Free To Wed The Widow by Megan Bryce Page B

away.
    Rusbridge didn’t notice. “And here you are to take his title. To stop his wife from producing the rightful heir.”
    Sinclair would have liked to ask just how one went about that but was afraid Alan Rusbridge would actually have an answer.
    “Right. I’ll just leave you then to salivate after a house, shall I? I’ll be sure and let Lady Haywood know to watch for you.”
    Sinclair hadn’t taken more than two steps before Rusbridge called after him.
    “She will take everything from you. Everything, and leave you nothing. Including your life. You think her husbands are the first people to get too close and then die?” He laughed. “When she’s beneath you, making you forget about everything, remember that she won’t forget. Know that she’s calculating how much you’re worth, how much she can get out of you. And the best way to get rid of you.”
    Sinclair’s own fists tightened at the ugly words from her brother but he kept on walking.
    “Ask about her mother! Ask about my father!”
    A rough hand fell on Sinclair’s shoulder, turning him forcibly. “And you can tell her I will have what is mine. What’s left of it, at least.”
    Sinclair whipped out a furry puppy the size of his hand. The dog, already having learned this one trick, barked and yapped excitedly and with great furor.
    Rusbridge hopped back, tripping and falling to the pavement. The fear on his face amusing, and pitiable, if Sinclair hadn’t remembered how Lady Haywood had favored her arm after talking with her brother. At the hard cold voice she used when talking of him.
    At the ugly words he was shouting here in front of her house.
    Sinclair said, “I know she’s not a Mastiff. But still. Gets the job done.”
    He fed Anala a small meat treat and scratched beneath the pink bow tied intricately around her neck. A duty his valet had never dreamed he would be required to do, and yet Sinclair had heard the besotted man call the pup Mistress Anala.
    And who could blame him.
    Sinclair held his pup up to his face, letting her lick his cheek excitedly and saying in a high-pitched croon, “What a good girl you are. Yes, you are. You chased that bad man off.”
    He put her back into his pocket, wondering how to make it more comfortable for the dog and how big one could realistically make it.
    He left Rusbridge cursing on the dirty ground and turned away from the widow’s empty house. Thinking he would have to come back later and warn the staff that their mistress was not safe. Perhaps pay a boy to watch for her arrival and come warn her himself.
    No wonder the woman had three Mastiffs. Because they were lonely , his arse.
    And even though Sinclair was reevaluating just how bad his brother was compared to a few others, he said to his new pet, “Come, Anala. Let’s go introduce you to the earl.”

    Elinor hated the country.
    She hadn’t exactly forgotten, she simply hadn’t remembered the extent of it. But when the carriage pulled back up to her townhouse a fortnight later, the lights blazing welcoming, the pedestrians passing quickly in the street, she sighed with relief that she was home.
    The dogs bounded from her carriage, they at least refreshed and revitalized from the rabbit hunts. And duck hunts. And pheasant hunts.
    From rolling around in mud and tracking it everywhere .
    The mud. Oh, the mud.
    She greeted Jones with a tired smile and was ushered inside to the drawing room where the housekeeper waited with warm tea and sweet biscuits.
    And she swore to herself that the next time she needed long walks she would go to the Regent’s Park. Surely there were rabbits there.
    But she did feel less gloomy. And had given herself a good talking to. Not out loud.
    Mrs. Potts asked if she would like a dinner made up and when Elinor shook her head, the woman hesitated.
    Elinor sighed and drank her tea and said, “What has my brother been up to.”
    “Well, yes. He was here, but it was that Mr. Sinclair. He was worried about you.”
    The