Married For His Convenience

A plain countess...

Tainted by illegitimacy, plain Sarah Martin has no illusions of a grand marriage. So when the Earl of Langford makes her a proposal that will take her one step closer to finding her half sister, she can’t refuse!

Sebastian’s dreams of romance died with his late wife’s affair, so now he needs a convenient wife to act as governess for his silent daughter. Yet Sarah continues to surprise and challenge him, and soon Sebastian can’t deny the joy his new bride could bring to his life—and into his bed!

She rubbed her hands together. They made a chafing sandpaper sound, emphasising the chill silence of the room.

‘May I offer you refreshment?’ she asked belatedly.

‘No, thank you. Indeed, I will get straight to the point.’

‘Please do.’ She exhaled with relief. ‘I much prefer blunt speech.’

He straightened his shoulders and shifted to face her more squarely, as though putting his mind to an unpleasant task.

‘Miss Martin, I need— May I have the honour of your hand in marriage?’

Author Note

I fell in love with the drama of the French Revolution when my mother and I attended a showing of the movie A Tale of Two Cities.

To say the film was old is an understatement. Even in the seventies it bordered on antiquity—a black and white 1935 release, with Ronald Coleman as Sydney Carton. But that film captured my imagination in a way that few films have done before or since. I remember blinking dazedly at its conclusion, literally feeling as though I had been transported to another place and time and was myself waiting on that tumbril.

Those timeless words—‘It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known’—continue to thrill. Thank you, Charles Dickens.

Later I became fascinated with the history of the Revolution: with its ideals—which so soon dissolved into bloodthirsty chaos—and its impact not only on France but on the world.

One day I will set a novel based at its epicentre. But for today I am thrilled that Married for His Convenience at least touches this fascinating period.

Married for His Convenience

Eleanor Webster

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ELEANOR WEBSTER loves high heels and sun—which is ironic as she lives in northern Canada, the land of snow hills and unflattering footwear. Various crafting experiences—including a nasty glue gun episode—have proved that her creative soul is best expressed through the written word. Eleanor is currently pursuing a doctoral degree in psychology, and holds an undergraduate degree in history. She loves to use her writing to explore her fascination with the past.

Books by Eleanor Webster

Mills & Boon Historical Romance

No Conventional Miss

Married for His Convenience

Visit the Author Profile page at millsandboon.co.uk.

In memory of my mother, who loved history and books and inspired me with that love. To my father, who loves history, the English countryside and all creatures great and small. To my childhood pets, who greatly added to my joy, and to Oreo, a special rabbit who shared our home for all too short a time.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Author Note

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Prologue

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

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Epilogue

Extract

Copyright

Prologue

November 8th, 1793

The severed blonde curl lay in stark relief against the polished wood of the desk.

‘Hardly conclusive evidence of my wife’s demise.’ Sebastian Hastings, Earl of Langford, kept his glance dispassionate as he lifted his gaze from the silken strands.

‘This might be more convincing,’ Beaumont said, removing a single sheet of paper from the inside pocket of his coat and smoothing it out with meticulous care.

A death certificate.

‘I did not realise the citoyens of the Committee of Public Safety had sufficient time to document Madame La Guillotine’s every victim,’ Sebastian drawled.

An ugly colour suffused the other man’s features. He was tall and had quick eyes set within a narrow face; everything about him was angular except for the pouches under his eyes and a lax softening of his chin.

Sebastian had always disliked Beaumont, but that was a pale sentiment compared to his hatred now.

Sebastian wanted to kill him.

He wanted to squeeze the man’s throat with his bare hands until his eyes bulged and his face purpled into lifelessness.

But he would not do so. He could not do so or any hope of recovering his children would be lost.

‘Given my wife’s apparent demise, might I enquire after the welfare of my children?’ he asked instead, keeping his face expressionless and his tone bland.

‘They are in my care.’

‘How reassuring. And what will it take to get them out of your care and into my own?’

Beaumont smiled, the thin lips curving upward to reveal neat white teeth. He leaned over the desk and Sebastian smelled the cloying sweetness of the man’s cologne. ‘Your children will be returned for a price.’

‘And if I am unable to meet that price?’

Beaumont reached for the blonde curl, twisting it through his well-manicured fingers. He moved it slowly—around, between, under and over. ‘Efficient lady—Madame La Guillotine.’

Sebastian stood, the movement violent and impossible to contain. His chair crashed against the wall. It fell sideways and banged to the floor.

Beaumont jumped back, but Sebastian rounded the desk and was on him. He had the man by the throat, pulling him so close he could see the pores of the man’s once-handsome face.

‘I promise you one thing,’ Sebastian ground out between his clenched teeth. ‘If my children are hurt, you will not live.’

Chapter One

April 7th, 1794

Sarah Martin lifted her skirts. Her feet sank into the mud and water dripped rhythmically from the bushes bordering the woodland path.

Neither fact lowered her spirits.

Smiling, Sarah sniffed the earthiness of the English countryside and held her skirts higher than was respectable.

Mrs Crawford would have frowned, but then Mrs Crawford spent considerable time in that occupation.

Sarah’s sun had risen, metaphorically, shortly after luncheon with a last-minute dinner invitation from Lady Eavensham to even the numbers at her dining table.

Such events did not often happen to Sarah, although they occurred with delightful frequency in her writing. Her current heroine, Miss Petunia Hardcastle, had just recently made a stunning entrance in a diaphanous blue dress created from her grandmother’s ball gown.

Unfortunately, Sarah’s dress was neither diaphanous nor blue, but a serviceable grey. Moreover, unlike Miss Hardcastle, Sarah’s longing for fashionable company had nothing to do with romance and everything to do with London. The mere mention of that city gave her a wonderful thrill of hope, a prickly sensation like the goosebumps she used to get at Christmas.

One day she would go there. One day she would keep her promise. One day—

A crackle of twigs and leaves startled her out of her reverie. She stopped. A second scuffle caught her attention and she peered into the ditch. ‘Pauvre lapin,’ she spoke quickly in her mother’s language.

A rabbit lay, sprawled among the weeds and grasses. Its back paw was entangled in a poacher’s trap, its brown sides moving in frantic undulation.

Sarah bit her lip. Kneeling, she placed her valise to one side. She eyed the trap, but did not touch the mechanism for fear of hurting herself or causing the animal harm. She was familiar with the device, but it was vastly different to manipulate its jaws whilst they were empty than to contemplate doing so while this petrified creature lay within its grip.

Carefully, holding her breath, she pushed her fingers against the metal. It felt cold and hard and did not budge. Then, with a snap, it released.

The animal lay briefly frozen before bursting into frenetic life, its hind legs sending a tinkling cascade of pebbles into the ditch.

‘No, you don’t.’ She caught the creature and, pulling her shawl from her shoulders, immobilised its hindquarters within the folds of cloth.

Bending closer, she inhaled its dusty animal scent as her arms tightened against its soft, warm weight.

Now what? The animal was injured and would be fox fodder if she let him go. But she had no time to go home. Already, daylight was dimming and the air shone with the pewter polish of early evening.

Besides, in many ways, Eavensham was more her home than the stark austerity of the Crawford residence. Shrugging, Sarah made her decision and, tightening her hold on the bundle, picked up her valise and stepped forward.

Some five minutes later she exited from the overhanging trees and on to Eavensham’s well-manicured park, the change between woodland and immaculate lawn joltingly sudden. Without pause, Sarah skirted the impressive front entrance, veering away from the lamps and torches bidding welcome.

She would hide the rabbit in the kitchen or scullery. Hopefully, the butler would be elsewhere. Mr Hudson was not overly fond of rabbits.

Except in stews.

The path wound towards the kitchen garden, a narrow track sandwiched between the house and dairy. As she expected, the kitchen was bright and the smell of cooking wafted into the garden.

Carefully, she stepped towards the window, then froze at the snap of a twig. She caught her breath and turned, scanning the darkened outlines of the hedge and vegetable frame.

Nothing. She stepped back to the kitchen. Likely she’d only heard a fox or stable cat. She was too practical for foolish fancy.

But even as the thought passed through her mind, a hand clamped across her mouth and she was pulled against a hard, muscular figure.

She tasted cloth. Her heart beat a wild tattoo. Her body stiffened, paralysed not only by fear but an almost ludicrous disbelief as she allowed her valise to slip from her hand.

Dramatic events never happened to her. Ever.

‘If I remove my hand, do you promise not to scream?’ The voice was male. Warm breath touched her ear.

Sarah nodded. The man loosened his hold. She turned. Her eyes widened as she took in his size, the breadth of his shoulders and the midnight-black of his clothes.

‘Good God, you’re a woman,’ he said.

‘You’re...you’re a gentleman.’ For the cloth he wore was fine and not the roughened garb of a common thief.

She grabbed on to these details as though, through their analysis, she would make sense of the situation.

‘What was your purpose for spying on me?’ His gaze narrowed, his voice calm and without emotion.

‘Spying? I don’t even know you.’ The rabbit squirmed and she clutched it more tightly.

‘Then why are you hiding?’

‘I’m not. Even if I were, you have no reason to accost me.’ Her cheeks flushed with indignation as her fear lessened.

He dropped his hand, stepping back. ‘I apologise. I thought you were a burglar.’

‘We tend not to get many burglars in these parts. Who are you anyway?’

‘Sebastian Hastings, Earl of Langford, at your service.’ He made his bow. ‘And a guest at Eavensham.’

‘A guest? Then why are you in the kitchen garden?’

‘Taking the air,’ he said.

‘That usually doesn’t involve accosting one’s fellow man. You are lucky I am not of a hysterical disposition.’

‘Indeed.’

Briefly, she wondered if wry humour laced his voice, but his lips were straight and no twinkle softened his expression. In the fading light, the strong chin and cheekbones looked more akin to a statue than anything having the softness of flesh.

At this moment, the rabbit thrust its head free of the shawl.

‘Dinner is running late, I presume.’ Lord Langford’s eyes widened, but he spoke with an unnerving lack of any natural surprise.

‘The creature is hurt and I need to bandage him, except Mr Hudson, the butler, is not fond of animals and I wanted to ensure his absence.’

‘The butler has my sympathies.’

Sarah opened her mouth to respond but the rabbit, suddenly spooked, kicked at her stomach as it clawed against the shawl. Sarah gasped, doubling over, instinctively whispering the reassurances offered by her mother after childhood nightmares.

‘You speak French?’

‘What?’

‘French? You are fluent?’

‘What? Yes, my mother spoke it—could we discuss my linguistic skills later?’ she gasped, so intent on holding the rabbit that she lost her footing and stumbled against the man. His hand shot out. She felt his touch and the strangely tingling pressure of his strong fingers splayed against her back.

‘Are you all right?’

‘Yes—um—I was momentarily thrown off balance.’ She straightened. They stood so close she heard the intake of his breath and felt its whisper.

‘Perhaps,’ she added, ‘you could see if the butler is in the kitchen? I do not know how long I can keep hold of this fellow.’

‘Of course.’ Lord Langford stepped towards the window as though spying on the servants were an everyday occurrence. ‘I can see the cook and several girls, scullery maids, I assume. I believe the butler is absent.’

‘Thank you. I am obliged.’

Tightening her hold on the rabbit, Sarah paused, briefly reluctant to curtail the surreal interlude. Then, with a nod of thanks, she stooped to pick up the valise.

‘Allow me,’ Lord Langford said, opening the door. ‘You seem to have your hands full.’

‘Er—thank you.’ She glanced up. The hallway’s flickering oil lamp cast interesting shadows across his face, emphasising the harsh line of his cheek and chin and the blackness of his hair.

She stepped inside and exhaled as the door swung shut, conscious of relief, regret and an unpleasant wobbliness in both her stomach and knees.

That wouldn’t do. Petunia Hardcastle might swoon, but Sarah Martin was made of sterner stuff.

Besides, Petunia was always caught by the handsome hero and no hero would catch a poverty-stricken spinster of illegitimate birth lurking within the servants’ quarters.

With this thought, Sarah straightened her spine and hurried into the Eavensham kitchen.

* * *

Sebastian rolled his shoulders, trying to loosen the tension knotting his back. Goodness, the strain must be affecting him if he was reduced to accosting servant girls.

A branch cracked. Instantly alert, Sebastian slid noiselessly into the shadows. He heard a second louder crack and smiled. This was no French spy, or at least one very poorly trained.

‘You can come out, Kit,’ he drawled.

The foliage opposite trembled and swore. Sebastian clicked open his gold snuffbox. He took a pinch and inhaled. The ‘English Lion’ chose unlikely messengers and Sebastian would have lost patience with his eccentricities long ago, except his methods worked. The Lion had saved many lives from the guillotine.

Besides, Sebastian didn’t have the luxury of choice. Right now, the Lion was his son’s best hope.

His only hope.

Kit Eavensham emerged from the bushes. The young man wore a dark cloak clutched about his person and had pulled the hood low to cover his face and fair hair.

‘You got my note?’ He spoke in a hoarse whisper.

‘I could hardly miss it as it was in my chamber pot.’

‘I thought that a good place,’ the lad said.

‘A trifle obvious to the servants, but no matter—what is your news?’ Sebastian swallowed. His throat hurt and every particle in his being waited for Kit’s answer.

‘I met the Lion at Dover.’

‘Yes—and—my son?’ Sebastian pushed the words through dry lips.

‘The Lion contacted every source in Paris, but found no record of Edwin’s execution or evidence of his death.’

Sebastian breathed again. It seemed his heart had missed a beat and was now thundering like a wild thing. ‘And Beaumont?’

Kit shrugged, the thick cloth of his cloak rustling. ‘The rumours are true. He escaped the Bastille.’

A mix of hatred and relief twisted through Sebastian. Beaumont had seduced his wife and kidnapped his children. Sebastian wanted him dead and yet, conversely, his survival gave him hope.

‘We must find him,’ he said.

‘He has not turned up here? In England?’

Sebastian shook his head. ‘I have heard nothing. Your mother tried to help by befriending the French émigrés in London. Until she broke her ankle. I’ll have to find some other female now, I suppose.’

Sebastian sighed, for once regretting his lack of female relatives—other than a great-aunt who lacked tact, or basic civility, for that matter.

Kit nodded, raising his hand towards Sebastian’s shoulder as though to offer comfort but, perhaps seeing Sebastian’s expression, allowed his palm to drop with a soft thwack against his leg.

Then, nodding a quick farewell, he left.

Alone again, Sebastian scanned the darkening landscape; the garden was tranquil except for the muted clatter of pans from the kitchen and, overhead, the rhythmic, feathered movement of a bird’s wings.

‘No record of his execution or evidence of his death.’ He repeated Kit’s words, giving them rhythmic cadence. ‘No record of his execution or evidence of his death.’

There was hope.

And while it hurt to hope, the alternative was unthinkable.

* * *

When Sebastian entered the drawing room, he saw that Lady Eavensham sat alone beside the fire with her ankle propped on a stool.

‘Lovely to have your company, dear.’ She smiled her welcome. ‘Lord Eavensham is showing the others a painting of his new horse, but I chose to remain seated. Getting around is still not easy. Anyway, we’re not missing much as it is not a good likeness. Animals are so difficult to paint, don’t you know, and can look dreadfully stiff. Make yourself comfy and pour yourself a brandy.’

She spoke in a trumpet of a voice, her husband being many years her senior and going deaf. Sebastian complied, sitting close to the fire’s crackling warmth. His parents had been friends with Lord and Lady Eavensham until his mother had slept with Lord Eavensham, cooling the friendship. Of course, his father’s friendships had been largely cooled with everyone—except the bottle.

She was dead now—his mother, that was.

Sebastian had remained friends with Lady Eavensham, but had seen her most frequently in London. He hadn’t been to the country estate for years, but felt an instant familiarity with the place. It typified all that was good in a country house: the huge fireplaces, shabby comfortable chairs, worn rugs, thick curtains and the mingled smells of food and smoke and dog hair.

A mirror hung over a massive stone mantelpiece and ubiquitous cupids decorated the ceiling, all pink-skinned legs and plump bellies.

‘The leg is improving?’ he asked, belatedly remembering his manners. ‘And you are not finding the country too dull?’

She shook her head. ‘I do not miss London. The conversation at the salons is not nearly as lively as in my young days. In fact, I have determined to spend more time here. There are more horses and really I find them much better company than most people.’

‘Doubtless.’

She glanced at him, her blue eyes sharp. ‘Do I detect a smile? Lud, I remember when you always had a joke and ready wit.’

‘Those days are past,’ he said.

Her rosy face puckered at his tone. ‘Sorry, that was thoughtless. You have little to smile about. By the by, how is Elizabeth?’

He stiffened at this abrupt mention of his silent child. ‘Physically well.’

‘And the governesses?’

‘Resigned or dismissed.’

‘Oh, dear, was that wise?’

‘Yes, when they think disciplining a frightened child will make her speak.’ He spoke grimly and felt a tic flicker across his cheek.

‘Maybe I should look for someone suitable? It’s so hard for a man.’

‘Thank you, but, no.’ He spoke too curtly, he knew.

Lady Eavensham did not take umbrage. She reached forward, patting the arm of his chair with a plump hand, her rings flickering in the firelight. ‘Be patient, dear. Heaven knows what the poor child endured in that dreadful prison or wherever he kept her.’

He flinched. The pain was physical, so sharp it winded him. He shifted, needing to distance himself, to guard his emotions even from this kind well-meaning woman.

With relief, he saw the door swing open as Kit and several ladies entered.

Three ladies, in fact, although one slipped unobtrusively towards the back of the room. Indeed, her obvious desire to remain unnoticed caught his attention. Her appearance was so jarringly drab juxtaposed to the other ladies’ finery, her hair mousy and her face kindly, but certainly not in the first flush of youth.

He felt a start of recognition. The rabbit girl, without the rabbit.

The light made the plainness of her face and gown all the more evident. Her hair was scraped into an unforgiving bun. She had high cheekbones, straight, dark eyebrows and a mouth too wide for fashion.

Lady Eavensham smiled in her direction. ‘Ah, Miss Martin, let me present you to our guests. Miss Martin is the Crawfords’ ward and lives nearby.’

The ladies turned, nodding and smiling, their movement so uniform as to appear choreographed.

‘Mr Crawford’s ward? Mr Leon Crawford, I presume. I never met him. Will he be here tonight?’ the elder lady questioned.

‘That would be difficult. He is deceased. I live with his widow, Mrs Crawford, now,’ Miss Martin replied.

Her dress, a grey muslin, looked years out of date and hung loose as though it were second-hand and poorly altered.

Yet she had something, he thought. Poise—that was it—and a certain irrepressible quality as though, despite its hardship, she found life a humorous affair. There had been a time when he might have shared the philosophy.