking for her.
She took her time perusing the lower level of the Halliday home, admiring the handsome decor and elegant furnishings. Wood and brass and a minimum of glassware affirmed the masculine influences. Eventually, she came across a closed set of walnut doors and leaned forward to rap on the wood.
“Enter.”
Sarah rolled one of the doors back and edged her chair into the impressive but livable room, lit by a flickering fire and the golden glow of a hanging oil lamp.
Nicholas, sitting in a wing chair near the fireplace, turned his head at her approach. “Claire?”
“Pardon the interruption,” she said.
Swirling the golden liquid in his stemmed glass, he gestured to the decanter at his elbow. “Brandy?”
“No, thank you.”
“You don’t drink?”
“Whatever I eat and drink affects William.”
“It seems we both have responsibilities where William is concerned.”
“Are you feeling burdened?” she asked.
“Not at all. William’s care is of the utmost importance.”
She studied him curiously.
“He is the Halliday heir, after all.”
Guilt surged anew and Sarah turned and studied the surroundings with feigned interest. Bookshelves lined one wall, paintings adorned another. An enormous desk occupied an entire corner, papers and ledgers in orderly stacks on its surface. How much longer would she have to play this risky game?
A portrait hung over the fireplace.
“Your father?” she asked, changing the subject.
Nicholas nodded, the dancing flames highlighting his hair.
She noted the similarities between the darkly handsome gentleman and his sons.
“Stephen had your mother’s smile,” she observed aloud. The man in the painting appeared as somber as Nicholas.
She perceived his gaze and met it.
“Did you want something?” he asked.
“Actually, I did.”
He waited, his expression disclosing nothing. Few of his emotions were ever revealed on his face, and she wondered about the man inside the stoic mask.
“I wanted to tell you how very sorry I am for your loss,” she began. “I know how deeply you loved Stephen. All this must be difficult for you. You are wonderfully supportive of your mother.”
He said nothing, but she went on. “You’ve dealt with Stephen’s death since it happened, making the arrangements, coming for me, seeing to the things that had to be done.”
She smoothed her skirt over her knees, thinking of the many ways he’d made this horrible time easier for both her and Leda. If Sarah really were Claire Halliday, he would still have been as much of a godsend to her as he was to Sarah Thornton. “I guess what I want to say is thank you. And to tell you that if there’s any way I can help you, I’d like you to ask me.”
A muscle twitched in his cheek. He appeared decidedly uncomfortable with the subject. Or perhaps it was just her presence. Perhaps he resented her forwardness. After all, even though he recognized an obligation, he merely tolerated her in his home.
It had been a bad idea to come to his office.
She turned her attention to the fire.
Nicholas watched her expressions with equal amounts of rancor, frustration and desire burning hotter than the brandy in his belly. The things she’d said drew on emotions he didn’t know how to deal with. “I have no use for your pity,” he said finally.
She turned those somber blue eyes on him. “I’m not offering you pity.”
“Beware of what you do offer. I’m not the same fool my brother was.”
Her eyes widened with surprise. A moment later, her gaze hardened and she looked away. She moved her hands to the wheels of her chair, but he stopped her from leaving with an outstretched foot in the spokes. “You need help up the stairs,” he said.
“I will find someone.” She tried to roll away.
That was what he was afraid of. He’d been angry with himself at dinner, and in his haste to get her out of his mind, he’d fallen back in his duties. But he wouldn’t allow anyone else to assist her. Even though the only male besides himself in the house was Gruver, a happily married man, Claire was a temptress, and he couldn’t expose his people to her.
He downed the last of his brandy and set the snifter aside, then rose and gladly wheeled her from his private domain. At the bottom of the stairs he paused, lifted her into his arms and started the climb.
Her arms came around his neck, her rounded breast flattening against his shirt. Her soft hair touched his ear, his cheek. He resisted the insane impulse to turn and bury his lips in the curls. He hated himself for having these intense reactions to his brother’s wife. Falling for her charms made him feel like a callow boy.
Perhaps she’d planned it. Perhaps she’d deliberately aimed for a vulnerable spot by offering sympathy. He was the stable one. He was the one who took care of others and did the comforting and handled what was unpleasant. No one else had comforted him. No one else had offered their concern and assistance. Even if there wasn’t a damned thing she could really do for or to him, she’d effectively searched out a weak spot in his armor.
He reached the top of the stairs and proceeded to her room. “A chair or the bed?” he asked.
“A chair,” she replied quickly. “Will you ring for Mrs. Trent, please?”
He propped her foot on a stool and pulled one of the bell cords connected to the servants’ quarters and the kitchen. When he turned back, she was attempting to remove her slipper by using her other foot.
“May I?”
She blushed to the roots of her hair. “I’m sure Mrs. Trent will be along shortly. It’s just that my foot seems to have swollen, and the shoe is quite painfully snug.”
He knelt before her extended leg and gently removed the shoe, noting her wince. It was ridiculous to allow her to suffer, so he reached beneath her skirts, found the stocking held up by her cast and gently rolled it down her ankle and from her foot, deliberating ignoring the rustle of petticoats and the feel of cool silk.
Her delicate toes were several shades of green and another shade almost yellow. Mrs. Trent came through the doorway just then, and a look of disapproval immediately puckered her face. She placed the sleeping William in his crib and hurried to Claire’s side.
“Fetch us some ice,” Nicholas ordered before she could take over the task of caring for Claire.
“Sir, I—”
“Now.”
Hastily gathering her skirts, she did as he instructed and returned with the ice.
“I’m going for her chair. After you’ve helped her with her nightclothes, prepare us some tea.”
“You’ll be taking tea here?” she asked in a deprecating tone.
“This is my home, Mrs. Trent. I’ll take tea wherever I see fit. And you’ll do well to keep your moral judgments to yourself.”
The woman pursed her lips and remained silent.
He returned with the chair to find Claire on the side of the bed and the nursemaid gone.
“Let me help.” Nicholas turned Claire to get both of her feet on the bed.