Captivated By Her Convenient Husband

“Looks like I’ve come home just in time.”

The duke’s son returns!

Part of Allied at the Altar. Avaline hasn’t seen her husband, Lord Fortis Tresham, for seven years, after he was presumed dead at war. Now her convenient husband has returned in time to save her from an unwanted suitor! Yet as he returns to her life—and her bed—Avaline is cautious... Why is he so mature, courteous and thoughtful—so different from the selfish soldier she married?

BRONWYN SCOTT is a communications instructor at Pierce College in the United States, and the proud mother of three wonderful children—one boy and two girls. When she’s not teaching or writing she enjoys playing the piano, travelling—especially to Florence, Italy—and studying history and foreign languages. Readers can stay in touch on Bronwyn’s website, bronwynnscott.com, or at her blog, bronwynswriting.blogspot.com. She loves to hear from readers.

Also by Bronwyn Scott

Russian Royals of Kuban miniseries

Compromised by the Prince’s Touch

Innocent in the Prince’s Bed

Awakened by the Prince’s Passion

Seduced by the Prince’s Kiss

Allied at the Altar miniseries

A Marriage Deal with the Viscount

One Night with the Major

Tempted by His Secret Cinderella

Captivated by Her Convenient Husband

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

Captivated by Her Convenient Husband

Bronwyn Scott

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-08923-4

CAPTIVATED BY HER CONVENIENT HUSBAND

© 2019 Nikki Poppen

Published in Great Britain 2019

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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For Rowan, who loves Martin Guerre the musical.

The world likes to define who we are,

but I think it’s always best to simply be yourself.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Dedication

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

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Extract

About the Publisher

Chapter One

Indigo Hall, Sussex—Friday, October 26th, 1855

Avaline Panshawe-Tresham could put off her entrance and all it would entail no longer. She had to get out of the carriage, had to go inside, had to dance with the men, smile at the women, suffer the solicitations of her well-meaning in-laws, who had already arrived, and not least she had to endure the dubious charms of the evening’s host, Tobin Hayworth, all the while pretending she was as oblivious to his intentions as she was to the disappointment she’d brought the Treshams—all seven years, three weeks, one day of it, and counting.

There seemed no end in sight when it came to her association with disappointment, not that the Treshams had ever said as much. They were far too kind. Still, Avaline knew and that was all that mattered.

She drew a steadying breath and smoothed her ice-blue skirts. She checked to see that her pearl and gold earbobs were fastened securely, that her slender pearl pendant wasn’t twisted, that her matching combs were secure in the folds of her artfully arranged hair. She was stalling, of course, as she’d stalled at home at Blandford Hall, dragging out her departure with an inane debate with herself over wearing the blue or the pink silk. Now, there wasn’t anything left to hide behind. There wasn’t a hair out of place, or a creased wrinkle to be found. She was out of excuses and out of time in so many ways, and she was furious.

Tobin Hayworth had held his harvest ball tonight on purpose. He knew very well the import of October twenty-sixth to her. It was one day after the anniversary of the Battle of Balaclava; a year and a day after her husband, Fortis Tresham, fell in battle, never to be heard from again. His body had never been recovered. He’d fallen and he had vanished, as if he’d never been. But he had been and perhaps he still was. It was a small hope she clung to and one whose odds grew smaller by the day. It had been a year since he’d fallen, making it seven years since he’d married her and promptly departed England. It was a long time to be gone.

That was the great failing that confronted her daily. She’d been a dismal wife, unable to keep her young, restless officer husband home. It was the one thing the Treshams had hoped she’d do by whatever means necessary. Marriage was usually a great domesticator of men of Fortis’s station—sons of dukes. Once a man married, he settled down, looked after his estate, his wife and his nursery. The plan should have worked. It had all the trappings of success. His parents and hers had arranged it. What could be more perfect than an alliance between neighbours, one of whom claimed the title of the Duke of Cowden, and the other an ailing baron, who claimed a large, unentailed tract of failing land that abutted the Duke’s estate and an eagerness to see his only child wed? Their marriage had been accomplished during Fortis’s leave. It had ended when he left three weeks later. She’d not conceived a honeymoon heir for him. She had hardly kept him in their bed long enough to do more than make the marriage binding. He’d been off, riding, hunting, shooting, and fishing with his friends for the duration of the honeymoon. She’d not tamed Fortis Tresham. If anything, she’d made him wilder.

She’d written dutifully, one letter a month to wherever he was posted, telling him of the estate, of the family, hoping her stories would invoke a sense of nostalgia, a longing for home, for her even. But not once had he written back. Now, he might never write. He might be gone for good, despite the Treshams’ latest sliver of hope that he’d resurfaced in the Crimea. They’d sent his best friend and fellow officer, Major Camden Lithgow haring back to Sevastopol to vouch for the man who’d walked out of the pine forest claiming Fortis’s name.

Avaline wasn’t sure how she felt about that. To have Fortis back would solve her current problems, but it would also certainly create others. How did two people pick up the pieces of a marriage that had hardly existed, after all this time? Still, they might have an indifferent marriage, but she didn’t wish him dead for it. She hardly knew the man who had so briefly been in her bed, in her life.

That was a new sort of guilt she carried these days. While the Treshams hoped desperately for the possible return of their third son, she couldn’t remember what he looked like. The picture she carried of him in her mind had begun to blur years ago. She remembered dark hair, blue eyes, a broad-shouldered physique, a handsome visage, a man pleasing to the eye. Was she exaggerating these features now? Was he as broad-shouldered as she recalled? Was he as tall? As handsome? As callow? He’d not been the most attentive of husbands, or had that been her fault? Would he have been more attentive if she’d somehow been different? Would it matter if she did remember it all aright? Did those memories of seven years ago still represent the man who might come home to her? War changed any man and this one had been lost for a year. How might war and this unaccounted year have changed him? Who knew what sort of man had walked out of the forest?

Avaline’s more practical side argued that it hardly mattered what he looked like or what he’d become as long as it protected her from Tobin Hayworth’s avarice. Fortis’s name was all that was safeguarding her now and its shield was wearing thin. A body to go with the name would take care of Hayworth for good.

There was a sharp, impatient rap on the carriage door. ‘My dear, you must come in before you catch a chill.’ The door opened without her permission. It seemed the knock was not a request for entrance, but a warning of intrusion. Such officiousness could only mean one thing. Hayworth had found her.

He stood outside, framed in the carriage doorway, resplendently dressed in dark evening clothes, pristine white stock impeccably tied, blue silk waistcoat severely tailored, grey eyes like steel. The man was the epitome of ice and control. Just looking at him made Avaline cold. He held out his hand without the slightest qualm that he’d be refused. He was a man who was obeyed. Always. ‘I cannot leave my mother alone in the receiving line for long, so I must ask you to hurry.’ His tone implied hurrying would not have been necessary if she had come in with the Treshams upon arrival. ‘I was concerned when I saw you were not with Cowden and the Duchess.’

‘I needed a moment alone to gather myself,’ Avaline replied coolly. She might be required to take his hand, to go in and put on a show, but he needed to remember she was not his to command. ‘Today has been difficult for me. I was tempted to beg off this evening and not come at all.’ She would have done just that if she hadn’t feared him coming after her and having to face him alone at Blandford. Far better to confront him here, surrounded by people and with the Treshams for support. There was safety in numbers. ‘I may not stay long,’ Avaline warned him as she stepped down. ‘I am not sure it’s appropriate to be out revelling on such a day.’ She did not bother to keep the scold from her voice.

Disapproval flickered flinty and hard in his gaze. Hayworth had made his opinion on harbouring hope that Fortis be found alive plain several months ago. ‘The heights of feminine fancy and womanly foolishness,’ he’d called it.

‘Has there been news, then? Is it official that he is lost for good?’ Any concern one might detect in the enquiry extended only as far as how the news would affect him and his plans.

‘No, there’s been no news.’ She knew the response would needle him. As long as there wasn’t news one way or the other, Hayworth could do nothing. She still had some power, some control.

Hayworth patted her arm. ‘Your loyalty does you credit in theory only. But it does not serve you in practice. As I have pointed out before, your estate needs a firm hand, as do your finances. You cannot lean on Cowden’s benevolence for ever, any more than you can go on pretending your husband is out there, somewhere. It’s been seven years with no direct word from him and now there is this issue of “being lost”. To be blunt, this does not sound like a man who wants to come home and he is dragging you down with him. We can handle this as abandonment, push it through court and free you so your life can start again. We needn’t wait any longer.’

We. He made it sound as if this was something she wanted done when nothing could be further from the truth. Hayworth was wasting no time this evening. Usually, he made his appeal towards evening’s end. But why wait? Now that the case had been made, why pretend towards subtlety? It was no secret he wanted to be that firm hand on her family estate, on her finances, and on her, if they were being blunt. He sought nothing short of marriage—an audacious claim considering she already had a husband.

Inside Indigo Hall, the opulence of Hayworth’s East India Company fortune was on full display, a reminder to all in attendance that his star was in the ascendancy. Tobin Hayworth didn’t have a title yet, but it was only a matter of time before the Crown recognised him with a knighthood. Avaline understood marriage to a baron’s daughter such as herself would certainly smooth that path for him and, in exchange, he would smooth her financial hardships. Blandford would be restored. That message was on display everywhere she looked tonight. He led her up a wide, curving staircase done in the same polished marble of the floors and the strong, thick columns in the entrance hall. Enormous cut-crystal vases brimmed with expensive hothouse bouquets from discreetly carved niches while footmen abounded, waiting to assist with any trivial detail, dressed in autumnal velvet livery for the express purpose of this harvest ball.

‘All this could be yours to command, my dear. Luxury at your fingertips, your cares erased. You’d want for nothing,’ Hayworth murmured the temptation at her ear. ‘Make no mistake, tonight I am laying my world out for you so you can make an informed decision.’ He gave away his antecedents with such flagrant talk of money. The inherent subtlety of a gentleman eluded him and always would. No matter how well dressed or how wealthy he was, Tobin Hayworth would always be nouveau riche, a nabob to the bone.

‘I don’t think there’s any decision to make,’ Avaline responded with a bluntness of her own. ‘I am married, Mr Hayworth.’

He chuckled affably at her rebuke, his mouth at her ear. Anyone watching them ascend the stairs would think this was a flirtation, not a coercion. ‘Are you? You don’t really know, but you should. I would think marriage is not something that possesses an in between. Either one is married or one is not. You cling only to technicalities now, to your detriment, when you should be preparing yourself for the worst and accept you may very well have been a widow for over a year. If you’d accepted that a year ago, you’d be out of mourning by now and this whole ordeal would be past us.’

‘You dare too much, Mr Hayworth.’ Avaline felt a chill move through her. The depths of his roguery were revealed increasingly to her each time they met, a sign of how confident he grew with each passing day. In truth, she could not argue with his facts. Her position on all fronts, including her continued defence of her marriage, was weak indeed and growing weaker each day there was no word about Fortis.

‘Don’t look so glum, my dear. You are about to be rescued,’ Hayworth said through gritted teeth before breaking into a smile as the Duchess of Cowden approached. ‘Ah, Your Grace, what a pleasure to see you.’

The Duchess of Cowden met them at the top of the stairs, elegant and cool in lilac silk. ‘Mr Hayworth, what a splendid little party. There you are, Avaline. Come, there are people to meet.’ Without further preface, the Duchess looped an arm through hers, effectively removing her from Hayworth’s side. The Duchess had effectively insulted him, too. Did Hayworth know? His grand harvest ball was nothing to the Duchess, whose town house ballroom in London held four hundred and even then was always a crush.

‘That man is odious,’ the Duchess whispered as they walked away. He was more than odious, though. He was dangerous. He’d not made a fortune in the East India indigo trade because he talked a lot. He’d made it because he was a man of action. He did what he said. If he thought he could dissolve her marriage and coerce her into another, Avaline was quite concerned he actually could.

‘Thank you for coming tonight,’ Avaline offered sincerely to her mother-in-law. It would have been easy enough for the Treshams to stay in town to await Major Lithgow’s return and his news of Fortis.

The Duchess dismissed the effort. ‘Major Lithgow knows where to find us. It could be days yet depending on the Channel crossing. We’d rather be here, supporting you. Today is a difficult day for all of us, made no less difficult by Hayworth’s event. He planned this on purpose and it is poorly done of him.’

Avaline smiled, grateful for the support. Fortis’s family had stood beside her all these years, treated her as a daughter when her own parents had passed within a year of each other, leaving her alone with Blandford and its debt. Would they continue to stand by her if Fortis were truly dead? That, too, would be decided when Major Lithgow returned. Her future hung in the balance as did her freedom. Regardless of Lithgow’s news the freedom she’d known would be at an end. She would be a wife or a widow. She’d either have a husband or she’d need a husband—a woman’s lot in a nutshell.

‘Try to dance and forget for a little while,’ the Duchess encouraged, reading her thoughts. ‘There’s nothing else to be done until Major Lithgow returns. I’ve arranged partners for you. Here’s Sir Edmund now.’

Sir Edmund Banbridge claimed her for the first dance, another family friend of the Treshams claimed her for the second. The Duchess had done her job well, peopling Avaline’s dance card with those who’d understand how emotional the evening was for her and wouldn’t press her for small talk. But eventually, the list ran out and Hayworth, as host, could not be denied for ever.

‘I believe supper is mine.’ Hayworth took her arm, brooking no prevarication as the supper waltz ended. Avaline understood her reprieve was over. She would not be allowed to refuse, but on principle, she had to try.

‘I find I have no appetite tonight.’ She would not have him believing she was in favour of his company.

‘Then we’ll walk outside. You needn’t stay indoors.’ Hayworth reversed direction, taking them away from the crowd moving towards the supper buffet.

Avaline saw her mistake immediately. He was punishing her. If she would not eat with him publicly, she’d be forced to walk with him privately where anything might be said or done. The French doors leading outside to the veranda closed ominously behind them, the temporarily deserted garden spread out before them. This was not a situation she wanted to be in. ‘We have our seclusion, my dear. Just the two of us. Perhaps now you’ll tell me why you resist my offer so vehemently? Or do you need some different form of persuasion?’ Something dangerous glinted in his eyes. His body shifted, moving closer to hers, crowding her against the rail, a predator stalking his prey, a horrifying reminder of how alone she was out here with him.

‘I don’t consider cornering a woman on a dark balcony persuasion of any sort,’ Avaline replied staunchly, trying to ignore the fact that to keep herself from touching him, her back was pressed against the hard wrought-iron of the balcony. She could physically go no further.

The knuckles of his hand gave a possessive caress of her cheek, his touch leaving her cold while her mind debated the plausibility of what he might venture here in the dark. Would he truly go so far as to force attentions on her? Admittedly, it was difficult to conceive that he would. She’d been raised in the belief that gentlemen knew the limits of propriety and abided by them, yet that very assumption was being challenged before her eyes. ‘You’re a beautiful woman, Avaline, who has been on her own too long, you’ve forgotten certain pleasures. You need a man to remind you.’

‘I have a man.’ Avaline was starting to panic now. He was giving no sign of retreating.

He gave a harsh laugh. ‘You have the memory of a man. It is not the same, I assure you.’ His mouth bent to hers in a swift move meant to take her by surprise, meant to render her helpless. The moment his mouth caught hers, she shoved, hard and certain. There could be no hesitation on her part or he would see it as acceptance. The shove bought her space, enough of it to rush past him and gain the door. She fumbled with the handle, struggling with it in her haste. She slipped inside, but not before he got his hands on her again, his grip punishing about her wrist.

‘Don’t be a fool, Avaline. I like a good, hard chase,’ he growled, ‘and I always win.’ As if to prove it, he dragged her to him and then danced her back to the wall until she was trapped between him and the damask. ‘I don’t mind if we play rough. I will have my answer.’ His mouth was inches from hers, his body pressed to hers, giving no quarter. ‘Tell me again, why do you resist?’

Then he was gone, miraculously pulled away from her, a fist crashing into his jaw with enough force to send Hayworth sprawling into a Louis XV chair too brittle to take his weight. He went down and the chair splintered with him. A man was on Hayworth like a wolf on its prey, straddling the prone figure, one hand gripping his collar, the other forming a ready fist to finish the job. No, not a man, an avenging angel, Avaline thought, taking in the dark hair, the broad shoulders beneath the soldier’s blue coat and the ripple of muscle as the man bent over Hayworth. Another blow landed, galvanising Avaline. Avenging angel or not, she couldn’t allow him to continue even if Hayworth deserved it. Violence was violence.

She ran forward, gripping her rescuer’s arm. ‘Stop! Please, stop!’ The arm tensed, muscles flexing beneath her touch, iron hard and rigid.