The Reluctant Bride. Meg Alexander
a misery.
Perhaps she herself could find a way to make him pay for the ruin he had brought upon them. It was a tempting thought, and revenge would be sweet.
There were other considerations. As Lady Isham she would have her own establishment, with the powers that an ancient title and vast wealth brought always in their train. And she could help Giles. Her mother would live out her days in comfort, and Letty, with her portion restored, might yet attain her heart’s desire. The reasons for accepting his lordship’s offer were overwhelming.
Yet every instinct warned her against it. She could not banish the darker side of the bargain from her mind. Isham was everything she detested in a man. He was an inveterate gambler, a roué and above all, one who had little regard for women. Was this to be her destiny, and the end of all her dreams of happiness?
She lay awake for hours, staring into the darkness, but by morning her decision had been made.
Next day her mirror revealed little evidence of her sleepless night, apart from a trace of shadow beneath the clear hazel eyes. Her creamy skin glowed with its usual health. As she tugged a brush through the heavy mass of auburn hair she sighed. What would she give now for the services of that fashionable London hairdresser with his gifted way of winding her locks into a style which emphasised her high cheekbones and the clean lines of her profile.
She did her best, but the result left much to be desired.
Still, it would not matter to Isham, she decided. He was not looking for a mistress, merely some female who would not disgrace his name and would provide him with an heir.
Well, she would not disgrace him. Her looks were not in the common way of fashion, but no one would mistake her for anything other than a woman of breeding. An unfortunate turn of phrase, she admitted to herself. It would not be pleasant to be regarded as a brood-mare.
The implications made her stomach churn, and she found that she was trembling. How could she let Isham touch her? Every sense recoiled from the idea. Stifling her fears, she hurried down to the parlour.
There she found the Vicar in conversation with her mother. William Perceval, Sir James’s younger brother, held the living, and had done so for many years. A kindly man, he was a favourite with both the Rushford girls.
India kissed him warmly, and asked about his family.
“Your Aunt Elizabeth is well,” he smiled. “Though she dislikes these cold, dank days of winter. The girls, of course, do not notice. That is one of the advantages of youth.”
India smiled. Her aunt made no secret of the fact that she detested winters spent in the draughty vicarage, try as she might to bear the conditions with Christian fortitude.
The Vicar shot a keen glance at his niece’s face. “Your mama has been speaking of Lord Isham’s offer,” he continued. “I was surprised to receive her message asking me to call so early…”
India did not look at her mama. As she had suspected, the story of the Vicar’s proposed visit had been a lie, designed to prevent her visiting Hester.
“We are always glad to see you,” she said truthfully.
“And this offer? How do you feel about it?”
“It came as a shock to us.” India would go no further, but the Vicar was concerned.
He had never had much time for Mrs Rushford—a hysteric and a hypochondriac if ever he saw one. He was well aware of the means she used to get her way. Not for the first time, he gave thanks to heaven that his brother had chosen her sister rather than herself to be his wife.
As for the girls…Poor Letty was looking distraught and India, though controlling her emotions, was clearly under a great strain.
There was little he could do to help them, without appearing to interfere too obviously. For the moment he contented himself with observing that as marriage was for life even the dazzling prospect of this unexpected offer should be given a great deal of thought.
Mrs Rushford frowned at him. “Why, Vicar, as their uncle I expect you to have the welfare of my girls at heart. What is there to think about? Such a chance is unlikely to come their way again…”
“And do my nieces agree?” he asked lightly, aware of the air of tension in the room.
The ensuing silence gave him his answer, and Mrs Rushford gave him a dagger-look, which she then attempted to hide.
“What do young girls know of these things?” she asked. “They must be guided by their elders.”
“I see.” It was no more than the truth. He saw very well how matters lay. The girls were to be hounded until one or the other accepted Lord Isham. Well, in the last resort he would refuse to marry an unwilling bride, however wealthy her suitor.
Mrs Rushford saw his set expression and made haste to change the subject. “Have you heard no more of the Marchioness?” she asked. “That is a strange business.”
“Indeed it is. Rumour is rife, but we cannot place any reliance on such gossip. So many months have passed since she was seen that we must pray that no harm has befallen her.”
“It is said that Sywell himself has murdered her,” Mrs Rushford announced with relish.
“A rumour entirely without foundation, Isabel. The Marquis is ill-tempered, and capable of violence, but I cannot believe that he would visit it upon his wife. He doted on her.”
“Then where can she be?”
“No one seems able to answer that question. I attempted to question the Marquis, but I am unwelcome at the Abbey. As you know, I was against this marriage from the start. The union of May and December will never serve, and Louise Hanslope was little more than a child when she took it into her head to marry a man three times her age. It could only lead to disaster.”
“You think it important then, for both parties to be in complete accord?” India asked quietly.
“I do.” The Vicar smiled at her. “Marriage is a difficult state at the best of times. In the first flush of passion most people do not think it so, but it demands self-control, tolerance, and sometimes heavy sacrifice. Such qualities are not common in our society. Best of all, a life partner should also be a friend.”
“It seems idyllic, but almost a fantasy,” she agreed.
“It can happen, my dear. And when it does nothing can be more fulfilling. Well, I must save my sermon until Sunday, but you must come to see me if you feel the need.”
The door had scarcely closed upon him before Isabel Rushford voiced her displeasure.
“Why, I wonder, would your uncle consider that either of you girls might wish to see him privately? Your own mama is the person to advise you.”
“I think he meant only to be kind,” Letty murmured. “After all, it is his calling…”
Mrs Rushford sniffed. Her regular attendance at the Abbey services owed nothing to religion, but she enjoyed her role as the tragic widow, and the opportunity to gossip. Now she turned on India.
“I must hope that you intend to change your gown before his lordship’s visit,” she snapped. “That bombazine is positively dreary.”
“It is the warmest thing I have,” India told her simply. “Mama, the weather is so bitter, and this house is very cold. You will not expect me to freeze to please Lord Isham?”
“Must you defy me at every turn? I know that the black silk with the inset trimming has been turned and dyed, but it is more becoming. You will please wear it.”
Delighted though she was by Isham’s offer, Mrs Rushford viewed his coming visit with some apprehension. Privately she expected him to choose Letty as his bride, in spite of his suggestion that the girls should decide between them. At all costs India must be prevented from seeing him alone. She had given her promise not to cause him to withdraw, but would she be able to