Bronwyn Scott – Captivated By Her Convenient Husband (страница 2)
Indigo Hall, Sussex—Friday, October 26th, 1855
Avaline Panshawe-Tresham could put off her entrance and all it would entail no longer. She had to get out of the carriage, had to go inside, had to dance with the men, smile at the women, suffer the solicitations of her well-meaning in-laws, who had already arrived, and not least she had to endure the dubious charms of the evening’s host, Tobin Hayworth, all the while pretending she was as oblivious to his intentions as she was to the disappointment she’d brought the Treshams—all seven years, three weeks, one day of it, and counting.
There seemed no end in sight when it came to her association with disappointment, not that the Treshams had ever said as much. They were far too kind. Still, Avaline knew and that was all that mattered.
She drew a steadying breath and smoothed her ice-blue skirts. She checked to see that her pearl and gold earbobs were fastened securely, that her slender pearl pendant wasn’t twisted, that her matching combs were secure in the folds of her artfully arranged hair. She was stalling, of course, as she’d stalled at home at Blandford Hall, dragging out her departure with an inane debate with herself over wearing the blue or the pink silk. Now, there wasn’t anything left to hide behind. There wasn’t a hair out of place, or a creased wrinkle to be found. She was out of excuses and out of time in so many ways, and she was furious.
Tobin Hayworth had held his harvest ball tonight on purpose. He knew very well the import of October twenty-sixth to her. It was one day after the anniversary of the Battle of Balaclava; a year and a day after her husband, Fortis Tresham, fell in battle, never to be heard from again. His body had never been recovered. He’d fallen and he had vanished, as if he’d never been. But he
That was the great failing that confronted her daily. She’d been a dismal wife, unable to keep her young, restless officer husband home. It was the one thing the Treshams had hoped she’d do by whatever means necessary. Marriage was usually a great domesticator of men of Fortis’s station—sons of dukes. Once a man married, he settled down, looked after his estate, his wife and his nursery. The plan should have worked. It had all the trappings of success. His parents and hers had arranged it. What could be more perfect than an alliance between neighbours, one of whom claimed the title of the Duke of Cowden, and the other an ailing baron, who claimed a large, unentailed tract of failing land that abutted the Duke’s estate and an eagerness to see his only child wed? Their marriage had been accomplished during Fortis’s leave. It had ended when he left three weeks later. She’d not conceived a honeymoon heir for him. She had hardly kept him in their bed long enough to do more than make the marriage binding. He’d been off, riding, hunting, shooting, and fishing with his friends for the duration of the honeymoon. She’d not tamed Fortis Tresham. If anything, she’d made him wilder.
She’d written dutifully, one letter a month to wherever he was posted, telling him of the estate, of the family, hoping her stories would invoke a sense of nostalgia, a longing for home, for her even. But not once had he written back. Now, he might never write. He might be gone for good, despite the Treshams’ latest sliver of hope that he’d resurfaced in the Crimea. They’d sent his best friend and fellow officer, Major Camden Lithgow haring back to Sevastopol to vouch for the man who’d walked out of the pine forest claiming Fortis’s name.
Avaline wasn’t sure how she felt about that. To have Fortis back would solve her current problems, but it would also certainly create others. How did two people pick up the pieces of a marriage that had hardly existed, after all this time? Still, they might have an indifferent marriage, but she didn’t wish him dead for it. She hardly knew the man who had so briefly been in her bed, in her life.
That was a new sort of guilt she carried these days. While the Treshams hoped desperately for the possible return of their third son, she couldn’t remember what he looked like. The picture she carried of him in her mind had begun to blur years ago. She remembered dark hair, blue eyes, a broad-shouldered physique, a handsome visage, a man pleasing to the eye. Was she exaggerating these features now? Was he as broad-shouldered as she recalled? Was he as tall? As handsome? As callow? He’d not been the most attentive of husbands, or had that been her fault? Would he have been more attentive if she’d somehow been different? Would it matter if she
Avaline’s more practical side argued that it hardly mattered what he looked like or what he’d become as long as it protected her from Tobin Hayworth’s avarice. Fortis’s name was all that was safeguarding her now and its shield was wearing thin. A body to go with the name would take care of Hayworth for good.
There was a sharp, impatient rap on the carriage door. ‘My dear, you must come in before you catch a chill.’ The door opened without her permission. It seemed the knock was not a request for entrance, but a warning of intrusion. Such officiousness could only mean one thing. Hayworth had found her.
He stood outside, framed in the carriage doorway, resplendently dressed in dark evening clothes, pristine white stock impeccably tied, blue silk waistcoat severely tailored, grey eyes like steel. The man was the epitome of ice and control. Just looking at him made Avaline cold. He held out his hand without the slightest qualm that he’d be refused. He was a man who was obeyed. Always. ‘I cannot leave my mother alone in the receiving line for long, so I must ask you to hurry.’ His tone implied hurrying would not have been necessary if she had come in with the Treshams upon arrival. ‘I was concerned when I saw you were not with Cowden and the Duchess.’
‘I needed a moment alone to gather myself,’ Avaline replied coolly. She might be required to take his hand, to go in and put on a show, but he needed to remember she was not his to command. ‘Today has been difficult for me. I was tempted to beg off this evening and not come at all.’ She would have done just that if she hadn’t feared him coming after her and having to face him alone at Blandford. Far better to confront him here, surrounded by people and with the Treshams for support. There was safety in numbers. ‘I may not stay long,’ Avaline warned him as she stepped down. ‘I am not sure it’s appropriate to be out revelling on such a day.’ She did not bother to keep the scold from her voice.
Disapproval flickered flinty and hard in his gaze. Hayworth had made his opinion on harbouring hope that Fortis be found alive plain several months ago. ‘The heights of feminine fancy and womanly foolishness,’ he’d called it.
‘Has there been news, then? Is it official that he is lost for good?’ Any concern one might detect in the enquiry extended only as far as how the news would affect him and his plans.
‘No, there’s been no news.’ She knew the response would needle him. As long as there wasn’t news one way or the other, Hayworth could do nothing. She still had some power, some control.
Hayworth patted her arm. ‘Your loyalty does you credit in theory only. But it does not serve you in practice. As I have pointed out before, your estate needs a firm hand, as do your finances. You cannot lean on Cowden’s benevolence for ever, any more than you can go on pretending your husband is out there, somewhere. It’s been seven years with no direct word from him and now there is this issue of “being lost”. To be blunt, this does not sound like a man who wants to come home and he is dragging you down with him. We can handle this as abandonment, push it through court and free you so your life can start again. We needn’t wait any longer.’