Married: The Virgin Widow. Deborah Hale

a dark, dangerous way, with a fortune and a title. He could have his choice of women.

      Susannah gave a defiant sniff. “Are you certain Ford didn’t want to marry you? As I recall, you were the one who broke the engagement to marry his cousin.”

      “You were a child then,” snapped Laura. “How could you know anything about it? I only broke our engagement because he could not.”

      A gentleman was legally bound to stand by his offer of marriage, while a woman had the prerogative to change her mind. Laura wondered how any woman could insist upon wedding a fiancé whose feelings toward her had changed.

      “Let’s not spoil such a happy occasion by quarrelling,” Belinda entreated the other two. This was not the first time she’d played peacemaker between her responsible elder sister and her rebellious younger one. “Ford is home at last and scarcely seems changed from how I remember him. No matter what his feelings for Laura, I’m certain he’ll be hospitable.”

      Laura wished she could be so sure.

      One thing she could not dispute—Ford’s manner toward her sisters was altogether different from the way he’d treated her. When he’d bantered with them, she caught a bittersweet glimpse of the man she’d once loved. That had shaken her more than his earlier severity, which she’d been better prepared to confront. The last thing she needed were any of her old feelings for Ford complicating her life more than it was already.

      Halfway through the main course and after three glasses of wine, Ford continued to ponder the situation he’d found at Hawkesbourne. Nothing was as he’d expected. His uncle’s fortune appeared to be gone. Rather than revelling in the lap of luxury, as he’d imagined her, Laura was living under strictest economy with her sisters and widowed mother in a corner of his house.

      Though this presented him with an unforeseen opportunity to compel Laura to wed him, marrying her would not restore the fortune he should have inherited. Perhaps he should cut his losses and forget the whole thing.

      The hell he should! Seeing Laura again, more alluring than he had left her, Ford knew the debt she owed him was far greater than money.

      He sat at the head of the long dining table opposite Laura, with her sisters seated halfway down each side. The ladies made a pretty trio in spite of their ill-fitting gowns.

      “Give my compliments to the kitchen, Pryce.” Ford raised his wine glass. “This dinner is far superior to shipboard food. I cannot tell you how I have longed for the taste of plain, fresh English cooking.”

      All the same, it was rather humble fare for a baron’s table. Well prepared, but not much variety. From what he could tell, there were only a handful of servants looking after the place, with Laura and her sisters acting as maids of all work. Her claims of poverty seemed genuine, but where had his cousin’s money gone? Frittered away by a young bride with no thought for the future because she could always snare another rich husband? That was how Ford’s stepmother had behaved, bringing his father to ruin.

      “Cook will be most relieved to hear the meal met with your approval,” replied the butler. “More wine, my lord?”

      Ford shook his head. “I have already had more than I am accustomed to at meals. Perhaps for the ladies?”

      Belinda and Susannah looked toward their sister, who gave a discreet nod. “Only a little, though. We are not used to taking wine with our meals.”

      Since Pryce must know that, Ford assumed the comment was meant to enlighten him. All through dinner, Laura had addressed her conversation exclusively to her sisters and the butler.

      Not that she had much need to speak. Belinda and Susannah kept him busy answering questions about his experiences in the Far East. At first, he hadn’t known quite what to say. He had never thought of his years away from England as anything but a sweltering perdition of work and festering bitterness. Yet the young ladies seemed fascinated by the most commonplace customs of those far-off lands.

      “Do they drink wine in the Indies?” Susannah savoured a sip from her glass.

      “Only the Europeans,” Ford replied. “When I was in India, the local people drank sweet coffee or tea brewed in a mixture of milk and water. In Singapore, where I’ve been lately, many of the traders drink arrack instead of wine.”

      “Tell us more about how they dine in India,” begged Belinda.

      “Dinner is usually served around midday,” said Ford. “After that, most people retire to sleep for an hour or two. Supper is served late in the evening.”

      “Sleep?” Laura sounded if she thought he was having a jest at their expense. “In the middle of the day?”

      “In the heat of the day.” Ford relished a flicker of satisfaction for having compelled her to address him. “I assure you, it is impossible to accomplish any useful work, then. The only thing you want to do is lie naked under your bed netting and hope you may escape to some cool place in your dreams.”

      A sudden vision of Laura lying bare beneath a flimsy drape of netting sent the sultry heat of the first monsoons sweltering through his flesh. What had possessed him to say such a thing, in the presence of her innocent sisters? He should never have let Pryce ply him with so much wine.

      “Naked!” Susannah clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle a burst of giggles.

      Laura stared down at her plate as if she had not heard Ford’s provocative remark. But even from the far end of the table, he detected a blush blazing in her cheeks.

      “Bed netting?” Belinda shot her giggling younger sister a fierce glare. “Is that like bed curtains?”

      “Rather like.” Ford seized upon Belinda’s helpful diversion. “But instead of the thick cloth we use to keep draughts out, they use very fine netting to let the air in but keep the insects at bay.”

      “Fancy!” Susannah stopped giggling as abruptly as she’d begun. “Now what about the elephants? You said you’d seen some.”

      “Mostly in festival parades. Then they are decked out in bright, colored silks and paint, with plates of gold hanging over their foreheads and howdas on their backs.” In reply to their puzzled looks Ford added, “A howda is a sort of saddle for riding on an elephant. They can be quite elaborate, lacquered and gilded, with canopies to protect the rider from the sun.”

      That description invited more questions, which provoked more stories. The ladies seemed to hang upon his every word, including Laura. For the first time in seven years, he found himself making an effort to be sociable. To his surprise, it brought him an all-but-for-gotten sense of enjoyment. Was it possible his experiences in the Far East had enriched him in more than material ways?

      “India sounds so much more exciting than cold, dull Sussex.” Susannah turned toward Laura. “Don’t you wish you could have gone to India with Ford?”

      “No indeed.” Laura fumbled her spoon. “It may sound fine in stories, but I expect the discomforts and dangers far outweigh the pleasures.”

      Her sharp retort pierced Ford’s high spirits and sent them plummeting to the ground. During his first years of exile, whenever he’d beheld a scene of exotic beauty, his first unguarded impulse had been to wish Laura could be there to share it with him. Her disdain for those brief, yearning moments was an insult to every tenderness he’d ever felt for her.

      “Your sister is fortunate not to have lived in India.” Though he addressed his words to Susannah, Ford directed a contemptuous sneer at Laura.

      “Why is that?” She lifted her napkin and swiped it across her mouth. “Do you suppose I am a frail flower who cannot withstand harsh conditions?”

      “No.” He dismissed her suggestion with a thrust of his lower lip. “Because it is the custom in some areas to burn a widow upon the funeral pyre of her dead husband.”

      In unison, Laura’s sisters gasped.

      “How