Mrs. Drew Plays Her Hand by Carla Kelly Read Free Book Online Page A

night. Every little murmur and groan of the old house as it settled sent her bolt upright in bed, clutching her blankets to her breast, terrified that it was Marshall Drew, returning to subdue her in a way that made her sob out loud at the mere thought.
    Her hands tightly clenched at her sides, she lay still, wondering what she had ever done to encourage her brother-in-law. Had she ever acted in a fashion that would make him think she was interested in him beyond his position as her husband's brother? True, he took occasion to tell her what a pretty ornament she was to the vicarage, but others had told her that, too. She always smiled and blushed, and passed it off. Only when Anthony told her how beautiful she was did it move her. She sighed into the darkness. Of course, when he said that, he was usually in the process of relieving her of her clothes, or kissing her in places that would have amazed his congregation.
    She got out of bed and sat at the window, dismayed at the direction of her thoughts. I am so vulnerable right now, she thought. Somehow, Marshall knows this. Do some men possess a shark's instinct for blood in the water? Does he know that I am very ready for a man's body again? This will never do, not if I am to remain an independent woman, with my own say in the future of my body and soul. What he is suggesting is devilish, and I will not yield, no matter how much I want to.
    There, Roxanna, you have thought the unthinkable, she told herself, and felt the first stirring of hope. You are a widow of some six months, but your husband has been dead to you for more than two years. You would very much like what no lady talks about, but not from your brother-in-law, and most certainly not as his mistress. You can wait for a better offer. Somehow, you can hold him off, even though you don't really want to. Is that it, Roxanna?
    She was still sitting in the window when the sun rose. Her spirits rose too, unaccountably. She had seen herself through another long night in three years of long nights. It was different earlier, she thought as she stared through exhausted eyes at the dew-covered fields and the river shining in the distance as the sun's rays struck it. Before, you mourned your coming loss. Now you mourn your loss and fear for your self-respect. Which is harder?
    "Oh, bother it," she said out loud. "Anthony, you were a beast to leave me. How dare you?"
    The question took her breath away and left her quivering in the worst pain she had ever known. To think ill of the dead, especially her beloved husband, harrowed her already raw flesh in a torment that was exquisite and brutal by turns. She forced herself to consider her feelings for the first time. Anthony was a beast to leave her with two small children, no home, no money, no prospects, and a lustful brother-in-law. She sat calmly in the window and stared down this living nightmare. The pain settled around her shoulders like an unwelcome shawl, wrapping her tighter and tighter until she could scarcely breathe.
    And then when she thought she could not manage another moment, her mind cleared. "But you couldn't help it, could you, Anthony?" she said, remembering his long struggle to remain alive and with her, and the gallantry with which he compelled himself into the pulpit on Sunday mornings when he should have stayed gasping in bed. She remembered the hours he lay listening to her ramble on about this and that, when he was probably screaming with pain inside.
    "Oh, Anthony, you did what you could," she said, her words no louder than a whisper. She closed her eyes then, and unaccountably, the pain began to recede, unfolding itself gently, softly, from her shoulders. She leaned against the windowpane, and thought of the everlasting card games she had played with her brothers when they were growing up in Kent. They showed her no mercy, compelling her to play terrible hands to the end, instead of folding the cards and running away to her dolls. At first she cried and