Mrs Sommersby's Second Chance

by Laurie Benson

  ‘That’s terrible! Why did Harriet not write to me in Paris and tell me this?’

  ‘My dear, you were on your honeymoon. As young as Harriet is, I think she is wise enough to know not to bother you with her problems during such a time.’

  ‘But she is my friend. I would have tried to help her.’

  Eleanor waved her comment away. ‘Nonsense. Besides, if you would have helped her we would not have this exciting news.’

  William leaned forward on his desk and rested his forearms on the polished oak surface. ‘What news?’

  Excitement was evident in Eleanor’s eyes as she looked between them. ‘Greeley and Harriet have run away to Gretna Green and got married over the anvil. They have eloped.’

  Clara felt her eyes widen as William let out a burst of laughter.

  ‘Why are you laughing?’ she asked.

  ‘I didn’t think he had it in him.’

  ‘It was her idea,’ Eleanor interjected. ‘Greeley told me so in his letter. The family had gone after them to try to avoid a scandal, but they didn’t reach them in time. Now Greeley and Harriet are married and plan to settle here in Bath. I told them that they can stay with me on the Crescent in the home I am leasing for the next few months.’ She tugged up her gloves near her elbow. ‘I knew that boy was destined to have a scandal of his own. I told him as much that night, months ago, when we were dining at your home. It seems I am the better matchmaker after all. I was able to match Harriet and Greeley, and the two of you.’

  ‘You didn’t match us together,’ Clara said, glancing at her husband.

  ‘Of course I did. I could tell the moment that you both were standing around that fountain in the Pump Room that you needed to be together. I could tell then and there by the way you looked at one another. Why do you think I left you alone during that ball in the Assembly Room? Why do you think I barely spoke to you during the performance of Mr Sheridan’s play? I know a love match when I see one.’

  Clara wasn’t certain she would give Eleanor credit for bringing her and William together. She liked to think that fate had something to do with it that day at the Pump Room. If he had arrived an hour earlier or if she had chosen to stay home that day, they would never have spoken. And when her dress had got caught in the shrubbery in the park, fate had chosen that path for him to take that day.

  She had a lot to thank the heavens for. But the one thing she was grateful for more than anything else was that she had been given a second chance to find love in her life. And she could not have asked for a better man to share this part of her life with.

  Their voices must have woken Humphrey, who had been sleeping under Clara’s chair. He lifted himself with a yawn and slowly padded over to the other side of the desk. She could tell by his languid movements that he wasn’t finished with his nap yet and Clara knew that right now he was resting his head on William’s booted foot. There was a special bond between that dog and her husband and she would bet good money that William would not be reviewing his reports from the stable at home. He never would disturb their dog while he fell asleep on him. She wondered if he ever marvelled at how much his life had changed in such a short amount of time all because of the water here in Bath.

  * * *

  If you enjoyed this book,

  check out the other stories in

  The Sommersby Brides miniseries

  One Week to Wed

  “One Night Under the Mistletoe” in

  Convenient Christmas Brides

  His Three-Day Duchess

  And why not read Laurie Benson’s

  Secrets Lives of the Ton miniseries,

  starting with

  An Unsuitable Duchess

  Historical Note

  The Foundling Hospital, where Lane grew up, was the first children’s charity in the UK. It was established in 1739 by philanthropist Thomas Coram to help care for and educate children who had been abandoned by their parents due to severe poverty or illegitimacy. Joining him in this venture were the artist William Hogarth and the composer George Frideric Handel.

  Later, admission to the Foundling Hospital became restricted to the first children of women of good character whom the father of the child had deserted. In placing her child with the Hospital, the unmarried mother would be able to earn an honest livelihood.

  By the time the Foundling Hospital closed, in 1954, it had taken care of approximately twenty-five thousand children.

  To find out more information about this important part of London’s history and the tokens that were left with some of the children, visit my website at www.lauriebenson.net and search my blog. You can also visit the Foundling Hospital museum, as well as browse their website.

  Keep reading for an excerpt from Captivated by Her Convenient Husband by Bronwyn Scott.

  Join Harlequin My Rewards today and earn a FREE ebook!

  Click here to Join Harlequin My Rewards

  http://www.harlequin.com/myrewards.html?mt=loyalty&cmpid=EBOOBPBPA201602010003

  We hope you enjoyed this Harlequin Historical.

  You dream of wicked rakes, gorgeous Highlanders, muscled Viking warriors and rugged Wild West cowboys from another era. Harlequin Historical has them all! Emotionally intense stories set across many time periods.

  Enjoy six new stories from Harlequin Historical every month!

  Connect with us on Harlequin.com for info on our new releases, access to exclusive offers, free online reads and much more!

  Other ways to keep in touch:

  Harlequin.com/newsletters

  Facebook.com/HarlequinBooks

  Twitter.com/HarlequinBooks

  HarlequinBlog.com

  Join Harlequin My Rewards and reward the book lover in you!

  Earn points for every Harlequin print and ebook you buy, wherever and whenever you shop.

  Turn your points into FREE BOOKS of your choice

  OR

  EXCLUSIVE GIFTS from your favorite authors or series.

  Click here to join for FREE

  Or visit us online to register at

  www.HarlequinMyRewards.com

  Harlequin My Rewards is a free program (no fees) without any commitments or obligations.

  Captivated by Her Convenient Husband

  by Bronwyn Scott

  Chapter One

  Indigo Hall, Sussex—Friday, October 26th, 1855

  Avaline Panshawe-Tresham could put off her entrance and all it would entail no longer. She had to get out of the carriage, had to go inside, had to dance with the men, smile at the women, suffer the solicitations of her well-meaning in-laws, who had already arrived, and not least she had to endure the dubious charms of the evening’s host, Tobin Hayworth, all the while pretending she was as oblivious to his intentions as she was to the disappointment she’d brought the Treshams—all seven years, three weeks, one day of it, and counting.

  There seemed no end in sight when it came to her association with disappointment, not that the Treshams had ever said as much. They were far too kind. Still, Avaline knew and that was all that mattered.

  She drew a steadying breath and smoothed her ice-blue skirts. She checked to see that her pearl and gold earbobs were fastened securely, that her slender pearl pendant wasn’t twisted, that her matching combs were secure in the folds of her artfully arranged hair. She was stalling, of course, as she’d stalled at home at Blandford Hall, dragging out her departure with an inane debate with herself over wearing the blue or the pink silk. Now, there wasn’t anything left to hide behind. There wasn’t a hair out of place, or a creased wrinkle to be found. She was out of excuses and out of time in so many ways, and she was furious.

  Tobin Hayworth had held his harvest ball tonight on purpose. He knew very well the import of October twenty-sixth to her. It was one day after the anniversary of the Battle of Balaclava; a year and a day after her hu
sband, Fortis Tresham, fell in battle, never to be heard from again. His body had never been recovered. He’d fallen and he had vanished, as if he’d never been. But he had been and perhaps he still was. It was a small hope she clung to and one whose odds grew smaller by the day. It had been a year since he’d fallen, making it seven years since he’d married her and promptly departed England. It was a long time to be gone.

  That was the great failing that confronted her daily. She’d been a dismal wife, unable to keep her young, restless officer husband home. It was the one thing the Treshams had hoped she’d do by whatever means necessary. Marriage was usually a great domesticator of men of Fortis’s station—sons of dukes. Once a man married, he settled down, looked after his estate, his wife and his nursery. The plan should have worked. It had all the trappings of success. His parents and hers had arranged it. What could be more perfect than an alliance between neighbours, one of whom claimed the title of the Duke of Cowden, and the other an ailing baron, who claimed a large, unentailed tract of failing land that abutted the Duke’s estate and an eagerness to see his only child wed? Their marriage had been accomplished during Fortis’s leave. It had ended when he left three weeks later. She’d not conceived a honeymoon heir for him. She had hardly kept him in their bed long enough to do more than make the marriage binding. He’d been off, riding, hunting, shooting, and fishing with his friends for the duration of the honeymoon. She’d not tamed Fortis Tresham. If anything, she’d made him wilder.

  She’d written dutifully, one letter a month to wherever he was posted, telling him of the estate, of the family, hoping her stories would invoke a sense of nostalgia, a longing for home, for her even. But not once had he written back. Now, he might never write. He might be gone for good, despite the Treshams’ latest sliver of hope that he’d resurfaced in the Crimea. They’d sent his best friend and fellow officer, Major Camden Lithgow haring back to Sevastopol to vouch for the man who’d walked out of the pine forest claiming Fortis’s name.

  Avaline wasn’t sure how she felt about that. To have Fortis back would solve her current problems, but it would also certainly create others. How did two people pick up the pieces of a marriage that had hardly existed, after all this time? Still, they might have an indifferent marriage, but she didn’t wish him dead for it. She hardly knew the man who had so briefly been in her bed, in her life.

  That was a new sort of guilt she carried these days. While the Treshams hoped desperately for the possible return of their third son, she couldn’t remember what he looked like. The picture she carried of him in her mind had begun to blur years ago. She remembered dark hair, blue eyes, a broad-shouldered physique, a handsome visage, a man pleasing to the eye. Was she exaggerating these features now? Was he as broad-shouldered as she recalled? Was he as tall? As handsome? As callow? He’d not been the most attentive of husbands, or had that been her fault? Would he have been more attentive if she’d somehow been different? Would it matter if she did remember it all aright? Did those memories of seven years ago still represent the man who might come home to her? War changed any man and this one had been lost for a year. How might war and this unaccounted year have changed him? Who knew what sort of man had walked out of the forest?

  Avaline’s more practical side argued that it hardly mattered what he looked like or what he’d become as long as it protected her from Tobin Hayworth’s avarice. Fortis’s name was all that was safeguarding her now and its shield was wearing thin. A body to go with the name would take care of Hayworth for good.

  There was a sharp, impatient rap on the carriage door. ‘My dear, you must come in before you catch a chill.’ The door opened without her permission. It seemed the knock was not a request for entrance, but a warning of intrusion. Such officiousness could only mean one thing. Hayworth had found her.

  He stood outside, framed in the carriage doorway, resplendently dressed in dark evening clothes, pristine white stock impeccably tied, blue silk waistcoat severely tailored, grey eyes like steel. The man was the epitome of ice and control. Just looking at him made Avaline cold. He held out his hand without the slightest qualm that he’d be refused. He was a man who was obeyed. Always. ‘I cannot leave my mother alone in the receiving line for long, so I must ask you to hurry.’ His tone implied hurrying would not have been necessary if she had come in with the Treshams upon arrival. ‘I was concerned when I saw you were not with Cowden and the Duchess.’

  ‘I needed a moment alone to gather myself,’ Avaline replied coolly. She might be required to take his hand, to go in and put on a show, but he needed to remember she was not his to command. ‘Today has been difficult for me. I was tempted to beg off this evening and not come at all.’ She would have done just that if she hadn’t feared him coming after her and having to face him alone at Blandford. Far better to confront him here, surrounded by people and with the Treshams for support. There was safety in numbers. ‘I may not stay long,’ Avaline warned him as she stepped down. ‘I am not sure it’s appropriate to be out revelling on such a day.’ She did not bother to keep the scold from her voice.

  Disapproval flickered flinty and hard in his gaze. Hayworth had made his opinion on harbouring hope that Fortis be found alive plain several months ago. ‘The heights of feminine fancy and womanly foolishness,’ he’d called it.

  ‘Has there been news, then? Is it official that he is lost for good?’ Any concern one might detect in the enquiry extended only as far as how the news would affect him and his plans.

  ‘No, there’s been no news.’ She knew the response would needle him. As long as there wasn’t news one way or the other, Hayworth could do nothing. She still had some power, some control.

  Hayworth patted her arm. ‘Your loyalty does you credit in theory only. But it does not serve you in practice. As I have pointed out before, your estate needs a firm hand, as do your finances. You cannot lean on Cowden’s benevolence for ever, any more than you can go on pretending your husband is out there, somewhere. It’s been seven years with no direct word from him and now there is this issue of “being lost”. To be blunt, this does not sound like a man who wants to come home and he is dragging you down with him. We can handle this as abandonment, push it through court and free you so your life can start again. We needn’t wait any longer.’

  We. He made it sound as if this was something she wanted done when nothing could be further from the truth. Hayworth was wasting no time this evening. Usually, he made his appeal towards evening’s end. But why wait? Now that the case had been made, why pretend towards subtlety? It was no secret he wanted to be that firm hand on her family estate, on her finances, and on her, if they were being blunt. He sought nothing short of marriage—an audacious claim considering she already had a husband.

  Inside Indigo Hall, the opulence of Hayworth’s East India Company fortune was on full display, a reminder to all in attendance that his star was in the ascendancy. Tobin Hayworth didn’t have a title yet, but it was only a matter of time before the Crown recognised him with a knighthood. Avaline understood marriage to a baron’s daughter such as herself would certainly smooth that path for him and, in exchange, he would smooth her financial hardships. Blandford would be restored. That message was on display everywhere she looked tonight. He led her up a wide, curving staircase done in the same polished marble of the floors and the strong, thick columns in the entrance hall. Enormous cut-crystal vases brimmed with expensive hothouse bouquets from discreetly carved niches while footmen abounded, waiting to assist with any trivial detail, dressed in autumnal velvet livery for the express purpose of this harvest ball.

  ‘All this could be yours to command, my dear. Luxury at your fingertips, your cares erased. You’d want for nothing,’ Hayworth murmured the temptation at her ear. ‘Make no mistake, tonight I am laying my world out for you so you can make an informed decision.’ He gave away his antecedents with such flagrant talk of money. The inherent subtlety of a gentleman eluded him and always would. No m
atter how well dressed or how wealthy he was, Tobin Hayworth would always be nouveau riche, a nabob to the bone.

  ‘I don’t think there’s any decision to make,’ Avaline responded with a bluntness of her own. ‘I am married, Mr Hayworth.’

  He chuckled affably at her rebuke, his mouth at her ear. Anyone watching them ascend the stairs would think this was a flirtation, not a coercion. ‘Are you? You don’t really know, but you should. I would think marriage is not something that possesses an in between. Either one is married or one is not. You cling only to technicalities now, to your detriment, when you should be preparing yourself for the worst and accept you may very well have been a widow for over a year. If you’d accepted that a year ago, you’d be out of mourning by now and this whole ordeal would be past us.’

  ‘You dare too much, Mr Hayworth.’ Avaline felt a chill move through her. The depths of his roguery were revealed increasingly to her each time they met, a sign of how confident he grew with each passing day. In truth, she could not argue with his facts. Her position on all fronts, including her continued defence of her marriage, was weak indeed and growing weaker each day there was no word about Fortis.

  ‘Don’t look so glum, my dear. You are about to be rescued,’ Hayworth said through gritted teeth before breaking into a smile as the Duchess of Cowden approached. ‘Ah, Your Grace, what a pleasure to see you.’

  The Duchess of Cowden met them at the top of the stairs, elegant and cool in lilac silk. ‘Mr Hayworth, what a splendid little party. There you are, Avaline. Come, there are people to meet.’ Without further preface, the Duchess looped an arm through hers, effectively removing her from Hayworth’s side. The Duchess had effectively insulted him, too. Did Hayworth know? His grand harvest ball was nothing to the Duchess, whose town house ballroom in London held four hundred and even then was always a crush.