To Win a Widow (Soldiers & Soulmates Book 5) Read online

  To Win a Widow

  Soldiers & Soulmates

  Book 5

  Alexa Aston

  © Copyright 2020 by Alexa Aston

  Text by Alexa Aston

  Cover by Wicked Smart Designs

  Dragonblade Publishing, Inc. is an imprint of Kathryn Le Veque Novels, Inc.

  P.O. Box 7968

  La Verne CA 91750

  [email protected]

  Produced in the United States of America

  First Edition June 2020

  Kindle Edition

  Reproduction of any kind except where it pertains to short quotes in relation to advertising or promotion is strictly prohibited.

  All Rights Reserved.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  License Notes:

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook, once purchased, may not be re-sold. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it or borrow it, or it was not purchased for you and given as a gift for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. If this book was purchased on an unauthorized platform, then it is a pirated and/or unauthorized copy and violators will be prosecuted to the full extent of the law. Do not purchase or accept pirated copies. Thank you for respecting the author’s hard work. For subsidiary rights, contact Dragonblade Publishing, Inc.

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  Dearest Reader;

  Thank you for your support of a small press. At Dragonblade Publishing, we strive to bring you the highest quality Historical Romance from the some of the best authors in the business. Without your support, there is no ‘us’, so we sincerely hope you adore these stories and find some new favorite authors along the way.

  Happy Reading!

  CEO, Dragonblade Publishing

  Additional Dragonblade books by Author Alexa Aston

  King’s Cousins Series

  The Pawn

  The Heir

  The Bastard

  Knights of Honor Series

  Word of Honor

  Marked by Honor

  Code of Honor

  Journey to Honor

  Heart of Honor

  Bold in Honor

  Love and Honor

  Gift of Honor

  Path to Honor

  Return to Honor

  The St. Clairs Series

  Devoted to the Duke

  Midnight with the Marquess

  Embracing the Earl

  Defending the Duke

  Suddenly a St. Clair

  Soldiers & Soulmates Series

  To Heal an Earl

  To Tame a Rogue

  To Trust a Duke

  To Save a Love

  To Win a Widow

  The Lyon’s Den Connected World

  The Lyon’s Lady Love

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Publisher’s Note

  Additional Dragonblade books by Author Alexa Aston

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  London—May 1795

  Rhys Armistead mounted the horse and turned it in the direction of Hyde Park, which was only a few blocks away from Viscount Mowbray’s London townhouse. The horse happily cantered along until they reached Rotten Row, where all the lords and ladies of Polite Society preferred to ride. Of course, the likes of them had only gone to bed an hour or two ago since the Season was in full swing. He had been awakened from where he slept in the stable’s loft when the viscount’s carriage returned from the previous night’s ball. Rhys had risen and gone straight to the kitchens, where Cook had placed out bread and cold meat for his breakfast, and then he began his daily round of exercising the various horses in his employer’s stables.

  If he were the viscount, he would sell most of the animals off, leaving only the carriage horses and a mount for Lady Rebecca to ride. Viscount Mowbray suffered from gout, which flared up from time to time. He had given up riding several years ago but still kept horses to ride both at his country estate and here in London. Rhys exercised and groomed the viscount’s horses and had even taught Lady Rebecca to ride two years ago. The daughter of the household had fallen from a horse when she was only six, breaking her leg, and she had never attempted to ride after that. As Lady Rebecca approached the age of her come-out, though, her father had insisted that she take up the sport again since riding apparently was one of the ways gentlemen courted ladies of the ton during the London Season.

  Rhys was currently fifteen but he was known for his patience with both horses and people. He had made a good rider of Lady Rebecca within a few short weeks and she now sat a horse comfortably. She had enjoyed several outings to Rotten Row with various suitors during the past month. Once she married, as she undoubtedly was expected to do once the Season concluded, Rhys didn’t see the point of keeping any horseflesh beyond those which would transport the viscount around London or back to his country estate. That was the difference between him and the rich, though. He had a pragmatic nature and would never be wasteful, as he saw so often in regard to the viscount. All the rich acted entitled. The laws of England certainly gave them advantages far beyond what they deserved, in his opinion.

  As he reached Rotten Row, he heard the chime of a distant clock ring five times. Dawn would break in the next handful of minutes. For now, the park was deserted. He gave the horse its head and let it charge at full speed down the path, reveling in the wind blowing through his hair, exhilaration filling him. He reined in the horse, turning it and letting it gallop again back along the direction they had come before he eased into a canter and returned the horse to its stall. A sleepy stable lad rubbed his eyes and then took the reins.

  “You know what to do,” he told the young boy before going to a different stall and retrieving the next horse.

  Rhys worked his way through the five horses over the next two hours and then personally rubbed down the final one he’d returned to the stables. He had just finished grooming the mount and feeding it when a voice called out to him. Rhys turned and anxiety filled him when he saw it was a footman from the house. He did everything he could to do his job to the best of his ability and not call attention to himself. A house servant calling his name did not bode well.

  “You’re needed at the house,” the footm
an said abruptly, his eyes sweeping over Rhys’ appearance and obviously finding it lacking.

  “What for?” he asked, dread saturating him.

  He needed this job, one he had held for three years. His mother couldn’t work anymore. She had a weak heart and depended upon Rhys to pay the small monthly rent on her room, as well as the food she ate. The same weak heart had killed his sister when she was only eight and Rhys ten. By then, he’d already been the man of the house for two years, his father having been killed in an accident at the shipyard where he worked.

  “Dunno,” the footman said, shrugging his shoulders. “They just said to fetch you fast. Come along.”

  “Let me at least wash my hands.”

  “Be quick about it. They don’t like being kept waiting.”

  Rhys assumed the footman meant the viscount. But why was the nobleman out of bed at this hour, having only come home shortly before? If Mowbray was going to fire a lowly groomsman, would he do it at this hour?

  They exited the stables and he went to the pump, priming it and then washing his hands. He pulled his lone, tattered handkerchief from his pocket and wet it, running it along his face and neck and wringing it out before jamming it back inside his pocket. He combed his fingers through his hair, hoping the thick, unruly mess now looked somewhat tamed and presentable.

  “Get moving!” the footman ordered, lording over him as only a house servant might do when speaking to another servant in a lower position.

  They entered the kitchens, which now bustled with activity. Rhys nodded to Cook, who always treated him with kindness, as he followed the footman. They left the kitchens and went through a long corridor and up a staircase. He wished they could slow down so he could take in the grand surroundings. He had never been inside the main house before and was overwhelmed by the thick carpeting and elegant furnishings.

  On the first floor, they continued down a long hallway and then arrived at a closed door.

  “Wait,” the footman commanded before knocking and entering the room. A moment later, he stuck his head back out and hissed, “Come in.”

  With trepidation, Rhys entered the most magnificent room he had ever seen. He clinched his jaw, else it might hang open like a dog’s. Though he longed to study the art on the walls and take in the fine furniture, he knew he had been summoned for a reason and couldn’t tarry.

  He spotted Viscount Mowbray sitting in a chair across the room, his gray hair askew. He had some kind of robe on which shimmered in the light. Rhys approached him and saw another man, fully dressed, sitting in a nearby chair. He had never seen this gentleman, who studied him with keen eyes as Rhys came forward and then stopped before them.

  “This is the boy?” the stranger asked.

  “Yes, yes,” the viscount said. “Rhys Armistead. He’s the one.”

  He wondered why he had been singled out. Why this man wanted to know who he was. Why he had been sent for. Yet he knew it wasn’t the place of a lowly groomsman to ask any questions. He was here to answer them, whatever they might be.

  The man cleared his throat. “I am Mr. Goolsby, solicitor for the Earl of Sheffington. Have you heard of him?”

  “No, Sir. Why would I have?”

  Distaste crossed the man’s face and Rhys realized he shouldn’t have asked a question. He reminded himself to only answer what was asked of him so he could hopefully return to the stables and never be troubled again.

  “The Earl of Sheffington is a very rich, powerful man,” the solicitor said. “His country seat is in Surrey, several miles west of Addlestone.”

  He neither knew where Surrey was nor this Addlestone, which he assumed was a town. His education had only lasted for two years, where he had learned to read and write and do sums. Geography hadn’t been a part of his lessons. He nodded but kept silent.

  The solicitor’s mouth tightened. “It has come to light that your mother is a distant cousin of the Earl of Sheffington. Which means you, as well, are very distantly related to his lordship.”

  This was certainly news to him. He knew his mother spoke very well and had a beautiful hand when it came to writing but he couldn’t picture her as a part of the nobility.

  “The chain of relations is complicated and too long to get into now,” Mr. Goolsby continued. “Suffice it to say that you are related, however. Because of that, the earl wishes you to come to Sheffield Park.”

  “As a groom?”

  Goolsby harrumphed. “No, lad. Not as a groom.”

  “Then what?” he challenged, disregarding his previous promise to himself to keep quiet. “I have a good job with Viscount Mowbray. I know horses well and love what I do. Why should I leave the viscount’s employ?”

  “Because Viscount Raleigh isn’t in the best of health.”

  Now, Rhys was totally confused. “Who is this viscount? What does he have to do with me?”

  His employer stood. “I am weary, Goolsby. See to things. I am off to bed.” He glanced to Rhys. “Good luck to you, boy. You did well teaching my Rebecca to ride. I didn’t think anyone would ever be able to get her back on a horse again. You did and she now enjoys riding tremendously.”

  The viscount trudged from the room, making it obvious his gout was paining him.

  After he left, Goolsby said, “Sit.”

  Rhys glanced at the fine material on the chair and said, “I would rather stand, Sir,” knowing the dirt and sweat from his clothes would ruin the chair’s fabric.

  “Very well. I will be as succinct and clear as possible since you obviously are not grasping the situation. Your mother is related to the Earl of Sheffington. The earl’s son, Viscount Raleigh, is his only child and has been prone to be a sickly boy. No more children will be forthcoming in the marriage. The countess cannot have anymore. Because of that, the earl is looking to the future. He does not want to leave the estate in a precarious position nor does he wish to do harm to his tenants. If Viscount Raleigh does not live to adulthood and cannot succeed his father, you would become the heir apparent.”

  He stood there numbly, trying to take in the solicitor’s words. “Are you telling me that I could one day become . . . an earl?”

  The solicitor sniffed. “Yes, it is a possibility. Of course, the earl hopes that his son’s unstable health will not be an issue. His lordship hopes as Viscount Raleigh matures, he will grow stronger.”

  “How old is the viscount?”

  “Sixteen” Goolsby responded. “He is being tutored at home since his last bout of illness. You will share in that tutor.”

  “I . . . I will what?”

  “You are to accompany me to Sheffield Park, Mr. Armistead. The earl was most insistent. In the event his son passes prematurely, Lord Sheffington needs you to be prepared to one day take on the earldom. You will be clothed. Educated, though not sent away to school. Your mother said you only had two years of schooling.”

  Surprise filled him. “You’ve spoken to my mother?”

  “Yes. She was most agreeable. The earl doesn’t believe a university education will be necessary. Instead, in three years’ time, once you have reached your eighteenth birthday, Lord Sheffington will purchase a commission for you and you may enter the army. That way, you will earn an honorable living.”

  Rhys knew commissions in the army were costly. It would allow him to become an officer, something that he never would have imagined possible.

  “In the event Viscount Raleigh does succeed to the earldom and becomes Lord Sheffington, his sons would naturally take precedence over your claim to the title,” Mr. Goolsby said. “That is what the earl hopes for but he wants to be prepared just in case.” The solicitor smiled brightly. “So, you will receive an education and become an officer in His Majesty’s Army. You will continue with your career in the military unless the unfortunate happens and Viscount Raleigh meets with an untimely death before he can provide an heir himself.”

  Rhys’ head reeled with the quick turn of events. “When am I to come to Sheffield Park?” he asked.
br />   “Immediately. Lord Sheffington expects me to bring you back from London with me. First, we will stop at a tailor’s shop, however, and see that you are suitable clothed for your new role in society, Mr. Armistead.”

  No one had ever addressed him in such a manner. He had been Rhys or Armistead. Suddenly, the magnitude of what was happening swept over him.

  “Are you certain no mistake has been made?” he asked, thinking it must all be a dream.

  Goolsby shook his head. “Every effort was made to find a male relative closer than you. You were all our investigations turned up,” the solicitor revealed, his disdain obvious.

  “What of my mother? Can she also come to live at Sheffield Park?”

  Goolsby frowned. “Mr. Armistead, you are in no position to bargain. However, Lord Sheffington knows you have been sending money to her and she will be provided for. Do you understand?”

  Rhys did. But it didn’t mean that one day—if he became Lord Sheffington—that he couldn’t bring his mother to the estate. For now, though, he would count his blessings. He would receive an education and be allowed to gain a profession. Even if he never became the earl, he would be an officer and be able to always provide for his mother.

  “I understand perfectly well, Mr. Goolsby.” Rhys smiled. “When do we leave?”

  Chapter Two

  London—May 1798

  Dalinda Bretton gazed out the window, wondering if she would ever be allowed to leave her bedchamber. She had been forced to remain within it the past two weeks, all because of her role in The Debacle. Just thinking of that made her throat grow thick with unshed tears. She thought she had cried herself out, knowing Anna had been banished to the country and Dez sent away to the army. The two people she loved most were gone. Out of her life. And Dalinda had no idea when she might see either of them again.

  She hated her father. Hated him. He had never liked her or Dez.

  Probably because they had killed her mother.

  No, she couldn’t think like that. Women died in childbirth all the time. She couldn’t help that her mother had given birth to twins and it had been too much for her. Of course, Ham had also blamed her and Dez for Mama’s death. He was five years older than she and Dez and the biggest bully she knew. Ham had called the twins murderers for doing in their mother. As they grew up, Ham had played tricks on them. Mistreated them. Blamed them for things he did. Taunted them that he would be the earl one day and they would be no ones. Ham had said when their father died and he became the Earl of Torrington that he wouldn’t even speak to her or Dez.