Cheryl St.John - The Mistaken Widow

Okay, she loved the boy. She was his mother, so that didn’t prove anything. In fact she may have been so desperate to give him a father that she’d used Stephen to that end.

Nicholas had gone through the box of Stephen’s papers that had been forwarded, and if he remembered the date of their wedding correctly, it had been only about seven months ago.

William’s birth could have been brought on prematurely by the accident, however. He would probably never know for certain.

Nicholas observed mother and son a few minutes longer, coming to a conclusion. He wouldn’t know for sure if this were Stephen’s child—unless he got Claire to tell him. She was the one with the knowledge. His job was to wrest it from her.

By any means possible.

Throughout dinner that evening, Nicholas sullenly speculated on the men Claire had consorted with. Was it something she enjoyed? Or simply a means to snare a fortune?

She wore another of her new black dresses, this one for evening wear, yet still properly modest. Against his will, he wondered what she looked like in russet or teal, or a shade of green. Even pastels would complement her multicolored gold- and wheat-toned hair and pink cream skin.

It was no secret why Stephen had fallen for her. Her seeming grace and delicate beauty had snared him. Stephen had appreciated her soft and flawless skin, the full ripe plushness of her lips, just as any man would. Perhaps those springy curls against her neck had captured his attention from the moment he’d met her and he’d yearned to place his lips there.

Beneath his scrutiny, a blush touched her cheekbones. Did her skin beneath the black dress pinken, too?

A highly inappropriate image of his brother touching her, kissing her, making love to her, burned an indelible impression in Nicholas’s mind and seared his body with unwelcome awareness.

Shocked at his presumptive and reproachful thoughts, he dropped his fork on his plate and excused himself.

Sarah glanced at Leda, who appeared too exhausted to notice her son’s odd behavior. “You really must get some rest,” she said to the woman. “This was an exhausting day for all of us.”

“Yes.” Leda leaned back and gestured for the maid to remove her plate. “I’m grateful it’s over now. I’m also grateful that I had you to help me through it.”

“It was my pleasure,” Sarah said honestly. Doing anything she could to lessen Leda’s pain assuaged her conscience.

“I believe I’ll go to my room,” Leda said after a few minutes of companionable silence. “Will you ask Mrs. Pratt to bring me wine later? That will help me sleep.”

“Certainly. Sleep well.”

Leda left her alone in the dining room.

“Anything else I can get for you, Mrs. Halliday?” the servant asked from her side.

Sarah instructed her on Leda’s request and rolled herself from the room. She’d never been abandoned downstairs before. Nicholas usually carried her back to her 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.