Page 64 of Lady Scandal

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” She paused again, staring down at her gloved fingers. “When Armand died, I wasn’t in the car. I wasn’t even in France at the time. He was with another woman. They both died. She wasn’t… she wasn’t the first, I learned later.”

He studied her bent head, thinking of last night when she’d escaped outside after dinner. “I see.”

“What do you see?” she whispered, not looking at him.

“Why you said you’re a bit blind about men.”

She gave a deep sigh and nodded. “Just so.”

“What was your third husband like?” he asked after another moment. “Another waster, I suppose?”

“On the contrary. Hamish was over twenty years older than me, mature and sensible.”

“A complete contrast to your previous husbands, then.”

“Oh, yes. He was quite fond of me. Hesaidhe wanted children.”

Her emphasis on one particular word did not escape his notice, but she rushed on before he could even think of a way to inquire further.

“So did I, more than anything. I fell in love with him—partly, I admit, because he was a safe choice. At least—” She paused and laughed again, but to Simon’s ears, there was no humor in it. “At least I thought he was.”

He tensed, his misgivings growing. “What do you mean? What was wrong with him?”

“Well, for one thing, he had a dicky heart. It gave out less than a year after we married. And then—”

She broke off abruptly, her face twisting with sudden pain.

“And then?” he prompted.

“It doesn’t matter.” She turned her head, meeting his gaze. “Some in society call me the merry widow, you know.”

“I’ve heard it said.”

“But my enemies have a different name for me. They call me the black widow.”

“I’ve heard that, too,” he admitted.

“From Helen, I daresay. I can’t blame her,” she added, looking away when he didn’t deny it. “After all, that nickname is probably closer to the truth. Sometimes I wonder…” She paused, taking a deep breath, staring out over the water. “Sometimes I wonder if that’s my destiny. That I’m cursed or something.”

“Nonsense.”

His stouthearted denial made her smile a little. “Somehow,” she murmured softly, “I knew that’s what you’d say. You’re not the superstitious sort.”

“Bad luck can happen to anyone, Delia. It doesn’t mean anything more than that.”

“Oh, I know. Still, three husbands in ten years is a bit thick. Either way, society loves to speculate about who my next husband’s going to be. How long after the wedding, they wonder, will the poor chap drop dead? Whenever it looks as if I have an admirer, bets are laid about it at White’s and Boodles. Everyone thinks I ought to stay as far away from men as possible.”

“And you don’t agree?”

“Should I?” she flared, a note of defiance in the question. “Why should I put myself on a shelf to wither away and collect dust?”

His mouth curved, a hint of a smile.

“What?” she asked, her defiance faltering. “What’s so amusing?”

“The idea of you ever sitting on a shelf collecting dust.”

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