So Long, My Scoundrel (Revenge of the Wallflowers #25)
Prologue
T he cemetery loomed like a sentinel as Lady Selina Whitcomb, the newly widowed Countess of Hollyfield, tread softly upon its hallowed ground. The somber echo of her footsteps was the only sound that dared disrupt the silence of the family cemetery. Her black mourning gown whispered against the dew-kissed grass as she navigated the labyrinth of stones and monuments, each a testament to a life once lived. She glanced up at the gray clouds overhead. They cast a pall over the morning, their heavy presence mirroring the weight in her heart.
As she reached her destination, an elegant tombstone marking the final resting place of Nile Whitcomb, Earl of Hollyfield, a sharp breath escaped her. Her gaze lingered on the cold marble, tracing the engraved letters of his name. Tears brimmed in her eyes, not just from sorrow but from smoldering anger that simmered beneath the surface like a tempest awaiting its moment to break free.
Her hands formed into fists at her sides, the tension in her body a stark contrast to the tranquil surroundings. They were fists wound tight with resolve, the knuckles white, nails pressing crescents into her palms. Selina refused to succumb to the role of inconsolable widow, wilting beside the grave like a flower deprived of sunlight. She was Countess Hollyfield. She would continue on with strength and dignity.
Her breaths came in measured sips. Yet, within her chest, the steady beat of her heart drummed a rhythm of defiance. It urged her to peel away the layers of mourning and to don instead the armor of vengeance. For while society might expect her to retreat quietly into the shadows of her widowhood, Selina's spirit blazed too fiercely to be quenched by the damp chill of expectation.
She would seek justice for her husband, for the man who had been ripped from this realm under circumstances most foul and suspicious.
her gaze traced the inscription—a haunting promise of 'Till death do us part'—Selina allowed the tears to fall, not as a sign of weakness but as an acknowledgement of the pain that honed her resolve into something unbreakable.
A gust of wind stirred the trees, their leaves whispering secrets of the past, and Selina found herself ensnared by the memory of that fateful day. It was a moment etched in time, a cruel stroke of fate that forever altered the course of her life.
The sun had been shining incongruously bright when the news arrived—a cruel mockery of her ensuing despair. The messenger's face had been a portrait of unease, his lips trembling as he relayed the words that would shatter her existence. Nile, her husband and Earl of Hollyfield, had perished in a catastrophic turn of the phaeton wheels, his life extinguished in the very pursuit of sport he adored.
Selina's knees had buckled beneath her as if the earth had been yanked from under her feet. She had crumpled to the ground, the opulent carpet of their drawing room offering no solace to her anguished cries. The walls of the grand estate, once filled with laughter and murmurs of undying affection, closed in on her, suffocating her with the ghastly silence of death. Her hands had grasped at nothing, seeking a lifeline that was no longer there .
Now, as the memories receded like the tide leaving the shore, Selina's spirit surged with newfound vigor. The fragility of that moment had given way to an unyielding fortitude.
She would not allow society's whispers, nor its oppressive gazes, to deter her. No, she was made of sterner stuff—a Whitcomb by marriage, but a lioness by nature.
She glanced at the morning sky. The clouds overhead might threaten rain, yet they could not dampen the fire that blazed within her—the fire that would illuminate the path toward retribution and honor the memory of the man she had vowed to love for all eternity.
"Rest now, my darling," she said, her voice barely audible above the distant tolling of church bells. "I shall insure justice is served."
And with that silent vow hanging between the living and the dead, Selina turned from the grave, her back straight and her resolve unwavering. The echoes of her departure resounded with a newfound determination, each step a declaration that, though she walked alone, she carried with her the indomitable will of a woman wronged.
With each measured step across the dew-kissed grass, her mind whirled with the specter of betrayal that had draped itself over her husband's untimely death.
“Viscount Blackwood," she murmured under her breath, the name leaving a bitter trail in the air. The very thought of the Viscount sparked a tumult within her—a cascade of memories both dubious and damning. He had put her in this situation. She was certain of it.
Selina's grip tightened on the black lace of her parasol. A widow was expected to embody the virtues of chastity and obedience, to wear her sorrow as though it were another layer of crinoline—stiff, unwieldy, suffocating.
She could hear the whispers already, see the sidelong glances cast by matrons and maidens alike, each one heavy with judgment and thinly-veiled cynicism.
"Too young to be burdened with such sorrow," they would say, or worse yet, "Did she drive him to his grave?"
As if the role of grieving widow was not torturous enough, society demanded she navigate its treacherous waters with grace, lest she be shunned. She would not allow the memory of Nile, dear sweet Nile, to be tarnished by lies or left unavenged regardless of the consequences to herself .
A crisp breeze stirred, sending a shiver through her, but her resolve remained steadfast. The whispers of society held no power over her—not when the truth beckoned with a siren's call.
"Viscount Blackwood, your days of deception are numbered," she vowed. He may have been a master of guile, a veritable fox amongst the hounds, but she would not be outfoxed. He would receive his comeuppance if it was the last thing she ever accomplished.