The Wayward Heiress (The Wayward Widows of Willoughby Hall #2)

Chapter One

Dearest cousin,

I trust this letter finds you well.

In our last correspondence, we discussed your difficulties in hiring a guide for your Egyptian expedition.

I am utterly incensed on your behalf that the men you’ve approached have refused to take you seriously, but I suppose we cannot combat centuries of misogyny.

That said, I believe I may have found someone willing to agree to your terms.

Your old beau, Max Thorne—

Upon reading the name Max Thorne, Lady Eden Pemberley’s hands shook so badly that the letter she’d been reading slipped through her fingers and fluttered to the floor at her feet. She stared at it for a long moment, as though it were a coiled snake, ready to strike.

Max Thorne.

He’d been her childhood best friend, her first love, the man she’d once thought she’d spend her life with...

She hadn’t so much as heard his name in a decade, but hardly a day went by that she didn’t think of him.

Trembling, she reached down and grabbed the letter, smoothing it out on the table in front of her, then tracing his printed name with her fingertip, trying to ignore the hollow ache deep inside her. Taking a breath, she forced herself to read on.

...has sold his army commission after many years of service in Africa.

When I ran into him last evening, he told me he has since led several expeditions to Egypt.

As you may recall, he studied at Oxford before following the drum.

I believe he has the necessary skills to guide you safely to your destination, and I imagine you are more likely to succeed in engaging him than most, given your past association.

I caution you, however, that he has become a difficult man. He has acquired a fondness for drink, and he spends most of his time at The Smuggler’s Lantern, a dockside tavern in London, where you can find him if you wish.

I hope this helps you on your journey,

Lucas

Eden set the letter aside, her thoughts racing.

She had long resigned herself to never hearing Max’s name again, and she had tucked his memory away in the trunk of her past like an artifact too fragile to handle.

Once, she would have done anything to be with him, even defied her father if she’d thought it would have made any difference.

But the moment her father had refused to allow them to wed, Max had let her go. He hadn’t fought for her. He’d joined the army, run away, and she’d never heard from him again.

She hadn’t thought she still had any anger left in her, had thought she’d burned it all away long ago, but apparently, she’d needed only the slightest spark to set it afire again.

“Eden, you’re trembling. What’s happened?” Her dear friend, Daphne Fitzroy, the Countess of Wyndham, looked up from the nearby chair where she’d been putting the finishing touches on one of the beautiful gowns she designed. Her blue eyes filled with concern as she searched Eden’s face.

“I’m... quite alright.” Eden attempted a smile, her voice sounding unconvincing even to her own ears.

She glanced around the library, seeking refuge in the oak shelves filled with volumes in neat rows, the morning light reflecting off the leather spines and pooling across the polished floor below.

It had become a sanctuary since she’d moved to Willoughby Hall two years ago after her husband’s death, a place where she could forget that anything existed beyond her own ambitions and the friendships she’d made. Until now.

Daphne frowned. “Is it bad news?”

“It is... news, certainly.” Eden’s laugh was brittle. She pressed a hand to her mouth, willing herself to speak with more composure. “My cousin Lucas thinks he’s found a guide for my expedition.”

“Well, that’s not bad news at all!” Daphne leaned forward, her eyes sparkling. “Oh, Eden! I’m so happy for you. I know you were starting to lose hope.”

“Yes, but it isn’t just anyone. It’s... someone I used to know.” She swallowed, her voice growing smaller. “Someone I used to love.”

“Someone you used to love?” Daphne exclaimed, abandoning any pretense of continuing her work.

She set down her fabric and moved swiftly to Eden’s side, peering at her with a mixture of mischief and concern.

“How have we been friends for this long without me managing to extract the story of this lost love?”

“It was so long ago,” Eden replied, waving a hand dismissively, as though Max had meant nothing.

“He was a childhood friend. My first love. But he was the fourth son of an earl, with no prospects, and my father refused to allow us to wed. Max joined the army, and I haven’t seen or heard from him since. ”

Daphne squeezed her shoulder and leaned against the desk beside her. “Sounds like there’s more to the story than that.”

“I was a fool,” Eden said, shaking her head ruefully. “A fool with a naive heart who thought the most beautiful man in Yorkshire loved me—a tomboy, a bluestocking—enough to stand up to my father.”

Daphne smiled, unperturbed. “Have you considered that this is the perfect opportunity to reconnect with him? Perhaps fate has intervened on your behalf.”

“Do you believe in such things?” Eden scoffed. She certainly didn’t. She was a scientist at heart, after all.

“I believe it is exceedingly difficult to find a reputable man willing to accompany a woman to the Egyptian desert. I’m not sure you can afford to be picky after all the time you’ve spent in fruitless searching. Not if you ever want this dream of yours to come true.”

Eden let out a sigh, knowing that Daphne’s pragmatism was both the best and worst of her qualities. “Lucas warns me that Max has developed an unhealthy relationship with drink. He may be completely unreliable.”

“Perhaps. But it sounds as if there’s still some unfinished business between the two of you.” Daphne looked at her with dancing eyes, unwilling to let the subject rest. “If nothing else, it’s worth seeing him again. After all, it’s been what... ten years?”

“Fifteen.”

“Gracious,” Daphne exclaimed. “Oh, do say you’ll go and see him. Curiosity alone must be killing you.”

Was it curiosity? Eden feared it was something far more unruly, a combination of hope and old bitterness that she could scarcely untangle, let alone admit aloud. “He let me go, Daphne. I wanted him to fight for me, but he walked away and never looked back.”

“And have you considered that he may have wanted you to fight as well?”

The question hung in the air between them, unsettling in its simplicity. Eden stood and moved toward the window, watching the sea crash against the shore beyond the manicured gardens. She had made herself forget him, turning all her attention and passion to the mysteries of the past. And yet...

“Lucas has informed me Max can be found at a dockside tavern in London called The Smuggler’s Lantern,” she said, turning back to Daphne with newfound resolve. “Perhaps I will go. Just for... curiosity’s sake.”

“Wonderful!” Daphne gave her a cheeky smile. “I’ve never been to a dockside tavern. It sounds absolutely thrilling. I’ll come along and ensure you make it there without bolting in the opposite direction. You’ll need someone to help you stay focused and not lose your nerve.”

Eden’s laughter was genuine this time. “You’re incorrigible. But if I must go, I would certainly appreciate the company.”

“You’ve nothing to lose, my dear. Except, perhaps, your carefully constructed solitude.” Daphne’s voice was soft, teasing, but also held an understanding that only years of friendship could impart.

Eden nodded, silently acknowledging the truth in her friend’s words.

Solitude was safe, but boring. For just a moment, she allowed herself to remember the passion she’d once found in Max’s arms. Even though she’d been married for over a decade, Max had been her only lover, and the desire they’d shared had been.

.. magical. She’d never felt as alive as she had in Max’s arms.

She picked up the letter again with a steadier hand. “We’ll leave tomorrow then,” she murmured, as much to herself as to Daphne.

“Shall we wait for Genevieve?” Daphne asked.

Genevieve, the Duchess of Ashland, was the leader of their little alliance of Wayward Widows.

A brothel fire had taken the lives of four aristocratic men two years ago.

The four widows had all banded together and moved to Willoughby Hall, Genevieve’s seaside estate in Kent, finding comfort and friendship in their shared plight.

However, Genevieve had gone to visit her son, the current duke, at his estate right outside the city. Eden didn’t want their friend to cut her trip short, but she didn’t want to wait either. Now that the idea had formed, she didn’t want to waste any time.

“No,” she replied emphatically. “I think the sooner I do this, the better.”

Maybe to achieve the future she’d wanted for so long, she was going to have to confront her past.

Leaving Daphne in the library, Eden climbed the stairs to her bedchamber on the second floor, needing some time alone to think about her impulsive decision to go to London tomorrow.

She let herself into the lovely room decorated in shades of blue, teal, and gold that matched the colors of the spectacular view out her window.

When she’d first arrived here as a new widow, feeling guilty for not mourning her husband, she’d taken great comfort in the view.