Her Convenient Husband's Return

by Eleanor Webster

  Her husband is back!

  And everything has changed...

  After Beth married her childhood friend to escape from debt, he swiftly returned to his life in London. But now Ren’s back as lord of the estate, and Beth’s heart pounds whenever he is near! She’s wary of expectations to produce an heir, for fear of passing on her blindness. But Ren’s hidden sensitivity is a surprise—could their arrangement become something much more passionate?

  “A perfect pleasant Regency.”

  —RT Book Reviews on Married for His Convenience

  “Witty, well-researched and emotionally gripping.”

  —Goodreads on No Conventional Miss

  “You are so beautiful, so perfect.” His thumb grazed her chin as his other hand slid down her spine. She stepped into his embrace.

  His kiss hardened, his need grew. His hands tightened on her waist, pulling her against him. He wanted her to feel, to know.

  His bedchamber door was ajar, opening inward. The room was dark, save for the amber glimmer from the fire. Very gently, he placed his fingers against her face, tracing her lips, her jawline, the place at the base of her neck where her pulse beat.

  “Is it dark?” she whispered.

  “Yes.”

  “You are seeing with your hands.”

  He bent, his lips following his hands. He felt her tremble. “Hmm...I think I’d like to see some more,” he muttered.

  Scooping her into his arms, he laid her on the huge four-poster bed. Her hair had loosened from its braid. It tumbled in a wild blond mass, just visible within the low light.

  Author Note

  As a writer and school psychologist, I am inspired by those who struggle with, and surmount, physical and emotional challenges. I love to depict individuals who conquer fears and obstacles to follow their dreams.

  Both Beth and Ren were inspired by this—Beth challenges the limitations of being blind and Ren explores new, controversial options for the disposal of his brother’s property.

  When I started this manuscript, I expected to learn a lot about the treatment of the blind during the Regency period. And I did. Check my website at eleanorwebsterauthor.com. But I was surprised by my growth as a writer through my increased awareness of my other senses.

  As a psychologist, “mindfulness” has become the latest buzzword and is a concept with which I struggle. I am the ultimate multitasker. I generate “to do” lists, cram my days all too full and have frequently found being “in the moment” difficult. Ideas bounce around my mind like Ping-Pong balls.

  While this is still, and will always be, an aspect of my personality, I found that the discipline required to discover Beth’s world enhanced my own awareness of sounds, sights, smells and textures. Grass against my toes, the crispness of cotton and the soft, plush feel of velvet took on added meaning.

  The experience also reminded me of the richness available to us when we consciously attempt to see the world from another’s perspective.

  I wish each of you courage and joy as you explore and grow and love.

  ELEANOR WEBSTER

  Her Convenient Husband’s Return

  Eleanor Webster loves high heels and sun, which is ironic as she lives in northern Canada, the land of snow hills and unflattering footwear. Various crafting experiences, including a nasty glue-gun episode, have proven that her creative soul is best expressed through the written word. Eleanor has a masters degree in Education and is a school psychologist. She also holds an undergraduate degree in history and loves to use her writing to explore her fascination with the past.

  Books by Eleanor Webster

  Harlequin Historical

  No Conventional Miss

  Married for His Convenience

  Her Convenient Husband’s Return

  Visit the Author Profile page at Harlequin.com.

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  To all those who choose to follow their hearts and refuse to be limited by society’s norms, their own fears or physical and emotional challenges.

  To my husband, who encouraged me when the struggle to get published overwhelmed.

  To my father-in-law for his ongoing interest and his insistence that the villain receive suitable retribution for heinous crimes committed.

  To my father, who inspires with his love of life and his continued joy and interest in the world—not to mention a daily diary spanning seventy-eight years!

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Epilogue

  Excerpt from Wedding at Rocking S Ranch by Kathryn Albright

  Prologue

  Her fingers touched the pins which impaled each fragile butterfly. She felt the cold hardness, contrasting with the spread-eagled insect wings, delicate as gossamer.

  The air smelled of dust, laden with a cloying sweetness. Despite her lack of sight, Beth could feel the Duke’s gaze on her. Goose pimples prickled on her neck and she shivered even though the chamber was warm from the crackling fire.

  ‘Ren?’ she called.

  ‘Your friend is in the other room, looking at the tiger I shot. An artistic boy, it would seem?’

  He stepped closer. ‘So, do you like the butterflies?’

  She could smell his breath, a mix of alcohol, tobacco and that odd sweetness.

  ‘I find them sad.’

  ‘That is because you cannot see,’ the Duke said. ‘If you could see, you would admire their beauty. I pin them when they are still alive. The colour of their wings stays so much brighter, I find.’

  She swallowed. Her throat felt dry. Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth as if swollen, making words difficult to form.

  ‘You are yourself very beautiful,’ he said. ‘An unusual beauty, a perfection that is so seldom seen in nature. Your face, your features have a perfect symmetry. That is why I like the butterflies.’

  She withdrew her hands from the display case, shifting abruptly and instinctively away. Stumbling, she felt a sharp corner strike her thigh.

  ‘Do be careful.’ The Duke’s hand touched her arm.

  She felt the pressure of his fingers and the smell of his breath. She pulled her arms back, hugging them tight to her body.

  ‘Ren!’ she called again.

  ‘The walls are very thick here. It is nice to know that one’s residence is well built, don’t you think?’

  She felt her breath quicken as sweat dampened her palms.

  ‘Beth?’

  Relief bubbled up in a weird mix of euphoria and panic as she heard Ren’s familiar step.

  ‘That stuffed tiger is fantastic,’ he said. ‘I’d love to see one alive. Did you want to feel it?’ He paused. She heard him step to her. ‘Beth, are you sick?’

  She nodded and he grasped her hand, his touch warm and familiar.

 
‘I—would—like—to—go—home.’ She forced the words out in a staccato rhythm, each syllable punctuated with a harsh gasp.

  ‘Do return, any time you would like,’ the Duke said.

  She held tight to Ren’s hand as they exited the room and stepped down the stairs. They said nothing as they traversed the drive and then took the shortcut through the woods and back to the familiarity of Graham Hill.

  It was only as they sat in their favourite spot, leaning against the oak’s stout trunk with her hands touching the damp velvet moss, that her breathing slowed.

  ‘Don’t let’s go there again,’ she said. ‘Ever.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Nothing.’ This was true and yet she had felt more fearful than she ever had before. More fearful than the time she had fallen off the fence into the bull’s paddock. Or when she had got lost in the woods. Or when her horse had got spooked.

  ‘He looks at you strangely.’

  ‘Yes, I feel it.’

  ‘We won’t go back,’ Ren agreed. ‘I thought he would have more animals. One tiger isn’t much.’

  ‘And butterflies.’

  Ren stood. He could never stay still for long, unless he was painting. ‘Let’s forget about that creepy old place. We’ll not return, not for a hundred tigers. What should we do now—fishing, or should we see if Mrs Bridges has baked?’

  Beth sniffed. ‘I think I can smell fresh scones.’

  ‘Your brother would say that is a scientific impossibility,’ Ren laughed.

  ‘And yours would say we should check it out anyway.’

  He took her hand and she stood. Together they scrambled across the field towards Ren’s home. In the warm sunshine and with the promise of Mrs Bridges’s fresh baking, Beth forgot about the Duke and his butterflies.

  Chapter One

  Ten years later

  ‘You should marry me.’

  ‘What? Why?’ Beth gripped the couch’s worn velvet arms as though to ground herself in a world gone mad. Or perhaps she had misheard Ren’s stark statement.

  ‘It is the best solution.’

  ‘To what exactly? That you’ve been suffering from unrequited love during the ten years of your absence?’

  ‘Of course not,’ Ren said, with typical bluntness.

  Beth felt almost reassured. At least he had not entirely taken leave of his senses.

  ‘If it is because of Father’s death, you need not do so. Jamie and I will fare well enough.’

  ‘Not if you marry the Duke, you won’t,’ Ren said.

  ‘You heard?’ Beth felt her energy sap, her spine bending. Her breath was released in a muted exhalation.

  ‘Bad news travels fast.’

  ‘I have not... He asked me to marry him, but it would be the very last resort. If I could think of no other option.’

  ‘It would be a catastrophe.’

  Did he think she did not know this? Even now, her stomach was a tight, hard knot of dread and too often she lay awake at night, clammy with sweat and fear.

  ‘It would be better than debtors’ prison,’ she said tartly. ‘Anyhow, I hope to merely sell him the land.’

  ‘I’d take prison. Besides, he’ll never buy the land. He wants the land and you.’

  ‘I cannot see why Ayrebourne would want to marry a woman like me.’

  She heard Ren’s sharp intake of breath.

  ‘As always you underestimate yourself,’ he muttered. ‘The Duke is a collector. He likes beautiful things. You are exquisitely beautiful.’

  ‘I—’ She touched her hands to her face. People had always told her that she had an ephemeral, other-worldly beauty. Indeed, she had traced and retraced her features, pressing her fingers along her jawbone and the outline of her cheeks to find some difference between her own and the faces of others.

  She dropped her hands. ‘How did you learn about this anyway?’

  ‘Jamie.’

  ‘Jamie? You have seen Jamie already?’

  ‘Not here. In London. Gambling.’ Ren spoke in a flat, even tone.

  ‘Jamie gambling?’ Her hand tightened, reflexively balling the cloth of her dress in her fist. ‘I mean—he can’t—he hardly even socialises.’

  ‘I found him at a gambling house. I removed him, of course, before much harm was done.’

  ‘He hates London. When was he even in London?’

  ‘Last weekend.’

  ‘He said he was going to sell two horses at Horbury Mews.’

  ‘Apparently, he took a less-than-direct route,’ Ren said.

  Beth’s thoughts whirled, bouncing around her mind, quick and panicked. It did not make sense. Jamie was so...so entirely different than Father. Where Father had been glib, Jamie spoke either in monosyllables or else was mired in pedantic detail and scientific hypothesis.

  ‘But why? Why would he do that? He knows only too well the harm gambling can do.’

  ‘I presume he hopes his facility with numbers will enable him to be more successful than your father.’

  ‘Except his inability with people will make him more disastrous.’

  For a moment she was silent. Then she stood, rousing herself with a conscious effort, keeping her hand on the back of her chair to orientate herself. This was not Ren’s problem. She had not seen him for years and he had no need to make some heroic sacrifice for her or her family.

  ‘Thank you for telling me about Jamie. I will speak to him,’ she said stiffly.

  ‘Logic seldom wins against desperation.’

  ‘He has no reason to be desperate.’

  ‘He loves you and he loves this land. He’d hate to see you married to the Duke and he’d hate to sell as much as a blade of grass. He was cataloguing seeds when he was three.’

  ‘Seven,’ she corrected. ‘He was cataloguing seeds when he was seven. But I will determine another solution.’

  ‘I have presented you with another solution.’

  ‘Marriage? To you?’

  ‘I am not the devil incarnate, only a close relative.’

  She released the chair, taking the four steps to the window, as though physical distance might serve to clear her thoughts. She could feel his presence. Even without sight, she was aware of his height, the deep timbre of his voice, the smell of hay and soap, now tinged with tobacco. There was a disorienting mix of familiarity and new strangeness. He was both the boy she had once known and this stranger who had just now bounded back into her life.

  Beth wished she could touch his face. She wanted to read his features, as she would have done once without thought, an action as natural as breathing.

  ‘You do not come here for ten years and now turn up with a—a marriage proposal. How would marriage even help? It would not enable us to pay off Father’s debt. I already suggested to your brother that he buy the land, but he is as poor as we are.’

  Ren laughed in a manner devoid of humour. ‘In contrast to my brother, I am a veritable Croesus. And you need not fear, I know you require independence and dislike the concept of marriage. This will be a marriage in name only.’

  ‘But why?’ she asked, then flushed, turning. ‘I did not mean—I mean, why marry me? Could you not just buy the land or loan us the money if you are so rich and eager to save us?’

  She heard the rustle of cloth as though Ren had shrugged and could almost feel his lips curl in a derisive smile. ‘It would provide you with a guardian.’

  ‘I do not need a guardian.’

  ‘You are not yet twenty-one.’

  ‘I have Jamie.’

  ‘He is not yet twenty. Besides, he is no match for Ayrebourne. Marriage to me would make any marriage to the Duke impossible.’ He paused. ‘You were my best friend, you know.’

  Beth rubbed her fingers against the smooth finish of the painted sill, while leaning her forehead a
gainst the pane. Her eyes stung with the flood of memories: long afternoons beside the brook, winter walks with the snow crisply crunching under their feet and long tramps through whistling windy days in fall.

  ‘Childhood friendship does not require this level of sacrifice. You and I haven’t spoken in years.’

  For a moment he did not respond, but when he did, something in his voice sent a nervous tingling through her body making her breath uneven.

  ‘You know with us that doesn’t matter.’

  She felt it, that intangible connection, that closeness that was rooted in childhood, but it had also changed. She heard him shift. She heard his breath quicken.

  She bit her lip. ‘Why didn’t you write or come back or visit?’

  There was a pause. She heard his discomfort, the intake of his breath and the movement of his clothes.

  ‘I couldn’t.’

  ‘It doesn’t take much. You inhale and speak. You pick up a pen or...or hire a horse.’

  ‘You’ll just have to believe me.’

  ‘And now you expect me to marry you after all these years?’

  ‘I expect nothing. I am merely offering a preferable alternative to the Duke,’ he said, his voice now hard and clipped.

  She shivered. Few things frightened her, but the Duke was one of them. Marriage to him would destroy her. Even if she avoided that and he agreed to buy the land, it was an unpleasant concept and would give him even more reason to linger in the village or woods. She rubbed her arms. Goose pimples prickled the skin. She hated the thought of him owning the land on her own doorstep. Already, she felt watched. And sometimes, as she walked through the woods, she’d smell that odd sweet fragrance that seemed to emanate from him.

  The Duke would use everything against her: her sex, her youth, her poverty, her sightless eyes, her wonderfully odd brother.

  Ren stepped closer to her. She felt his breath on her neck, his tall presence behind her and his hand on her own. Warmth filled her, which was both comfortable and uncomfortable. The urge for distance and separation lessened so that, for an impulsive, crazy moment, she wanted only to lean against him and to feel his strength.