Cheryl St.John - The Mistaken Widow

The overpowering floral scent struck the indisputable fact of Stephen’s death into Sarah’s heart with all the force of a bullet. She stared at the distressing sight, the ghastly horror of what she’d done hitting her squarely between the eyes.

She’d thought about Claire’s body before, but had banished the morbid thoughts from her mind. Now she had to deal with them.

Where was Claire? Where was Stephen’s real wife? She should be lying here beside him throughout eternity, but because of Sarah’s treachery, no one even knew enough to locate her body.

The thought physically weakened her and brought a sob to her throat. Leda reached a hand over to pat hers, multiplying Sarah’s feelings of hypocrisy.

And the baby Claire had been carrying! That tiny life deserved a burial place with both parents. There was no one to mourn for Stephen and Claire’s baby.

No one but her.

That burden crushed the air from her lungs and brought quick tears. Where were Claire and her baby? If they were separated from Stephen here on earth, would they be separated in the hereafter, too?

Sarah fumbled in her reticule for a handkerchief and covered her trembling lips.

The minister went through his prepared speech, but it was lost on Sarah. God had spared her and William for reasons unknown to her, and in thanks she’d lied to Stephen’s grieving family.

One of Leda’s friends sang, and the clergyman prayed again. Sarah waited for lightning to come down and strike her where she sat. At that moment she’d have welcomed the escape. Lost in her own private guilt and misery, the only thing she could pray for was for this day to end.

“It’s time to go.” Milos Switzer stood beside her chair, and she realized Nicholas’s right-hand man had been silently waiting there for some time. The others had dispersed, and she sat alone on the grassy slope beneath the awning.

He pushed her chair over the uneven ground to where the carriage waited on the road, then lifted her in and assisted Mrs. Trent, who carried William. Once the women were situated, Milos seated himself at Sarah’s side, and the carriage pulled away.

“Stephen had so many friends,” Leda said, her voice hoarse with tears. “Just look at how many came.”

Nicholas rubbed his mother’s hand.

“He’s resting in a lovely spot, isn’t he, Claire darling?” she asked. “At his father’s left.”

Sarah was sure more blood drained from her face, if that were possible. She pressed the handkerchief to her lips to keep from sobbing aloud. Once Leda knew the truth she would hate Sarah for keeping Claire and her real grandson from their rightful resting place with Stephen.

William chose that moment to let out a wail. Mrs. Trent jostled him, and finally Leda took him and gave him her finger to suckle until they arrived home.

Claire sat with the handkerchief pressed to her lips. Observing, Nicholas wondered if she was ill.

“I’ll assist Mrs. Halliday,” he said to Milos once the carriage pulled to a stop in front of the house. “Help Mother, please.”

Milos tossed him an odd look, but said only, “My pleasure.”

Nicholas reached for Claire and she flinched, but composed herself. He lifted her against his chest and backed from the carriage.

In his arms, he discovered her trembling as fearsomely as his mother had. “Are you ill?”

“No,” she replied weakly, and steadied herself with a gloved hand against his shirtfront.

Yes, she smelled as exotic and erotic as he remembered, and he now regretted that Milos knew the pleasure of her soft feminine curves against his body. She was a Halliday.

Nicholas didn’t approve of her or trust her but he was responsible for protecting her and seeing to her well-being and that of her son. Like it or not, Stephen’s obligations were now his. His chest constricted at the reminder that this woman’s welfare belonged to him.

He didn’t want the responsibility of meeting her needs.

He didn’t trust her.

Or was it himself he didn’t trust?

He had no choice.

Aware of the slick cool fabric of her dress on his wrists, the mysterious rustle of petticoats beneath, and the jolting beat of his heart against her breast, he climbed the stairs.

He entered her suite and started for a chair.

“The bed, please,” she said with a fatigued wave.

“You are ill.” He leaned forward and deposited her against the bolster of pillows.

“No. Just tired.”

Nicholas reached for her hat, remembered it would be anchored somewhere, and instead flicked the veil back revealing her colorless face. Those solemn blue eyes met his gaze in surprise and…embarrassment? Or was it shame?

“This day was difficult,” she said softly.

He moved to stand at the end of the bed.

A dark smudge beneath each eye proved either her words or her skill with cosmetics. He fought against viewing her the way she wanted him to: fragile and painfully in need of care and guardianship. The vulnerable person he saw here contrasted vividly with the hard-edged women who had been his brother’s preference.

But he wasn’t about to be fooled. He had his mother and the business his father had built from the ground up to protect.

William’s cries carried up the stairs and along the corridor. Claire peeled off her gloves.

“I’ll go for your chair,” he said.

“Just leave it in the hall, please. I think I’ll rest here for a while.”

He nodded in consent.

Mrs. Trent bustled through the doorway with the squalling baby. Claire unpinned her hat, and a long strand of her hair caught and fell to her shoulder. She tossed the hat aside and watched the older woman. The governess carried him to his crib.

Nicholas followed and observed as she changed the baby’s wet clothing. William was a sturdy little fellow with fair hair that looked as though it would be feather-soft to touch. He had smooth pink cheeks that invited Nicholas’s fingertips to test the softness, but he kept his hand firmly at his side.

The baby’s flailing chubby legs testified to his health and appetite. He was a child anyone would be proud of. A little fellow who would be hard to resist if Nicholas didn’t know better. Yet he still wasn’t convinced this was really Stephen’s son. He studied the child, seeking something to significantly identify him as a Halliday.

The reports he’d received on Claire testified that Stephen had not been the first man with whom she’d kept company. She’d worked as a seamstress, but spent her evenings among the theater crowd. That was where, after brief relationships with at least three other men, she’d met Stephen.

A baby looked like a baby, Nicholas concluded. How could one compare those tiny features to an adult’s? It was impossible. His mother would be devastated if this were not Stephen’s child.

Mrs. Trent finished her task perfunctorily, rewrapped William and gave Nicholas a questioning glance.

“Give him to his mother,” he said.

She carried the child to Claire. Claire looked up at Nicholas, and embarrassment gave her cheeks the first color he’d seen on her face that day.

Feeling very much like an intruder, he excused himself and quit the room. For a woman who’d known her share of men, she certainly played the demure and modest young mother to her fullest advantage. And why shouldn’t she? As Stephen’s widow, she would never have to work another day in her life…or play another man’s mistress.

Mrs. Claire Halliday had it made.

Realizing he’d left his gloves behind, he stepped back to the partially open door, paused with his hand on the knob and peered around the mahogany panel.

Claire reclined against the stark white pillows, the baby suckling her full, ivory breast. The expression on her face was a lifetime away from Mrs. Trent’s when she held the baby. Claire studied her son, tenderness and adoration reflected on her lovely face. Nicholas wasn’t imagining the love shining from her eyes.