An Inconvenient Wife

by Constance Hussey

  Who knows, Westcott? For once, it might be the better!

  Chapter Ten

  England

  Anne waited for the gangway. A strange, unsettling mixture of apprehension as to what lay ahead and relief that they were about to disembark swirled inside her. She looked sideways at Westcott, who stood nearby, his arms folded across his chest and his expression unreadable. Nothing unusual in that, and she returned her gaze to the more interesting bustle of men shifting cargo into and out of the multitude of ships lining the piers. The Fentons stood in the lee of the bulkhead with the trunks and boxes. Maggie never took well to anything that floated, and they were both anxious to be off the ship and on “home ground”, as Bill said.

  The voyage had been comfortable, even with four people crammed into the Captain’s cabin. The Lady Gay was not as large as the ship which had brought Anne to Portugal, but was in good repair and almost painfully tidy. Captain Carlisle ran his ship well. Anne had liked him immediately upon their introduction; it was clear he and Nicholas were friends of long-standing.

  Nicholas in her head, but you have yet to address him as such. The whole affair seemed so surreal. You are Mrs. Blackwell and scarcely able to believe it. She half-expected to wake up and find that the simple ceremony was a dream.

  A light touch on her arm and Blackwell’s deep voice, raised to overcome the din on the docks, drew her attention. “We are free to go ashore now. One of the crew has gone ahead to bespoke a carriage to take us to the hotel. If you are ready?”

  Anne swallowed the impulse to say no, she had changed her mind, just to see his reaction, and nodded.

  “Of course. Danielle, Guy. We are going ashore now.”

  Trailed by the children, who looked even less ready to embark on this new venture than she was, Anne stepped gingerly onto the wide-planked gangway, which was not as unsteady as it appeared at first glance. Nonetheless, she kept a hand on Blackwell’s arm, which no doubt annoyed him, but she had no intention of making a spectacle of herself by tumbling head-first off the ship. Even with her vigilance, however, her foot caught on a warped board and only his quick grip on her shoulder kept her upright.

  “Take care. The boards are uneven in spots.”

  “Yes, I see that. Thank you.” Stung by the look of weary patience on his face, Anne kept her eyes down, intent on her steps and avoiding his gaze. Embarrassed and irritated, she tried to make allowances since the past week had surely been a trial to him, but it was no less difficult for her, and she was not all about with it.

  Wondering if he had even the slightest idea of how nervous she was, Anne welcomed the approach of the carriage with relief. She smiled reassuringly at the children. Danielle’s lips were clamped together in what Anne suspected was an effort to constrain her tears, and Guy clung to her hand with Bonnie clutched to his chest. Catching Maggie’s eye with a silent plea, she mouthed a “thank you” when the older woman detached the boy and put an arm around his shoulders.

  “Just a short ride now. We will soon be snug in our rooms, and you can order whatever you like for your dinner,” Anne promised them, praying it was true. And indeed, with a minimum of fuss—the man was very good at seeing all in order—they were on their way. She, and these poor uprooted children, wanted something other than ship fare to eat.

  The hotel was luxuriant, with an attentive staff that showed them to a large suite, complete with sitting room and three bedchambers. Anne requested that water be brought for bathing and a meal served in an hour. She was sorry Maggie and Bill were quartered on another floor, but knew the older couple was as weary as they were.

  “How nice. We shall do very well here.” Anne opened the door to one of the bedchambers and shooed the children in. “Choose a bed, please, and find your night clothes. As soon as you have bathed we will eat. Guy, put Bonnie’s leash on and I will ask one of the servants to take her out.” She stepped into the adjoining room long enough to shed her pelisse, gloves, and hat. She took a longing look at her own bed, and after a half-hearted attempt to tidy her hair, rejoined Guy and Danielle.

  In a short time, Anne had them fed and in their beds. Guy was half-asleep before she even kissed him good night, but Danielle’s eyes were wide with apprehension. Anne sat on the edge of the bed and smoothed back the girl’s hair. “A bit overwhelming, isn’t it? Try not to worry about it now. We will take one day at a time.” She looks so lost, poor thing, and behaving very well under the circumstances. Better than you would, were you in her shoes.

  “What will happen to us?”

  Anne summoned what she hoped was a comforting smile. Of course the girl was worried. Everything had happened so quickly and her world already turned upside down. “You will live with us, of course. Mr. Blackwell will apply to the court to make both of you his wards.” Seeing the sudden look of fear on her face, Anne folded Danielle’s hands in hers. “It simply means Mr. Blackwell will take care of you until you are old enough to take care of yourself.” She squeezed Danielle’s fingers. “You do understand you cannot return to France until the war ends?” Danielle’s nod was tentative, but her slim body relaxed and she pressed her hand against Anne’s.

  “We have no place to go there.”

  “Not now, but someday, when you are grown, you may wish to return to your country.”

  “Did you marry Mr. Blackwell for us?” she questioned in a whisper, and the child’s eyes clouded with concern.

  “Perhaps a little,” Anne answered honestly, “but there are many other reasons and you and Guy the least of them. You needn’t fear I have made any great sacrifice for you, child.”

  Seeming somewhat reassured, the girl’s eyes closed and Anne rose. Tomorrow she would tell Danielle about Mr. Blackwell’s—Nicholas’—little girl. It may make her feel better to know he has a child of his own. Deep in thought, because she also had questions about her husband’s life, Anne blew out the candles and went to her chamber to enjoy her much-delayed bath.

  She was no less exhausted than the children, and the bed was comfortable, but sleep eluded her. Too many thoughts whirled around in her head, of the days past, of the future. Blackwell’s plans to leave Portugal almost immediately had been disrupted by the difficulty in finding a Protestant minister to perform the ceremony and the delay in obtaining a special license through the Consulate. Even with the extra two days, it had been a mad scramble to pack their belongings, notify the Condessa of their departure and buy clothing for the Durants. Blackwell had insisted on new clothing for her as well, even going so far as suggesting, strongly, that she leave the black gowns for Fatima and replace her entire wardrobe. But using the excuse of being in mourning for her father—even though his death was months ago—she had retained several of the old dresses. One never knew when something might be needed, and she had been frugal for a long time.

  She was babbling. Was it babbling when the thoughts were all inside ones’ head and unspoken? It hardly mattered. The past week…had it been just a week since Nicholas appeared? Less than—five days! She had known the man for five days and now was his wife? Anne, you must be quite mad. He could be a monster who beats his wife and is cruel to animals. Not that she believed it for a minute, given his unfailing patience with Bonnie, the children, her. No matter what objections she threw at him, and she had done so several times, over the slightest thing.

  Anne sighed softly. Blackwell was so stolid a man and the impulse to ruffle that calm irresistible at times. Really, she should not, but being given orders tended to bring out her contrary nature, and he was fond of giving orders. Perhaps it might do him good to have them questioned at times. Not by you, Anne. The man has made it very clear you are to have a minimal role in his life. If you hope to make this odd marriage a success, better not to intrude too much. And you do want it to succeed. If all Nicholas could offer was companionship, so be it. Better than living your life alone or running from the Major. Besides, you have the children and little Sarah to cosset. But when she at last drifted into sleep her dreams were
invaded by a pair of changeable hazel eyes smiling at her.

  ~* * *~

  You are definitely quite mad, no doubt about it. Married to a stranger, committed to raise two children—no three children—two of whom do not speak English! Anne sank into a chair, alone for the first time since their arrival at the hotel—the first time in days, if one counted the voyage. Having people constantly close was wearying, and she welcomed these few minutes of peace. Not that anyone, with the possible exception of Guy, was anything one could call lively. A quieter group she had yet to experience. Everyone was tired and anxious about what lay ahead. She certainly was weary, which perhaps explained the sudden urge to succumb to tears. Blackwell had been even more taciturn than usual—which she hadn’t believed was possible—and once they were settled in this suite, had scarcely been seen. A very nice suite, to be sure, Anne thought morosely, but she could have done with his support these past few days. If nothing else, she had a number of questions to ask.

  Anne looked around the handsomely appointed room. She was beginning to think her husband was well to pass, since she did not feel he was one to live beyond his means. A choked laugh escaped her at the idea that he would indulge in any type of profligate behavior. A very serious man, Nicholas Blackwell, although once or twice a pleasantry or bit of humour surfaced, and she felt that beneath his stern exterior lurked a more amiable creature. But she did wish he had chosen to talk to her, she thought crossly. He must be aware that she wanted to know where his home was and what to expect when they arrived. “Hampshire” was hardly descriptive. They were already in Hampshire!

  She should go to bed, tired as she was. Danielle and Guy were sound asleep in their bedchamber; the Fentons off to their own room. Perhaps a small glass of wine might help make her sleepy. A decanter and several glasses stood on a side table, and Anne rose and poured a small amount, feeling somewhat daring. It was not that she was unaccustomed to wine, but more like helping one’s self in someone else’s house. How silly you are, Anne. It is your wine, or rather Nicholas’ wine, and if he did not intend for it to be drunk, he would not have ordered it. Very nice it was, too.

  Anne wandered around the room as she sipped at the wine. It went down with surprising ease and she poured another glass before returning to her chair. She was delaying in hopes that Nicholas might come in, and why not? He intrigued her—and attracted her, if she was honest. What lay under that façade of rigid control? And why did he feel it necessary? Put it aside, Anne. He clearly wants to have as little as possible to do with you. And don’t forget what happened the last time you suffered an attraction to a man. But she had wished for friendship, at least. Anne set the wine aside and closed her eyes to rest them for a moment.

  ~* * *~

  Blackwell came in quietly, surprised to see both lamps still lit when he’d expected no more than a candle to light him to his room, and then saw the reason for it. Anne, asleep in a chair, her wine forgotten beside her. She looked absurdly young with her cheek pillowed on the arm of the chair and her hands folded under her chin. Why hadn’t she gone to bed? He knew how tired she must be. She waited for you, Westcott, coward that you are. Staying away just put off telling her another day. Carlisle had been scathing when he voiced his opinion upon learning of Nick’s omission. “Grossly unfair” was the least of his comments and he was right, damn the man. He should have told her days ago.

  Annoyed with himself, he picked up her glass and carried it to the sideboard, loath to wake her. A few minutes more hardly mattered, and Blackwell poured a glass of wine and sat in the chair opposite. She was pretty, in an understated manner that appealed. Her hair was twisted into a long braid that curled over her shoulder; the lighter strands shimmering in the lamplight.

  How was she going to take learning she was Lady Westcott? Not well, he suspected, although she was the most patient and even-tempered female he’d ever known. Except for the stubbornness that appeared now and again. She is not going to allow you to order her life without question. Anne would need direction, however, and he suddenly realized what a disservice he had done to her. Not just taking on three children, but running a large household and at least minimally socializing with his neighbors. St. Clair’s wife would help. Juliette had faced a somewhat similar situation when she took over at Lynton Hall. A stretch, Westcott, since Juliette had experience running her grandfather’s household. Anne has lived in army quarters most of her life.

  Blackwell finished his wine and stood. The die was cast now, too late for second thoughts. Any regrets he’d keep to himself—and hope to God she had none. He touched her shoulder. “Anne? Wake up.”

  Her eyes opened and she stared at him, a bewildered look on her face.

  “You fell asleep in the chair, and I’m sure you do not want to spend the night there.”

  “No, no.” Flushing, she straightened and took his offered hand. “Thank you.”

  Blackwell pulled her to her feet, holding her until she was steady. They were very close; she was warm against him and smelled of a flowery scent. Appalled by the sudden desire to kiss her, he dropped his hands and stepped away, his voice harsh. “Go to bed, Anne.”

  Awareness touched her eyes. Her flush deepened, and she hurriedly turned aside with a murmured, “thank you,” and fled.

  Blackwell waited until the door closed behind her before turning down the lamps and picking up a candle, furious at his loss of control. Content with Sarah and his work, there was no room for intimacy in his life. He had managed fine these past years without a woman and damned if he would do otherwise now!

  Chapter Eleven

  Blackwell stepped into the room in time to intercept Anne as she prepared to go for a walk with the children. “I’d like to speak with you for a few minutes.”

  She looked at him with surprise, and no wonder since he had avoided her most of the day, and laid aside her pelisse. “If you will give me a moment to tell Danielle and Guy….”

  “That will not be necessary. The Fentons have agreed to take them.” Even to his ears, it sounded brusque to the point of rudeness. He softened his voice and stance. “Please, sit down. It is important or I would not keep you from your walk.” The puzzled frown on her face faded, replaced by a wary look that caused him to curse silently. Get it out, Westcott, before you make things worse—if possible! He did not expect this conversation to end well.

  “Very well, sir,” she said in a mild tone, as one would humour a child.

  Surprisingly, the thought amused rather than irritated, and Blackwell took the chair opposite her with less effort than expected, given his urge to pace the room. “You are more patient than I deserve.” He laid his hands on his knees and leaned forward. “I have been less than truthful with you, Anne, something that must be remedied before my people arrive with my coach and the horses for Mr. Fenton and myself.”

  “Your coach,” she echoed. “Are you trying to tell me you are a man of means? If so, I had already guessed as much.” She motioned at the elegant furnishings around them. “This establishment, the clothing you ordered for us, everything of the first stare….” She broke off at something in his expression. “There is more to it then?” A quizzical smile then and her eyes widened. “Will you not tell me, sir? I assure you that imagining what could be so dreadful is not in the least comfortable.”

  Blackwell’s mouth tightened. He was being ridiculous. Most women would be ecstatic at marrying a peer. Why did he feel she would be different?

  “Along with the wealth, I carry the title Viscount Westcott. You are a viscountess, Anne. Lady Westcott,” he told her after a long pause, in a voice devoid of any inflection at all.

  She blinked several times, a dazed expression on her face. “You are a viscount?”

  Her bewilderment changed to shock and anger when he did not deny it. “You did not feel it necessary to tell me this earlier? Before we wed?” The wounded look in her eyes cut him.

  “It never came up! At first, I felt it not important since I expected to be gone
in a few days. Then I was caught in my omission.” He stood and glared down at her. “When was I to toss it out? A casual, by the way, I just happen to be Viscount Westcott?”

  Anne hurriedly stood and matched him glare for glare. “Before the ceremony would have been a good time,” she threw at him in a scathing voice. “No wonder you wanted me to sign the marriage documents first.”

  “A courtesy,” he bit out. “My name is Nicholas Blackwell.” He let out a long breath. “There was so little time.” Then, a more quiet, “Would it have made any difference?” The answer was important to him, he realized. Cursing himself for a fool, he still waited impatiently for her reply.

  The temper eased from her face as she stared up at him. An expression he could not decipher touched her eyes before she moved aside, walked across the room, then turned to face him. “No, I still would have married you, if that is what you are asking.” She lifted her hands in a weary gesture and then dropped them to her sides. “I would have preferred honesty.”

  Her eyes held what? Reproach? Sorrow? He disliked whatever it was, and his voice was harsh with accusation. “As you were honest with me, Anne? I’ve yet to hear why you were in Portugal in the first place, nor a mention of the trouble you are in.” He hesitated at her sharp gasp, but seemed unable to halt voicing a last sarcastic question. “Would you care to tell me now, my lady?”

  White-faced, her hands visibly shaking, Anne met his mocking gaze straightly. “It seems neither of us can lay claim to honesty, my lord. I prefer, however, to discuss this at another time. Now, if you will excuse me.” The last was a choked whisper, and she disappeared into her bedchamber before he could respond.

  “Dammit to hell!” Blackwell shoved his hands into his pockets and kicked at a convenient ottoman. Which is beyond childish, Westcott, nor particularly productive of anything but a sore foot. So much for your vaunted control. No more. From now on he would keep her at a distance, as he’d intended to do all along. This forced proximity had made it difficult, but once at Westhorp, they need rarely to meet. Pleased with this determination, Blackwell stalked out of the suite, and with a shrug, discounted the niggling little feeling that avoiding her might be less easy than he would wish.