Wager for a Wife

by Karen Tuft

  Karen Tuft was born with a healthy dose of curiosity about pretty much everything, so as a child she taught herself to read and explored the piano. She studied composition at BYU, graduated from the University of Utah in music theory, and was a member of Phi Kappa Phi and Pi Kappa Lambda honor societies. In addition to being an author, Karen is a wife, mom, grandma (hooray!), pianist, composer, and arranger. She likes to figure out what makes people tick, wander through museums, and travel, whether it’s by car, plane, or paperback.

  Enjoy this sneak peek of Heidi Kimball’s novel,

  coming March 2019,

  A Guarded Heart

  Herefordshire, 1816

  Eleanor gripped the banister at the head of the grand staircase. The dark wood anchored her against what waited below. She could feel the blood leeching from her fingers and imagined her hand turning the same milky white as her glove. Loosening her grip, she exhaled, smoothing her dress and her nerves in one determined motion. If people were going to gossip about her, she would hold her head up high while they did it.

  Her stomach clenched as she descended, reminding Eleanor of her coming-out. Everyone had seemed so welcoming back then, before she’d learned how quickly one could be cast aside. It felt strange and terrifying to be on the brink of reentering that world. The Warwicks were anxious to help ease her back into society, but Eleanor still felt quite alone.

  The room hushed as she came into sight. Faint whispers snaked through the line of guests—so many more people than Eleanor had been led to expect would be there.

  Miss Warwick stood at the bottom of the staircase. Her face lit up at the sight of Eleanor. “Oh, there you are! I was about to set off in search of you.”

  If not for her kind and open nature, Eleanor would have found her cousin intimidating. Miss Warwick was a dramatic beauty, elegant in her wine-red dress and with her dark hair fashionably swept up. She pulled Eleanor’s arm into her own, as if they were lifelong friends.

  Unaccustomed to this sort of camaraderie, Eleanor had no defense against it. She turned desperate eyes on Miss Warwick. “Miss Warwick, I thought—”

  “Please, I insist you call me Caroline. We are cousins, after all.”

  Eleanor took a breath, keeping her voice down. “Caroline, you said tonight would be a small gathering of neighbors. This looks like a formal country ball.”

  Caroline waved away her concern. “Darling, these are our neighbors. And what better way to introduce you to everyone?”

  Despite the reassurance, Eleanor’s insides twisted with apprehension.

  Mrs. Warwick hurried over, followed by her husband. “Oh good. There you are, Eleanor. Let us not keep our guests waiting.”

  “Good evening,” said Mr. Warwick, greeting her with a fatherly smile. “Shall we begin?”

  Caroline touched Eleanor’s elbow, turning her toward the waiting guests. “Ah, here are the Bartletts. Mr. and Mrs. Barlett, may I introduce our special guest, Miss Eleanor Hayward.”

  Heartbeat gaining speed, Eleanor forced a smile, steeling herself for her first introduction in three years.

  After thirty minutes in the receiving line Eleanor’s heart had resumed its regular rhythm, but her head spun with the effort of remembering names—a skill at which she was sorely out of practice. Most of the guests were warm and inviting, though some looked at her with too much interest, as if they were trying to remember something they’d once heard and surmise whether it was true.

  Eleanor craned her neck. Just beyond the entryway, the ballroom teemed with couples, candles flickering and music playing. The sound of chatter and gossip filtered through the room, foreign and familiar all at once.

  “Miss Hayward, this is Mrs. Sheffield,” said Caroline. She gestured toward a woman with a jeweled turban much too large for her small frame.

  Despite her diminutive stature, the woman managed to look down at Eleanor, sniffing with disdain. As the woman walked away Eleanor heard her muttering, “After what her brother did . . . It’s a disgrace.”

  Fighting against the tightness in her chest, Eleanor exhaled. The woman is just an old coward, she told herself. One who didn’t dare voice her condemnation aloud and risk ties to a wealthy family. She glanced up the staircase longingly, wishing to escape.

  The line began to wane, and Caroline bit her lip in concern. “Are you doing all right, dear? I know it’s a lot. I told Mother you wouldn’t want to be flung into a ballroom without knowing anyone, but she insisted it’s the best way. Oh, here is Mr. Rowley.” She leaned in, a smile playing on her lips. “He’s quite handsome.”

  A tall man with dark hair stepped forward, and Caroline turned to face him. “Mr. Rowley, may I introduce our special guest, Miss Hayward. Miss Hayward, Mr. Nicholas Rowley, our dear neighbor.”

  He gave a slight bow. “A pleasure. I hear you’ve come a great distance to join the Warwicks.”

  “Yes,” Eleanor admitted. “All the way from Kent. And although I’ve spent a day recovering, I find I still cringe at the thought of a carriage.”

  He laughed. “I can imagine.” His gaze turned toward the ballroom, shifting through the crowds. “And what did the Warwicks do to entice you so far from home, pray tell?” he asked, still distracted.

  Caroline answered for her. “Mother and the late Mrs. Hayward were second cousins and grew up together. So, you see, she’s family.”

  After glancing toward the ballroom one more time, Mr. Rowley extended a hand. “If it’s not too early, Miss Hayward, would you care to join me on the dance floor?”

  Caught off guard, Eleanor shot Caroline a look of distress.

  Caroline nudged her forward. “The line is all but finished,” she whispered.

  “I’d be delighted, sir,” Eleanor said, recovering her manners. Mr. Rowley seemed like a safe option. Given his air of distraction, she could likely stick out her tongue at him without fear of observation. He’d be the last to notice if she was a little distant or her dancing out of practice. For tonight, he was the perfect partner.

  He led her toward the ballroom as couples lined up for the next set. A small pit formed in Eleanor’s stomach, the earlier nerves returning. Would she even remember the formations?

  Paying close attention to the other couples, Eleanor let Mr. Rowley take the lead. To her surprise, she fell into her old, easy step quite naturally. The couples stepped forward and back and then weaved in and out of the group. Mr. Rowley smiled at her, and Eleanor surprised herself by answering with a smile of her own.

  “Was it still raining when you arrived, sir?” she asked, moving back a step, knowing he wouldn’t answer until he circled her.

  “It was.” He reached out and took her hand. “But the weather had the good manners to rein it in to a drizzle.”

  She turned to face him. “How very polite.”

  Just then he looked across the room and almost missed a step. “You’ll have to pardon me.” He gave her a sheepish smile. “When I dance it is not my feet but my mind that gets me into trouble.”

  “No harm done,” Eleanor reassured him, trying to glimpse what had captured his attention. A tall gentleman obstructed her view, and Eleanor found herself intrigued by the mystery.

  The dance ended with the requisite bows and curtsies, and Eleanor grew heady with success. Perhaps tonight wouldn’t be as bad as she’d imagined. She had the sudden whim to feed her curiosity. “Mr. Rowley, if you would be so good, do you mind escorting me to the punch table? My throat is quite parched.” The balcony doors remained closed, and the air had grown stifling. She had all but forgotten the press of a ballroom.

  “Of course, Miss Hayward. It would be my pleasure.”

  There were two punch tables, but as Eleanor suspected, they worked their way over to the one near where Mr. Rowley’s gaze had been steadily drawn. He took a drink for each of them, and Eleanor watched him as he sipped. The focus of his attention turned out to be a young woman in blue, and Eleanor could see why. She had dark, shiny hair and a face that seemed incapable
of forming a frown.

  “Have you already met the Drews?” asked Mr. Rowley. “I think I saw them come in while we were dancing. Allow me to introduce you.”

  Mr. Rowley approached a trio of women, where the young woman in blue stood. “Ladies, I’d like to introduce Miss Warwick’s special guest, Miss Hayward. Miss Hayward, meet the Drews—Miss Drew, Miss Marianne, and the youngest sister, Miss Vivien.”

  Miss Vivien smiled at Mr. Rowley, dark eyes dancing. “How good of you to introduce us, Mr. Rowley, as if you knew we had been especially wishing it!” She turned to Eleanor. “As dear friends of Caroline, we have been anxious to meet you.”

  “Oh yes.” The other two nodded.

  Miss Marianne stepped forward, her dark curly hair framing intelligent green eyes. “We wanted to let you get settled but are anxious to come visiting. I love a good ball, but it does not provide the same intimate setting as having tea together.” She put a hand on Eleanor’s arm. “I hope we’ll soon be good friends.”

  Eleanor nodded, taken aback at the thought of someone who wanted to be her friend. “I’d like that.” She took another sip of punch, feeling her cheeks flush with the heat of the room.

  “I believe the quadrille is next, Miss Vivien. Would you do me the honor?” Mr. Rowley asked.

  Miss Vivien took his outstretched hand, and Mr. Rowley beamed. Eleanor tried to hide her amusement. No doubt his eyes wouldn’t wander as he danced with her.

  “And what do you think of Herefordshire so far?” asked Miss Marianne, taking a step toward Eleanor.

  Eleanor exhaled, grateful to have been introduced to someone who put her at ease. “I haven’t seen as much as I would like, but so far I’ve been quite taken by its beauty.”

  “We think it’s lovely too, but we are a bit biased.” Miss Marianne laughed, turning toward another group. “Miss Hayward, have you met our cousin? He’s visiting from Derbyshire. Edmund, do come meet Miss Hayward. She’s just as lovely as we expected.”

  Eleanor startled when she heard the name. As he turned her heart stopped.

  Edmund Fletcher.

  “Of course, I’d be very happy to . . .” His voice trailed off as he caught sight of her.

  Eleanor blanched, and she felt all the blood drain from her face. Though she hadn’t seen him in nearly three years, how often this man had occupied her thoughts. His brown hair, slightly disheveled, his arresting blue eyes. Seeing his handsome face was like a hazy dream come to life. Eleanor feared she might spill her drink, her hands began shaking so badly.

  Edmund—Mr. Fletcher, she corrected herself—exercised better control than she did, however. He cleared his throat to cover a small noise of surprise. “Miss Hayward, is it?” he asked, bowing. He emphasized the first word, Miss, managing to ask two questions as one. He gave no other sign of recognition, and Eleanor felt a stab of pain. But what else should she expect, given the callousness he’d shown her when last they’d parted?

  “Miss Hayward, are you well? Your face is rather pale.” Miss Marianne’s mouth turned down in concern.

  Eleanor recovered enough to give an overdue curtsy. “It’s a pleasure, sir,” she said, voice catching in her throat. Her mouth had grown dry, despite the drink in her hand. “I do believe the heat is . . . I . . . I might go out for some air.”

  “Let me come with you,” Miss Marianne pressed. “Here, Edmund, take her drink. And help us over to the balcony doors. Let’s get Miss Hayward some air before dinner.”

  No, Eleanor almost said. But Miss Marianne had already taken her arm. Eleanor risked a glance back at Edmund. The look of disdain on his face caused a misstep that made her thankful for Miss Marianne’s steady arm steering her toward the doors.

  ***

  Hands clenched, Edmund shook his head as it began to sink in just whom he was following. A face he thought he’d put out of his head forever. He never imagined he and Eleanor Hayward might cross paths again. A strange tightness filled his lungs. Marianne’s introduction had caught him so off guard he hadn’t even been able to acknowledge his prior acquaintance with Eleanor. He supposed no one here would know about it, and it seemed unlikely Eleanor would mention their past association, tainted as it was. Let her make it what she would.

  As they approached the balcony he stepped around the two of them, pushing the doors open. The cool evening air was a welcome change from the oppressive heat. The rain had slowed to a gentle and irregular patter.

  Before he could give them proper warning, Eleanor brushed by him, stepping to the edge of the parapet. She took in large gulps of air, a hand at her throat. Turning, she sank back against the balcony railing. “I’m sorry to be an inconvenience.” She spoke to Marianne, pointedly avoiding Edmund’s gaze.

  Taking another deep breath, she closed her eyes. Color slowly returned to her cheeks as if the night air were an elixir that breathed new life into her.

  Edmund took the moment to study her. She was still pretty, her blonde hair lighter than he remembered, her features just as carefully sculpted. But there was something different about her, though it was difficult to pinpoint. The smile that had always lit up her face was noticeably absent, her expression more reserved. She seemed a little faded, like a garment that had been out in the sun for too long.

  His mind raced back to the first time he’d seen her, at a small dinner party hosted by the Clarks. Her laugh had carried across the room, the sound joyous and full, yet somehow still ladylike. He had instantly wished to know her.

  She was beautiful in a rather unique way, her cheekbones high, her almond-shaped eyes almost exotic. But it was her warm and unpretentious manner that had drawn him in, the happiness she exuded. For a moment he saw her as he did back then, before the warmth of the memory was broken by his recollection of their last night together.

  And now she stood directly in front of him, a different creature, so altered. And so oblivious to the raindrops that were beginning to fall with more rapidity.

  Her eyes opened to his scrutiny, and her cheeks bloomed with color. “Thank you, Mr. Fletcher,” she said curtly, “for your assistance. I won’t keep you any longer.”

  How easily she dismissed him. Just like before, he thought resentfully. Yet, however Eleanor chose to behave, he would act the part of a gentleman. “Miss Hayward, let us find you a seat inside, before you get

  thoroughly wet.”

  Marianne stepped forward, tugging at Eleanor’s shoulder. “Miss Hayward, you’ll be drenched. Come out of the rain.”

  Eleanor allowed Marianne to pull her inside. Droplets of rain trailed down her neck and cheeks, and her dress hung more limply than before, but she seemed not to notice. Edmund averted his eyes.

  They moved to a small alcove behind a pillar. There Marianne promptly demanded Edmund’s handkerchief and began wiping away the rain from Eleanor’s face and hair. “At least your face has some color,” she murmured. “You are feeling better, I hope?”

  “Yes, thank you. I hate to be such a bother.” Eleanor did not even glance in his direction.

  “Nonsense. You’re not a bother. Edmund, be a dear and escort us in to dinner.”

  His heart sank at the thought. Spending the next hour in Eleanor’s presence felt like more than he could bear. He silently cursed the timing of this visit to his cousins.

  He bowed. “Of course.”

  After serving themselves at the extensive sideboard, Edmund helped Marianne into her seat and then pulled out Eleanor’s chair, taking the open seat between them as etiquette demanded.

  “Now, my dear, tell us all about your journey,” implored Marianne. “I have never been to Kent, but I believe Edmund has. Didn’t you have a school friend you visited there several years ago?”

  “Yes,” he replied. “But my visit was relatively short, and I haven’t been back since.”

  Eleanor brushed back an errant strand of damp hair. “It’s quite far from this part of the country. And very different.”

  Edmund took a drink, setting his glass down wit
h more force than he intended. “Yes, it’s nothing like central England.” He forced back memories of an afternoon when he’d described Derbyshire for her in detail.

  Eleanor looked up. “Kent has its own beauty,” she said, her voice defensive. The hand that held her fork trembled slightly.

  “Ah yes, the white cliffs of Dover,” said Marianne with enthusiasm. “I long to visit. Is your home near there?”

  Eleanor shook her head. “No, we are a little farther inland. But my grandfather had an estate in Dover we used to visit every summer. I have fond memories of my time on the beaches there, watching the ships come in and enjoying the splendor of the cliffs.” Her expression took on a distant quality.

  “Perhaps we’ll have to visit sometime, Edmund. I daresay with Miss Hayward as our guide you might find it more enjoyable.”

  “Perhaps,” he answered, his manner stiff.

  Marianne ignored his curtness, but the pinch between her brows served as a subtle warning. “And do you still pass your summers there, Miss Hayward?”

  Eleanor set down her fork. “No, the estate was . . . sold. I haven’t been back since.”

  Edmund’s cousin began speaking with one of the guests across the table. A minute passed, an awkward silence unfurling between him and Eleanor.

  “What brings you to Herefordshire, Mr. Fletcher?” Her face appeared serene, but the twisted napkin in her lap indicated she was ill at ease.

  “I am here visiting my cousins.” He would give what civility required but saw no reason to make this easy for her.

  She exhaled, her breath almost a sigh. “I suppose neither of us realized our cousins are neighbors.”

  “No. It is unexpected, to say the least.”

  Eleanor’s chin dropped. She took a sip of water, and he could almost see her give up, her efforts at polite conversation visibly exhausted. He felt a momentary stab of regret for behaving so callously. But then old memories encroached, and anger swept in. She deserved no pity.

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