Married For His Convenience

He was keenly aware of her proximity, the faint soapy smell of her hair, the long dark lashes outlining her grey-blue eyes and the oddly endearing way she bit one pink lip.

‘I—um—’ She swallowed. He watched the movement in her throat. ‘There’s water for your horse inside.’

Everything sprang to sudden life.

‘Thank you.’

He followed her into the dimness of the barn’s interior. Straw covered the floor and the air felt dusty and smelled of hay and animals.

At almost the same moment, a loud, boyish whistle broke through the quiet and Kit Eavensham strode into the barn from the opposite entrance. He drew to a halt immediately upon seeing Miss Martin.

‘I knew it,’ he said. ‘As soon as the hunt proved unsuccessful I knew you were involved. When will you stop such nonsense?’

‘Likely never. That is one advantage of my circumstances. Society expects little of me.’

‘But it is not sensible. I mean, it was fine when we were young and rebellious, but you can’t go round saving foxes all your life. Besides, you look like an undersized drowned rat.’

‘I slipped.’

‘But was fished out quite handily.’ Sebastian stepped forward to make Kit aware of his presence.

Kit’s mouth dropped to form a round ‘O’.

‘Morning, Eavensham,’ Sebastian drawled.

‘Good Lord, Langford helped you? Do you know who he is?’

‘We were introduced. Last night, if you recall,’ Miss Martin said in composed tones.

‘No, I mean—did you know—I mean—well, Langford is well, good ton. Though he hasn’t been about much this past year. Still, a diamond of the first water, don’t you know.’

‘Then I am honoured—Oh!’ She gasped, her gaze drawn to the window. ‘Mrs Crawford is coming. Kit, you must not let her see you or Langford, please. You can lecture me later.’

Then, before Sebastian could say goodbye or even complete his bow, Miss Martin had disappeared through the barn door, letting it rattle shut behind her.

Stepping around the basket which he had placed on the floor, Sebastian went to a small, dirty window. Through its pane, Sebastian could see an older woman approach the barn from a square, stone house set some fifty yards back. She was gaunt, her grey hair pulled tightly from her face and her dark clothes cut for economy, not fashion. Her movements had a nervous jerkiness.

‘Mrs Crawford, I presume?’ he said softly to Kit who had followed to the window.

‘Yes.’

‘She looks strict.’

‘And religious. Extremely so. I mean, she always has been somewhat.’ Kit shrugged.

‘You’ve known her long?’

‘Mrs Crawford. Unfortunately.’

‘No, Miss Martin.’

‘Since she came to live here from London. She is a couple of years older than I am and Mother did not want me to get any romantic notions since she is as poor as a church mouse. Anyhow, my parents decided that the best way to avoid this was to ensure that we spent considerable time together, you know, like brother and sister. It worked, actually.’

‘Practical woman, your mother.’

‘Lucky for Miss Martin or she would have starved, most like. She is quite the zealot.’

‘Miss Martin?’

‘No, no. Mrs Crawford. She wishes to save money for the heathen. Knits socks for them. A dreadful lot of socks. Although the heathen always seem to come from these dashed hot countries. Can’t see ’em needing socks.’

‘Which explains Miss Martin’s lack of fashion.’

‘Lack of fashion? She’s lucky if she gets a decent meal. Not sure she’s quite all there. Mrs Crawford, I mean. Miss Martin is all there, although a tad eccentric. But jolly. Tough life for a girl.’

Turning back to the window, Sebastian watched Miss Martin approach the older woman, taking her arm and leading her towards the house. It struck him as a gentle gesture.

‘Well, I’d best get back home before Father notices my absence. Just wanted to make certain that Miss Martin hadn’t been bitten or drowned. Thought she’d have given up such nonsense.’ Kit sauntered towards the barn door. ‘I think the coast’s clear. You coming?’

‘In a moment.’

‘Righto.’

Sebastian heard the barn door shut and Kit’s boots tap sharply on the cobbles.

Jester whinnied, eager to move again, but Sebastian remained, gazing through the window, his fingers drumming on the sill. He followed the two women’s progress, watching as Miss Martin supported her elderly relative, her head bent as though in conversation.

‘Gracious,’ Sebastian muttered to no one in particular. His fingers stilled. ‘I wonder.’

* * *

Sarah took Mrs Crawford’s hand. It felt cold. Her guardian had lost weight and Sarah could feel the movement of the bones beneath the dry, parchment skin.

‘Come,’ she said gently, rubbing the thin fingers. ‘We must get you inside. You’re chilled.’

Mrs Crawford glanced about, her angular face furrowed. ‘Molly?’ she said. ‘Molly, it is good of you to come.’

‘Of course I came,’ Sarah said.

Molly had been Mrs Crawford’s sister. She’d died twenty years earlier, but Sarah never corrected her guardian when these moments of confusion hit.

‘’Tis good to see you, Molly. You’re wet,’ she said as if only now noticing Sarah’s sodden clothes.

‘A minor mishap, but let us visit in the warmth.’ Sarah pushed open the front door. It creaked as they walked into the hall, dreary after the sunshine outside.

Warm was never an accurate description of the Crawford house, and had never been, not even prior to Mr Crawford’s death and Mrs Crawford’s fanatical economy.

To Sarah, its interior had a frigid stillness as though time had stopped and all within had ceased to live. Like Sleeping Beauty, but with no happy ending. Oh, how she and Charlotte had loved fairy tales.

She smiled sadly and then refocused her attention on the drab hall. ‘Let’s go into the drawing room where we can sit,’ she said gently.

Mrs Crawford allowed herself to be drawn forward. ‘But no fires.’ Her face puckered, her hands fluttering like fragile, useless birds.

‘No fires. Now sit here and I’ll fetch a blanket.’ Sarah helped her guardian to sit, reaching for a crocheted blanket, fuzzy with wear.

Mrs Crawford huddled in the chair but, after a second, her expression cleared and her gaze sharpened. ‘You’re not Molly.’

‘I’m Sarah.’

‘I knew that. Have you said your morning prayers? You have much for which you must repent.’ Mrs Crawford always sounded cross after moments of confusion. Unfortunately such moments were all too frequent.

‘Yes.’

‘You must save yourself from the eternal damnation of your parenthood—a child conceived out of wedlock. And I must help you. It is my duty.’ Mrs Crawford’s voice rose again, her tone fractious.

‘You have done your duty admirably. How about a cup of tea?’ Sarah looked at the clock. She must not forget the rabbit or Hudson would have him skinned and in the pot.

Plus she still needed to change her dress and collect eggs. Hopefully, Portia and Cleopatra had been milked by the lad up the lane.

‘The dinner party at Eavensham. It was not sinful?’ Mrs Crawford asked after a moment.

Sarah grinned. ‘I do not think Lady Eavensham runs to sinful parties.’

‘And you did not enjoy it overly much?’

‘I made certain I was only moderately content.’

‘And no gentlemen made any improper advances?’

‘At six and twenty, such an event is highly unlikely. Now let me put the kettle on and make you a little luncheon.’ Sarah stood, moving briskly.

‘Do not waste food.’

‘I will use the bare minimum to keep body and soul together.’

After settling Mrs Crawford, Sarah entered the kitchen’s warmth, which still smelled pleasantly of the fresh bread Mrs Tuttle, their only domestic, had made earlier.

With the ease of familiarity, Sarah filled the kettle, hanging it on the arm iron to boil before slicing the bread and spreading it with Cleopatra’s creamy butter.

Her knife scraped the pot. She’d have to make more soon. Always so much to do... Plus she’d accomplished nothing yesterday. Not that yesterday had been wasted. Sarah smiled—just hearing about London thrilled her as though being in earshot of the words ‘Westminster’ and ‘Regent’s Square’ made finding her sister more possible.

One day, she promised herself. One day she would get to London and look for Charlotte, the half-sister who had been more of a mother to her than the woman who had given birth to them both.

And once in London, she would scour every street, knock on every door and pray that she was not too late.

* * *

Next morning, Sarah rose early, rushed through breakfast and hurried to feed the chickens in the hopes of escaping to Eavensham to collect the rabbit and her valise.

Yesterday had proved too busy despite her best efforts and she just had to hope that Eavensham’s kitchen staff would have looked after the creature. Likely they would. They had an affection for her from the days when she and Kit had requested treats and other edibles.

‘Miss! Miss!’ Mrs Tuttle’s shrieks interrupted her only seconds after she had started to scatter seed.

‘What? Is Mrs Crawford ill?’ Sarah threw the rest of the grain at the birds and hurried towards the house where Mrs Tuttle stood at the kitchen entrance, her pink face puce as she flapped her arms with agitation.

‘What is it?’

‘Miss Sarah, Miss Sarah, you have a visitor.’

Sarah stopped abruptly. ‘A visitor? Is that all? I thought something dreadful had happened. Is it Mr Kit?’

‘It ain’t Mr Kit.’

Sarah had reached the door now. ‘The vicar?’

‘It ain’t the vicar neither.’

‘Gracious, who is it? Or must I play a guessing game?’

‘’Tis Lord Langford.’

‘His lordship? Why?’ Her voice squeaked and she frowned.

‘I’m sure I don’t know, miss,’ Mrs Tuttle said, her eyes round.

‘You are certain he did not ask for Mrs Crawford?’

‘Yourself, miss. Most specific, he was.’

‘Where is Mrs Crawford anyway?’ Sarah asked, walking into the kitchen.

‘Resting. She felt tired and was confused after breakfast. Should I wake her?’

Sarah paused as she cleaned her hands under the chill water of the kitchen pump. Mrs Crawford would not approve of her meeting a gentleman without a chaperon. At the same time, Sarah had no wish for Mrs Crawford to know about yesterday’s events. Doubtless she would see an acquaintance with his lordship as either the influence of evil or an inherited flaw from her mother.

‘Don’t wake her. I will see him,’ Sarah said with decision.

‘Very good, miss. But what do you think he wants?’

‘I haven’t the faintest idea and can think of only one way to find out,’ Sarah said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear and walking purposefully towards the drawing-room door.

* * *

Lord Langford had not had a pleasant day following the incident at the stream. His host was in a bad mood, likely brought about by the unsatisfactory hunt. Lady Eavensham’s foot hurt and she had taken to her bed while the young ladies kept giggling and engaging him in conversation.

This would not have been such an irritation if he had not needed solitude to think. The idea, when it had first struck him, had seemed ludicrous, the far-fetched scheme of a desperate man.

And yet he could not reject it out of hand. He remembered those few words of fluent French he’d overheard and, more importantly, Miss Martin’s kindness to her elderly guardian.

The idea would, he thought, solve a multitude of problems in an efficient manner. He liked efficiency. Indeed, in the management of his estate, he would never dismiss such a practical solution without consideration. Surely, his personal affairs deserved the same attention.

And so he had listened to Lady Eavensham’s vapid guests while thoughts whirled and he veered between the alternating conclusions that he was mad and eminently sensible.

He had retired, slept poorly, only to have the problem brought to a head the next morning with Hudson’s arrival in the library.

‘A message, milord,’ Hudson announced.

Sebastian took it. As always, he was conscious of that shiver of apprehension, excitement, hope...despair.

It was from his housekeeper. He recognised the script. He scanned the lines which were businesslike and succinct.

The governess had quit.

‘Miss Elizabeth has taken to remaining on her rocking horse for hours. Indeed, it is hard to make her stop even for meals and Miss Grosvenor could not endure the constant creaking of the rockers combined with Miss Elizabeth’s silence.’

Damn. Sebastian crumpled the note, throwing it towards the hearth where it ignited. He watched the flame lick the paper’s edge, the fire growing in momentary strength before subsiding to ash.

Damn and blast. Did not one governess have any backbone or staying power? Did none of these women have the skills necessary to return Elizabeth to some semblance of normality?

And it was then, standing in Lord Eavensham’s library and staring at the dying flame, that had Sebastian decided.

* * *

Sarah found Lord Langford in the drawing room standing beside the unlit hearth. Although not much taller than Kit, he dominated the room and dwarfed the shabby furniture in a way her childhood friend could not.

It was not only his physical size, but his presence and the cold, controlled force of his personality.

Like a volcano under snow.

‘Lord Langford.’ She stepped towards him.

‘Good morning, Miss Martin.’ He made his bow.

‘Did you wish to see me? Or perhaps Mrs Tuttle misunderstood. I could fetch Mrs Crawford.’

‘Indeed, no. I expressly asked for you.’ He spoke in a crisp, authoritative tone.

‘Oh.’ A shiver of nervousness tingled through her. ‘Pray be seated.’

They both sat. Sarah felt stiff, as if her arms and legs had lost fluidity. It had been easier to talk to him while rescuing Albert, as though the very oddness of their occupation had made social conventions unnecessary.

She rubbed her hands together. They made a chafing sandpaper sound, emphasising the chill silence of the room.

‘May I offer you refreshment?’ she asked belatedly.

‘No, thank you. Indeed, I will get straight to the point.’

‘Please do.’ She exhaled with relief. ‘I much prefer blunt speech.’

He straightened his shoulders and shifted to face her more squarely as though putting his mind to an unpleasant task.

‘Miss Martin, I need—May I have the honour of your hand in marriage?’

Chapter Four

Sarah gaped. Her jaw hung loose. Her eyes widened and her breath left her body in a winded gasp.

For a moment, her brain could not make sense of his words as though he had spoken German or another foreign tongue.

Then she understood.

Anger flashed through her, hot and powerful. She bounded to her feet, her cheeks heated and her hands balled with fury. ‘My lord, I am not without pride and I will not allow you to make sport of me.’

He stood also. ‘Miss Martin, I am quite serious and never make sport.’

She stilled. ‘Then you are mad.’

‘I do not believe so. Lunacy does not run in my family.’ He paused, his expression suddenly bleak. ‘I hope.’

‘You expect me to believe that you are serious?’

‘I seldom have expectations, but I assure you that I am serious,’ he said.

She stared at him, taking in his even features, the dark grey eyes flecked with green, the dark sweep of hair across his forehead and the firm jaw. There was nothing about him to hint at madness or jest.

Turning, she rubbed her fingers along the mantel, studying their outline against the wood’s grain as she tried to marshal her thoughts.

The clock ticked.

‘If you are neither mad nor making sport of me,’ she said at length, ‘you must have a reason.’

‘I need someone to look after Elizabeth.’

‘For which one employs a governess.’

‘They have a habit of leaving,’ he said.

‘Marriage seems a somewhat extreme action to ensure continuity of staff.’

‘It does,’ he said.

She raised her brows.

‘My daughter is...quiet.’

‘A quality generally admired in children.’

He did not answer for a moment and when he did, his words were slow as though reluctantly drawn from him. ‘She hasn’t spoken a word in six months. They find Elizabeth’s silence unnerving. She also rocks her body and, according to my housekeeper, has now taken to riding on the rocking horse in a compulsive manner.’

‘I am sorry. Is she ill?’

‘I have two children,’ he answered, his voice still flat and drained of emotion. ‘Their mother chose to leave for France with them and her lover. She was subsequently executed.’

‘How awful.’

‘I presume it was for her.’

Sarah shivered at the detached tone.

‘Both children were held for ransom. I paid and my daughter, Elizabeth, was returned to me.’

‘And your son?’

‘I don’t know.’ A muscle rippled in his cheek.

Instinctively Sarah shifted towards him; the stark loneliness of his grief touched her. ‘I’m sorry.’

He nodded. They fell quiet.

She broke the silence tentatively. ‘But I still do not see why marrying me would help.’

He shrugged. ‘It probably won’t. But there is something about you—’ He paused before stating in a firmer tone, ‘You speak French.’

‘Yes. My mother taught me, but why would it matter?’

‘Elizabeth has been away from England for two years and I presume whoever cared for her spoke French.’

‘And you thought she might be more conversant in that language.’

He shrugged. ‘I don’t know. She has always been oddly silent.’

He paused, before continuing.

‘As well, my great-aunt Clara demands that I marry.’

‘What?’

‘My elderly aunt, who is also extremely wealthy, wants me to marry,’ he said flatly.

‘Why on earth would she want you to marry me?’

‘I doubt she would choose you, but she insists that I marry someone.’

‘But why?’

‘She feels it would be better for Elizabeth and that it would help me to rally, to focus on my surviving child and give up on my son.’

‘She would have you stop searching for her own nephew?’

‘She feels the case is hopeless,’ he said, his voice raw with pain. ‘And wants me to look towards the future and rebuild my life.’

‘I’m sorry,’ she said inadequately. The silence fell again.

She broke it with an effort. ‘But if you are so opposed to marriage, why even agree to your aunt’s request?’

‘The crass matter of finances. Between the ransom and the ongoing search for Edwin, my financial resources are not as I would like and I will not cripple my tenants for my own purpose.’

‘So you chose me to comply, but in a way bound to anger your aunt?’

‘No...’ He paused, drumming his fingers against the mantel. ‘I am not so petty. Nor am I cruel. And it would be cruel to tie a young girl with prospects to one such as myself.’

The clock struck the hour.

‘But you would tie me?’ she asked into the silence.

‘It would seem that your life is difficult at present.’

‘And I have nothing to lose.’ It stung despite its truth. ‘You did not consider that I, too, might have no interest in marriage?’

‘Every woman has an interest in marriage.’

‘I—’ She frowned, thinking of Mr and Mrs Crawford’s union and Lord and Lady Eavensham’s for that matter. ‘In my experience, marriage hardly seems conducive to happiness.’

‘I would concur but, in your case, it might be preferable to living in a cold, bare house with an elderly and perhaps unbalanced recluse.’

‘I...’ She paused, angered by the blunt words. ‘I would not marry anyone merely to improve my circumstance.’

‘How unusual.’

She hated the switch to cold sarcasm more than his earlier bluntness.

‘However, the offer remains if you wish to consider it,’ he said.

It was crazy. One could not marry a man one had only met forty-eight hours earlier, a man one didn’t even like never mind love. Indeed, a man who seemed bitter and angry from his own admission. But—

‘Where would we live?’

‘London for some of the time and—’

But Sarah was no longer listening.

She could think of only two things.

London.

And Charlotte.

Chapter Five

Langford left. Sarah heard his brisk stride along the passage, followed by the whine of the front door and the solid clunk as it closed.

She exhaled. Pressing her face against the window’s cool pane, she watched as he mounted his horse; his hair so dark it looked black, his movements fluid and his figure innately masculine with broad shoulders and narrow hips.

She should have seen him out, she supposed. Or called Mrs Tuttle.

But the importance of social convention had been dwarfed beside the stark reality that this man, this peer, this Earl, had asked her, Miss Sarah Martin, to be his bride. It seemed unbelievable. It was unbelievable.

Could Kit have engineered the whole thing as a hoax? No, Kit was high-spirited, but never cruel. Besides, Lord Langford was not the sort to play the fool in someone else’s joke.

No, the Earl had proposed and Sarah had no alternative but to believe the offer was real, however prosaic his motivation.

She glanced towards the mantel where her father, the late Mr Crawford, looked down at her. He’d been dead five years now. They’d never had a close relationship. He had been many years her mother’s senior and had seemed more like an austere visitor than relation whenever he had come to the small London house where they’d lived.

But he had provided for her following her mother’s death, when the occupants of the tiny house were disbanded. Charlotte had not been so lucky. She didn’t even know her father’s name and had had nowhere—

‘Sarah? Is it luncheon soon?’

Sarah jumped as Mrs Crawford pushed open the door, her voice querulous.

‘No. Yes. I’m sorry.’

‘You appear to be daydreaming. I hope that socialising the other night did not put frivolous ideas into your head. Daydreaming interferes with serious thought.’

Sarah smiled wanly. ‘I will keep my thoughts serious.’

‘Sometimes I worry that I have failed in my rearing of you and that your natural disposition might yet win out.’

‘Mrs Crawford, you have done everything possible to instruct me in goodness and quell any leaning towards frivolity,’ Sarah said. ‘Now, sit and I will fetch something to eat and some tea.’

‘A little tea, although we must be frugal,’ Mrs Crawford said as she suffered herself to be led to the chair.

‘Of course.’

‘Did we have a visitor? I heard voices.’

Sarah paused, her hand tightening against the threadbare back of the chair. A glib reply died on her lips. Honesty had been too strongly instilled.

‘Yes, it was Lord Langford. He is visiting at Eavensham,’ she said.

‘A gentleman. I should have been called. It is not seemly that you entertain him alone. We do not wish people to think you sinful. And why would he visit you? This Lord Langford?’

‘He was on an errand for Lady Eavensham.’ Honesty only went so far.

Mrs Crawford nodded, a look of childlike confusion clouding her face.

‘I’ll get the tea. You’ll be all right for the moment?’ Sarah asked.

‘I am not a child.’

‘I know.’ Impulsively, Sarah bent and pressed a kiss against the older woman’s forehead. Mrs Crawford smelled of carbolic soap and her hair was sparse with the dryness of the elderly.

‘Good gracious. What was that for? I do not hold with emotional displays.’

‘Merely a thank you,’ Sarah said.

‘Humph, a hot cup of tea would suffice,’ Mrs Crawford replied, with a return to lucidity.

‘Which I will provide immediately.’