Married: The Virgin Widow. Deborah Hale
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of the…dear boy.” Mrs Penrose struggled to pull her frail frame into a sitting position. The effort made her gasp for breath. “You are all…much too indulgent…of a troublesome…invalid.”
“Nonsense.” Laura tried to ignore the stark evidence of how much her mother’s health had declined during the past winter. “Nobody goes out of their way to give less trouble than you.”
Sometimes she feared Mama would like to slip away from life altogether and be no more bother to anyone. Laura would have moved heaven and earth to grant her mother any wish but that.
Having caught her breath, Mrs Penrose inhaled the succulent fragrance rising from the plate. “It does smell good. And Cook has prepared it just the way I like—poached in a very little water, without rich sauces to smother the delicate flavour.”
Laura gave a rueful smile. Did Mama truly believe Cook possessed the necessary ingredients to compound a rich sauce even if she’d wanted to?
Perhaps so. Even when Papa was alive, she’d had a remarkable ability to overlook anything that threatened to dim her rosy view of the world. Now her air of fragile bemusement made the entire household conspire to shield her from any unpleasantness. That protective conspiracy was growing harder to maintain as the number of such worries grew month by month. Laura did not have the luxury of pretending all was well. A faint sigh escaped her lips as she set the dinner tray in front of her mother.
Mrs Penrose glanced up with a look of vague but fond concern. “Are you feeling quite well, dearest? You look tired and you have grown thinner over the winter. I know how hard it must have been for you since poor Cyrus died.”
“It has been a long winter.” Laura avoided mentioning her late husband for fear her tone might betray her true feelings.
Even with the hardship his death had brought upon her family, she was happier as Cyrus Barrett’s widow than she had ever been as his wife. No doubt it was wicked of her to harbour such feelings, but after the way he’d treated her, she could not summon a jot of sincere grief for the man.
“But spring is here at last,” she added. “That is the only tonic I need. Now, eat Mr Crawford’s trout before it gets cold.”
They had survived the winter, Laura reminded herself with a faint glow of pride. Now that the nights were growing milder, she and her sisters would no longer have to share a bed for warmth. The kitchen garden would soon yield vegetables and herbs to augment their rations.
But spring might also bring a less welcome event. The winds of April and May often blew ships from the East Indies to England’s shores.
As her mother took a tiny bite of fish, a brisk knock sounded on the door.
“Come in,” Laura called, a hint of wariness tightening her voice.
The door swung open and Hawkesbourne’s butler, Mr Pryce, strode in with an unaccustomed bounce in his step. A wide smile lightened the usual solemn dignity of his features. “My lady, Master Ford…that is, Lord Kingsfold has just arrived! He is waiting in the drawing room. I told him I would summon you at once to welcome him home.”
Laura tried to form a reply, only to come over as breathless as her mother had been a few moments ago. A tempest of contradictory emotions raged within her at the prospect of facing the man who had forsaken her after she’d naïvely given him her trust and love.
If her family had not been dependent on her for their survival, she would have taken great pleasure in denouncing Ford Barrett for his past behaviour. But she did not have the luxury of venting her hurt and anger. For the sake of her mother and sisters, she would have to behave with as much civility as she could muster. A man with so few scruples surely would not hesitate to turn her family out of his house if she provoked him. But if he expected to find her the same helpless, gullible girl he had abandoned seven years ago, Lord Kingsfold would soon discover his mistake.
What in blazes was going on?
Ford wrenched open the heavy window curtains to let a little light into the drawing room. Its murky dimness made the linen-shrouded furniture look like a party of musty-smelling ghosts. Had the whole place been shut up for the winter while Laura gadded off to London or the Continent?
If so, she must have returned recently. The moment he’d entered the house, the faint scent of orange blossoms had beguiled him with the most vivid awareness of her. She seemed to hang about him, no more than a breath or a kiss away.
Even before he could demand to see her, Pryce had bustled off, saying he must fetch her ladyship to welcome the new master. At least that provided satisfactory answers to Ford’s most pressing questions. Laura was in residence and she had not yet found a new husband. During his voyage home, he’d been haunted by the possibility that remarriage might place her beyond his power. How could he have endured it, if she’d slipped through his fingers again to continue plaguing him for years to come?
The soft patter of approaching footsteps made Ford feel like a volcano—his core of seething emotions encased in a shell of cold, hard selfcontrol. He dared not erupt, as he longed to do, spewing accusations and reproaches. Even a hint of his true feelings might make Laura flee. And that would spoil all his plans.
So he steeled himself to withstand the sight of her and betray nothing of the fury that smouldered inside him. The years he’d spent struggling to make his fortune had given him plenty of practice. Indeed, he owed much of his commercial success to his skill at concealing his emotions. But nothing in the past seven years had tested his iron selfcontrol as severely as his first glimpse of Laura.
She entered the room carrying a candle. Its light glinted over her fair hair, which had darkened to a shade that reminded Ford of sweet cider. Most of it was pinned up in soft ripples, but a few stray curls clustered around her face like the kisses of a gentle lover.
The moment she crossed the threshold, she swept him a low, formal curtsy. “Welcome home, Lord Kingsfold. You look very prosperous. You must have made gainful use of your time in the Indies.”
Nothing she could have said would have whipped Ford’s wrath up so quickly. It took all his selfcontrol to school his tone to one of cool irony. “You sound surprised. Did you expect me to return from the Indies in rags? I will have you know, I amassed a considerable fortune during the past seven years.”
“I congratulate you.” Laura could not disguise the silvery glint of avarice in her eyes. “What made you leave all that behind and travel so far for the sake of a modest country estate?”
Did she despise the place? Was that why she had not hesitated to deprive him of it? “Hawkesbourne and the family title have always been more important to me than any amount of money, Lady Kingsfold. That sounds awkward, doesn’t it? Perhaps you would prefer I call you something else?”
He could think of a great many things he would like to call her, none of them flattering.
His suggestion set Laura in motion. Or perhaps it was some menace in his stare that he could not fully conceal. She hurried about the room, lighting candles with the one she had brought. “We were once on friendly enough terms to call each other by our given names. Could we not continue?”
She still moved with rhythmic grace, as if every step were part of some bewitching dance. Once she ran out of candles to light, Laura came to stand a few feet in front from him and fixed him with an inquiring look. Jolted out of his bemusement, Ford recalled her question. Did she mean they should take up again as if the past seven years had never happened? Though that would play perfectly into his plans, the heartless audacity of her suggestion infuriated him. He paused for a moment, weighing his reply.
Meanwhile his gaze ranged greedily over Laura, comparing her present appearance with the golden ideal of his memory. He had once thought her eyes as clear and candid a blue as the summer sky. Now they were clouded with secrets, perhaps even capable of passionate storms. Her face was thinner than it had been, making her wide jaw look stronger. But her lips were as full and potently inviting as he remembered—like some succulent