His Makeshift Wife. Anne Ashley
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back into the fold, as it were. And she evidently considered Miss Briony Winters equal to the task. The chit must have qualities I have yet to unearth!’
A look of sympathy flickered over the older man’s face. ‘She ain’t ill favoured, is she, sir?’
‘Oh, no. Quite the opposite, in fact!’ Luke had little difficulty in conjuring up a face boasting, surprisingly enough, both character and loveliness in equal measure. ‘And in the normal course of events Miss Winters would have been most acceptable as a future bride. She’s pleasing in both face and form. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with her birth. Her mother came from old and respected wealthy-yeoman stock. Sadly, the family disowned the woman, I seem to recall, soon after she’d married an impoverished baron’s younger son, a ne’er-do-well whose excesses killed him at a young age. When Briony’s mother passed away a few years later, my aunt took the child into her household. She quickly grew to love her goddaughter and I believe the affection was reciprocated. They were certainly very happy together. But whether Miss Winters can be trusted is a different matter entirely.’
He took a moment to consider other difficulties ahead. ‘I expect, too, she’s headstrong. I remember, now, she was somewhat wayward as a child. Unfortunately I’m not in the position to attempt to bridle her ways, at least not until after the knot is tied. And then I suspect I’ll need to tread very warily until I’ve got the chit’s full measure.’
‘But will she wed, do you suppose, sir?’
‘I’m far from certain, Ben,’ he admitted. ‘I’ve dangled the proverbial carrot before the donkey … or should I say jenny. All I can hope is that the treat offered is tempting enough. If not, I’m damned if I know what course of action to take that will not arouse suspicion!’
Later that same afternoon Briony ventured into the Manor’s finest bedchamber. Even though her own room was next door, she had not once attempted to gain entry, not once since the morning she had come in by way of the communicating door, only to discover her beloved godmother cold and lifeless in the bed.
Clearly Janet had been in the room. The bed had been freshly made with clean lacy pillows and frilly-edged bedcovers, all neatly in place. There wasn’t a speck of dust to be seen anywhere, testament to the housekeeper’s high standards and devotion to her late mistress. In fact, it looked exactly how it had always looked—the neat and elegantly furnished bedchamber of a middle-aged lady of means.
Absently Briony sat herself at the dressing table and pulled open the drawer containing some of her late godmother’s jewellery. Taking out the wooden box, she flicked open its lid to discover several sparkling trinkets, each of which she clearly recalled her godmother wearing on some occasion or other. How much they were worth, she had no notion. The pearls were fine and possibly very expensive. But it wasn’t their worth. Money wasn’t important. It was the sentimental value that really mattered.
For a moment temptation almost overcame her. Hand poised over the open box, she knew it would be a simple matter to extract a few pieces and hide them in her room—keepsakes, reminders of someone whom she had loved so dearly. After all, no one would know, she reasoned. As far as she was aware Mr Pettigrew had never come to the house to take an inventory of the valuables. Surely he wouldn’t know if a few items of jewellery were missing? And neither would Luke Kingsley, come to that. Only Janet would know for sure and she would never betray her.
The instant the last thought had passed through her mind Briony closed the box with a snap and put it back in the drawer, thereby placing temptation out of sight. No, she couldn’t involve Janet in such a deception, motivated though it was by love and not financial gain. No, it wasn’t right. Nor was it fair to help herself to valuables that Luke Kingsley had as much right to have. But if she were to accede to his proposal …?
For perhaps the hundredth time since his visit that morning, the idea of doing precisely that filtered through her mind, only to be dismissed a moment later as unthinkable. Yet, she couldn’t deny, as she had wandered about the house that afternoon, visiting each and every room, the temptation to become the mistress of such a fine house, where she had been so happy, had been strong. She would have every right to the jewellery then, all of it, she reminded herself. Moreover, for the first time in her life she would be able to come and go as she pleased. Married women enjoyed far more freedoms, and so would she, even though the marriage would be one of convenience only.
Well, there was no denying it might prove to be highly convenient for her. If Luke Kingsley was a man of his word the marriage would be annulled after the specified period, then she could continue living at the Manor, its mistress and its sole owner.
But could Luke Kingsley be trusted to keep his word? That was the burning question. After all, she had never known the man, and the boy hardly at all. Moreover, although her childhood memories didn’t precisely redound to his credit, she was obliged to acknowledge that for a youth of eighteen, which he had been when first she had arrived at the house, a twelve-year-old girl was hardly an ideal companion. Troubled though she was, she couldn’t resist smiling as this thought crossed her mind. Why, he must have found her a confounded nuisance, forever trailing after him whenever he spent his holidays at the Manor!
Then, of course, he had gone up to Oxford, she reminded herself, and she had seen hardly anything of him at all. Afterwards the army had beckoned, and he had been away from these shores for several years fighting in Portugal and Spain—firstly, under the command of Sir John Moore, and then Wellesley. Not once since his return, after hearing of his cousin’s death and becoming heir to the viscountcy, had he paid a visit to the Manor, until today. If the gossips were to be believed, he enjoyed all the pleasures the capital had to offer a well-heeled bachelor and, apart from the occasional visit to the ancestral pile in Kent, he was happy to live all year round in the metropolis.
She shook her head. No, none of it made any sense at all. Why this sudden desire to reside here now? Moreover, surely if he had had any genuine attachment to the place he wouldn’t be so willing to forfeit his half-share? Furthermore, it was absurd to suppose he’d taken one look at her and fallen head over heels in love. No, ridiculous! But, unless he was a complete simpleton, and she didn’t suppose for a moment he was, there had to be some very good reason for his wanting to comply with his aunt’s will. So what was it about Dorsetshire that had instigated the desire to rusticate in the county for a period of time? Whatever it was, it must be vastly important if he was willing to forfeit his bachelorhood.
Unable to come up with any logical explanation, Briony wandered across to the escritoire in the corner of the room and sat herself down. Throughout her life Lady Ashworth had been an avid letter writer. Briony had seen her sitting before the fine piece of French furniture on countless occasions, writing missives to her relatives and numerous friends.
Sooner rather than later she and Luke Kingsley were going to have to get together in order to sort through Lady Lavinia’s personal effects, she told herself, after opening one of the drawers to discover piles of letters, neatly tied together with lengths of ribbon. Picking out one of the bundles at random, she noted the direction was written in a childish scrawl. They were from her nephew, written when Luke had been away at school. She quickly discovered another bundle penned by him when up at Oxford and another pile sent during his years in the army.
Curiosity got the better of her and she began to read them in strict chronological order. The light was fading fast by the time she was reading the very last letter he had sent to his aunt from London dated a month before her death.
… I hope during your impromptu visit to the capital late last year I succeeded in setting your mind at rest, that you no longer believe everything the gossipmongers circulate about me. You could do no better than trust your instincts, Aunt Lavinia, and be sure I shall never bring dishonour to the proud name I bear …
An odd thing to have written to his aunt, Briony decided. Evidently Lady Ashworth had been concerned about the numerous rumours circulating with regard to her nephew—his excessive gambling, not to mention his womanising. That was possibly why she had made that unscheduled stop in the capital after visiting her friend. One thing was certain, though—the letters had revealed how very fond of his aunt he really was. There was no mistaking