The Reluctant Widow by Georgette Heyer Page B

Carlyon. “Yes, or at any other time,” responded his mentor unfeelingly.
    Nicky subsided, with a sotto voce animadversion on old-fashioned prejudice, and applied himself to a formidable plateful of cold roast sirloin. Carlyon signed to the butler to leave the room, and when he had done so, smiled faintly at Elinor and said, “Well, now, Mrs. Cheviot, we have to consider what is next to be done.”
    “I do wish you will not call me by that name!” she said.
    “I am afraid you will have to accustom yourself to being called by it,” he replied. She put down the slice of bread and butter she had been in the act of raising to her lips. “My lord, did you indeed marry me to that man?” she demanded.
    “Certainly not: I am not in orders. You were married by the vicar of the parish.” “That is nothing to the purpose! You know very well it was all your doing! But I hoped I might have dreamed it! Oh, dear, what a coil it is! How came I to do such a thing?” “You did it to oblige me,” he said soothingly.
    “I did not. Oblige you, indeed! When you as good as kidnapped me!” “Kidnapped you?” exclaimed John. “No, no, I am sure he would not do such a thing, ma’am! Ned, you were not so mad?”
    “Of course I was not. Accident brought you to Highnoons, Mrs. Cheviot, and if, when you were there, I overpersuaded you a trifle—”
    “Well, that is what you say, but from what I have been privileged to see of you, my lord, I should not be surprised to find it had all been a plot to entrap me! I was asked by the servant if I had come in answer to the advertisement. Did you indeed advertise for a wife for your cousin?”
    “Yes, I did,” he replied. “In the columns of The Times. You may often see such advertisements.”
    She regarded him speechlessly. John said, “It is very true. But I own I do not consider it a
    respectable thing to do. I was always against it. Heaven knows what kind of female might have arrived at Highnoons! But as it chances, it has all turned out for the best.” She turned her eyes toward him. They were remarkably fine eyes, particularly so when sparkling with indignation. “It may have turned out for the best as far as you are concerned, sir,” she said, “but what about the abominable situation in which I now find myself? I do not know how I am any longer to possess any degree of credit with the world!” “Have no fears on that score!” Carlyon said. “I have already set it about that your betrothal to my cousin was of a long-standing, though secret, nature.”
    “Oh, this passes all bounds!” she cried. “I do not scruple to tell you, my lord, that nothing would have induced me to have entered into an engagement to marry such an odious person as your cousin!”
    “A very pardonable sentiment,” he agreed. She choked over her coffee.
    “Mrs. Cheviot’s feelings are perfectly understandable,” John said reprovingly. “I am sure no one can wonder at them.”
    “Yes, but Eustace is dead!” objected Nicky. “I cannot see why she should feel it so particularly! Why, by Jupiter, ma’am, now I come to think of it, you are a widow!” “But I do not want to be a widow!” declared Elinor.
    “I am afraid it is now too late in the day to alter that,” said Carlyon.
    “Besides, if you had known my cousin better you would have wanted to be a widow,” Nicky assured her.
    “Be quiet, Nicky!” Carlyon said. Elinor bit her lip resolutely.
    “That is much better,” Carlyon encouraged her. “I do indeed appreciate your feelings upon this event, but it is quite useless to be crying over spilt milk. Moreover, I do not think you will find that the consequences of your marriage will be as disagreeable as you suppose.” “No, depend upon it we shall see to it that they shall not be,” said John. “There may be a little awkwardness in some quarters, but my brother’s protection must guard you from ill-natured gossip. If we are seen to accept you with complaisance, there can be