Trenton Lord of Loss (Lonely Lords) by Grace Burrowes

chin dipped low. She was an endearing sight, all tucked up and warm, slightly rumpled by her slumbers. 
    Trent endured an impulse to kiss her awake. Not a naughty kiss, just a pressing of the lips to her cheek, or her forehead. A sweet kiss, a token. 
    And a stupid idea, if ever his brain had produced one. 
    He stepped back and drew the door closed, then rapped loudly from the corridor. He was rewarded with a sleepy summons, after which he paused an extra moment to give the lady a chance to compose herself. When he entered the room, he closed the door behind him, warmth being a greater priority between a widow and a widower than strict propriety.
    “My lord.” Lady Rammel smiled up at him, though when tousled and sleepy, she struck him as more of an Ellie than a Lady Rammel. “Please have a seat, for I’m loath to leave my comfy nest. Has Drew offered you tea?” 
    “He did.” Trent lowered himself to the end of the sofa near the rocker. “Greymoor is with him, decimating your crème cakes as we speak.” 
    “Cook will be pleased. You look like a man with something on his mind beside the pleasantries.” 
    “I do?” That she could perceive as much was unnerving. “How is that?” 
    “You’re…animated. You’ve sprung your mental horses. Did Drew say something to offend?” 
    “Amuse, maybe. He’s not much of one for sport, is he?” 
    She straightened the shawl around her shoulders, a silky green paisley shot through with gold, the furthest thing from mourning colors. “He and Dane had some kind of cousinly agreement. What the one did well, the other eschewed, or appeared to.” 
    “What does Drew do well?” Besides talk. The man could talk as incessantly as two little boys in anticipation of a visit from Father Christmas.
    “He loves his books, and he’s known as something of a collector of tea ware. I’ve been to his estate only once, but the place is packed with little gems of porcelain and silver, and his kitchen served the most exquisite fare.” 
    The prospective viscount was also handsome, titled, and amiable—and sharing a roof at Deerhaven with the grieving widow. This was of no moment whatsoever, nor did it matter that the law offered no prohibition against marrying a cousin’s widow. 
    “He’ll find the title an imposition,” Trent predicted. 
    “Dane certainly complained of it, but you didn’t brave my company to listen to my biography of the Hampton cousins.” 
    Brave her company, indeed. 
    “I did not.” Trent sat forward and rested his forearms on his thighs, hands linked between his knees. “I’d like to put an idea before you, and I will apologize in advance if you aren’t disposed to consider it.” 
    Her ladyship waved a freckled hand. “Say on. I’m not easily offended.” 
    “I want to purchase your broodmares, or most of them.” 
    Her ladyship grimaced, though even that expression was attractive on her. “They are mine, aren’t they? They’re very pretty, and Dane enjoyed having them, but I honestly hadn’t thought much about what comes next. I suppose they’ll need a deal of hay and oats come winter.” 
    “They’re broodmares,” Trent said, sitting back, because “no” hadn’t been the first word from her mouth, and he scented the pleasurable business of a negotiation before him. “Dane was lax about ensuring they performed their intended function.” 
    “I’ve wondered if he didn’t have some kind of premonition.” She traced a fold in the afghan on her knees. The colors were blue and green, the same shade of green as the shawl, putting Trent in mind of her gardens under a summer sky. “Dane died just as foaling season would have been getting under way, and what a nuisance that would have been, to contend with foaling in his absence.” 
    Trent finished the thought. “You haven’t been of a mind to breed the mares in the last few months, which is understandable.”
    Her brow knit, and she stopped fussing with her plumage.