Seducing Mr. Heywood Read Free Page B

edge of nowhere, all moor and high country, people smirked and laughed at the rare bumblebroth Lady Sophia Rowley had made of her life. Too many husbands, rumors of many lovers, and no love ever in her life, not really, despite the gossip of those who believed they knew the story of her life and loves. No one knew her; and, most of the time, she had to acknowledge that she barely knew herself.
    How could she bear it?
    Charles Heywood sat in a comfortable leather wing chair in his cluttered study, his booted feet resting on a worn oak desk, scribbling notes for his Sunday sermon. He was borrowing heavily from a sermon one of his tutors at Cambridge had delivered on the same topic. He was aware of this borrowing, plagiarism by any other standard. At the end of his text, he’d scrawled, guiltily,
“I am a thief!”
He was finding it difficult to think of new sermon topics these days, ever since that humiliating incident with Lady Sophia, the baron’s widow. She had been much on his mind of late, to the detriment of his living at St. Mortrud’s.
    The third son, after three girls, of a land-rich viscount with holdings in Ulswater and Kendal in the Lake Country, Charles was fated from birth for the church. His elder brother, as heir, managed the family estate; the second son was following a glorious career in the army. His sisters were all suitably and happily married. Every year brought yet another niece or nephew, or both. The Heywoods were a fertile family.
    Did he have a clerical calling? No matter; he was bookish and did well at his studies, unlike his two male siblings. It was as good an option for him as any other. He’d had no objection to the church, and the living at Rowley Village was pleasant, the duties hardly onerous. Lord Rowley had been a kindly mentor to Charles, and he had spent more time at the Hall than at the vicarage, playing whist, sipping brandy, and enjoying the use ofthe excellent library and well-stocked stables. His curate, Mr. Duncan, saw to the efficient running of the little church and was always ready to take vespers, evensong, or matins, when Charles was otherwise occupied at the Hall. It was a most satisfactory arrangement.
    Though it was not a requirement of his office, Charles was celibate by choice. Fornication for fornication’s sake had never much appealed to him, perhaps because he was a romantic by nature. His present state of agitation was exacerbated by the fact that he had fallen immediately and impossibly in love with the unobtainable Lady Sophia the day he first saw her portrait in the baron’s drawing room. She was a goddess, indeed, the woman of his dreams. The artist, famed for his many paintings of Emma Hamilton, had been partial to beautiful faces and perfection of form. He’d emerged from semi-retirement to paint this one last portrait, as a favor to the baron.
    George Rowley had chuckled heartily, watching the play of emotions over the young man’s expressive face. “Everyone falls in love with Sophia, Charles! You are neither the first, nor will you be the last.” The baron had not been offended by Charles’s blatant admiration of his lovely wife; indeed, he had seemed inordinately pleased.
    Rowley was an amazing old gentleman. He’d been frank with Charles that he and Lady Sophia weren’t a love match. George’s first wife, Lucy, was the only true love of his life. He was very fond of Sophia, but not in love with her. She had gone her way, as he had gone his. His goal in their marriage was to secure two sons, and she’d fulfilled her part of the bargain in short order. John and William were two fine lads, eleven and ten respectively, now at Eton for their schooling.
    Yes, George Rowley had been very frank about how things stood between him and his wife, but not frank enough to enlighten Charles as to the contents of his last will and testament. It had been as much a surprise to Charles as to Lady Sophia that he was named legal guardian to John and William Rowley.