Page 3 of One Jewel-tide Scandal (Singular Sensation #10.5)

Spencerford Hall

Bedfordshire, England

Lady Charlotte Tate—the Countess of Spencerford—shivered as she walked the corridors of the manor as she did every evening around this time.

It was a good way to take in exercise and it also helped stave off boredom.

She wished moving about the house would help remove some of the loneliness, but that wasn’t coming true.

At the age of eight and twenty, she had been a widow for three years, and in those years, she hadn’t done much with her life other than hiding away and avoiding, well, living. It wasn’t natural, she supposed, but then, when had anything in her life ever been that?

The portrait gallery—merely a short corridor that ended with a picture window—was rather too stubby to be called a gallery even if there were about twelve portraits of various members of the Tate family residing on the walls.

She paused at the window and drew her woolen shawl more closely about her frame.

The garment was a leftover relic from her year of mourning, and since she rarely entertained and never went to London anymore, she kept the clothing in a daily rotation.

She didn’t mind the drab colors, for they mostly matched the state of affairs with her heart and soul.

That was why she welcomed winter with open arms; everything around her matched—including her spirit.

Since the gallery overlooked the back lawn, if she squinted hard enough on the days when it was sunny, she could barely make out the hedge maze off to the west, but this evening, with a winter storm enveloping the area, it had grown dark all the more quickly.

The faint illumination from the rooms in the lower levels that were lit with candles provided anemic golden light upon the freshly fallen snow, and while she appreciated how the precipitation provided a blanket that covered all the ugliness that sometimes occurred on the land during the winter months, it merely served as yet another reminder that she was alone and in a sort of isolation.

Of her own making, yes, but there it was, nonetheless.

Though Christmastide was nearly upon them, she wasn’t looking forward to those holidays.

It was a complicated series of thoughts, really, for while she adored Christmastide—and the idea of it—itself, it just hadn’t been the same since her husband died.

Stuart had been an older man, a good twenty years her senior, and their marriage had been arranged by their families, but he had been lovely and sweet with a kind soul that he didn’t show to many people believing that men his age should never show their emotions or let anyone think they were weak.

The age difference between them hadn’t mattered to her much after she had acclimated to the shock; he had been a good man and he had taken care of her.

Beyond that, he’d showered her with gifts, clothes, jewelry, coin.

Whatever she wanted. Nothing was denied, and for a time, that sort of attention had turned her head.

She’d adored being spoiled, for though she was the daughter of an earl and had married the same, there was something about having one person focus the whole of their concentration on her alone.

Unfortunately, over the course of their union, she and her husband hadn’t had children, for he was impotent due to a fever he’d contracted as a young man.

That was something he’d not told her until two years into their marriage.

By that time, she was busy enough being his countess and that hadn’t matter much, but now, it was a slight regret.

Regardless, they’d had four happy years together.

She’d been married at one and twenty right after her Come Out, and at the time, she’d been the toast of London for landing such a well-off husband.

Her friends told her the age difference could easily be overlooked by his wealth, and the fact she could take a lover if she wished later.

She did not, and neither had he kept a mistress, and they’d rubbed along well together.

Eventually, he’d died from complications of pneumonia he’d contracted one winter that had lingered, but Stuart had left her a wealthy widow.

His brother took the title, and he had three strapping sons, so there would be plenty of options to continue said title.

As per her husband’s wishes outlined in his will, she had the use of the manor for as long as she wished or until she married again, and that suited her fine.

She hadn’t been to London since his death, and frankly didn’t know what to do with her life at this juncture.

With a sigh, she peered out the window until a meow of inquiry broke into her thoughts.

“Good evening, Cleo.” The white and gray Persian had been a wedding gift from her husband. Now the cat was seven years old and the true mistress of the house, which Charlotte didn’t mind at all.

The cat jumped onto a table near her location and nearly upset a vase of hothouse flowers, which Charlotte saved from falling at the last second. Again, the feline meowed, and then began to purr when Charlotte scratched behind her ears.

“I know. We need to find a mouse for you to play with.” And eventually dispose of. Which shouldn’t be too difficult a feat in a large manor with many rooms.

Another sigh escaped her as she once more glanced outside into the darkness.

Did she have secret wishes that she hoped would be fulfilled?

Of course. In her heart of hearts, she wanted a man who loved her for her, who didn’t show his love with material things, who might love her to distraction, and wouldn’t hesitate to show that with words or physical intimacy.

Stuart only bedded her a few times a year because that wasn’t important to him and he had difficulties maintaining that certain hardness required to complete the act, though he had been quite skilled when it came to giving her pleasure with his mouth.

Mostly, she’d been happy spending time with him, but there was always something missing in the relationship, something she couldn’t pin down, something she had been searching for ever since but would never find because she couldn’t bear to leave the manor.

How could she love someone again when it had hurt so much to lose them despite their flaws?

Another meow brought her back from her maudlin thoughts.

“What’s wrong, Cleo-girl? You are never this mouthy.” Again, she petted the cat’s soft head, scratched beneath her chin for a bit. “Perhaps we can ask the housekeeper for a small ball of wool she doesn’t need so you can have a new toy.”

An emphatic meow followed the suggestion.

“Every woman enjoys gifts, hmm?”

She certainly had, and the one that had meant anything to her was a diamond necklace Stuart had given her right before he expired.

He’d told her he’d loved her with the gift, and it had been the first time he’d said it.

It had meant… everything. Then he’d said he’d found all the stones himself as a young man when he’d traveled to India, saving them for the right time.

When he married her, he’d had them cut and polished and fashioned into that necklace.

It was worth a king’s ransom and reminded her of him, but she was practical enough to know she could sell the stones if she needed coin to survive.

“Meow.”

“I know. It will be another Christmastide like all the rest, but we have each other, don’t we?” Not that she knew what her cat referred to.

Cleo swished her rather fluffy tail then batted at one of the flowers in the vase.

“Oh, no. You’ll leave the flowers alone.

” She moved the vase to a different table, this one beneath a painting of her husband.

As she tipped her head to gaze upon his painted likeness, a tremor of grief went through her chest. It always seemed to strike at the most unexpected times.

“The house certainly feels much bigger without him in it, doesn’t it, Cleo? ”

Stuart hadn’t liked Christmastide, said it was a waste of resources—he’d been a proper miser truly, which was why it was so shocking when he’d lavished gifts on her after they’d wed.

Even his brother had commented on him loosening the purse strings for his wife—so she hadn’t celebrated the holiday season since she’d been a young woman in her own home, for it had been too sad after she lost her husband.

There had been something special about being in love with someone during those times, regardless of whether they’d celebrated or not.

And now, there wasn’t anything to look forward to.

Usually, she could go to London and visit her parents or even travel to her father’s country estate in Essex, but in her mother’s last letter, she’d been told they would be having a holiday in Rome this year for Christmastide, because her father wanted to feel the sun on his face and refused to spend another moment in dreary England before the New Year.

Not that she wanted to leave Spencerford Hall. Perhaps her parents had given up on her.

“Lady Charlotte?”

This time, it was the sound of her butler’s voice that interrupted her thoughts. With a frown, she turned to regard the older man who had been with her husband since he’d first taken the title. “What is it, Fredricks?”

“A man has arrived at the manor. He and his driver… and a beagle. They need to take shelter from the storm, for the axle on their traveling coach broke.” He brushed a few snowflakes from the sleeve of his uniform. “I have sent the driver to the stables where he can bed down.”

That man would still pass a chilly night, but the stable master was a fair and honest man, and if living conditions were extreme for him or his groomsmen and stable hands, he would have them all moved into the house. “And the other man?”

“I have shown him into the drawing room since there is a fire burning there as opposed to the parlor that we have had shut off due to disuse. He introduced himself as Sir Alexander Tattingham from London.”