Page 1 of A Stormy Season

Chapter One

LONDON, Spring, 1812

Jane Gilchrist glanced around the ballroom. The social season had hardly begun, as it was not yet Easter, so only half the usual guests filled the ballroom. And it seemed all the ladies present were at one end of the room, crowded around one man—Mr. Luke Watley, the young widower from Hertfordshire.

Jane forced herself not to roll her eyes to the ceiling. Why were young ladies who were clever in all the ways of Society, whose manners were otherwise impeccable, who had learned to speak other languages and play the pianoforte with great skill, so willing to make fools of themselves for the sake of one eligible young man in their midst?

Luke Watley was handsome; she could give him that. And he was young and rich. Those were all desirable traits in a husband, and many ladies were willing to give up the first two qualities if the gentleman was very rich. So perhaps she could understand them vying for the attentions of a man who possessed all three. But since that man had chosen so poorly in marrying his first wife, Anne Bailey, and as that first wife had passed away only three months ago, Jane was bothered by the fact that the ladies were making a spectacle at the expense of their own dignity.

“Just look at them,” Lady Ingraham said, whispering as she came to stand beside Jane. “So eager to catch themselves a handsome widower.” Lady Ingraham—Sarah, as Jane knew her—gave a snide smile in the direction of the ladies who were practically begging for Mr. Watley’s attention.

A little pang assailed Jane as she remembered her brother Henry scolding her for being judgmental of others. Did she ever sound as cruel as Sarah did just now?

“I’m glad you have more dignity than that,” Sarah went on. “You would never behave in such a way. In fact, I have heard you say that you’d rather be a spinster ten times over than throw yourself at a man the way young ladies are so wont to do these days.”

Sarah’s amusement at those ladies’ expense made Jane rethink her own silent criticism. And Sarah could hardly disparage anyone, in Jane’s opinion, since she’d married a man old enough to be her own grandfather.

Jane didn’t want to be ridiculed and held in contempt for running after a marriageable gentleman, but . . . she did want to get married. She didn’t want to just watch everyone else her age becoming mistress of a home and having children. She loved her brother Henry and her sister-in-law Penelope, but sometimes it was difficult to watch them staring adoringly into each other’s eyes, giving each other those secret smiles, year after year, while she was still unmarried.

She didn’t want to be lonely.

But she also couldn’t bear to marry the wrong person, and being married didn’t necessarily mean she wouldn’t be lonely. Penelope had once described her first marriage as the loneliest years of her life. What if Jane made a similar mistake? What if she married someone who ignored her, was unfaithful, or was angry all the time? She could not bear it. And there was no recourse for a woman, or a man, usually, whose spouse turned out to be intolerable.

Jane wanted to marry for love, but she had to be wise about who she fell in love with.

What if she married someone about whose character she was badly mistaken, as Mr. Luke Watley had done?

Mr. Watley had married a woman of loose morality. Everyone whispered about Mrs. Watley, as she would leave her husband and child at their country home in Hertfordshire and go to London to attend parties and balls. She flirted shamelessly with every gentleman who gave her his attention, and it was rumored that she was the paramour of more than one man, including a Member of Parliament and a Frenchman of questionable reputation.

And then, three months ago, Mrs. Watley had been run over by a carriage in the middle of the street.

It was a tragic accident, but Jane had heard more than one person say it was poetic justice and “a mercy for her poor husband and child.”

Such talk had seemed cold and cruel to Jane, but the unfortunate truth of the statements was only too clear.

Her brother Henry had known Mr. Watley since they were children. He said the man had been shattered by the news of his wife’s sudden and violent death.

Henry had visited and consoled with him, telling Penelope and Jane afterward, “Luke is genuinely grieving his wife’s death, but I believe some of his grief may be from having to face the reality of her character, having discovered that she was unfaithful.”

“Why would a woman be unfaithful to a good man like Mr. Watley?” Penelope had asked in a hushed, horrified voice. “I cannot understand.” Penelope was so kind and good, she was obviously at a loss.

“I suppose it was her uncertain upbringing, as she was an orphan brought up by an uncle of scandalous reputation,” Henry said, shaking his head. “I tried to give Watley a hint before he married her that there were rumors of her character, but he would have none of it, saying it was all false gossip. And he married her so quickly, he didn’t have time to see her true nature, I suppose.”

“Well, I daresay he shall have enough young ladies vying for him now that he’s a widower. He shall be happily remarried soon,” Jane had said.

“That’s a bit callous, don’t you think?” Henry said.

How she hated when he scolded her, especially when he was right.

Her words seemed to be coming true, however, as she and Sarah watched the ladies smiling and laughing, the bolder ones even lightly touching his arm with a fan or gloved hand. But as she watched them, she noticed that Mr. Watley never smiled back at them. He was polite, nodding or speaking to them as was appropriate, but he did not flirt.

He looked somehow different from the way he’d looked before Mrs. Watley had died.

Before he met his wife, Jane had thought him a good marriage prospect for herself, if she was honest. He was serious and did not drink too much, and Henry said he did not sit at the gaming tables wasting his money or keep company with wastrels and those of bad character. “He is a good sort of fellow,” Henry had said more than once. He’d even invited him to their home, and Jane suspected Henry had hoped she and his friend would make a match.

As soon as Jane realized this, she’d carefully avoided showing any interest in Mr. Watley.

Had that been foolish? She now wondered. She was getting older and her pool of prospects seemed to grow smaller every year.