His Compromised Countess. Deborah Hale

of his enemy had risen to taunt him. He’d also been besieged by his allies in the Abolition Movement. When word of the scandal reached them with disgusting rapidity, they’d flocked to the club, anxious to advise him. To a man, they looked forward to seeing Astley dragged through the mud. They also agreed it was imperative for Bennett to seek a divorce as quickly as possible. He had assured them that was his intention. But now doubts began to gnaw at his resolve.

      Not doubt of her guilt, of course. He was convinced of that, in spite of her desperate protests to the contrary. He had long known Caroline to be a naturally passionate woman. For a time it had been the saving grace of their marriage. Now it had become the rock on which their faltering union would wreck at last.

      And yet, seeing her in the arms of another man made him realise how much he missed their often-tempestuous physical relations. It had been the one area of his life where he’d been able to escape his own rigid self-control. He’d sometimes thought of it as performing the function of a safety valve on a steam engine. Without that occasional release, he could not work at optimal capacity without a dangerous build-up of pressure.

      But after everything involved with the birth of their longed-for son had gone so disastrously wrong, he’d been reluctant to risk getting his wife with child again too soon. By the time he might have considered it, they had grown so far apart that it would have been like bedding a perfect stranger.

      Mortified and furious as he was over Caroline’s betrayal, Bennett could not pretend she was entirely responsible for the failure of their marriage. He was every bit as much to blame for having pursued her so relentlessly and rushed her into marriage before their infatuation had had an opportunity to cool. If he had not let desire overcome his reason, he would have seen they were far too different in far too many ways to be compatible outside the bedchamber.

      At the time those differences had only added fuel to the overwhelming passion that had possessed him. Too late he’d realised that something so combustible was apt to burn out just as quickly. Now he knew he should have married a woman with whom he had more in common, one he might have been better able to understand.

      Glimpsing the stately turrets of Sterling House in the distance, rising behind a screen of majestic elm trees, Bennett looked forward to seeing his young son. Wyn was the main reason for his doubts about seeking a divorce. He’d experienced first-hand the bitterness of a shattered family. He did not want that for his son.

      Not that Wyn was apt to pine for Caroline as some children might for an absent mother. According to Mrs McGregor, his stylish countess spent more time each day resting from the previous late night or grooming for some approaching engagement than she did in the nursery. The odd hours she did spend there only served to disrupt the child’s sensible, healthy routine, spoiling him with gifts and sweets, making him overexcited from romping about. And when she’d amused herself and grown tired of his company, or when the little fellow grew fretful, she would simply hand him back to the long-suffering Mrs McGregor.

      As long as Wyn had his faithful nurse and one responsible parent, surely the child would manage well enough.

      That meant he would have to be an even more constant presence in his young son’s life, Bennett reminded himself. From the time Wyn was very young, he had made certain to visit the nursery as often as possible to enquire if the child had slept well, if his appetite was satisfactory, if he was in good health and spirits. When Wyn was old enough, Bennett began to make a point of reading to him or taking him for walks around the estate, both of which Mrs McGregor heartily approved.

      One fatherly duty he dreaded was the task of explaining Caroline’s departure and the breakdown of their marriage in a way his young son could understand, while sparing him the worst of it. Though Bennett had no idea how he would find the right words, he knew he must try. He would not see the little fellow confused and anxious, left to piece together the shameful truth from the tattle of servants, as he’d once done.

      The moment he entered Sterling House, Bennett headed immediately for the nursery to check on his son. He hoped Caroline had not been so thoughtless as to subject the child to an overwrought farewell.

      When he entered the large, sunny room on the second floor of the east range, all was quiet apart from the soft click of knitting needles and the faint squeak of the rocking chair. Bennett’s gaze skipped over the familiar figure of Mrs McGregor, seeking his son.

      ‘Where is Wyn?’ He pitched his voice low in case the boy was sleeping. ‘This is not his usual nap time.’

      ‘No, my lord.’ The nurse’s long knitting needles froze in mid-stitch. ‘If he were here, he’d be awake by now. But he’s gone away on that wee holiday with the countess. Were you hoping to bid them farewell before they left?’

      ‘Holiday?’ Bennett repeated the word as if he’d never heard it before and was trying to grasp its meaning. ‘What holiday? Where has she taken him?’

      An indignant scowl clenched the nurse’s sharp features. ‘I thought it seemed most irregular, but her ladyship insisted she was acting on your instructions.’

      It was true he had bidden Caroline away. But he had not given her permission to take Wyn, let alone ordered it. ‘Did she say where they were going? How long ago did they leave?’

      ‘This morning, my lord, earlier than I’ve ever seen her ladyship out of bed before. She said they were going to your house on the Isles of Scilly.’

      Suddenly Bennett found himself teetering on the edge of a precipice. Just because Caroline had told Mrs McGregor they were going to the islands did not mean it was true. What if his wife had run away with her lover and taken his son with them—to the Continent, perhaps, or to Astley’s accursed plantation in the West Indies?

      The very notion threatened to push Bennett over the edge into a bottomless abyss, but he stifled his panic to concentrate on action. Wherever Caroline had gone, he would track her down and fetch his son home, where the boy belonged.

      Five days after their precipitous departure from Sterling House, Wyn Maitland tugged on the sleeve of his mother’s pelisse. ‘How much longer until we get to that silly place, Mama?’

      Wyn had asked that question at least once a mile on the three hundred of their journey to Penzance, and even more often since they’d boarded this ship for the islands. With each repetition, his words grated harder and harder on Caroline’s frayed nerves. A sharp answer burned on her tongue, demanding to be spit out. Or perhaps it was the bile that rose in her throat every time the ship lurched in heavy seas.

      One thought alone kept her from bidding the child to hold his tongue. He had not asked to accompany her on this long, tedious, uncomfortable journey. She had taken him from his safe, snug nursery, dragging him into the wilds of Cornwall and out to sea. If either of them had reason to be irritable with the other, it was her son with her, not the other way round.

      ‘Quite soon, now, dearest.’

      ‘I hope you’re right, ma’am,’ grumbled her lady’s maid, who sat on the bench opposite them in the cramped, dimly lit cabin. ‘When we boarded, they said it would be no more than eight hours’ sailing with fair winds. How long has it been now?’

      ‘Nearly twelve hours.’ Caroline heaved a dejected sigh. ‘I hope the servants will still be awake by the time we reach the house.’

      It was all that had sustained her for the past few days, as she’d discovered the difficulty of travelling with a young child and caring for him day and night—the vision of a pretty country house with its friendly staff of caretakers to welcome them. The first thing she would order was a warm pot of chocolate for her and Wyn to sip in front of a crackling fire. Once her little son was tucked in for the night, she would soak away the chills and kinks of her journey in a hot bath.

      ‘I don’t care if they’ve gone to bed,’ grumbled Albert, the young footman who made the fourth member of their travelling party. ‘Somebody had better stir themselves to fix a poultice for my ankle.’

      He had taken a fall a few hours ago, when the ship pitched sharply.

      ‘I’m