Chapter 6

CHAPTER 6

W as that the same man Sunshine met on Christmas Eve? The light had been dim. The candles had made a soft, romantic glow. But now, in the plain light of day, she could hardly look at him without staring. He was beautiful. And she was an idiot.

After Sunshine threw him his hat and flung her last insult, she returned to the parlor, the place where she could still feel him and smell him. She wondered what possessed her to behave poorly. Anger was never the answer. She couldn't remember a time when she'd ever been angry enough for irrational behavior.

Phineas Blackmore. Lord Davies. Why did men carry such a variety of pseudonyms? Was it because they could plead anonymity, or did it make it easier to imbibe in lecherous activities?

But the thing was, even after finding out he was the viscount, she didn't feel as if he'd been purposely misleading. She hadn't given her full married name—not to him, at least. Perhaps her soul was as debauched as a scandalous rake's. She couldn't help the smile that crept up at the wild thought of it.

No. It wasn't her. She was not that woman. And after what she'd done, he had every right to be angry with her. Little of the storm she'd created today made sense, not even to her. How was she to explain her feelings to a virtual stranger?

She expelled a defeated sigh. The bigger question was, how could she have been so promiscuous? So impulsive? Never did she consider he would seek her out. And then to bring the feather. Why? Why had he saved that feather? If he were any other man, he would have stuck it in his hat, as she suggested, and gone on his way proud as a peacock for seducing the widow.

Except he hadn't seduced her. She had only herself to blame for that bit of genius.

She fell upon the perfect distraction, the unappreciated tea. She owed Mr. Oswald a hefty thank you. She bent and emptied the tea from one delicate cup into the other. The cups, a gift from her father on her parents' fifth wedding anniversary, were a reminder that they had been in love. She allowed her heart a moment and traced the royal blue flowers with swirling turquoise leaves before stacking the plates carefully.

"Let me do that, my lady," Mr. Oswald said, no doubt checking on her after the passionate blast of temper in the foyer.

"There is no need."

"The platter is too heavy. I refuse to watch you struggle."

She supposed the butler had something to prove after Lord Davies pricked the man's pride. Mr. Oswald slipped her an extended glance over the top of his spectacles as he bent to his task.

She dropped onto the settee. "How much did you hear?"

"It's not my place to listen at doors." Which, of course, was exactly what her faithful butler had done. "But I did see a glimpse of the red feather. The scoundrel," he muttered the last part under his breath as if she couldn't hear it.

"So, you weren't listening. I see."

He stopped and straightened, turning toward her at full attention. "It isn't my place."

"Then whose is it, Mr. Oswald?" She took in a breath, preparing to let out a big sigh until she caught the scent of the man who'd just left. She held it in for a second, feeling a visceral connection to Phineas as she sat on the same cushion he'd recently vacated.

"I think he's a blackguard," Oswald enunciated with unveiled disdain, a redeeming quality for a loyal butler and one Sunshine rather appreciated. His white-gloved fists shook at his sides. "I think he's the worst kind of rogue for not telling you who he was and acting a cad, seducing a widow. It's shameful." Mr. Oswald managed the tirade while standing at bridled attention.

Sunshine focused on her fidgeting hands, wishing she had that feather. "Don't you think it would have been easier to seduce a woman by announcing his title?" She looked up at Oswald. "The ballroom was full of beautiful young women waiting for a chance to be his viscountess and ready to swoon on command over his magnetic gaze. What Christmas gift that would have been."

Oswald had been her champion since Richard died, and she appreciated his misplaced disgust. Oddly, Sunshine felt the need to defend the blackguard against her unfailing butler. Her feelings were like wading through molasses in the dead of winter. Cold, thick, and yet sweet. A turmoil of confusion confounded by the lust she felt for Phineas Blackmore, Viscount Davies, the blackguard of London. She smiled to herself.

Mr. Oswald left with the tray of rattling china, leaving Sunshine without a distraction unless she considered returning to the needlework, which was as knotted as her life.

* * *

In the morning, she paid another visit to the Widows' League. She could not fathom why they had encouraged her to go to that party. They had always looked out for the welfare of their clients, and all they asked in return was that she give her time in rotation with the other widows.

Today, she hoped sharing her thoughts with Lady Emily Fairchild, another like-minded widow, would serve her purpose. Except that nothing could be settled or solved when one party was looking for a devotedly dishonest agreement. She realized all this about herself, and it reminded her of Phineas's remark that no one is too old to be corrected.

Expecting moral support for an anger that was disqualified by ignorance and stupidity was the model for poor advice. And so, she understandably left there with none. As always, moral support was a given with the widows, but there could be no greater advice than her own realization that she'd done wrong. Lady Fairchild's patient guidance was all she required.

The winning gold ring was the fifth day after Christmas when she called upon her staunch supporter, Mr. Arthur Wallace, the father of Richard's dear friend Joseph, who'd been with him the day he died.

Mr. Wallace was owed a visit after she'd turned down his invitation to Christmas dinner. She suspected he stayed in the city during the holidays specifically for her because she had no family left.

"Oh, you make an aged man feel spry," Mr. Wallace said when she greeted him in the family drawing room of his London address.

She kissed the older man's cheek, who was no older than her father would have been if he were alive today. A young fifty-two with light brown hair and nary a gray one on his handsome head.

"Spry as a man who enjoys the challenge of a good fox hunt."

"And a pretty lady." He led her to a seat by the fire, kissing her hand before settling her into a cozy, red velvet-lined chair. She gazed at the painting over the hearth of an English sunrise with a pretty manor house and a tree swing in the background.

Mr. Wallace smiled as he took the chair that flanked the fireplace. "A bit of your father here too, hm?"

"Yes. It was kind of you to purchase it. It brings such fond memories for me." She held on to her composure because seeing the works of her father made her want to weep. The monies earned from the painting had helped her make rent for the modest home over the artist shop where her father had worked her entire life. He did commission work as well as taking pride in selling the creative works by local artists. He liked to think he kept food on the table for many a family. And so did buyers like Mr. Wallace, who paid more for the painting than she had asked for after her father died. The matching painting of a sunset hung in Mr. Wallace's personal study at his country seat. In many ways, Mr. Wallace had seen to her care even before she married Richard.

"He was like family," Mr. Wallace said. "And so are you."

She knew he meant Richard because she had not met the Wallace family until after she met her husband, the same year she lost her father. Her father was the kindest soul and the most talented artist she'd ever known.

"I am always delighted for your visits, but I can see something is troubling you. Could it be funds? You barely take enough allowance to live on, and you know you are like a daughter to me."

The painful truth was that Mr. Wallace had felt a measure of guilt for Richard's death. Joseph and Richard had been very close since university despite their difference in societal positions. Joseph was the son of a wealthy landowner, and Richard was the son of parents who had scraped to save enough for their son to attend a proper school. They had wanted to give him the best start in life. His friendship with Joseph gave him that and more. When he met Joseph, the world opened up for him. He was invited to important parties and included in private functions where mingling can make the difference between a good name or, worse, an unknown.

Clout was weighed by those you knew. Richard had been on his way to purchasing a plot of land. Sunshine always thought he should have married someone with an ample dowry or substantial family connections. She had neither. But he loved her, and she loved him.

"I wish you wouldn't worry so much about me, Mr. Wallace. You have been more than kind, much more than I deserve."

He watched her with something akin to pity, but she knew it was an internal punishment he bestowed upon himself, not on her. If they had been sitting closer, she might have taken his hand.

"It was not your fault. It wasn't even Joseph's fault," she said.

"If I hadn't offered him the trip, then it would have never happened."

"Oh, yes, it would." She gave a small chuckle despite the somber subject. "Those two young men were as brothers, and shenanigans were the glue that held them upright. I don't blame you, and I don't blame Joseph either. Richard chose to race that phaeton."

"But I owned it."

"And should you be responsible for the behavior of a full-grown man?"

"You settled him. If he had not attended my son on that tour, if he had stayed home with his new wife of six months…" He let the sentence trail. Words were not needed between them. They both had regrets on that account, for if she had denied Richard the holiday—and she knew in her heart he would have stayed home with her—he would be here today. They would have shared Christmas with the Wallace family, and she would not be here now asking for a favor that would put her in front of another man.

"Mr. Wallace, I insisted that he go. We hadn't been married long, but the opportunity was one of a lifetime. It was your generosity and desire to see him flourish. It was not your fault. It was not my fault. Accident is the very definition of its own word. It cannot be explained. If you knew when you walked out the door, you would fall down the stairs, then you would not walk out the door. And so, we don't know. He didn't know. We didn't know."

He forced a smile that did not meet his weary, blue eyes. Sunshine took some blame for that since she'd been wearing mourning clothes for five years. It was time to let go.

"Joseph should have married you afterwards. It was his place to do so. Then you would have been my daughter-in-law, and no one could make up ghastly stories about my helping you."

Joseph could barely look at her after the accident, much less marry her. Not to mention she would have never agreed. The guilt Richard's good friend carried was greater than any, and she was a constant reminder of his folly. Mr. Wallace had considered it his lifelong responsibility to see her taken care of, which also left her as fodder for some of the nastier gossips. But she could not afford to care.

"We are both too hard on ourselves, I suppose," Mr. Wallace conceded. "But look at you," he continued with a genuine smile replacing the pall that had fallen over the visit. "Your dress is mint green. A fine refreshing change and the epitome of your name. It is good to see you in bright colors again."

She looked down at her day dress, spreading her hands over the silk-woven linen, a smile tugging the corners of her mouth. "It's time, isn't it?" She looked up shyly, a skip of her heart, feeling unsure of her next move. She needed reassurance—the permission from someone more like a father to her than anything.

"Do you think Richard would care?" She knew the answer, but again, she needed to hear it physically vibrate through her soul where wings expand. She needed to grow again as a human being. As a woman.

He steepled his fingers. "If I didn't know better, I would wonder if you had a beau."

She felt the all-telling blush heat her cheeks, proof that her heart was still beating, that lightning had not struck her down. Not yet.

"Oh, my dear. You do." Mr. Wallace's reaction was filtered through awe. He looked happier than she'd seen in a while.

She gave him a nervous glance.

"If you are looking for my blessing, you have it, my dear. And Richard's too. I'm certain of it."

Tears burned her eyes, leaving a sharp knot in her throat. The emotions were either for Mr. Wallace's kindness or because she had grown serious feelings for the blackguard—as her butler so aptly called him. Phineas Blackmore as she knew him. Lord Davies to the real world.

"That's why I'm here." She respected Mr. Wallace enough that she thought he deserved the truth.