Page 3 of A Deal with a Rake (Wicked Widows’ League #35)
London, Two Weeks Later
F lorentia Evelyn Vaughn was not a nice person.
In fact, she absolutely loathed nice people.
No one had ever been nice to her. Not her mother, which was strange because everything she had ever learned about mothers was that they were exceptionally kind to their children.
But that was never the case with her own mother.
Maria Vaughn, Lady Allendale, was a cruel unloving wretch of a mother.
It was no wonder that Florentia had never once in her life shown another person kindness.
After all, she’d never received it from the one person who was required to love her beyond measure.
She escaped the clutches of her mother by marrying a man old enough to be her grandfather.
Foolishly, Florentia thought that he would be kind to her.
However, the Duke of Summerset was a miserable old bastard whose only goal in life was to procreate an heir so that his estranged relatives would not inherit his beloved dukedom.
That did not work out for him in the end as he perished not seven months earlier, leaving Florentia a widow at the ripe age of two and twenty, and his cousin’s brute of a son was now the new duke.
Her mother and dead husband weren’t the only reasons she was never kind to anyone; it was simple really, no one had ever earned her kindness. No one except perhaps her only friend, Charity, Lady Woodmere.
“I think I’m in love with you,” Reeves Montague said from behind Florentia.
Turning away from the underwhelming view of her parent’s small garden, Florentia stared everywhere but at the fetching man in front of her.
The library in her parent’s London’s townhouse had long been a place of refuge for her. It was the only place her mother would never enter. She’d often complained about the smell of books and dust that surrounded the comforting place.
As a girl, Florentia spent hours hidden between the tall mahogany shelves reading gothic novels and falling in love with monsters. Only to her, they were never monsters but companions in the dark.
Inhaling deeply, she turned her gaze to the untitled man lying lazily on the green chaise lounge.
He was exceptionally handsome, with light brown hair and brown eyes.
His boyish good looks and easy smile were one of the reasons she’d readily flirted with him, that and the fact that he had nothing to offer her.
There was no title in need of an heir, no struggling estate in need of a fortune. Not that she had one anymore.
Florentia had lost everything to her husband, as was the custom for women. Still, she’d foolishly hoped that her parents would have insisted her husband arrange a sizeable widow’s portion for her. They had not.
It didn’t matter. She was not in want of a husband. Florentia didn’t care that she had nothing beyond a mere two hundred pounds a year. She was allowed to stay in her late husband’s townhouse until the new heir was located. It had become her home, her refuge.
The new heir was still missing. Last report were that he was in Scotland competing for a bare-knuckle championship of all things. If he never returned to claim the dukedom, that would be more than fine with her.
Love was not a word that was readily available to her, nor had she experienced any such emotion in her life.
In fact, Florentia couldn’t stomach to see those so absurdly blessed with love and devotion.
Women like the Duchess of St. Clara and the Marchioness of Heartford.
Those happy women all had men who sickly adored them.
All Florentia ever had was a hateful mother, a father petrified in his own home, and a husband she’d rather not think of at all since his death.
“Did you hear me? I’m in love with you.” Montague stood, tripping over his feet to get to her. “I would very much like to marry you, Florentia.”
Oh dear, this was tragic.
She inhaled deeply, trying to remain calm and not injure his pride. This was her fault after all. She had no right to flirt with him, to let him believe that she could actually care for anyone other than herself.
As the fifth son of a duke, the poor thing had no prospects, no hope of ever inheriting. Of course, he would propose marriage to the first woman who had given him attention.
“Montague, be reasonable. I cannot marry you. I am just out of mourning.” Twirling the two strands of hair that framed her face, Florentia turned to face the window, perusing her appearance.
She’d come into the library for a brief respite from her mother and her stifling guest when Montague had followed her. It was her mother’s first party of the Season, a small musicale Florentia had been forced to attend.
She had slept with Montague once. It was foolish and done to quiet her curiosity. He was extremely handsome to be sure, but his performance was less than satisfactory.
It wasn’t that he was a terrible lover, more that he treated her like she would break, which was ridiculous.
Florentia didn’t want gentle and caring in a bed partner, or so she believed, but as her previous lovers had been her husband and two servants who treated her equally delicately, she had nothing to compare it to.
“Now that you are out of mourning, we could marry.” Montague grasped her hands in his, holding them as if they were the answer to his prayers. “I’ll wait forever to be yours.”
Bloody hell.
A shudder ran up her spine. She’d had enough of his particular brand of nonsense. She wasn’t going to marry him now or ever. In fact, if Florentia had anything to say about her future, she’d never marry again.
Men were selfish, self-centered rodents all using women for their own needs, and she was done with it.
“There will be no need for that.” She removed her hands from his grip. “You could wait a thousand years, and I still would not marry you, Montague.”
Without another glance at the lovesick fool, she turned and walked toward the large wooden door that had hidden her from her mother’s fiery temper as a girl.
Before she was halfway across the room, the door burst open to reveal a scowling Charity Davenport, which wasn’t alarming at all as Charity was always scowling at something or someone.
“Your mother is marching this way, looking very disapproving, may I add!” Charity, Lady Woodmere, called as she rushed toward Florentia in a blur of red.
“My mother always looks disapproving.” Florentia gazed down at her appearance, ensuring that she was presentable.
“Her mother!” Montague shot up, looking terrified.
“Really, Montague, you’re not afraid of an old woman, are you?” Charity demanded, before she started fluffing Florentia’s skirts. “You look oddly perfected for a roll in the hay.”
“I did not have a roll in the hay.” Florentia batted her friend’s hand away, admiring her rich brown skin.
Charity’s thick, dark hair was pinned up in the front with an array of curls hanging down to brush against her upper back.
They’d been friends for a little over a year, meeting the previous season. Charity’s own elderly husband died a year earlier, but unlike Florentia, Charity had produced the coveted heir, which guaranteed she would be provided for comfortably until her son was of age.
Florentia, however, had to find a way to live off a meager two hundred pounds a year. She could always retreat to the dilapidated widow’s cottage in Norfolk and live the rest of her life there in isolation, away from all good society.
“What is going on in here?” Her mother swirled through the door, with her father rushing behind her as always.
On the outside, her parents looked like every other aristocratic couple. Yet they weren’t. Her mother controlled everything, and her father simply obeyed.
Martin Vaughn, Lord Allendale, had followed his wife’s every command and endured her outbursts for nearly twenty-two years. Often, Florentia wished her father would put an end to her mother’s temper, but how could he when he feared her as well?
“Please try to control your temper, dear,” her father whispered, placing his hand on her mother’s shoulder, his green eyes, identical to Florentia’s, wide with fear.
Lady Allendale snapped her head to her husband. “I will do no such thing. She is making a fool of us in our own home by disappearing to do God knows what with Montague.” A long slim finger pointed at Florentia; her cold gray eyes squinted in disgust.
It was a look Florentia had been accustomed to her entire life. The only difference was now she had an audience. Perhaps that would stop Lady Allendale from showing her true nature.
“I don’t know what you mean, Mother. I simply came in to clear my head, and Lady Woodmere and Mr. Montague were kind enough to check on me.” Florentia’s lips thinned in her meager attempt at a smile. “I believe Mr. Montague was just admiring your new drapes.”
“Indeed,” Charity said as she turned to look at the dull yellow drapes with feign interest, “I was just saying how I must convince the earl to purchase this exact same color for his study.”
Clenching her teeth together, Florentia tried to contain the laughter that wanted desperately to burst out of her.
She knew perfectly well that there was no convincing needed for the current Earl of Woodmere.
As a boy of three years, Harold Davenport gladly did whatever his mother wanted, if he was consulted at all.
Usually, he was not.
Her mother ignored Charity with a dismissive snort, turning her hawk-like attention to Montague, who was currently examining the drapes with great interest, as if he were considering purchasing the ghastly things.
“Where is your jacket, Mr. Montague?” The venom in her mother’s voice caused a swirl of fear to crawl up Florentia’s spine.
She knew that tone. Had always made it a habit to make herself disappear whenever her mother’s voice dipped down to a deadly baritone.