A Bride for the Betrayed Earl

by Bridget Barton

  “I trust you are well,” Hunter said, his tone level, his voice giving nothing away.

  “Yes, I am quite well, I thank you.” Emmeline could hear the curious formality in her own tone and knew at once that her heart had already set about defending itself.

  And she knew as she settled down on the carriage seat next to her mother that it really was her heart which needed defending. She had come to think very much more of Hunter Bentley than she had ever intended, more than she could ever have thought possible.

  He had become so much more interesting to her, more attractive, for coming to know him better. And she could not help thinking that the honesty of those first weeks and the openness with which they had decided to investigate the idea of suitability for such a marriage of convenience had been the very thing which had forced a more in-depth knowledge of the man.

  Had the two of them been courting in the ordinary way, Emmeline thought it true that neither one of them would have been entirely honest. They would both be on their finest behaviour, each pretending a little to be something that they were not in order to impress the other. But there had been no ideas of impressing between them, and neither one of them had sought to do that. Instead, they had become instant friends, and not only that but found they had a good deal in common in terms of intellect and interest.

  All in all, Emmeline had a dreadful feeling that she was going to rue the day she had agreed to such a scheme.

  “It is a sad day, is it not?” Emmeline’s mother said, feeling the almost pervasive silence which had opened up between them all.

  “Yes, the Duke was a relatively young man to have passed so soon,” Hunter said as if he were speaking to strangers at a wake, offering nothing more than well-used platitudes.

  Something about his manner, something about his sudden cool detachment, plunged Emmeline into a pit of fearing the worst. The idea that he might just be laid low by the idea of the funeral was not really one that she could sensibly support. As far as she could tell, she was in the company of a man who had much on his mind.

  The remainder of their journey to the church had been made in awkward silence, and Emmeline had found it a curious relief when the carriage drew up, and they began to make their way to the graveside.

  The moment they arrived to stand with the myriad of other mourners, Emmeline’s eyes flew to the Duchess of Galcross. Felicity Burton was, without a doubt, the most strikingly beautiful widow that Emmeline had ever seen.

  She wore a well-fitting gown of deepest black over which she wore a matching lace shawl and black veil. The lace of the veil was thin and her pale, flawless skin could easily be seen through it. Her bright blue eyes, like rich cornflowers, stood out startlingly against the darkness of her mourning apparel.

  As Emmeline stood at Hunter Bentley’s side, she felt like an impostor. She felt like a fool whose presence was simply being tolerated by all around her. And it was a feeling which deepened in its intensity when she looked up to find Felicity Burton staring at her coldly.

  When Emmeline looked up, making it very clear that she had seen the woman’s stare, Felicity did not look away. She maintained her gaze, and Emmeline felt diminished beneath it. In the end, she could do no more than look down towards the coffin that contained the body of the Duke of Galcross. In her heart, she knew she could not even look to Hunter for comfort this time for she felt sure he did not have it to give.

  As much as they had supported each other through their private tragedies and heartbreak, this was a situation that neither one of them had been prepared for. Emmeline felt like one of three pieces left on a chess board and knew herself to be the weakest piece. She would very soon be taken by the Queen, discarded amongst all the other pieces who had succumbed before her. And all that would be left on the board would be the King and the Queen, two people who still loved each other and wanted the game to be back on its original terms.

  Emmeline felt the awful sensations of the dreadful night at Ashton House sweep over her again. Although this time nobody was looking at her for her reaction, there was nothing known amongst the mourners, still, she felt it keenly. In some respects, it was worse because she felt all the helplessness of that night and, at the same time, she thought perhaps a little more hurt. Could it be possible that she had come to think more of the Earl of Addison than she had of Christopher Lennox, the man who had been her first love? Was it even possible that she had never truly loved Christopher in the first place, but merely been impressed by him and, having nothing else to compare it to, believed that she loved him?

  Emmeline could hardly bear to think of it anymore but could find no way of pushing the same ideas, repeated over and over, from her mind. In the end, all she could do was concentrate hard on the reverend’s words, hoping to feel something for the man who was about to be buried, rather than for herself and the hurt that was undoubtedly coming her way.

  At the end of the funeral, as was customary, the Earl of Addison and his small party made their way to the widow to give her their condolences. Hunter seemed to hang back for a moment as if he was not sure what to say.

  “Hunter, how very kind of you to come.” Felicity was the first to speak, and she spoke directly to Hunter, determinedly ignoring Emmeline.

  “Not at all, Felicity,” he said, his voice low. “How could I not come? After all, I must pass you my deepest condolences for your sad loss.”

  “Indeed, and I thank you for it.” Suddenly, Felicity turned those bright blue eyes upon Emmeline and her mother.

  She looked at them as if they were, indeed, truly interlopers, almost as if she had caught poachers on her property. Her eyes, which had regarded Hunter so fondly, had changed altogether, and the coldness Emmeline had perceived earlier had returned in an instant.

  “My deepest condolences,” Emmeline said, not knowing what else to say.

  Felicity did not respond at all but continued to stare at Emmeline as if she wished her in the grave alongside the old Duke of Galcross. In the end, Emmeline could do no more but incline her head graciously and turn to leave, grasping her mother’s hand as the two of them walked back towards the carriage.

  As they went, Emmeline heard Felicity speak again.

  “If I might have a moment of your time, Hunter, I should be most grateful.” Felicity’s voice had taken on a forlorn quality, and Emmeline could not help thinking it nothing more than a piece of theatre.

  The woman had remained dry-eyed throughout her husband’s funeral ceremony and, if her complexion was to say anything on the subject at all, being so free from the blotches and redness of grief, it was clear that the loss of her husband was not as deep as perhaps it ought to have been. But of course, Hunter was a good man, a kind man, the sort of man who rescued a woman who was virtually a stranger to him from pain and humiliation. If he could do that for Emmeline, he was unlikely to remain unaffected by any plea his former love might make to him.

  When they reached the carriage, the driver, seeing that his master was nowhere in sight, hurriedly jumped down and helped the ladies back inside.

  “Do not worry, my dear. All will be well,” Constance whispered the moment the driver had closed the door, leaving them alone.

  “Mama, I cannot think that it shall be,” Emmeline said hoarsely. Her throat ached with emotion, and she knew that she had more than a passing regard for the Earl of Addison.

  In truth, Emmeline realized with a dreadful sort of force that she loved Hunter Bentley. She did not love him as she thought she had loved Christopher Lennox, for it was quite different. She did not love him for what he represented, not even his role as a saviour. Emmeline loved Hunter Bentley for the man he was. She loved the clever man who read the same books that she did and saw things in them that she did not. She loved the man who sat intently listening to her own observations, the things that he had not seen, without pride or ego, just interest.

  As she looked out of the carriage window to where Hunter and Felicity stood alone in deep conversation, Emmeline r
ealized just how foolish she had been. She had not escaped love, not in the end. All she had done was put herself in its treacherous path, lying beneath the wheels of its carriage. She knew that she loved Hunter Bentley truly, as she would never love another man as long as she lived.

  Chapter 19

  Hunter had spent many days in confusion, trying to order his thoughts and separate the individual elements which had conspired to see him so upended. By the third day of it all, he was pleased when Algernon appeared without warning in his drawing room, having somehow bypassed the old butler altogether.

  Still, it was not the first time Algernon had managed such a thing, and Hunter, on this particular occasion, was not inclined to quiz him on it, not even for the undoubtedly humorous conversation that would likely follow.

  “I say, you do look awfully glum,” Algernon said as he strode into the room. “What say we pull the bell rope for tea and enjoy the look on your butler’s face when he realizes that I have outwitted him once again?” Algernon laughed, and it was a laugh that Hunter recognized.

  Algernon had already perceived that his cousin would be in a most unusual mood following the death of the man he had seen as his rival. The man who had stolen away the love of his life.

  “If you wish for tea, Algernon, by all means, ring for it. If not, then help yourself to some sherry and pour me a glass whilst you are there.”

  “Goodness me; a man is to serve himself in your household, Lord Addison.” Algernon laughed and smiled at him warmly. “But I shall pour the sherry as you direct and ask you what it is that ails you, my dear cousin.”

  “You are right, of course, and I shall not insult your intelligence by pretending otherwise. I am out of sorts and shall apologize in advance for the poor company that I am about to provide you. And I understand, naturally, if you would wish to leave me to my low mood for a while.”

  “I shall do no such thing, Hunter,” Algernon said forcefully. “In truth, I had wanted to come sooner, but I thought it would be prudent to allow you some time to dwell on matters as you saw fit. But I could not sit at Braithwaite House any longer wondering; I simply had to come.”

  “You are about to speak of Felicity, I can tell.”

  “Yes, indeed I am.” Algernon smiled sadly. “And how can I not when I saw the two of you together in such deep and lengthy conversation at the end of the funeral?”

  “And you should like to know, I have no doubt, what passed between us?”

  “Not the details, my dear fellow, but perhaps just a general impression.” Hunter shrugged. “It is not curiosity on my part, you must understand. It is nothing but the deepest of concern, for I should not like to see you manipulated.”

  “Manipulated?” Hunter said slowly and then nodded, immediately perceiving the veracity of the word. “Yes, I have no doubt that an attempt was made to manipulate me.”

  “She asked you to consider her, did she not?”

  “Indeed, she did,” Hunter said and stared across the drawing room as he remembered her beautiful face through the thin, black veil.

  “Hunter so much has passed between the two of us that I had hardly thought you would come here today to support me in my grief.” The moment Emmeline had turned to walk away, Felicity had begged a few moments with him.

  When he consented, she began to talk quickly as if she had much to say and limited time in which to say it.

  “I should, of course, attend the funeral of any Duke. He was a part of the county and, as the Earl of Addison it is incumbent upon me to be here today.”

  “But surely that is not your only reason? For heaven’s sake, please tell me that you think of me if only a little,” she said, and he saw tears begin to well in her eyes.

  “How curious it is that you choose now to cry, Felicity.”

  “What do you mean?” she said, her bright blue eyes never leaving his for a moment.

  “You did not shed a tear at your husband’s graveside, Felicity. And it is clear now that you have not shed a tear from the moment of his passing. You look as if the man’s death has meant nothing to you at all.”

  “One does not choose to cry, Hunter. Tears come when there is a genuine reason for them. And you are right; I do not mourn the loss of my husband as I ought to, but I would think that you would not care for me to lie to you.”

  “Why not? After all, it would not be the first time that you had lied. I can hardly see why such a thing would make a difference to me now.”

  “Hunter, please, do not be so angry. Do not bear such a deep and abiding grudge towards me; I cannot bear it.”

  “But surely you can understand it, my dear?” Hunter had heard the ice in his own voice, but it did not trouble him for a moment.

  He was not further upsetting a woman in mourning, for he knew most clearly that she was not in mourning at all. Her husband’s death had caused barely a ripple on the still waters of her emotions and, despite his very low feeling for the Duke, Hunter found himself feeling curiously sorry for the man.

  “You must understand, Hunter, that I had felt abandoned by you all those months ago. There was no telling when you would return home, and it seemed to me as if I had become of lesser importance in your heart.”

  “You had not become of lesser importance to me, Felicity. If only your vanity could have seen it.”

  “My vanity?” she said a little loudly, drawing a harsh glance from the reverend who was silently making his way back towards the church.

  “Can you not comprehend your own heart in all of this? Can you not see that there are others in this world besides yourself? My father was dying, Felicity. A good man was dying, being laid waste and in great pain. All he wanted was to be taken back to a place he knew and loved, a place that reminded him of his younger years and the time before responsibility had settled itself down on his shoulders. And all I wanted, Felicity, was to be the son he wanted me to be. What I wanted was to be the man who would make his final days exactly what he wanted them to be.”

  “Which is understandable, Hunter, and commendable, but …”

  “Commendable?” Hunter shook his head angrily. “I did not do it out of a sense of duty, Felicity. I did it out of the deepest love for my father. That you could not even wait for me to return, that you could not contemplate for one moment the pain and suffering of both my father and myself, astounds me.”

  “Hunter, please do not be angry with me. You know I do not like to be spoken to harshly. You know how it upsets me.” Her eyes filled with tears again, and this time they fell in a flurry. She bowed her head and, for an awful moment, he thought he would relent.

  Hunter thought he would give in, even take her into his arms for the sake of nothing more than familiarity. But the moment he thought of it, he thought of Emmeline. He thought of her sitting in the carriage silently with her mother, the two of them looking out of the window. Of course, he realized that Emmeline did not feel for him what he had come to feel for her, but still, he could not have borne the idea of insulting her, even humiliating her, if her feelings would stretch that far.

  But it was more than that, and he knew it. It was more than simple courtesy on his part. Even though he had made this curious pact with Emmeline Fitzgerald, even though she had readily agreed to continue on a path to a life without love, still he knew he felt more. So much, in fact, that he could not take Felicity into his arms.

  His moment of weakness, or near weakness, had been nothing more than sentiment. He realized, as he stood looking at Felicity that it had been some weeks since he had thought of her betrayal at all, and even when he had, he had not suffered the searing pain of its initial blow. And, as much as it pained him to quietly admit, he knew the reason. His affections, his attraction, no longer lay with Felicity, but with Emmeline Fitzgerald.

  And that knowledge had hit him like a thunderbolt. That realization upended him, and he knew, without a doubt, that he might well be on his way to experiencing betrayal once again, especially if Emmeline chose, in the end, to ac
cept her cousin’s proposal of marriage.

  Not for the first time, Hunter stood in silence and wondered why it was that life and matters of the heart were so very difficult to navigate. Why could the thing not be simple?

  “I do not wish to upset you, particularly today,” Hunter said a little sarcastically. “But I do not see how it can be avoided. I cannot possibly tell what it is you expect from me at this moment, Felicity. I cannot see a reason for you to have stopped me today and held me back from my carriage when there are so many other people here who would wish to pass their condolences to you.”

  “I care nothing for their condolences,” Felicity said, her voice growing a little shrill.

  “That is ungracious,” Hunter said and felt somewhat disgusted. “These last weeks, I have not been a firm supporter of the Duke of Galcross, that is true. And with good reason, as you well know. But today, at least, I am here to pay my final respects to him, as is the due of almost every being in this world. But you, you who had chosen to marry him, cannot even accept kind condolences for his passing. Truly, I think this meeting is at a close, Felicity.” He turned to walk away from her, stayed only by her small, white hand on his arm.

  “You have every right to be angry, of course you do. I can only hope that one day you will come to see how your disappearance to Scotland made me feel.”

  “I did not disappear, and I think it unlikely that I shall ever understand such selfishness and vanity that would lead a woman into so great a tantrum that she would marry somebody else for spite and spite alone.”

  “I did not marry out of spite; I married out of sadness.”

  “You had no reason to be sad, Felicity. I was coming back. I was always going to come back. The only reason for your own disquiet was that my dear father did not die soon enough for your liking.”

  “Hunter, what a dreadful thing to say.”

  “It is dreadful, truly dreadful. But it is true, is it not?”