Page 2 of The Wayward Lady (The Wayward Widows of Willoughby Hall #1)

W illoughby Hall – May 1892

I can do this.

Lavender Cavendish stood outside Willoughby Hall, staring longingly at an ancient brick wall. She had lived here with Genevieve, the Duchess of Ashbourne, for a little over a year now, and she had been desperate to get a look at the walled garden next door this entire time, especially since she’d found out it had been designed by the famous landscape architect Humphry Repton.

She had sent numerous requests to Kendrick Wycliffe, the house’s owner, asking that he allow her to visit, but he had ignored them. He was a writer and known to be something of a recluse. Accordingly, her desire to see it had grown with each passing day.

Willoughby Hall had been built to the duchess’s specifications less than a decade ago, and although it had gardens of its own, they were still rather new and sparse. Genevieve knew Lavender was looking for a project, something to throw her whole heart and soul into, and had suggested that she redesign the gardens and manage the project once it was underway.

Lavender had never overseen anything other than the running of Geoffrey’s household, and the thought of undertaking such an immense project both thrilled and terrified her. But Genevieve had been so good to her, and she wanted so badly to make her proud.

She leaned forward, running her hands across her trouser-clad thighs with a smile. She couldn’t believe how much her life had changed since she’d moved to Kent with the three strangers who had quickly become her dearest friends. Genevieve, Eden, and Daphne were all so worldly and accomplished. They had taught her so much; with them, she had found herself daringly going against polite society’s rules and expectations.

For instance, since her days mostly consisted of roaming the rocky cliffs and sandy beaches encompassed by the estate, why should she be weighed down by the ridiculous clothing that most women of their class were encumbered by? She had been absolutely shocked when Daphne had made them all trousers, but the moment she had slipped them on, she had known a freedom of movement she’d never experienced.

It wasn’t as though she’d ever go out in public dressed this way, but why shouldn’t she be comfortable in her own home? She and her friends had created an environment where they were all free to be themselves, to speak their minds, to pursue their interests, and to always know that even on the hardest days, they had people who cared about them. It had made all the difference for a group of women who had spent a lifetime feeling very isolated and alone.

Lavender still missed Geoffrey—of course, she did—but in hindsight, she could see how unhappy she had been those last few years. He had stopped making her a priority when it had become obvious that she wasn’t ever going to bear him a child. He had treated her like such a failure. She had thought something was terribly wrong with her, that God was somehow punishing her.

But Eden, the smartest person that Lavender had ever known, had told her that it could have been Geoffrey’s fault they hadn’t been able to conceive and not hers at all! Whether that was true or not, it had made her feel indescribably better. No matter who had been at fault, Geoffrey should not have treated her as he had.

With a sigh, she forced away all thoughts of the past. No matter how she had gotten to this point, she was very grateful to be here. She didn’t think she’d ever been happier.

Gathering her courage, she strode purposefully toward an ancient oak on the edge of Genevieve’s property. One mighty branch of the old tree hung far over the other side of the wall. If she could shimmy her way out on to it, she should have a really good view of at least some of Repton’s garden.

Reaching for the branch above her head, she pulled herself up, grateful for all the physical activity she had undertaken since she arrived here. A year ago, she would not have been able to do such a thing.

Once she had gotten high up into the tree, she inched her way out onto the branch that hung over the wall.

If the garden’s grouchy old owner wouldn’t even bother to respond to her, she’d simply have to take manners into her own hands.

K endrick Wycliffe sat in a peaceful corner of his lush garden, sipping his morning tea as the sun’s golden rays spilled through the trees. The soft chirping of birds provided a soothing accompaniment to his solitude. Lost in his thoughts, Kendrick absently twirled the delicate china teacup between his fingers, staring across his perfectly cultivated flowerbeds. As the fragrant steam curled upward, a sense of melancholy settled over him like a shroud.

For so long, he had thought that if he could find enough solitude, he would somehow find happiness, but it remained elusive. Being alone wasn’t everything he’d thought it would be. In fact, some days, he thought he would go mad with only his thoughts to keep him company. Even the fictional characters who usually spoke to him had grown quiet as of late.

A small whine captured his attention, reminding him he wasn’t completely friendless. Reaching down, he scratched his spaniel, Daisy, between the ears, only to have her suddenly sit at attention and stare at the garden wall.

He leaned forward, furrowing his brow in confusion as he observed someone carefully making their way across the thick branch of a towering oak tree that draped over his vibrant rhododendron bushes.

The dense canopy of leaves cast a veil over the figure, obscuring their features from view. At first glance, it appeared to be a man, as they were clad in trousers, but upon closer inspection, the curvature of their body betrayed a decidedly feminine shape. The fabric stretched enticingly over full hips and thighs. In fact, through a break in the leaves, he was suddenly treated to the sight of an exceptionally round and lovely derriere.

The trunk of the tree resided on the estate next door, which belonged to the notorious Dowager Duchess of Ashbourne. She and three other widows had taken up permanent residence at Willoughby Hall around a year ago. Despite his best attempts to stay completely disengaged from the village gossip, he occasionally had to go into town to resupply. For a while, the townsfolk had talked of nothing else. All four women had lost their husbands in the same accident.

A fire in a bordello, if memory served.

And now one of them was blatantly trespassing, though he could not fathom for what purpose.

“What the hell are you doing up there?” he growled, his initial shock and interest turning to anger. That wall existed for the express purpose of keeping people out.

The woman startled with a little yelp, whipping her head in his direction. He caught a fleeting glimpse of blond hair plaited in a thick French braid and wide, crystal blue eyes before her sharp movement caused her to lose her balance. She toppled from the tree, landing in the rhododendrons at the base of the wall with a loud thud.

Muttering beneath his breath, he lunged from his chair, hoping she hadn’t broken her foolish neck. The last thing he needed was to deal with that first thing in the morning.

“Are you all right?” he snapped as he reached her side and stared down at her, trying to determine the extent of her injuries.

She lay so topsy-turvy in the bush that he'd have gotten quite an eyeful if she hadn’t been wearing trousers. Even with the trousers, she was sprawled in such an ungainly manner that he had more of an idea of the shape of her body than was proper.

“I’m fine. You just startled me,” she said breathily, accepting his outstretched hand and allowing him to pull her to her feet. She was not wearing gloves, and the feel of her smooth, bare hand in his made him flinch and hurriedly let go.

Standing, she barely came to his shoulder. At first, he had thought her no more than a girl, but up close, the fine lines around her eyes marked her as at least thirty. The short, curvy little thing looked adorably rumpled after her fall, twigs and leaves sticking out of her braid and a smudge of dirt on her chin, but he refused to be charmed.

“What were you doing in my tree?” he asked impatiently.

“Well, technically, it is not your tree. It is ours,” she said reasonably, gesturing toward the imposing walls of Willoughby Hall in the distance.

He supposed he could not argue with that, though he badly wanted to.

“What were you doing dangling over my property then?” It took all the willpower he had not to snarl at her. He wanted nothing more than to get back to his tea and morose thoughts. He most definitely did not want to get another look at her lovely bottom clad in these form-fitting trousers. Didn’t she realize how absolutely scandalous her behavior was?

She bit her lip and shuffled her feet, looking rightfully embarrassed. “I heard that Humphry Repton designed your garden. I have sent several notes asking if I could take a look around, but they all went unanswered. Your gardener has proven elusive as well. So...” She gave him a wry smile. “I was quite desperate to see it. I thought I could get a glimpse from up there, which wouldn’t actually be trespassing, but the foliage thwarted me.”

He sighed. He had tossed the multitude of missives he’d received from Willoughby Hall into the rubbish bin, imagining them to be invitations to some silly thing or another. Perhaps if he’d opened one, he’d have allowed her to come. His garden was his biggest source of pride, and it was a shame no one else ever got to see it. He wanted to be angry with her for trespassing, but he found himself reluctant to squash her enthusiasm for some reason. She was simply too... adorable. “I don’t have a gardener. I take care of it myself.”

“You do?” She met his gaze again, and he was struck anew by how lovely she was. She had probably been a great beauty in her youth, but he found that he liked the earthy softness of her features and the laugh lines around her lush lips that maturity had brought. “Oh, I have so many questions for you.”

He grunted, unwilling to enter into any discussion she might want to have about his garden, though it was the main reason he’d purchased this house. He did have one question for her, though, despite it going against his desire to keep everyone he met at arm’s length. “I suppose you’re one of those widows.” He somehow stopped short of directly asking her name.

She blinked. “Yes, I am.”

Good God. She’s going to make me ask.

“Well, which one are you?” Exasperation tinged his tone. He couldn’t help it.

“Lavender Cavendish,” she replied with a little curtsey that looked ridiculous, given that she was wearing trousers. “Formerly the Viscountess of Crestwood.”

A bloody viscountess. Named for my favorite plant. Wearing trousers. He wondered suddenly if he was the one who had fallen out of a tree. Had he hit his head? None of this made any sense.

He must have stared at her for an awkwardly long moment because she cleared her throat, dropping her gaze. “Well, may I see it now? The garden, I mean? Since I’m already here?”

Tell her no.

But his mind and his mouth seemed to be working independently of each other. Because instead of denying her request, he gestured toward the path ahead. “That’s rather like a burglar asking if he can steal your family jewels now that he’s already in your house, but I suppose you can take a peek.”

She laughed at his rusty joke, and her blue eyes lit up with excitement. “Oh, thank you. You have no idea what this means to me!”

She fairly skipped ahead of him, and his gaze was drawn once again to the way her buff trousers hugged her ample behind. Had she borrowed them from one of the stableboys? Or had they been made just for her? In all his thirty-nine years, he had never seen a woman in trousers and found the sight more than a little erotic.

In fact, he found it a lot erotic.

“Why are you wearing trousers?” he found himself asking, determined to get to the bottom of this.

She glanced over her shoulder, her cheeks flushing. “It is very difficult to climb a tree in a skirt. I did not expect to encounter you, obviously.”

“Obviously,” he said drily.

“You’re the writer, aren’t you? Kendrick Wycliffe?” she asked as they walked along a gravel path past an expanse of brilliant green lawn and various flowerbeds at the back of the house.

“You know I am,” he fired back.

“Well, you knew I was one of the widows,” she retorted.

The smallest hint of a smile curved his lips. He had to admit that he was almost... enjoying this exchange. “Yes, but I didn’t know which one.”

She gave him a beaming smile, which made her even more lovely.

“And who is your faithful companion?” she asked, leaning down to scratch Daisy, who followed loyally behind him, between the ears.

“This is Daisy,” he answered a bit reluctantly. He wasn’t used to anyone being in his little sanctuary, let alone meeting his dog. It seemed the height of intimacy, somehow.

“Well, hello, Daisy!” she said brightly, making Daisy wag her whole body.

“Traitor,” he muttered.

The gravel pathway crunched beneath her sensible boots as she reached the fountain at the center of the rose garden. “It’s beautiful,” she breathed, turning in a slow circle to take in the varied array of roses, a palette of colors from yellow to red, then from pink to purple.

“I’m certain the duchess’s gardens are even lovelier,” he said, although he knew they were not. His gardens were by far the best in the county. They were his pride and joy, the only thing he had worth getting up for in the morning besides his writing.

“The gardens at Willoughby Hall are very nice, but they are nothing like this,” she answered, reaching down to once again scratch between Daisy’s ears as she gazed around at the roses. “I have always loved roses. They are so bright and vivid, even when everything else is dreary and gray. They remind me of... well, of possibilities.”

“Ah,” Kendrick replied, his gaze lingering on the scarlet blooms of a nearby rose bush. “I feel a certain camaraderie with them as well. They flourish despite the thorns, reminding me to persevere through the challenges life throws me.” The moment the words were out of his mouth, he regretted saying them. This woman seemed to have all the substance of a butterfly and didn’t need to hear his deep thoughts about anything. He wasn’t even certain where the poetic words had come from. Though he might write such a sentiment, he wasn’t one to actually say such a silly thing.

“Endurance,” she said softly, her eyes meeting his with an intensity that made him rethink his initial assessment of her character. “I know a bit about that.”

The pain in her voice made him realize he wasn’t the only one who’d gone through tough times. She had recently lost her husband, after all. And in a most embarrassing and public way. “Do you?” he asked, his voice barely audible above the nearby fountain’s gentle murmurs.

“Perhaps it is not merely endurance that roses teach us,” Lavender mused thoughtfully, “but hope. The hope to blossom anew, regardless of the thorns.”

“Hope,” Kendrick repeated, considering the word as if it were a rare bloom he had never dared cultivate. In the shared silence that followed, there was a sense of kinship that he had not felt with anyone in a very long time.

“Your roses,” Lavender said, her soft voice pulling him from his reverie, “remind me of a painting I once saw. Vivid and full of life, yet somehow... yearning.”

A muscle twitched in his jaw as he considered the notion. Yearning implied a desire for something more, an aching for a connection that had been severed. He allowed himself a glance at Lavender, her cheeks flushed, eyes alight with unrestrained enthusiasm. She was warmth to his coldness, light to his shadows. How perilous it felt, this pull toward her—the very antithesis of everything he had become.

“Yearning for the sun, perhaps,” he offered, his tone carefully neutral. “Or maybe just reaching out for anything willing to come close enough.”

“Like me,” she quipped, a mischievous twinkle in her eye. “So desperate to see your gardens that I climbed a tree to do so.”

A chuckle rumbled deep within Kendrick’s chest, surprising even himself. He didn’t think he’d truly laughed in years, and the sound seemed foreign yet intrinsically a part of him. Her wit sparked something in him that had been dormant for far too long.

Kendrick felt the rigid armor around his heart creak and groan. There was danger in this, in allowing someone to see beyond the brambles he had cultivated so carefully around his heart. Yet, as he watched Lavender laugh, head thrown back in genuine delight, he couldn’t deny the allure of companionship. It had been so long since he’d had a genuine conversation with anyone, let alone a woman.

“Come with me.” Without looking to see if she followed, he made his way toward the gazebo on the cliff, which framed a spectacular view of the ocean crashing forty feet below. He spent much of his time there, either writing or waiting for the words to come, but he had never shared it with anyone. Yet, for some reason, he wanted to show it to her. He told himself it was because she was a true fan of Repton’s work.

As they crested the hill, she gasped and froze, taking in the view of the blanket of blue stretching out before them. “Repton is known for framing the natural views of a property, but this is breathtaking. I’m surprised you don’t sit here all day.”

“Sometimes I do,” he admitted.

She turned her gaze from the ocean to him, her face lit with delight. A charming trio of freckles were sprinkled across her nose, and he desperately wanted to lean forward and brush them with his lips. “Thank you for sharing this with me, Mr. Wycliffe. Truly. The duchess has given me permission to make some changes to the gardens at Willoughby Hall, and it would have been a crime not to see what Repton had done right next door.”

He cleared his throat. “Well, next time you want to visit, use the gate, for God’s sake.”

A bubbling little laugh escaped her. “Does that mean I can come back?”

“If you want,” he said, snapping his fingers for Daisy and turning away before he completely ruined his reputation as an ogre. “Just don’t bother me when you do.”