The Truth Behind Their Practical Marriage

by Marguerite Kaye

  Except it wasn’t one of the crew. Her hat fell to the cabin floor. ‘Aidan!’ She took an instinctive step towards him, then stopped and her heart, which had leapt at the sight of him, plummeted. ‘You don’t want me anywhere near the castle.’

  ‘Estelle!’ He stepped into the cabin, closing the door behind him. ‘I’m here because I was too impatient to wait for you to arrive at the castle. I got your letter on the very day I decided I was going to come looking for you.’

  ‘You were coming to look for me?’

  ‘And I’d have combed the world if I’d had to. But I didn’t have to. I was so wrong to send you away. I don’t want you to be happy with someone else, I want you to be happy with me.’

  ‘Aidan! I was coming here to tell you exactly that, but I wasn’t even sure that you’d hear me out.’

  ‘I should have listened to you months ago. I had it all wrong, upside down in my head. How could my making us both unhappy make anything right? I thought I was miserable before, but when you left, I felt as if I’d lost a limb or two as well as my heart.’

  ‘That’s exactly how I felt.’

  ‘I know there are some things that I can’t undo. I will always feel partly responsible for what happened to Aoife, but it would be wrong of me to destroy my life and yours too, in some misguided attempt to atone.’

  ‘Do you really believe that?’

  ‘I truly do. This time, I am absolutely certain that our marriage can work. Some good has to come of this tragedy. It’s not just our lives that I’d ruin either, is it? There’s the little ones we could give a home to, as you pointed out. I’d like to think that Aoife would approve of that too. I’m sorry for what I put you through, Estelle, I’m sorry I had not your clear sight, but I’m seeing clearly now. It took your leaving to make me see what existed between us right from the start. We were meant for each other.’

  Tears were streaming down her face. She had never seen him so adamant, had never seen him look at her with such unconflicted love. ‘We were,’ she whispered. We were meant for each other.’

  She held out her hand. Aidan took it, he kissed it, and then still holding it, he dropped to his knees. ‘I love you with all my heart and my soul, Estelle. I want you to be my wife, not for any practical reason or for any other reason at all, save to share our lives together, and to make a future together, whatever that may be, and to love each other, always. Will you marry me, be my wife in spirit, this time, and not in name only?’

  ‘As many times as you like.’ She dropped to her knees beside him. ‘And I promise that I’ll love you more every day we’re together.’

  Finally, he wrapped his arms around her, hugging her tightly to him, and then kissed her gently. ‘I have missed you so much.’

  ‘I’ve missed you too. So much.’

  He kissed her again, and this kiss was deeper. ‘I never want us to be any further apart than this,’ Aidan said when it ended. ‘Not ever.’

  She laughed softly. ‘That’s going to make for an interesting journey back to County Kildare.’

  He smiled, a smile she thought she’d never see again, a smile that sent her pulses racing in a way that she thought they never would again. ‘We’re not going back to County Kildare,’ he said, getting to his feet and locking the cabin door before pulling her upright beside him. ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Aidan! We can’t possibly, not here.’

  ‘Why not? You are my wife, after all.’

  His lips found hers again, and one kiss merged into another, and she forgot everything save the driving need to make love to the man she loved. The man she would love always, more deeply every day, for the rest of their lives. It was the only thing that mattered. The only thing that would ever matter.

  * * *

  If you enjoyed this story

  be sure to read the other books in the

  Penniless Brides of Convenience miniseries

  The Earl’s Countess of Convenience

  A Wife Worth Investing In

  And while you’re waiting for the next book

  check out Marguerite Kaye’s

  Matches Made in Scandal miniseries,

  starting with

  From Governess to Countess

  From Courtesan to Convenient Wife

  Historical Note

  Brian Dolan’s excellent book, Ladies of the Grand Tour, was my main source for Estelle’s Continental trip. Lucky Estelle to have a very influential brother-in-law to deal with the logistics of handling multiple currencies, vermin-ridden beds, agonising and prolonged passport controls, and to allow her—and you, I hope—to enjoy the scenery.

  Thanks to Alison L., once again, for the gift of Dolan’s book, as well as Great Houses of Ireland, which I made extensive use of in creating Cashel Duairc.

  Huge thanks to my sister-in-law, Eabhnat ni Laighin, who helped me name Cashel Duairc, and who suggested ‘Mo Ghile Mear’ as the song which forged a bond between Aoife and Estelle. There are many haunting versions of this song on YouTube, but the one which inspired me was by Folky Macfolkface, which I was privileged to hear before it was released, thanks to Eabhnat, who sang it, and my brother, who played in the band and produced the recording.

  Regular readers will know that I like to give real historical figures walk-on parts in my stories. Sir George Hamilton Seymour, who plays a minor role in the Florence part of this story, was Minister Resident to the Grand Duke of Tuscany, of which Florence was the capital, before Italy was united. He married Gertrude in 1831, a year before I sent her off to Siena with Estelle, and they eventually had seven children.

  A great big thank-you to my Facebook friend Margaret Murray-Evans for naming the Irish wolfhound Hera. I hope I’ve done her justice.

  Finally, I think it must be very obvious that this story is a homage to Daphne du Maurier’s Rebecca. I first read the book when I was fifteen and still have my original copy, which I bought with a book token from a school geography prize.

  A recent re-read made me wonder what would happen if the second Mrs de Winter hadn’t been so shy, if she’d spoken up a bit more, or even challenged Max a bit on his studied silences? And, come to think of it, what about giving Max a makeover?

  The result is this book, one of the most challenging I’ve written to date, and one I’d probably have given up on if it had not been for the support and encouragement and enthusiasm of my fabulous editor, Flo Nicoll.

  Is it a fitting tribute? I leave it up to you to decide.

  Keep reading for an excerpt from The Lord’s Inconvenient Vow by Lara Temple.

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  The Lord’s Inconvenient Vow

  by Lara Temple

  Prologue

  ‘The Hidden City isn’t truly invisible, Gabriel. Most people are blind to what threatens their world. Life is easier thus.’

  —The Sprite Queen,

  Desert Boy Book One

  Qetara, Egypt—1814

  ‘For heaven’s sake, Lady Samantha, come down before you fall down.’

  ‘Oh, go away, Sir Stay-Away-from-the-Edge.’

  ‘Stop calling me that.’

  ‘Well, Mama says I mustn’t call you Edge any longer because now that I am eighteen it is no longer proper. But I refuse to
call you Lord Edward Edgerton; that is even stuffier than you are.’

  He burst into laughter. He didn’t often laugh freely, but it always surprised her how it transformed his face, softening the sharp-cut lines on either side of his mouth and between his overly straight brows. With his serious grey-green eyes and hair as dark as any of her Venetian cousins he’d always appeared so adult. Or perhaps it was his insistence on dressing so properly even in the heat of the Egyptian desert.

  Next to him her brothers looked like heathens or corporeal manifestations of the gods etched on the temple walls where her mother’s cousin Huxley spent all his waking hours working with Edge’s uncle Poppy. Once those two were caught in the web of their historical weaving, everyone else faded into nothingness—more ghosts in a landscape of ghosts and far less interesting.

  He stopped laughing and frowned even more awfully, as if he needed to compensate for his moment of levity.

  ‘Proper. You have no idea what that means.’

  ‘Yes, I do. It means doing nothing enjoyable at all.’

  ‘No, it means showing respect. And it means not climbing on the antiquities.’

  ‘If this sphinx survived two thousand years, it will survive me.’

  ‘It is not a sphinx but a ram and Poppy says it is likely at least three thousand years old based on references in...never mind. In any case it should not have to suffer the indignity of being climbed upon. And barefoot, too. One day you will step on a scorpion and that will be the end of it.’

  ‘You have my permission to dance a jig on my grave if it is, Lord Hedgehog.’

  He ignored her latest variation on his name.

  ‘Don’t be a fool, Sam. Besides, I hate dancing. Why the...why are you up there anyway?’

  ‘Come see.’

  She turned away and waited. He might be as dry as a mummy, but he had his uncle’s curiosity. She wondered if he realised he’d reverted to calling her Sam as he once had. Probably not.

  It took five minutes. She heard the scrape of his boots and a muffled curse. Probably something like ‘drat’ or ‘bother’; despite being such good friends with Lucas and Chase, he never participated in their cursing contests. Since his uncle and aunt had brought him to Egypt when he was only six years old he spoke Arabic better than all of them, but he rarely indulged in the very colourful epithets Lucas and Chase mined from the locals, at least not in her hearing. In fact, she sometimes wondered why he and her brothers were so close.

  She waited for him to say something unpleasant about her occupation, but though he cast a shadow over her sketchpad he said nothing. She twisted to look at him, but all she could see was a dark shape haloed by the sun.

  ‘Not bad. You’re improving.’

  The temptation to give his legs a shove and send him tumbling off the sphinx...off the ram...was powerful, but she resisted. He had a point—she was now eighteen and perhaps it was time to resist such puerile urges. Still, she smiled at the image, taking some pleasure in cutting him down to size in her mind. When she answered, her voice was dignified.

  ‘Cousin Huxley believes I am very gifted. He says some of the Sinclairs possess artistic skills. Like my Aunt Celia.’

  She spoke her aunt’s name defiantly, waiting for him to attack that as well. But no doubt the scandal of Lady Stanton’s elopement with a spy and their subsequent demise was too much for him to even consider because he merely sat beside her.

  ‘May I?’

  ‘Sit? You may. This is not my ram, after all.’

  ‘No, may I see your sketches?’

  He took her sketchpad with all the care he gave to the shards and remains his uncle excavated. She tried not to squirm as he lingered over a sketch of a wall painting from the temple below the cliffs and one of a funerary urn bearing the head of Bastet, the feline god.

  ‘You’ve a good eye for detail. There is not one mistake here. Very strange.’

  She gritted her teeth, but as he turned she saw the wavering at the corner of his mouth and relaxed a little. She could never tell when his peculiar sense of humour would surface. She’d forgotten that about him—under his granite shell there was another Edge, the one who was endlessly considerate of Poppy and Janet and her mother, and who she often suspected was laughing even when he was doing his very best to scold her.

  ‘Most amusing. You would not be smiling if you know how close you came to being shoved off on to your posterior.’

  He frowned.

  ‘That is most definitely not a proper word in mixed company.’

  ‘Posterior? It is a perfectly innocuous word.’

  ‘The word might be innocuous, but its...what it alludes to...’

  ‘Your behind?’

  ‘Sam! Will you ever grow up?’

  ‘I am grown up. In a couple of months I shall make my debut in Venetian society, be crammed into a frilly dress and have no choice but to behave like a simpering simpleton. But I am not there yet and I see nothing wrong with speaking of something completely natural. You and Lucas and Chase did it often enough when in your cups—I distinctly remember you once discussing the attributes of a certain ghawazi dancer in rather off-putting detail.’

  He groaned.

  ‘You are impossible.’

  ‘And you’re stiff-necked, stuffy and stodgy bundled together and tied with a neat little bow and dipped in vinegar.’

  ‘Not little. I take offence at that.’

  She couldn’t stop her smile. Somehow he always managed to pull the rug of her annoyance out from under her.

  ‘No, not little. Is being a great big bore preferable to being a little one?’

  ‘As long as I am great at something.’

  She shifted, turning more fully to him and shielding her eyes from the sun.

  ‘Do you wish to be great at something, Edge?’

  ‘Doesn’t everyone?’

  ‘I don’t know. Probably in some vague way, but not in actuality because it means they must invest effort in it. What do you wish to be great at?’

  Even under the glare of the sun and the warmth of his tanned skin she could see the rise of colour in his lean cheeks. He moved his leg as if to slide off the statue and she caught his sleeve.

  ‘Wait. I won’t press if you don’t wish to talk of it. Is your arm better?’

  He rolled his left shoulder.

  ‘Better. But it was infuriating to be invalided out just before Napoleon abdicated. Have you heard from Lucas or Chase?’

  ‘They sent word they are to remain in France. Something to do with my uncle. I haven’t seen them in...far too long.’

  She clasped her hands, hoping he didn’t notice them shaking. Moving so often meant her only home was her family—Lucas, Chase and her mother in the inner core, and Cousin Huxley and the Carmichaels directly after them. And Edge. Beyond them she had no home, no roots, no anchor. If something happened to Lucas or Chase... It would be unbearable.

  ‘I miss them.’ The words burst from her. ‘Even with the war ended everything is uncertain. Even now they might not be alive and it could be weeks before I know.’

  He placed his hand on hers, warm and firm, but he didn’t try to reassure her. She wished he would break with his nature and offer comfort, even lie to her, but it wasn’t Edge’s way. Talking with him always felt like approaching an island patrolled by a wary navy—being allowed ashore was an arduous process. Perhaps it was because he came to live with the Carmichaels when he was six. She’d never dared ask why. All she knew was that Poppy and Janet loved him deeply and absolutely and were never wary of showing that love, even now he was grown. They’d cried when he arrived and even Huxley and her mother had looked a little damp. In fact, only Edge remained calm during the reunion, though he’d looked different than her memory—familiar but a stranger. Or perhaps she was different, grown up. She didn’t want to be, but everyone told her she
was.

  She resisted the urge to lean into his strength, searching for something to say.

  ‘I would like to see London again one day. My mother swore never to return so I have not been since I was a child. Did you visit the British Museum? That would be top of my list if I ever return.’

  He withdrew his hand and clasped his arms round his knees.

  ‘One day you will. Your mother’s decisions after your father’s scandal are her own, Sam, not yours. From what Poppy and Huxley said, he was merely a good man who made a mistake while he was far away from his family.’

  ‘It is not like you to varnish the truth, Edge. An affair with an engaged woman and a duel with her cuckolded betrothed is a rather serious mistake,’ she scoffed.

  ‘True, but it is still sad when an otherwise good man’s memory is reduced to his worst action. And remember that your father’s death does not reflect on you in any way.’

  ‘According to society, it does.’

  He looked out at the horizon, his voice shifting again, turning stiffer and more hesitant. ‘Society is strange. People separately can be...pleasant, but sometimes together... They are like a mythical many-headed beast guarding a kingdom, full of suspicion and even exultation when one fails to solve the riddle that allows you in.’

  She turned to him, concern overcoming her pain.

  ‘Did they say things about you when you were in London, Edge?’

  ‘There is always gossip.’

  ‘But you’re perfect,’ she blurted out and even before he laughed she turned as red as a sunset and hotter than the Nubian Desert in midday.

  ‘I did not mean you are perfect...’ she said crossly.

  ‘I know that.’ He was still laughing. ‘You meant I was so boring there could be nothing to gossip about.’

  ‘I did not mean that either. But truly I cannot see what they could object to.’