Excerpt of An Unconventional Widow by Georgina Devon

Annabell Fenwick-Clyde, Lady Fenwick-Clyde, stood up,
clenched her hands, pressed them into the small of her
back and stretched. She looked skyward as she enjoyed the
loosening of muscles made tight by bending over the shards
of tiles found in this destroyed Roman villa she was
excavating.

Clouds scuttled across the late April sky, promising rain
later today. She would have to be sure the exposed
portions of the villa were well covered before she left.

"Ah," a raspy baritone voice said. "A nymph, and a very
interestingly dressed one."

Annabell started, dropped her hands and whirled around.
She had been caught up in her work and not heard anyone
approach. A man stood not ten feet away, studying her. A
very attractive man.

Tall and lean with long legs and broad shoulders, he let
his gaze run over her in a way that made her blush. His
brown hair was longer than the fashion and dishevelled, as
was the brown jacket and white shirt that opened at the
collar to reveal a light curling of brown hair. His eyes
were a startling clear green and seemed to see through her
clothing.

She took a step back, irritated at the heat suffusing her
face, but unable to stop it since he continued to look at
her as though she were a tasty morsel he intended to
devour. "I did not hear you approach," she said, her voice
breathless, which added to her discomfort and ire.

He smiled and her knees nearly melted. His mouth was wide
and well formed, the lips sharply delineated. His teeth
were strong. He radiated a predatory interest.

"You were engrossed in something in the dirt. I was
engrossed in something much more appealing." His gaze
dropped to her hips.

Her blush deepened. "I beg your pardon, but a gentleman
would not stare as you do." Thankfully her voice was cold
and pointed instead of the breathiness of seconds
before. "Nor would a gentleman continue to do so," she
added when his attention moved to her torso.

He shrugged. "A lady does not wear clothing that is very
similar to that worn by the women in an Arab sheik's
harem." He cocked his head to one side. "Although it is a
delightful contrast to the chip straw bonnet that is so
very English and the starched and buttoned-to-the-ears
shirt. Which, unless I mistake the tailoring, is a man's
garment." His gaze moved to her face. "Altogether
charming."

Her skin flamed, the heat spreading down her neck. Drat
the man and drat her response to him, a reaction she could
not explain. She was used to meeting men head on and
holding her own, even dressed as she was. Her two
brothers, Guy, Viscount Chillings, and Dominic, had first
been scan-dalised by this mode of dress, then vocally
adamant that she was to wear the clothing of an English
lady and then, when she continued to go her own way,
nearly indifferent. A smile curved up one corner of her
mouth. Now, when they saw her dressed this way, all they
did was glare.

This specimen of the species, however, was doing much more
than glaring. He was mentally undressing her, unless she
missed her mark, which she did not think likely. Her
deceased husband had taught her what it felt like to have
a male undress you with his eyes. But instead of the
nausea the previous Lord Fenwick-Clyde had always made her
feel, this man made her as unsure as a Miss just out of
the schoolroom.

"I have had better compliments," she said tartly, the
words out before she considered them.

He took several strides towards her, his well-muscled legs
encased in buckskin breeches eating up the distance. "I am
sure you have," he murmured.

She clamped her lips shut before she said something else
suggestive. Her eyes narrowed as he took another step in
her direction.

The sun chose that moment to break through the clouds and
shine down on them. She noted that his eyes were deep set
and heavy lidded, with lines of dissipation radiating from
the outside corners. He looked to be in his late thirties,
a man who had lived a hard life. And noting the gleam in
his eyes as he watched her study him, he had enjoyed every
minute of his dissipation. Most likely, he was a rake of
the highest magnitude. Well, that was nothing to her and
nothing she had not encountered before. In fact, her
younger brother was a libertine and she handled him quite
well. Of course, Dominic's interest was never aimed at her.

"Now that you have studied me like one would a specimen
pinned to a board, please be on your way. I," she said
pointedly, "am busy."

His eyelids drooped over speculative eyes and his mouth
turned sensual. "I warrant you are." He closed the
distance between them. "But you are busy on my property,
and I think, what with life's trials, tribulations and..."
his voice turned husky '...temptations, you owe me a
forfeit for trespassing."

"I owe you nothing," she said indignantly, moving to one
side. "If you are Sir Hugo Fitzsimmon, your steward has
given me permission to be here."

His smile lost none of its anticipation as he moved to
block her. "Then he did not ask me before granting you
leave."

"That is your problem," she said sharply. "Not mine." She
dodged to one side as he continued to close the distance
between them. Sir Hugo or not Sir Hugo, she did not know
him. No matter that her body screamed she did know him and
wanted to know him better, her mind was adamant. She did
not know this man.

She was too slow. He caught her and drew her inexorably
toward him. Her face inches from his, she noted that he
had the swarthy complexion of a man who spent much of his
time outdoors. The muscled strength of the arm holding her
pinned to his chest suggested that he was a sportsman,
possibly a Corinthian.

All of this observation, she knew, was a wild attempt on
her part to ignore the tension that started in her stomach
and was spreading outwards through her body in waves.
There was something about this man that ignited sensations
she had never known she possessed. But no matter what that
something was, she did not appreciate her body doing
things her mind did not want it to do.

His smile widened as though he could read her thoughts and
found them amusing. With his free hand, he caught the
cherry-coloured satin ribbon tied into a bow beneath her
chin and pulled. Her wide-brimmed bonnet toppled off the
back of her head.

"How dare you."

His grin turned wolfish. "I dare a lot. As you shall see."
Then his mouth was on hers. She expected him to be rough.
She was prepared for rough. He was persuasive.

His lips moved provocatively over hers as his free hand
burrowed into the hair at her nape, and held her still for
his exploration. His arm around her waist tightened so her
breasts pressed against his chest, making her aware of him
in ways she had never experienced before.

When his tongue glided along her bottom lip, skimming her
skin so lightly that he was like a treat held just beyond
reach, she wondered if she would disgrace herself by
following his oh, so clever tongue with her own. He saved
her that indignity by taking her small gasp of surprise
and using it to slip inside her mouth.

Sensation coursed through her, sensual and warm and
arousing. Her eyes closed slowly, as she sank into his
embrace. A shudder of delight rippled down her spine.

She gave herself over to his seduction without conscious
thought. Her body reacted as her mind slid away.

"Ahh..." he breathed, taking his lips from hers, his voice
a rasp. "You have rewarded me well."

Her eyes snapped open, and her mind seemed to get back
into working order. What had she done? She had acted like
a wanton, like a loose woman. And she did not even enjoy
the carnal relationship between a man and woman. Her past
husband had told her that frequently enough — and she had
agreed wholeheartedly with him.

She splayed her palms against this stranger's chest and
pushed. Hard.

"Let me go." Her former blush returned with a vengeance.
He laughed, but did not release her. "And what will you
give me if I do?"

Her eyes sparked. "What will I give you if you do not, is
the better question, sirrah!"

His laugh deepened, so that lines carved into the skin
around his mouth. His hair, too long and too long from a
razor, lifted in the breeze.

"Threats or promises?" He leaned back and gazed down at
where their bodies still met. "I choose to believe
promises."

"You are no gentleman. Nor are you very intelligent."
Annabell tried desperately not to sputter in her anger at
his arrogant assumption of her willing compliance.
Although, in all honesty — and she always tried to be
honest with herself — he had every reason to think she
would succumb to him.

"No?" he drawled, his eyes narrowing dangerously, all hint
of humour gone. "I think I understand you perfectly. Shall
I prove it again — to your satisfaction and mine?"

"You have gone too far already." She sputtered in her
fury. "I may have let you kiss me —"

"Let me? You kissed me back." 'Let you kiss me, but I was
not willing." He laughed outright. The sound was full and
rich with resonance. It sent shivers cascading down her
spine. But enough was enough. She pushed hard at him and
hooked her lower leg behind his knee. He released her
waist just before he fell to the ground like a stone.
Surprise widened his eyes seconds before they narrowed.

Instead of jumping to his feet as she had expected, he
rose up on his elbows and studied her with an insolence
that made his countenance cold. "I see you are a woman who
can defend herself."

She returned his appraisal, hands on hips. "I learned
early with two brothers that sometimes fighting unfairly
is the only way a woman can protect herself."

A twinge of guilt narrowed her eyes. Guy and Dominic had
never abused her as her husband had. If truth be told, the
late Fenwick-Clyde had taught her more about unfair
fighting than either of her brothers. But that was
something only she knew or needed to know.

The man who called himself Sir Hugo got to his feet in one
lithe movement that told her clearer than words that, if
he really wanted to do something to her, he could.
Instead, he carelessly straightened the handkerchief
knotted at his neck, similar to those worn by
prizefighters.

"Women are not the only ones who often need an advantage
to protect themselves. But that is neither here nor
there." He slid out of his loose-fitting jacket and shook
it to get off some of the dirt from the excavation.
Instead of putting it back on, he folded it across his
arm. "You are on my land without my permission. I could
have you arrested for trespassing."

Annabell's deep blue eyes sparked in a way both her
brothers would recognise as the first warning of a verbal
attack. "If you are unaware of my presence then it is the
fault of your steward, who agreed to our excavation." Her
mouth thinned. "Perhaps he could not reach you. And
furthermore, you could try to arrest me for trespassing,
but you would be unsuccessful. Everyone around here knows
who I am and that I am invited."

"Perhaps." His voice grated.

She smiled sweetly while venom dripped from her words. "I
assure you, Sir Hugo, I have a letter from your man
authorising me to be here."

His jaw sharpened. "I am sure you do, Miss —" She notched
up her chin. "Lady Fenwick-Clyde." For an instant only,
his pupils dilated. He made a curt, mocking bow. "Lady
Fenwick-Clyde." He waved his long-fingered hand to
encompass her work area. "Until I check into this further,
please feel free to do with my land as you please."

She ignored the sarcasm in his voice. "I shall do just
that, Sir Hugo."

He gave her one last, long look. This one did not go below
her neck. It was as though he were reassessing her. Then
he spun on his well-shod heel and strode to where a
chestnut mare stood patiently waiting, eating the vibrant
spring grass.

It was not until he walked away that she noticed his limp.
The catch in his gait was so minor as to be nearly
indiscernible. Nor did it mar his natural predatory grace.

She watched him mount the horse and disappear into the
smattering of trees separating the site from the nearby
dirt path that substituted as a road. He rode with the
same easy grace that he moved. No wonder he had a
reputation with women.

He was one of the handsomest men, albeit in a disrepu-
table way, she had every seen. Her brothers were
considered very good specimens, but to her mind Sir Hugo
surpassed them.

Unconsciously, her fingers went to her lips. She could
still feel the tingle of his mouth on hers. Ridiculous.

She had things to do. This was a valuable site of Roman
occupation. Her goal was to preserve it for posterity. She
had thought she had months to do so. With Sir Hugo in
residence, she had very little time. Not even a widow's
reputation was safe when linked with the Wolf of Covent
Garden.