Lord Romney's Exquisite Widow Read Online Free

him.
    Catherine’s gloved hands trembled, and she quickly clutched them tighter around her fan so it would not be obvious. Yet they would not stop.
    For years, she had tamped down her pining for that particular lord whilst hearing—however sweetly meant—how very much she never would compare to another woman. That she would never be as great as her husband’s late wife.
    Indeed, no matter what happened four years ago, if Catherine understood anything now, it was definitely that she knew her place. Though some called her pretty, she was reminded day to day that her face was not enough. And she could attest to how continually repeated phrases of worthlessness can eat at a person until they are but a fragile shell beneath the appearance of an angel.
    She had mastered the art of smiling through numbness, yet why she would begin trembling today, she would never know. Now was the time to bring in her small cloak of dignity and carry on as always, serene and grateful for whatever she had. She did not need more, she did not deserve more, so it was foolish to hope for something that would never be hers.
    Catherine kept her focus toward the rear of the room, her back straight as she wiped at the nonsensical tears of pity. It did not matter—none of it did. Soon she would be far away from London and living in a little place of no consequence, where one with her lacking manners and abilities and mind should be. Shut out and quieted and watching those much worthier than her live their lives.
    In fact, if she were entirely honest about the situation, she would not sit in shame and instead, marvel at how perfect the new Lord Romney’s timing had been. For had they arrived a month earlier, Lord Hamson might have imagined himself eager to see her again and possibly saddled himself with one of the silliest, most inconsequential women in all of England. A woman so horridly low, her own husband could not bear the thought of touching her and creating offspring that would be put up against the fine specimen he had already produced with his dear impeccable late wife.
    She blinked back stubborn tears, took a few calming breaths, and willed herself to smile and be grateful for Miss Hemming and her ability to capture Lord Hamson’s heart. For Catherine knew for a fact that having been a horrid wife to one man, no other could ever truly want her.
     

CHAPTER FOUR:
     
     
    George paced the wooden floor of his rather large study in his home on Upper Brook Street.  With him was Lord Perceval, the oldest of his closest comrades, as well as Lord Atten and Lord Compton. All three of them gawked at his unusual manner.
    “I tell you, I was less than a day from asking Miss Hemming’s father for her hand. One solitary day.” He ran his fingers through his blond hair and then stopped. He pointed at Perceval. “At your ball, no less. And now what?” He began to pace again.
    “Cease this continual motion at once,” Compton grumbled as he sat down in a wide leather chair. “You are ensuring we will all become ill. Indeed, your anxiety is oddly catching.”
    “I cannot sit down until I know what it is I should do.”
    Atten shook his head. “Now wait a moment. I have lost part of this conversation, I am certain. You were actually going to offer for Miss Hemming’s hand at the ball?”
    “Yes.” George paled. “No. Not at the ball—not to her papa, if that is what you mean.”
    “That is precisely what he means!” Perceval pushed off from the side wall where he had been observing them all. “Confound it, man. Atten is correct—we have no notion as to what you are speaking of. If you wish to align yourself with the chit, then do so, though heaven forbid, please do the Hemmings a favor and speak the King’s English when you do. Whatever this sputtering nonsense is, I will never know.”
    Compton snorted, and Atten outright laughed. “Tis true, we cannot understand above two sentences that have come out of your mouth.” He pointed to the