Wicked Mourning by Heather Boyd Page A

his cups, Acton Blackstone had boasted of Clara’s passionate and willingly experimental nature. Those vulgar words, spoken months before his death, had tormented Reggie for more days and nights than he cared to think about. He watched constantly for signs that she would recover her zest for life but so far, he saw little indication that she missed the pleasures of the flesh. If she was indeed the bold seducer her husband claimed, charming a gardener would require little more than a crook of her dainty finger.
    Her lips turned up in a gentle smile. “I think his actions romantic, but no doubt you wouldn’t care a whit for that would you?”
    He forced out a merry laugh. “You know me so well.”
    Actually, she knew very little of him because he’d purposely kept her at a distance: playing the controlling tyrant to her weeping widow. Dragging her to the country for her health in the face of the scandal created by others had been entirely for his welfare because in London he had no excuse to linger in her drawing room. Deceiving her about his true motives had been surprisingly easy.
    Yet, even still, she was in mourning for a man she was ridiculously lost without. Reggie had stood her friend, adviser and protector through it all: the deaths, the scandal, the inquest and finally mourning.
    He had worn the willow for six months in memory of a wife who was, at best, a shocking flirt. At worst, a shameless temptress who had betrayed her husband and best friend by engaging in an affair with Acton Blackstone, his business partner, and leading them both to their deaths. Mourning such despicable partners seemed a sham to Reggie. Only Clara’s grief was real.
    “That I do, but you needn’t fear any longer. Miss Hastings stands with both feet on the ground and a disapproving parent is waiting to take her home. I do wonder how she will ever be able to look at you again.”
    Reggie swayed closer to Clara and drew in a deep breath. “With luck, she won’t.” The subtle scent of rosemary clung to her skin and he wondered if she’d been lurking about the kitchen gardens again, inhaling cook’s herbs and driving the old woman to distraction.
    Clara turned and her distended belly brushed his hip. She blinked, as startled by the contact as he was and for very similar reasons. Reggie avoided touching her because she carried her husband’s babe. With a few months left till the happy arrival, Clara kept to the strictures of their society and tried to hide her state. Even from him. “Now, Reggie, there is no need to take that unforgiving tone. She is very young and has, with luck, learned her lesson. Do try to be nice to her.”
    She shook a little as she finished her lecture and again her belly brushed him. On impulse, he laid his hands on either side of her swollen stomach. Her skin was hard, not soft as he expected. Warmth seeped through the thin gown and enveloped his fingers with sensations he should, by rights, fight.
    Her breath caught. “Reggie?”
    He moved his fingers over her skin a little. “Shh, love.”
    Although whispered, his endearment sounded shockingly loud in the bedchamber. He slid his fingers slowly over the bump and when he stopped, something small and hard pushed against his palm.
    His eyes flew to Clara’s and he was fairly certain he gaped like a village idiot. “The child moves?”
    A tender smile tugged at her lips. “The child moves quite a bit, actually.”
    Clara covered the back of his hand with hers and she pressed him tighter against her flesh. The child kicked harder that time. Stunned and completely enthralled by the movements inside her, Reggie relaxed, letting one hand slide around Clara back while keeping the other against her belly. Her stomach rippled beneath her gown and he smiled at the child’s antics.
    Her light breath brushed against his jaw and when he glanced at Clara’s face, he found her eyes had closed, a small half smile playing across her very kissable lips. Instead of