His Convenient Marchioness. Elizabeth Rolls

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      ‘A clumsy word, Lady Emma, but honest. I am too old—’ and too emptied out ʻ—to be tumbling into love, so I am not looking for a giddy young girl. I require a woman of maturity, but still young enough to bear children.’

      There. That was perfectly logical and rational. He’d touched on all the relevant points.

      ‘I see. You want a proven breeder, not an untried filly.’

      His mouth opened. He knew that. Unfortunately nothing came out.

      ‘Speechless, my lord?’

      He laughed. He simply couldn’t help it as that warlike glint in her eyes started to dance again. Eventually he stopped laughing. ‘Touché, ma’am. At this point I should probably do better if I cut my own tongue out.’

      ‘Yes.’ She gave him a puzzled glance. ‘So, you wish to remarry—’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘And for some reason you think I might do.’

      He winced. ‘I beg your pardon if I gave the impression that it was a matter of you might do. I was trying to be sensible, not insulting. But, yes, you do, er—’

      ‘Fit your requirements.’

      The long-forgotten burning sensation informed Hunt that he had actually blushed. ‘Something like that.’ Why did the ground simply not open up and swallow him?

      ‘And along with your requirements are you also going to ask for references?’ Her chin was up. ‘Because I am afraid I cannot offer any. Quite the opposite, in fact.’

      He looked at her. Really looked at her. The brief hint of laughter was gone again. In its place was...bitterness? No, not that. Resignation. As if she expected a rejection. Letty’s words burned into him: ‘Dersingham cast her off regardless, of course. And naturally the Keswicks do not recognise her.’

      ‘If you will forgive the impertinence, Emma, I think your children are your references.’

      She stared at him. ‘Oh.’ Just that. Oh. And that lovely, soft mouth trembled into a smile that shook him to his very foundations. Was he insane? Hadn’t Letty warned him? He wanted a wife who would not turn his life inside out. Now it would serve him right if he found himself fronting the altar with London’s most notorious widow! Only...could she really have done anything truly scandalous? He was finding it harder and harder to believe...

      * * *

      Emma swallowed. Your children are your references. Just words. Probably meaningless ones. Yet she was melting like a puddle! He had not offered for her. She had to remember that. ‘Then this is in the nature of a...courtship.’

      He frowned. ‘I suppose so. In a way. I—that is we—would need to know each other better. If I were to offer for you, I would be offering a marriage of convenience. I need an heir. In return, Harry and Georgie would be provided for and you would have a generous settlement and jointure. However, I have not done so.’

      She flinched. His voice was cool, unemotional, his eyes shuttered. Totally at odds with the man who had enchanted Harry and Georgie, and kept his dog’s revolting cricket ball in his pocket. The man who had said the children were her references.

      His mouth tightened. ‘I did not wish you to think my intentions were dishonourable.’

      ‘No. I quite understand that—’ Children... I require an heir... ‘Sir, you say you need an heir, but I thought—’

      ‘Smallpox.’ He said it in a very distant voice. ‘My wife and all three of our children. Then my half-brother died last year.’

      Sometimes distance was all that could protect you from pain. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said simply.

      For a moment he was silent. Then, ‘It was a long time ago. But you see why I must marry again.’

      She did. It was exactly the sort of marriage her father had arranged eleven years ago, and that she had fled from. Or was it? Was Huntercombe really offering what Augustus Bolt had offered? She didn’t think so and now was not the time to discuss that. But Huntercombe was a very different man from Sir Augustus. Bolt had been arrogant, condescending, seeing her only as a well-bred, hopefully fertile, vessel for his political ambitions...and Dersingham had approved Bolt as exactly the man to curb a headstrong girl... That brought her back to reality with a jolt. Did Huntercombe know the whole story?

      She took a deep breath. ‘Are you aware that I was betrothed to Sir Augustus Bolt?’

      Huntercombe frowned. ‘I knew there had been another betrothal. It was to Bolt? I dare say Dersingham wanted the match.’

      She nodded. ‘I might have agreed in the end, but I had met Peter, you see, and—’

      ‘You fell in love.’

      Emma heard the guarded tone. She could imagine what he’d heard and she doubted the truth would be any more acceptable to him, even if he believed it.

      ‘The wedding with Sir Augustus was set for my twenty-first birthday. But when Dersingham delivered me to the altar I refused my vows and walked out of St George’s.’

      There. It was out. And judging by his stunned expression he hadn’t known. In a moment, when he had recovered from the shock, he would take his leave politely and she’d never see him again. No well-bred young lady jilted a man at all, let alone literally walking out on him at the altar straight into the arms of another man. Only now, when she had burned all her ships and bridges, did she know exactly how much she had wanted this chance. How much she had wanted someone to understand. Not forgive. She had never considered her marriage to require forgiveness.

      * * *

      Hunt could only stare at the woman before him, her chin up, defiant. He tried, and failed, to imagine any other young lady he had ever known doing something so utterly scandalous. Letty hadn’t exaggerated at all. For once the gossip had been literal truth.

      Although... Gus Bolt? The man must have been nearly fifty at the time. Exactly the sort of marriage Letty and Caro had assumed he would make. If the idea had horrified him, how must it have looked to a girl of twenty-one?

      He stuck to practicalities. ‘Was Lacy waiting outside the church?’

      She flushed. ‘In a way. We hadn’t arranged it, although my parents thought we had. He had no idea what I was going to do. He just wanted to see me.’ Her eyes became distant, remembering. ‘I didn’t know I was going to do it until I walked out. And, well, there he was. We didn’t stop to think. He took me to his great-aunt, Lady Bartle. She loathed Keswick and I stayed with her while the banns were called.’ She gave him a very direct look. ‘No one ever remembers that, or that Peter went to my father, asked permission to marry me and was refused. According to most of the stories Peter and I lived openly in sin until he deigned to make an honest woman of me.’

      Hunt was silent. She had handed him what any sane man would consider sufficient cause for withdrawing. She was not at all an eligible bride for the Marquess of Huntercombe.

      But what about Hunt? Would she be a comfortable wife for him?

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