Her Convenient Husband's Return. Eleanor Webster

since she had politely declined his proposal, although she still felt an uneasy prickle of goose pimples when she remembered that interview.

      Even now, close to two years later, the tightness returned to her stomach whenever she remembered the day. The chill cold silence of the library had felt so absolute. She’d wished that she had ordered a fire lit. She’d felt so enclosed, so isolated alone with this man.

      ‘You have an answer for me?’ he’d asked, taking her hand in his.

      His fingers had been cold—not a dry, crisp cold, but clammy.

      She’d said the right things, the pretty phrases of refusal. Of course, she hadn’t been able to see his expression, but she’d felt his anger. His hand had tightened on her own, his fingers digging into her flesh so that for days after it had felt bruised.

      ‘You are refusing?’

      ‘Yes, with gratitude for—for the honour, of course.’

      ‘And this other suitor? He will be able to pay off your father’s debts. They are substantial.’

      ‘Yes,’ she’d said.

      For a moment, Ayrebourne had made no reply. Then he’d leaned closer. She’d heard his movement, the rustle of his clothes and felt a slow, growing dread, as though time had been oddly slowed or elongated. With careful movements, he’d lifted his hand and touched her face with one single finger. ‘A shame.’

      Nauseous distaste had risen, like bile, into her throat. Twisting fear had made her tongue dry and swell, becoming bulbous as if grown too big for her mouth.

      She had not been able to make a response and had remained still as though paralysed. Very slowly, his finger had traced her cheek, a slow, slithering touch. Then he’d pressed close to her ear, so that she could feel his warm moist breath and the damp touch of his lips.

      ‘But we are still neighbours so likely I will see you from time to time. In fact, I will make sure of it.’

      His lips had touched again the tip of her ear.

      ‘I would enjoy that,’ he’d said.

      * * *

      ‘Shall I be helping you with your hair this morning—ma’am—my lady?’

      Beth jumped at her maid’s words. ‘Yes.’

      ‘Gracious, you’re white as a ghost. Are you well?’ Allie entered, bringing with her the sweet smell of hot chocolate.

      Beth nodded. ‘Yes, I was just thinking—unpleasant thoughts. But I am glad of the distraction.’

      ‘And your hair?’

      ‘Best see what you can do.’

      Usually Beth paid little attention to her appearance, but today she’d make an effort. It would show respect. Besides, she didn’t want to give Lady Graham reason to criticise. Lady Graham had never approved of the marriage. Who would want a blind country miss as one’s son’s wife—even a second son?

      She startled, the movement so abrupt that Allie made a tsking, chastising noise.

      ‘He’s going to be Lord Graham,’ she said.

      ‘Yes, my lady.’

      Of course, Beth had known that since she’d first heard of Edmund’s death and yet it seemed as though she only now recognised its full import. It changed everything. She could not believe that she had not recognised this earlier. Ren was no longer just the family black sheep. He was Lord Graham. He had duties, social responsibilities, a seat in the House of Lords.

      Most importantly, he’d need an heir.

      That single thought thundered through her. She clasped her hands so tightly together she could feel her nails sharp against the skin.

      She’d known, since childhood, she would not—must not—have children.

      Her thoughts circled and bounced. They would have to get an annulment. That was the only option. But was it possible? Would they qualify? Good Lord, ‘qualify’? It sounded as though she was seeking entrance into an exclusive club or scientific society. Or would they have to get a divorce? And what were the rules about divorce?

      When should she talk to Ren about this? His brother’s funeral hardly seemed suitable. Was there a good time? A protocol for the dissolution of marriage? Would he agree?

      Ally made another tut-tutting sound behind her. ‘Please stay still, my lady. You are that wriggly! Worse than a dog with fleas, if I may say so. I’m thinking I’ll trim your fringe, too, while I’m about it and really you don’t want to be wriggly when I do that or goodness knows how we’ll end up.’

      ‘Yes,’ Beth said, dully.

      She made her breathing slow, as she used to do whenever she became lost or panicked. Their farce of a marriage would be annulled. But tomorrow was soon enough to worry. Today, she would show respect and support. She would bid farewell to Edmund.

      After finishing Beth’s hair, Allie helped Beth put on her black bombazine. The cool, stiff cloth brushed over her skin, sliding into place. It was the same dress she’d worn while mourning Edmund’s wife Mirabelle. That had hurt also, but not like this. This loss of a childhood friend hurt in a gut-wrenching way.

      Beth had intended to wait for the carriage in the front room, but didn’t. It felt too enclosed and she found herself drawn outside. Without sight, an empty room could be a chill place, bereft of sound or movement. In the outer world, the air stirred. She could discern the comforting and familiar sounds of life, the distant jangle of cow bells or the mewling of the stable cat.

      The rattle of carriage wheels caught her attention and she stepped forward as soon the noise eased, wheels and hooves silenced. The door opened and Ren got out. She knew it was him. It was in the firmness of his step. It was in his smell, that mix of scents: cologne, hay, soap. Even more striking, it was her reaction to him, a feeling which was both of comfort and discomfort.

      ‘You were in the stable,’ she said.

      ‘And you are still eerily accurate.’

      He took her hand, helping her into the carriage. It was a common enough courtesy and yet her reaction was not usual. Her breathing quickened but she felt, conversely, as though she had insufficient air.

      She sank into the cushioning, so much more comfortable than that in her own more economic vehicle. He sat beside her. She could feel his body’s warmth, but also the tension, as though his every nerve and muscle was as tight as the strings on the violin Mirabelle used to play.

      Impulsively, she reached for his hand. She wanted to touch him as she used to do, to break through the darkness which was her world and to communicate the feelings which could not be put into words. He jolted at her touch. Disconcerted, she withdrew her hand, clasping her fingers together as though to ensure restraint.

      The silence was broken as Jamie entered also, his movements slow and heavy. The cushioning creaked as he sat opposite.

      The carriage door closed.

      ‘You’re here,’ Jamie said.

      ‘Your observation is also eerily accurate,’ Ren said, but with that snide note to his voice he never used to have.

      ‘Hope you’re planning to spend some time here, now you’re Lord Graham.’

      Ren became, if possible, more rigid. She felt the stiffening of his limbs and straightened back. ‘Shall we focus on my dead brother and not my itinerary?’ he said.

      The silence was almost physical now, a heavy weight as the carriage moved. It closed in on them, the quiet punctuated only by the rattling of wheels and the creaking of springs.

      She swallowed, aware of a stinging in her eyes and a terrible sadness—for Edmund and also that his three best friends should sit so wordlessly.

      ‘Thank you