When Lady Weatherby Returned                   

“What?”  Lord Harrison Stokell, Marquis of Sutton nearly choked, but caught himself quickly.

“She is?” He did his best to mirror Marksal’s non-committal tone.

Marksal began to speak again of their former acquaintance, while Harrison scanned the room, looking for the woman who had left him six years, three months and…fourteen days ago. Not that he was counting.

Too many of the high society upper crust had turned out tonight, and they crowded together in a most unbecoming array, thus completely limiting Harrison’s peripheral vision. He had to move about.

“Excuse me, Marksal.”  He pressed into the throng.

Faces and false bravado met his gaze in every direction. In the ballroom, he watched the dancing couples. Disgusted with his need to see her, he continued searching, into the drawing rooms, the foyer, and the terraces, all to no avail. He would recognize her if she were in attendance. Perhaps Marksal was mistaken.

Returning to the ballroom, he lifted a glass of champagne from a silver platter and tried to quench his thirst. It was like spitting into a wildfire. Beneath his black formal waistcoat, his heart thudded against his chest as if it might burst free. Pathetic.. He drained the tepid liquid and forced himself to stop looking about the room. He focused on a tall plant in the corner. Three husband-hunting virgins surrounded the foliage. In unison, they rose their freshly coiffed heads and summoned him with their virtuous flirtation methods.

He couldn’t be less interested.

He headed out to the gardens for relief from the heat and frustration.

As he moved further from the mansion, he berated himself for allowing the mere mention of her name to send him, Harrison Stokell, Marquis of Sutton, into a love-sick tizzy. Nauseating, really.

He found a secluded spot near a slow trickling fountain and sat down in the shadows. And he thought of her.

He didn’t think about her oval face, luminous skin, mysterious eyes, or midnight silky hair. He didn’t think about the shape of her body, the perfect contrast of curves moving out and in and out again. He didn’t think of her scent, something wild, spicy, and beckoning. And he didn’t dwell on the way she moved, like a flower’s petal floating on a rippling pond.

He thought of her wit, and how with it she made him feel alive. She possessed an uncanny ability to wryly relay her feelings and empathize with his own, with simply a lift of a brow, a pucker of the lips and a tilt of her head. He could easily remember her in a crowded room, her obsidian eyes laughing for him amidst absurd talk of weather and social engagements.

She was sharp, perceptive and adventurous, and when they had been together, he found great fulfillment in simply observing her.

He found great fulfillment in remembering her. 

And then he saw her. 

She stood alone, gazing up at the star sprinkled sky, her glove-clad hands folded across her slender body, rubbing her arms in an obvious attempt to keep warm. For a moment he wondered if she was truly there, or simply an image conjured from his most secret desire. Then she turned, ever so slightly. The moonlight revealed her profile and he knew.

He stood and removed his coat, then silently approached her from behind. He lifted the coat to lay it upon her bare shoulders.

“Good evening, Harrison,” she said without turning to him. Her voice was deep and honeyed; it startled him. It was the same; it was different. It still affected him. She now turned slowly and smiled, delighted at having surprised him.

“My lady,” was all he could muster. There he stood, feeling like a fool, his jacket held to her, as if he were a common servant.

As their eyes locked, Harrison observed the ever-unflappable Vivian Weatherby silenced for a moment. He felt a stirring somewhere in his body. At last he found his voice, “When did you return?”  He stepped to her and laid his coat over her shoulders, allowing his hands to linger a moment too long. Tremors flowed from his fingertips to his heart.

“Thank you.”  She wrapped the garment around her. “I arrived in London yesterday afternoon.”

He was staring at her now, completely besotted, again. Still. He noticed the darker tone of her skin, where the Indian sun had left its ripening caress. For a moment he imagined her moving through a crowded marketplace, basket in her hands, her skin gleaming with vibrancy, a coy smile on her lips. She belonged in an exotic locale; she was made for far more than London could offer.

“And your husband, has he returned with you?”

The dancing light in her eye clouded over and he regretted the question. Apparently all was not well with the young couple.

“My husband has been dead for one year and two months,” she whispered.

“I am sorry for your loss. I did not know.”

Her eyes narrowed and a hint of the girl he remembered so well flashed there. The lift of a winged brow and the slight smile upon her lush lips teased him. Are you truly sorry he is gone?  Or only sorry you asked? Her countenance asked.

“I am sorry you lost him,” he answered her unspoken questions.

Her eyes opened wider, invitingly. “My husband had many enemies; I believe one caught up with him.”  She paused, speaking without her usual sardonic tone. “It is such a waste to lose one so young and with such a lust for adventure.”  Her expression did not convey sorrow and for that, he secretly delighted.

“And so you remained in Calcutta?” 

“I was in mourning for one year. I thought it best to remain there.”

“And will you then return?”  He asked, hoping the answer would be a negative one.

“You ask many questions, and offer little information about yourself, sir.” He saw the barely veiled amusement in her gaze. A light breeze stirred the flowering bushes and miniature trees, sending the floral scents drifting through the air. The widow drew his coat more tightly around her shoulders.

“My life has remained quite unchanged since we last spoke.”  It is as if I have been in a vacuum, waiting for the day you would return to free me from the emptiness.

Vivian closed the tiny distance that separated them. She reached out and laid her slender hand upon his chest and said softly, “And yet, through correspondence, I heard of the passing of your father, and the subsequent passing of the title to you.”

Had she inquired of him, while grieving and roasting beneath the tropical sun?  He was hanging on her every word.

“I am surprised to hear of your interest of me, while you were indulging in all manner of adventure, taming wild boars, eating sautéed insects, and such.”  His didn’t attempt to hide his sarcasm, she had hurt him.

“I thought we were friends. Should I not have inquired of you?”

“You were a married woman.”  A dark cloud drifted over the moon, cloaking them in filmy shadows.

Her eyes grew limpid; her expression lost all frivolity and was replaced by something more sincere, more female, and more alluring. The flush of her cheeks and the curve of her mouth invited him, demanded him to kiss her. He hesitated.

“Go ahead,” she whispered, reading the unspoken question in his gaze.

He lowered his head to find the mouth he had dreamed of for an eternity and gently took it in a sensual caress. The garden, the ball and London fell away, leaving only her and him. Every inch of his body was alert and focused on the gentle pressure of his lips upon hers. In the tiniest recess of his mind, he questioned whether this was real or just another dream... He quickly pushed rational thought away and lost himself in the intoxication of her kiss.

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