Eleanor Webster - Married For His Convenience

‘You want her to come with us?’

‘No. I thought of that, but she’s lived here for years. She needs familiar surroundings or I fear she will become more disorientated. I hoped we could arrange for a companion, if that would not be too awfully expensive. I know that your circumstances are straitened—’

‘I can arrange for a companion,’ he said.

‘And you think someone would agree to such a position? She can be difficult.’

‘Money is usually an excellent incentive,’ he said, although it had not helped him retain a governess.

‘I feel I am abandoning her, but I need...’ She paused, as though uncertain.

‘Yes?’

‘Nothing. Only that I will visit her when I can.’

‘Of course, you are at liberty to come here as often as you would like.’

They walked forward again, continuing down the tree-lined road in silence until Miss Martin spoke once more in her forthright way. ‘When were you thinking this marriage should occur?’

‘I will talk to the local vicar and arrange for a common licence. I expect we can be married Monday.’

‘Monday? This Monday?’

‘It would save the necessity of chaperons on our trip to London and allow us to expedite our plans. If that is convenient?’

‘I have nothing planned for the day,’ Miss Martin said.

He met her gaze and they both smiled in recognition of the ludicrous nature of the statement.

‘I must also ask your guardian for your hand.’

‘Yes, I suppose.’ Her face creased into a frown as though she were more worried about this than getting married within the week. ‘I do not know how she will react. Don’t come today. It is too late. She is more alert during the mornings.’

‘Very well. But do not worry. I see no reason for her to disapprove of the match. I will, by the way, set up an account at the local seamstress’s establishment so that you can purchase a wedding gown.’

‘Oh, I hadn’t thought of that. I doubt poor Miss Simpson could make a dress so quickly.’

‘Again, money is an excellent motivator.’

‘You have a jaundiced view of human nature,’ she said.

A smile tugged at his mouth. His whole life people had pussyfooted about him because of his position, money or, more recently, his temper.

‘I would say realistic as opposed to jaundiced.’

‘But people can also be caring and compassionate,’ she said softly, glancing up.

She had long lashes—dark, delicate fans which formed pretty patterns against her pale cheeks. He stiffened. His sense of ease dissipated. He should not be noticing her eyes, her lashes or that her skin had a creamy smoothness that made him want to touch it...

‘People tend to care only when it is in their interests to express the sentiment. Moreover, now we are on the subject of emotion and motivation, I must emphasise that this is a marriage based on sound business principles.’

‘Business principles?’ Her eyes widened, her brows rising with a trace of mockery.

‘Indeed, I gain a mother for my child and access to my great-aunt’s largesse and you escape the drudgery of your current life. There is no sentiment involved.’

‘And you do not feel cheated?’

‘Pardon?’

‘Most men would wish to at least like their wife.’

‘Most men have not witnessed their parents’ infidelities only to have their wife run off with a Frenchman, taking his children with her. Romance is too fragile a base for a lifelong contract.’

He clenched his jaw, wishing the words unsaid. There was a vulnerability in such anger.

They had exited into the small clearing which marked the end of the woods and the beginning of the Crawford property. By mutual consent, they paused, facing each other.

Her clear gaze met his own. ‘I will ensure that it is a marriage without sentiment. I could develop some annoying habits if that would help.’ Her lips twisted wryly, amusement glinting in her clear, candid gaze.

Again he felt his own sense of humour awaken. His smile broadened.

They should move on, but he found himself loath to break the moment and, as though of its own volition, his hand touched the smooth satin of her cheek.

Her mouth opened. He saw the sheen of moisture on her bottom lip. He heard the quick exhalation as her gaze widened as if in surprise or awareness. He stepped closer. The top of her head brushed his chin. He leaned towards her. Her hair smelled of—

What in the name of—

Jumping back, he stared at the wriggling creature in her arms.

The rabbit.

Her grip must have loosened and the animal scrambled free, landing a few feet away.

‘Orion, come back here!’ Sarah called.

It loped in the opposite direction, its left foot dragging behind it.

Sarah squatted on the ground. She pulled a carrot from her pocket. Good God, the woman would have a carrot about her person—and pushed it towards the miserable creature.

‘For goodness’ sake, you’ll get yourself filthy. I’ll catch it,’ Sebastian said.

‘Don’t frighten him and his name’s Orion.’

‘You’ve named him?’ Sebastian took the vegetable and thrust it towards the animal.

‘It makes one seem friendlier. Less likely to put him into a stew pot.’

‘An excellent place for him.’

‘Don’t say that. He’ll never come.’

‘I don’t believe Orion is conversant with the King’s English,’ Sebastian said irritably.

‘Animals know more than we think.’

‘Right. Well, Orion, you’d better come to Miss Martin promptly or you’ll end up as fox fodder.’

The rabbit hopped again in the opposite direction. Sebastian pulled off his coat with difficulty and approached the animal.

Of course Orion zigged and zagged. Sebastian threw down his coat, hoping to entrap the creature. On the second attempt, he covered the rabbit and, in a move reminiscent of schoolboy rugby, scooped it up.

‘Well done,’ Miss Martin enthused.

‘We’d best continue promptly before he gets out again,’ Sebastian said.

‘I can take him. Truly you do not need to walk me home.’

‘If I am to reclaim my coat, I do.’

‘We could unwrap him,’ she suggested.

‘Better not. I have no wish to repeat that performance.’

They continued forward. He said nothing and was glad of her silence. What had that moment been about? He hadn’t had thoughts like that since he’d met Alicia at her debut. Not even the mistresses he’d sought after his wife’s desertion had evoked such feeling. Lust, yes. But not this confused mix of desire, humour, irritation and something else he could not even identify.

And now, instead of relief that he’d solved his childcare and financial problems in one master stroke without involving a single debutantes’ ball, he felt fear—panic—and a deep, growing conviction that he’d made one hell of a mistake.

* * *

Next morning, Sebastian stood within the spartan confines of the Crawford drawing room. No fire warmed the hearth and the walls were bare except for an amateurish portrait of, he presumed, the deceased Mr Crawford. The scent of lemon wax permeated the air.

‘Lord Langford, Sarah said you would be calling and wished to speak to me?’ A crisp voice interrupted his musing and he turned, bowing.

Mrs Crawford stood tall, but her clothes hung loosely from her angular frame as though she had recently lost weight. She wore black, the shade relieved only by a silver cross. Her hair was scraped back into a bun and her skin appeared sallow, stretched taut across her cheekbones.

‘Mrs Crawford, it is delightful to meet you,’ he said.

She nodded, advancing a few steps over the threshold, but she neither sat nor invited him to sit.

‘I must ask you to be brief. It is almost time for my morning prayers.’ She spoke quickly, her left hand already touching the silver cross.