“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

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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 HarperCollins Publishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

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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.

The man turned his face to her, blue eyes lethal, mouth set grim. ‘Are you sure, my dear Avaline? I will only stop if you say he’s had enough.’

He let go of Hayworth’s collar, dropping him on to the floor. Hayworth rolled to his side, curled in a ball, nursing his jaw. ‘Allow me to answer your question. Perhaps the lady resists your proposal on the grounds of bigamy, Hayworth.’ His growl was pure, primal possession and it sent a trill of excitement down her spine. ‘Looks as though I’ve come home just in time.’

Avaline’s breath caught. She did not remember that voice, the rich rolling timbre of it behind the growl or the sound of her name on his lips as if it belonged there. How could she forget such a voice? But the hair, the shoulders, the blue eyes, the uniform... Her mind started to grasp the details, the realities. This must be what it felt like to see a ghost, the impossible made real. The world spun. She instinctively reached for him in a desperate attempt to steady herself against the overwhelming realisation.

‘Fortis. Oh, my God, you’re back.’

Chapter Two
Blandford Hall—the next afternoon

Fortis sat on a sofa upholstered in rose silk, his back to the wainscoted wall, his sight line trained on the wide double-doored entrance of the drawing room, his peripheral vision aware that beyond him to the left were French doors and beyond that a manicured garden bursting with autumn colour. He was aware, too, that he was surrounded on all sides by luxury, safety and people who loved him. Beside him on the sofa sat Avaline, keeping respectful—or was that wary?—inches between them, making sure not to touch him. Perhaps she was unsure what to make of his return? To his right sat Her Grace, the Duchess of Cowden, his mother, clutching his father the Duke’s hand against the joy and the shock of her son’s return. Across from him on a matching sofa were Helena and Frederick, his oldest brother and his wife. In the last chair sat his newest sister-in-law Anne, with his other brother, Ferris, standing protectively at her shoulder.

Everywhere he looked there were reminders that he was safe. He was returned to the bosom of his family. But what his eyes could see proof of, his mind struggled to accept. This was his life? Wherever he turned, this was what it always came back to. This was all his: Blandford Hall, his wife’s home—their home, the place they’d spent the first three weeks of their marriage; this family full of graciousness and warmth and unbounded love, this family who’d held him close in turns and cried openly at Hayworth’s ball when he’d made his appearance in the supper room, Avaline in his arms.

He supposed, in hindsight, his entrance had been rather dramatic—dramatic enough to make Avaline swoon. All he’d thought about when he’d caught her was getting her away from Hayworth, finding his family and going home. The result had been somewhat more. Upon their arrival today, Anne and Ferris had reported that romantic tales of the hero returned were already circulating the neighbourhood. His return had not been the private affair he’d envisioned on the journey from Sevastopol with Cam Lithgow. Today, however, it was just the eight of them, just the Treshams. He was missing Cam sorely. He hadn’t realised how much he’d counted on Cam to smooth the way, to be the bridge between his long absence and his sudden return. Cam had been a godsend last night, shooing people away, putting himself between Hayworth’s gawking guests and the Treshams’ emotional reunion. It had been Cam who’d ushered them all to carriages and sent them home—he and Avaline to Blandford and his family to the Cowden estate at Bramble. But he couldn’t rely on Cam for ever. Cam had his own business to see to, which left Fortis with tea poured out, no one to ease the conversation and an awkward silence settling over the room.

Fortis supposed he should be the one to say something, to take charge, but what did one say after having been gone for seven years? ‘How are you? What have you been up to?’ It seemed too trite, too open ended. Even if by some stretch of the imagination such a question wasn’t impossible to ask, it was impossible to answer in a decent amount of time. It would take Frederick alone at least an hour to tell him of his nephews—all five of them now—and Ferris another hour to tell him about falling in love with Anne, let alone anything else that had happened in his absence.

The enormity of that swamped him. He’d missed so much: births, weddings, deaths. Avaline’s parents had both died. He knew that much even if he couldn’t remember them. That was embarrassing in itself. He could not remember his in-laws, what they looked like, sounded like, what they had said to him. He knew he had them. But knowing was somehow different than remembering. Knowing was fact and he suddenly found facts weren’t enough. Was that how his family felt looking at him? That they didn’t know him? Or that what they remembered of him was somehow lacking when faced with the reality of him sitting in the room? He was not the only one for whom this was awkward. They didn’t know any more what to say to him than he knew what to say to them. Maybe this first conversation wasn’t about telling, but asking. He needed to give them permission to ask their questions.

Fortis cleared his throat. ‘You must have things you want to know,’ he said, taking up that train of thought. He’d been sprung on them as an impossible surprise. There’d been no time to send word ahead. Any letter sent would have arrived on the packet with him. Surely they would want explanations. Perhaps they might even have doubts now that the euphoria of their reunion last night had passed. He hoped he had answers. There was still so much that was a fog in his brain. He’d tried to explain as much to Cam on the journey home.

The discomfort of giving those explanations must have been evident on his face. Ferris, the physician, the brother who’d studied medicine and dedicated his efforts to serving the medical needs of the poor, leaned forward earnestly. ‘No, Fort, you needn’t tell us anything yet or ever. Cam made a thorough report and we understand.’ Fortis knew what ‘we understand’ meant. It meant the family knew he hadn’t been entirely in his right mind when he’d come out of the woods, that he’d displayed signs of confusion, displacement, that he’d been unsure of who or what he was. Cam and the army had sorted that out with him and for him thanks to the letters from Avaline in his coat pocket dated from the day before Balaclava almost a year prior, along with the miniature of her, the tattered remnants of the uniform that proved his rank and identity, his pale blue eyes and other sundry details despite the overlong dark hair he refused to let Cam cut. Even now, he was wearing it long, tied back in a ponytail like lords a generation ago.

‘I don’t need your pity,’ Fortis answered Ferris sternly. He didn’t need to be patronised or felt sorry for. Poor broken Fortis—did they think he was a shell of his former self? Did they think he couldn’t function in the world? Beside him, Avaline shifted, uncomfortable with the sharp tone he’d taken. Is that what his wife thought, too? His pretty, surprised wife who’d swooned in his arms? Did she believe her husband was not capable of fully returning? All because of Cam’s damned honest report that had labelled him confused? It wasn’t untrue, he was confused. He felt confused right now sitting amid all this love and luxury, knowing it was his, but not remembering it as his. He just preferred that confusion be private, that it remain his to manage, alone. He wasn’t used to relying on others to carry his burdens with him or for him.

Frederick intervened, smoothing the tension. ‘We know you don’t, Fort. We just need you to know we don’t expect you to disgorge everything all at once. Being home is enough for us. All else will come. It has been a long time. None of us must assume we can all pick up where we left off as if nothing and no one has changed. We’ve all changed, but we will all find our ways back to each other if we’re patient.’

Fortis nodded and took the olive branch, moving the conversation on to safer ground. ‘Helena, tell me about the boys. Five boys all under ten—are they a handful?’ That brought a round of laughter. It was a good choice of topic. Helena was a proud mother and Fortis let talk of the boys’—his nephews’—escapades swirl around him, wrapping him in laughter. He felt himself relax a certain degree. There was no pressure here. There was nothing for him to recall. He’d not known the boys. Helena had been pregnant at his wedding with her first. It was easy to laugh and smile along with the rest of them, to feel as though he was home. And yet, the feeling couldn’t quite settle, like clothes that were just the tiniest bit too small—a trouser waist too tight, a coat stretched too snuggly over shoulders so that every move was a reminder that the fit was not effortless.

After a while, Ferris rose. ‘Fort, come walk with me in the gardens.’

‘Is this your idea of rescuing me?’ Fortis asked once the glass doors were shut behind them. ‘If so, I don’t believe I was in need of rescue.’ He couldn’t seem to help himself from being defensive with his brother today.

Ferris shook his head, unbothered by the surly tone. ‘No, you didn’t. It was me being selfish. I wanted a moment with you. Will you allow me?’

‘As my brother or a physician?’ Fort was instantly wary. All his battle senses were on high alert, ready to protect himself.

‘As both, I hope. War changes a man. I see that change in you.’

Fortis lifted an eyebrow in challenge. ‘Do you? You haven’t seen me in seven years. I am sure everyone looks different after such a long time apart. I don’t think that makes it remarkable or worthy of study.’

Ferris nodded, doing him the credit of contemplating his thoughts. ‘True, your hair is longer, your muscles more defined. You’ve come into your full build. Nothing of the little brother remains. I shall have to get used to looking at the man my brother has become instead of looking for the boy he once was,’ Ferris acceded with a physician’s eye for anatomy. ‘But there are other changes as well. Mental changes.’

Fortis baulked at that. No man liked having his sanity questioned any more than he liked discussing his emotions. ‘What are you suggesting?’

‘Please, Fort. There’s no need to be defensive. I’ve been working with soldiers on their returns from India, the Crimea, wherever Britain has the army posted these days. In places where the men have seen violence, your condition is not unusual, nor, unfortunately, all that rare. War takes a toll on a man we’re just beginning to acknowledge, to say nothing of understand. But I hope in time we may.’

Fortis scowled. ‘And what condition is that?’

‘You sat with your back to the wall today, so you could see the entire room, so you had clear visual access to points of entry and perhaps escape?’ Ferris added with wry insight. ‘That is something men do who live on the edge of danger, on the edge of life. You have the tendencies of one who has lived under stressful conditions where the need to fight is always an imminent possibility.’

Fortis wished he could deny his brother’s conjecture, but he could not. He could not recall anything to the contrary and what he did remember—the smoke, the cannon fire, the rush and riot of battle—certainly upheld Ferris’s assertions. But Ferris wasn’t done.

‘We’ve also found that these soldiers have unclear memories, difficulty explaining their time away to others. They have a reluctance to integrate back into their old lives, back into their families. There are other symptoms, too. If I could ask you a few questions?’

‘I’m not sure I like being a specimen under a microscope or an object of study.’ He did not want to answer any questions. He felt ridiculously vulnerable standing here in the garden with Ferris, his brother’s assertions stripping him bare.

‘Not an object, Fortis. A man. I don’t want to study you. I want to help you, if you need it and if you’ll allow it. Cam’s report suggested...’

‘Damn Cam’s report. Thanks to that blasted paper, you’ve already decided I do need help. You’re all convinced I’m on the verge of craziness.’ Fortis gestured towards the house, anger acting as his best defence. ‘That’s what all of you were thinking in there, too afraid to ask your questions because of what I might say. It’s far safer to not ask, isn’t it? Then everyone can pretend I’m all right.’ A dark thought welled up from deep inside him. Perhaps he was the one pretending he was all right when a part of him knew he hadn’t been all right, not for a long time, not for months, well before he’d walked out of the forest. It was something he wanted to keep to himself like his confusion. But his brother had seen his failings so easily. Did the rest of them? Did Avaline?

‘I am asking now.’ Ferris folded his arms across his chest, the quiet steel in his voice issuing his challenge. His brother was daring him to tell the truth. ‘Do you have dreams? Nightmares? Trouble sleeping? Periods where you lose track of time, where your mind wanders or where you juxtapose reality with a remembrance and your mind thinks you’re there, reliving it, instead of in the present?’

‘I might have dreams on occasion.’ Fortis shook his head. Ferris looked as if he wanted to press for more detail, his physician’s mind hungry for information, but this was all he was willing to offer today. He didn’t want to confess to dreams that left him waking in a sweat, wrapped in a sense of foreboding with nothing to cling to but vague images he could not call into focus, dreams in which he watched himself from other points of view, or wasn’t even himself but some other nameless person. Perhaps he’d admit to those dreams if he could remember them. Perhaps it was best he didn’t remember them. Maybe he should be thankful he couldn’t. Maybe his mind was protecting him.

Ferris nodded, something in his brother’s face easing. There would be no more interrogation today. Ferris clapped a hand on his shoulder. ‘Well, if you do have such dreams or experiences, I want you to know not to fear them or feel you have to hide them, not from me. They’re normal for men who’ve been in your position. They’re nothing to be ashamed of. You can come to me, Fortis. I can help and I can listen.’ Ferris paused, searching for the right words. ‘Sometimes there are things a man may not want to tell his wife, but he can always tell his brother.’

‘Married less than a year and already you have secrets from Anne?’ Fortis teased. It was easier than being serious, easier than having Ferris examine his soul.

Ferris smiled wryly and said frankly, ‘No, I am afraid Anne knows all my transgressions to date. She’s seen me at my worst, in the dark of night after I’ve lost a young patient for no good reason except poor living conditions society chose not to rectify.’ Bitterness flashed in Ferris’s eyes for just a moment.

‘Then we are both soldiers of a sort,’ Fortis offered in sombre comfort. ‘I appreciate you telling me that.’

Ferris nodded. ‘That’s what brothers are for.’ He gestured towards the French doors. ‘We should go back in. Helena will want to be getting home to the boys.’

Inside, everyone was calling for coats and carriages, the flurry of activity making the drawing room into a scene of warm, familial chaos, a scene that was almost normal as husbands helped wives into autumn wraps until the Duke looked about the room, his eyes landing on Fortis with enough fatherly force to silence the chatter. ‘You three...’ He gestured to his grown sons and something inside of Fortis froze. ‘Stand together over there in front of the fireplace.’

The three of them did as they were told, never mind Frederick was thirty-eight and a father of five, or that Ferris was thirty-five and a physician, or that he was thirty-two and a soldier who’d returned from the grave. Apparently, a man was never too old to obey his father. His father. Something warm and unlooked for blossomed in Fortis’s stomach, melting away the ice. He’d not thought of his father for a long time. Father. The concept made his eyes sting.

The tall, white-haired Duke of Cowden stared hard at the sight before him, perhaps seeing the physical differences in him that Ferris had noted. Perhaps his father saw not only the length of his hair in contrast to Frederick’s and Ferris’s shorter lengths, but the hue of it, too. His was a walnut brown while theirs was a dark chestnut. Still nuts, though, Fortis thought to himself. Perhaps he saw, too, that Fortis was more muscled in build than the lean handsomeness of his brothers, another consequence of war and constant activity. Did his father see the brokenness inside as well? Fortis found himself standing taller as if such an action could hide whatever deficiencies he possessed inside.

Whatever the Duke saw or didn’t see in his sons, there was mist in his eyes, too, as his gaze lingered on each of his tall, handsome, dark-haired sons in turn. ‘I never thought to have all three of my sons under the same roof again. What a blessing this is. I shall never take the sight of it for granted.’ He gestured to the ladies. ‘Wives, join your husbands, I want to see my family altogether.’ He smiled. ‘If only the boys were here, Helena.’

Helena laughed as the women came to stand with them. ‘Then we’d all be herding cats. They’d never stand still.’

Avaline stood beside him, but he noticed how careful she was to leave a little space between them, not like Anne and Helena who had taken their husbands’ hands. Except for carrying her into the supper room last night, Fortis had not touched her. He had sensed a reticence, an uncertainty in her. It was to be expected. They hardly knew each other. Was she wondering even now how one should behave with a husband one hadn’t seen in seven years? And yet a part of him yearned for her to slip her hand into his as Helena had done with Frederick, to look on him with the warmth Anne looked upon Ferris when he’d re-entered the room after only being gone a few minutes. He needed to be patient with Avaline as Ferris and his family was being patient with him. What was it Frederick had said earlier? They were all changed?

There were hugs and farewells in the hall, the women exchanging plans to meet for sewing together the following week. Frederick embraced him. ‘We’ll talk about the estate soon, eh? Once you’ve got your boots on the ground here.’ With a last surge of noise and well wishes, his family departed.

Avaline closed the door behind them and turned to face him. She smiled too brightly as she stood in the wide, now-empty entrance hall of Blandford Hall. Their home. Just the two of them, a fact emphasised by the overwhelming silence surrounding them. They were alone for the first time that counted. They’d been alone last night, but there’d been the excuse of the late hour, the need to sleep and the promise of talking tomorrow to smooth over the immediate awkwardness of surprise and shock. Now tomorrow was here and there was no more family to hide behind. Here they were, Lord and Lady Fortis Tresham. Husband and wife. In broad daylight, a seven-year chasm gaping between them. ‘That went well,’ Avaline said.

‘I thought the last bit was odd.’ And touching.

Avaline’s bright smile softened, making her even more beautiful. ‘The loss of you aged your father greatly. You cannot imagine what having you back means to your parents, especially His Grace. I think one reaches a certain age where one comes to grips with their own mortality, but never the mortality of a child. To lose you was for your father to lose part of his immortality.’ She blushed and looked away. ‘You’re staring.’

Damn right he was staring. The most beautiful woman in the world was his wife. ‘You’re lovely. I was thinking the miniature doesn’t do you credit.’ Fortis fished in the pocket of his waistcoat for it. He’d put it there first thing this morning when he’d dressed. He brought it out now and flipped it open, studying the comparison.

‘You have it with you?’ Avaline asked, surprised.

‘Yes. I carry it with me always. It’s never left my pocket, except of course when I look at it.’ He felt sheepish over the admission. ‘I suppose it’s a silly habit now that I can look at you every day.’ He put it back into his pocket.

‘You never use to stare,’ Avaline ventured, the intensity of his gaze causing her to flush.

‘I’m making up for lost time.’ Fortis smiled.

‘You didn’t use to do that either. Smile,’ Avaline commented, a little smile of her own playing on her pink lips. He’d made a study of those lips over the past hours. His eyes knew intimately the enticing fullness of her bottom lip, the symmetrical perfection of the upper. It was a mouth that invited kisses and he wanted to oblige, although he wasn’t certain how that might be received, how he might be received by this wife who’d been glad of his presence last night, but who had retreated in the light of day.

‘I imagine there will be a lot of things I didn’t used to do. I’ve been given a second chance to be a better husband, a better man, and I intend to make the most of it.’ Whatever he remembered or didn’t remember, he knew that much at least. He’d been lucky. It was nothing short of a miracle he’d come out of that forest. He could agree to that, but he could see that his words had taken Avaline by surprise. She didn’t know what to make of them or of him. But they couldn’t sort that out standing in the middle of the hall where servants might overhear them.

‘Take my arm, Avaline, and walk with me. Give me a tour of all the improvements you’ve made.’ He smiled encouragingly and he hoped calmly, all the while his heart thudding in his chest at the prospect of this angel’s fingers on his sleeve, of her skirts brushing softly against his trouser leg as they strolled. Yet Avaline hesitated. ‘I am your husband and you are my wife. You needn’t be afraid to touch me, Avaline. I will not break like glass nor dissolve in a heap like ash.’

Slowly, Avaline took his arm, her fingertips ever so light on his sleeve. It was a start.

Chapter Three

His arm was as strong and as real beneath her fingers today as it had been last night, yet losing him was exactly what Avaline feared. Not in the sense that he’d dissolve physically, but that another, less tangible, piece of him would indeed evaporate if held up to scrutiny, the piece that had played the hero, who’d swept her up into his arms, who’d been solicitous of her needs, aware of the shock she must feel over his reappearance. He’d not pushed her to consummate their reunion last night, which hadn’t surprised her. Fortis had never shown interest in her bed beyond his wedding-night duties. What had surprised her, though, was the concern he’d shown for her well-being when he’d left her at her bedroom door. That was the man she didn’t want to lose, not before she could discover him, this more mature, less self-centred version of the husband who’d come home. Yet it was this very newness that hindered her now as they walked in the garden, silence between them once more. What should she say? There was so much to say, but none of it seemed quite the right place to start.

‘Shall we start with last night?’ Fortis ventured as they turned down a path lined with oaks that formed a vibrant canopy of changing leaves overhead. He was taking charge just as he had in the drawing room. It had been courageous of him to invite his family’s questions, to offer himself openly, and it had cost him something. She’d sensed he hadn’t been entirely comfortable with it.

She’d wanted to reach out and take his hand in the drawing room, to let him know he wasn’t alone. But the Fortis she’d married wouldn’t have wanted such sentiment. He would have seen it as an assault on his strength, so she’d not risked it. Perhaps she had not risked it for herself either. She could not allow this heroics-induced empathy she felt for the man who’d swept her up in his arms, who’d come to her aid against Hayworth, also sweep away the realities of their marriage.

Fortis had made his position on wedding her very clear before he’d left. So clear those words were still burned in her mind seven years later.

‘This is a marriage of convenience, Avaline, to secure for you an unentailed property of your father’s and eventually join it with my father’s. I have done my part. The property is secured. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I promised to meet the boys this evening.’

He’d left with the army the next day. She could not let herself forget her place, for fear she would again fall victim to the fantasies she’d once harboured about their marriage.

She had to stay strong. Fortis could not come home after seven years of not answering her letters, miracle from the grave or not, and take her for granted again. She was stronger now, smarter now, no longer the fresh-from-the-schoolroom miss straight from Mrs Finlay’s Academy, no longer the child he’d once accused her of being. But the man who walked beside her seemed oblivious to her inner turmoil. He was more concerned with the present than the past. ‘Is it safe to assume Hayworth has been making an idiot of himself?’

‘Ever since news came from Balaclava.’ Avaline paused, gathering herself against the emotions of that awful day in London when Cam Lithgow had told them Fortis was missing. Her reaction had been part fright and part an overwhelming numbness. All Fortis had left her was his name and with Cam’s announcement she’d stood to lose even that. She’d felt exposed, the very last of her protection against Hayworth ripped away. But another part of her had been shockingly numb, emotionally empty. While family members around her had wept openly, she’d not been able to conjure such a depth of feeling over the loss of a husband who had not wanted her and whom she had not seen in years.

That lack of feeling had compounded her guilt. The loss of Fortis was her fault. She’d not been enough of a wife to make him stay and now he was likely dead because of it. Last night, all that had changed. She had a second chance to keep him here if she chose to take it.

‘Hayworth wants—wanted—’ she corrected herself ‘—to have you declared dead and, if not that, he wanted the courts to declare abandonment.’ She was clearly not abandoned now. Fortis was here. Her protection was restored simply by Fortis being alive. He needn’t stay and perhaps he did not intend to, yet another reason for withholding her heart. She didn’t need to engage it in order to have what she needed from him—the name of a living husband.

‘Abandonment? That’s ludicrous.’ Fortis laughed at the notion. ‘He never could have won that.’

‘Couldn’t he? There were six years of unanswered letters,’ Avaline argued quietly, not for Hayworth’s sake but for hers. It was proof Fortis cared so little for their marriage, for her. That disregard had nearly cost her everything.

‘Well, I am here now,’ Fortis answered gruffly, his jaw tight. She immediately felt terrible for making the accusation, yet she couldn’t help riding that little crest of anger she’d allowed herself. He’d endured years of war and a year of who knew what hardships. But so had she. In her own way, she’d gone to war, too, alone and unarmed against Hayworth, against a world that talked about her behind her back without knowing the whole truth; that she’d married a man she didn’t know when she was little more than a girl in order to save her estate and herself from marriage to Tobin Hayworth years ago. The marriage hadn’t been a love-match as the Treshams had put about, painting it as a whirlwind romance during Fortis’s leave to explain the haste. It had been a marriage of convenience, pure and simple. Only it wasn’t so simple any more. Fortis was back and the past must be dealt with. Resuming a marriage with a man who didn’t want her was the price for thwarting Hayworth.

‘Yes, you are here now. For how long?’ The question came out sharply. Other than putting her beyond Hayworth’s intentions, what else did his appearance mean for her? For them? Was he home to stay? Or simply to lend her the protection of his name once more before he was off on new adventures?

Fortis’s brow knit in perplexed question or maybe shock that she’d asked such a thing. ‘I am home to stay, Avaline. I am resigning my commission, of course.’ He was staring at her as if he couldn’t believe she’d not already concluded such action was a natural progression of events. ‘I am home to share the running of the estate, although I dare say there is much you’ll have to teach me. The army isn’t keen on imparting estate management skills.’ He gave a soft chuckle at his humour. ‘I am home to be a husband to you, to have a marriage with you, a real marriage this time.’

He was acknowledging the imperfections of what had lain between them in the past and his part in that. It was her turn to stare, all her girlish hopes surging to the fore, refusing to be held back. Oh, what she would have given to hear those words from him years ago! Now, she didn’t know what to make of them. If her question about his intention to stay had hindered him, his answer had positively stunned her. A real marriage? With this handsome man who both did and did not resemble the man she’d married in looks and deed?

What did he think a real marriage involved? Sex? Children? A family? Running an estate together? All of it or just some of it? As she stood in the autumn garden, surrounded by the vibrant colours of the leaves, the sun out, the autumn air crisp, it was easy to be swept away by his declaration, easy to dream. Even now, a nugget of hope blossomed at his words. Was the kind of union she’d always dreamed of within her grasp; one of love and mutual respect, one where husband and wife shared daily life together? The possibilities of what that marriage could hold were endless and tantalising. And frightening. To achieve such a thing would require great risk on her part, a risk she would not contemplate blindly. Broken hearts were not blithe considerations. Did he know what he asked of her with his declaration? How like the Fortis she’d known to consider only his wants without understanding the cost to others. She’d already paid the price once.

Avaline stepped back. They had drifted together as they talked and now she needed distance. She needed to remind herself she was not a green girl any longer. She’d given her innocent heart to this man once before, naively thinking that marriage inherently included love. She’d been proven wrong. She’d already seen what marriage had meant to Fortis Tresham. Nothing. It had meant absolutely nothing. It hadn’t been worth a backward glance before going out hunting with his friends, or worth a single letter home. To trust that man again would be an enormous leap of faith, one she would not take carelessly.

He did not miss or misunderstand the movement. Hurt flashed in his blue eyes along with realisation. ‘Avaline, are you sorry I am home?’

* * *

She did not answer immediately. He wished she had. He found himself wishing for many things in those critical seconds. He wished she’d flung herself into his arms and kissed away his doubts, that she’d murmured a rush of reassuring words. No, no, no, how could you think such a thing? I’d never want you dead. She’d done neither of those things. Instead, she’d moved away from him, separating herself from him, and that one step back communicated volumes long before she spoke the words, ‘I don’t know.’

It occurred to him the answer might have been different, better if he’d answered those beautiful letters he’d found in his campaign trunk. What a cad he must have been. But her answer might also have been worse, if Tobin Hayworth hadn’t posed a threat to her. She might have said, ‘Yes.’ Yes, that she was sorry he was home, that he was a disruption to the life she’d carved out. He’d been gone for seven years and his wife wasn’t sure if she was glad he was home, safe and mostly sound.

‘You’re honest, I appreciate that.’ But, damn, the honesty hurt, like tearing off a scab and reopening a wound, an all-too-apt metaphor, Fortis thought. Now that the family was gone and the first sweetness of homecoming past, it was time to get down to truths. The first truth was this: he had hurt her. He had hurt this lovely creature with his neglect and his absence. That he had done so was unconscionable. There was no question there. The real question was why had he done it? And why didn’t he know?

The strength of those realisations sent him stumbling backwards to the stone bench set on the pathway and he sat down hard from the shock of it, the consequence of it. Avaline’s dark eyes were shuttered and wary when they should have been full of warmth and hope. That’s what he wanted to see when she looked at him. The intensity of that desire surged in him, strong and powerful, a testament to how much he wanted it. He wanted, he needed, his wife’s approbation.

‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.’ Avaline looked suitably horrified. That was some consolation, he supposed, but he didn’t want it at the expense of a lie. He wouldn’t let her undervalue her own feelings to save his.

‘Of course you should have. What you should not do is pretend that everything between us is suddenly perfect after a seven-year absence, any more than I should simply absolve myself by saying we never had a chance.’ It would be so much easier if they could, though, if they could just start afresh as Fortis and Avaline. ‘But this, my dear, Avaline, is an apology, if you’ll accept it. I’m sorry I hurt you.’ He was sorry, too, for why ever he’d done it. He hoped in time he might understand his reasons. ‘We’ll take this homecoming slowly. We will figure out what we can be together if you are willing to let me try again, although I’m bound to make mistakes.’ He gave her a hopeful smile. He would try to make her happy. He would try to be a better man than the one he’d been before, a different man, one whom she’d be proud to have at her side.

* * *

Who the hell did Fortis Tresham think he was, crashing a party to which he was not invited and then assaulting the host? His actions were nothing short of barbaric. Tobin Hayworth nursed his jaw with a juicy slab of raw steak while he gingerly sipped an afternoon brandy. Eating luncheon had been out of the question. His jaw hurt twice as badly today as it had last night—something he’d not thought possible. He’d barely slept from the pain and he certainly hadn’t attempted to chew anything. He still wasn’t convinced his jaw wasn’t broken, although the doctor, whom he’d roused in the middle of the night, assured him otherwise.

The only benefit to the pain was its clarifying properties. It brought into sharp relief the import of Fortis’s return and all it meant. Blandford and its mistress were no longer accessible to him. He’d hoped to capitalise on Avaline being a baron’s daughter to help solidify his candidacy for a knighthood. A living breathing husband was far more problematic to deal with than one who didn’t come home. But Fortis Tresham had come home and at the crucial moment. For Avaline and the Treshams it couldn’t have been more fortuitous, one might say, all puns aside. There was nothing funny about how conveniently Tresham had appeared just when he was starting to make his push with Avaline and with the courts. He’d begun the paperwork to declare Fortis Tresham dead a few days ago.

Tobin’s stomach growled, rebelliously acknowledging it hadn’t been fed since dinner the night before. He’d even missed the midnight supper on Avaline’s account and now there was only soup to look forward to for supper tonight. He readjusted the steak. His jaw was eating better than he was. Of a certainty he’d have to withdraw his claims, but only temporarily. He did not think for a moment Tresham’s return merely a coincidence. It was anything but. It was far too convenient after a year missing, after Major Lithgow’s reputedly tearful meeting with the family in London last spring informing them that he had searched diligently for Tresham and come up empty-handed, that suddenly a man claiming to be Fortis Tresham had walked out of a Crimean forest and Lithgow had brought him home.

No, it reeked of rotten and he knew why. The Duke of Cowden despised him. On the surface, one might think the two neighbours would be bosom friends. Both were shrewd businessmen. Both had made fortunes through a series of lucrative, successful ventures. Cowden sat at the helm of an exclusive investment group known as the Prometheus Club, a nod to setting the world on fire with innovation or some such literary drivel Tobin didn’t pretend to understand or enjoy. Tobin didn’t have time for such niceties. He only had time for money and for people who made him money.

Therein lay the difference. He was well aware the Duke did not share his values or morals when it came to how money was made or how business was conducted. The Duke felt him to be a man with no scruples. Well, so be it. Scruples didn’t keep one warm or fed. Only money did that.

Tobin drummed his free hand on the polished surface of the small table beside his chair, his feet resting comfortably on the fireplace fender. At least some part of him was comfortable as his facile mind went to work on this latest scheme. A missing man was home after an over-long, unsubstantiated absence. Perhaps someone should question that if Cowden didn’t? By rights, Cowden ought to be the one questioning it. The son of a duke, even a third son, came with enormous advantages. Fortis Tresham, through his marriage, had an estate and a pretty wife. Through his birthright, he had access to the Cowden coffers, entrée into the highest echelons of society. Whatever he wanted to do, he could do it without much effort at all: diplomacy, politics, or simply do nothing. Tresham could afford the latter, too.

Surely Cowden was sharp enough to understand the temptation such a plum posed, or was Cowden too honourable to contemplate the allure? Perhaps Cowden believed too much in his unassailability to think that someone would attempt to grab Fortis’s seat at the Cowden table. Cowden might be above envisioning such contretemps, but Tobin wasn’t.

He could easily imagine someone doing just that. He just needed to make Cowden imagine it as well and he would, as soon as his jaw healed sufficiently to pay a call and, in the most genuinely concerned way possible, voice his misgivings. After all, he didn’t want anyone taking advantage of his dear neighbour, especially if the one taking advantage wasn’t him. Meanwhile, if he couldn’t talk to anyone, he could write. He could begin making polite enquiries about the nature of Fortis Tresham’s return. He couldn’t ask directly, of course. He wasn’t family. No one was required to tell him anything. But he had friends on the inside, people whom he’d had contracts with and who would like to do lucrative business with him again. They could access information he could not.

He smiled to himself and poured another drink one-handed. It would be the scandal of the Season come spring if it came to fruition. Cowden would never live it down, especially if Tobin could prove the Duke had done it wilfully. Still, even if the man was a fraud and he’d swindled Cowden on his own, Cowden would look like a fool. It wouldn’t do the old man’s business reputation any good. People would finally think he was losing his touch. That all assumed the news came out. If the opportunity arose, Tobin would give Cowden a chance to keep the secret. Tobin was very good at keeping secrets, for a price, and this, if it were true, would be a secret that kept on giving.

He toasted himself in victory. It seemed every cloud did have a silver lining. Now, he had to prove it. All of this was merely conjecture until he had evidence. But if the evidence was there, he would find it. A dog with a bone could hardly compete. Tobin Hayworth was nothing if not tenacious.

Chapter Four

He was nothing if not tenacious and tenacity was what would get him off this battlefield alive. He was not going to die here in the muck and blood of Balaclava. He’d not survived this long to give up now. He crawled, all elbows and hips, belly to the ground in an ignoble undulation as he dragged himself towards what he hoped was safety. His arm hurt, his leg ached and he had to admit that some—no, a lot of the blood on him was his own. He was wounded. There’d been ample opportunity; the musket ball that whined past his ear could have grazed him after all, the sabre that had sliced at him could have caught him in the arm, the bayonet he’d dodged might have stuck his leg before glancing off. He was lucky to be alive and he knew it. But luck meant scrabbling through the remains of battle, looking dead men in the eye and keeping his own fears of joining them at bay, which was a very real possibility each moment he remained on the field and the sun sank closer to the horizon.

Panic threatened to grip him. He was fighting it as much as he was fighting to make his way forward. Panic would swallow him whole if he allowed. It was near dark. The scavengers would be out soon and they would show no mercy as they rifled the pockets of the dead and the near dead. They’d kill him for his boots and his coat, which miraculously still had all its buttons. For people who had nothing, he was a slow, crawling, easy target of a gold mine and he had no strength left to fight them if they came.

He dragged himself forward, another inch, another body length, and another again, each effort sending a shooting pain through his arm. He fought back the stabbing agony in his leg. He’d nearly reached the edge of the battlefield, the sun almost gone from the sky, when he heard it—the faint, hoarse rasp of a desperate man. ‘Help me.’

He should ignore it. He was wounded and barely able to help himself let alone someone else. He’d lingered too long on the field already. Even now, he could hear the voices of scavengers. There would be no mercy for him, a British soldier far from home, if he were caught. But because he did know the danger, he turned back. He could not doom someone else to that fate. He began to crawl awkwardly towards the plea... Someone was on him. Oh, dear God, he’d been found. The scavengers had found him—no, no, no. He kicked and grappled, trying to get hold of his attacker. He would not go down without a fight. Never mind that he was already down. This would be a fight to the death...

* * *

‘Fortis! Wake up. You’re home, you’re safe.’ The frantic words penetrated the fog of his brain, but still he grappled, unwilling to release his foe, unwilling to take the chance that the battlefield was the dream and home the reality. It would be a fatal mistake if he were wrong. He had his assailant now, his fists were full of white cloth.

‘Fortis! It’s me, Avaline!’ At the desperate words, the dream let go, his eyes flew open in horror and recognition. Avaline was beneath him, her dark eyes wide with incredulity and fright. She had not understood what she’d walked into when she’d tried to wake him.

He let go of her at once and rolled on to his back, his mind taking stock. He was sweat-drenched and breathing hard, but he was home and alive, and he’d attacked his own wife. He pushed a hand through his hair. What must she think of him? ‘Avaline, I’m sorry.’ He was so damned sorry. Beside him, Avaline lay breathing hard, her gaze riveted on the ceiling as she collected herself. This was hardly the way to get back into his wife’s good graces. She would think him every bit the fragile man Cam’s report suggested he might be. Any moment, as soon as her shock settled, she’d realise that and bolt from the room.

Instead, Avaline turned her head and looked at him. ‘I’m the one who should be sorry. Ferris warned me the dreams could be dangerous, but when I heard you call out...well, I couldn’t just leave you alone.’ She was kindness itself and it had cost them both.

‘What did I say?’ Hopefully nothing embarrassing. This was awful enough as it was without sounding like a whimpering fool. His wife was courageous. He didn’t know many men, let alone women, who willingly ran towards trouble, yet despite her misgivings over his return, she’d come to him in his need. The gesture overwhelmed him with its implicit generosity. Perhaps she wasn’t as indifferent to him as she’d tried to be in the garden. She’d been guarded then, her mind alert and on full defence. She’d made it clear that beyond protection from Hayworth, his return was met with reserve.

‘Help. You simply said help.’ But he hadn’t just said help, he’d yelled it, loud enough to be heard through the adjoining door between their rooms. Great. He’d called out in his sleep like a frightened child. New, waking panic gripped him at the thought. Who else had heard? Had he awakened any of the servants? Would they all be staring at him at breakfast? Whispering behind his back that the master was home and not right in his head?

Avaline stroked his cheek with the cool back of her hand, a soft smile on her face. It felt good, comforting. He wanted her to go on touching him. Did she realise she was touching him? That they were lying side by side in bed in nothing but their nightclothes? She’d been very conscious of their closeness today in the drawing room and in the garden. Did she only touch him now out of pity? He would not take her touch of pity. Fortis closed a gentle grip around her wrist and pushed her hand away. ‘Avaline, I am not an invalid.’

She stiffened—the rejection, though politely done, had clearly stung—but she was not defeated. ‘I know. But you are a soldier returned after a harrowing experience. You are not entirely yourself. Yet. But you will be, in time.’

How much time? he wondered. It had been three weeks since he’d left the Crimea with Cam and it had been nearly three months since he’d walked out of the forest in July. He felt just as confused now as he had the day he’d walked into camp, the missing blocks of his memory still as jumbled, sometimes even more so after the army had filled in the missing pieces. He would have thought that would have helped, not make it worse.

‘Let me help,’ Avaline soothed, her hand back at his brow, and this time he let it stay, craven fool that he was. He told himself it was only because he’d gone so long without female companionship. ‘Tell me your dream.’

‘No.’ He would not tell her. He did not want her burdened with the horrors of his ghosts. One did not tell an angel about hell. An angel was what she was, in her white nightgown, her blonde hair loose and spilling over her shoulder and by some miracle she was his angel, one he did not deserve. He would not sully her with tales of battlefields and dead men.

She gave a nod. ‘Then, perhaps you’ll tell Ferris or write them down.’

‘Perhaps I will.’ He could give her that concession. ‘I’m fine now, Avaline. You can go back to bed.’ He doubted he’d sleep the rest of the night. He seldom did once he dreamed. He’d sat up more than one night on the journey home, on the deck of the ship looking up at the stars until the sun rose. Sometimes Cam had sat with him. Cam had dreams, too. His wife, Pavia, had herbs that helped. Cam swore by them, but Fortis had been too proud to take them at the time. Now that there was Avaline to consider, he might need to rethink Pavia’s offer. He couldn’t go around assaulting his wife at night. Tonight it had just been wrestling. Heaven help her if he ever got his hands on a weapon.

Avaline got out of bed without protest. She smoothed her nightgown, seeming flustered. Perhaps the intimacy of their situation had dawned on her. ‘I am just next door if you need anything.’

‘Goodnight,’ Fortis said firmly. ‘I’m fine. I’m sure it was brought on by nothing more than the rigours of recent events.’ He wanted to reassure her. ‘After all, it’s not every day a man is reunited with his family and his wife. This is nothing sleep and hard work can’t fix.’ If he was busy, it would take his mind off the past. The journey home had allowed him too much time with his own thoughts. Frederick was right. He needed to get his boots on the ground. He’d start tomorrow with a tour of the estate. He’d have Avaline show him around. A man who worked until he was exhausted didn’t have time for nightmares. He would show her his strength. He would not be a burden to her. Most of all, he would make sure she wasn’t sorry he’d come home.

* * *

He’d dismissed her! Avaline sat down hard on the edge of her bed, sorry she’d ever raced to his side. His cries had awakened her. They’d been dreadful in their desperation, the sounds of a man who’d reached the edges of his sanity and was about to lose hold. In her haste to comfort him, she’d forgotten everything including Ferris’s warning. She’d raced recklessly to his side, her one thought being that no one should be so tortured. Her empathy had not been enough armour.

She’d not been prepared for what she’d encountered; a raging bear of a man whose mind had seen her as an enemy. He’d attacked the moment she’d touched him, his war-taut body tight-sprung. She’d been no match for his strength. She’d found herself beneath him, crushed between the hardness of his body and the mattress, and when she had managed to wake him, he’d not been glad to see her. No matter how polite he’d tried to be about it, the message was still the same. He’d sent her away as soon as he could.

Avaline lit the lamp beside her bed and picked up a book. She wasn’t likely to sleep any time soon. Her mind was too full of disappointment. She hadn’t realised how much hope she’d inadvertently put into his words from the garden today. He’d said he wanted a real marriage and, despite her best attempts not to, she’d wanted to believe him.

But in a real marriage, husbands and wives told each other everything: the good, the bad, their hopes and their fears. Tonight, he hadn’t been able to tell her his dream. Tonight, he’d turned her away when she’d brought comfort. Tonight in his room was not that different from the last time she’d been in there...

* * *

‘You’re going out?’ Avaline stood in the doorway connecting their two rooms. She’d not been in his room since he’d taken up residence. It seemed empty, devoid of personality, and he hadn’t even left yet. But he was already packed. His trunk stood strapped and ready for departure in the corner. She had the sudden sensation that maybe he’d never unpacked.

Fortis turned from the mirror where he was straightening his stock. ‘Yes. You needn’t wait up for me. The boys and I are going to make a night of it at the tavern in the village. One last hurrah before I am off again to parts unknown. You understand. It will be ages before I see them again.’

‘But you leave tomorrow,’ Avaline stammered her protest. What about her? It would be ages before he saw her again, too. ‘I thought we could have supper together, just the two of us.’ She’d had the cook prepare all his favourites: jugged hare, fresh vegetables and bread. They hadn’t had an evening alone since their wedding, three weeks ago. Every night had been filled with a never-ending round of dinners given in the newlyweds’ honour in lieu of there being time for a proper wedding trip.

What there hadn’t been time for was getting to know her new husband, but she seemed to be the only one bothered by this. Fortis appeared perfectly happy with the arrangement and, if he’d expected to spend his leave in bed with his new bride, he gave no indication he was disappointed it had turned out otherwise. After the dinners, he’d sent her home alone while he’d gone out with his friends. Tonight was her last chance to make up for whatever failings he might have found in her on their wedding night.

‘I’ll wait up. We can have a nightcap together.’ Avaline tried once more.

‘No need. As I said, the boys and I will likely make a night of it. I’ll be home with the sun, long enough to get my trunk. The train leaves at eight.’ He was all brisk efficiency, not a single note of remorse in his tone.

‘Perhaps you might manage a goodbye kiss if you can spare the time,’ Avaline said testily, her anger and disappointment getting the better of her. She hadn’t known what to expect of marriage, but she hadn’t expected to be disregarded.

Her tone got his attention at last. ‘Avaline, are you going to act like a spoiled child?’ He shook his head in a mild gesture of despair. ‘I told my parents you were too young. But they insisted. Your parents insisted. Now it seems I’m right. I am married to a child who expects her husband to stay home and play with her, a child who knows nothing of the world.’

The words stung. He thought her a child? A spoiled child at that, all because she’d wanted a piece of his attention? She raised her chin. ‘I am not a child. I merely thought things would be different.’

‘How so?’ He pulled out his pocket watch, irritated that she was making him late. ‘Let me spell this out for you. This is not a fairy tale where we suddenly fall in love.’ He strode from the room without a word of apology, without even a chaste kiss on her cheek. The message could not be clearer. Her husband wasn’t interested in loving her.

* * *

She’d been dismissed then, too. Not much had changed, after all. She’d been right to reserve judgement about the man who’d returned to her, right to protect her heart from making a fool of herself again. She blew out her lamp, finally exhausted, one last thought lingering as she drifted to sleep. Maybe the old adage was true. The more things changed, the more they stayed the same. That was certainly proven tonight, although a part of her wished it hadn’t. Part of her wanted to believe the man in the garden wanted the same things she wanted and that he was capable of giving her those things.

Chapter Five

He was going to exhaust himself before supper at this rate. Avaline stopped long enough from helping with lunch preparations to watch her husband with the tenants as they thatched a roof. Perhaps that was his plan. Work hard, sleep hard in order to avoid the bad dreams by night and perhaps his wife by day.

For all the differences she saw in Fortis, that one hadn’t changed. Last night had driven that home. He’d never had time for her and it seemed he still didn’t. No doubt he’d brought her today to tour the estate because he’d needed her to make introductions. The sooner she could accept that, the sooner she could move forward with constructing what her new life as Fortis’s wife would look like.

The sight of him working made it difficult to harden her heart entirely. It had pleased and surprised her to see his willingness to join in. He’d never shown an interest in the estate before. Perhaps he’d meant that piece at least when he said he’d come to home to help with Blandford. It gave her a different kind of hope. The new life they could have together might not be the fairy tale she yearned for, but perhaps neither would it be as disappointing as their past. They might be able to use their dedication to Blandford to build a foundation between them, one that in time would give way to respect and friendship. Many marriages were built on less. She could learn to be happy with that if she could just keep her fantasies in check. Something that was easier to say than to do, when one’s handsome husband was up on the roof, flexing his muscles in shirtsleeves.

Avaline used a hand to shield her eyes against the sun. At some point in the morning, Fortis’s coat had come off along with his waistcoat, his shirt open at the neck, the once carefully laundered garment now sporting splotches of sweat and grime. His trousers were dusty from hauling up the bundles of straw. He paused on the roof, straightening for a moment to wipe the sweat from his brow. It was heated work, hard work, even beneath an October sun. The day was clear and crisp, the not-so-subtle hint of oncoming winter in the air, yet the efforts of labour were evidenced in the steam off his body.

What a body it was. Even at a distance, she couldn’t help but be aware of it, of him. Shoulders strained tirelessly beneath his shirt; long, booted legs strode confidently on the flat of the roof with athletic grace, old buckskin breeches showing well-muscled thighs, never mind that most men of his class had eschewed breeches for trousers. ‘No sense in ruining perfectly good trousers,’ he’d told her this morning when she’d raised a questioning eyebrow at his attire. That was new, too, another piece of reality the military must have drilled into him: thrift, frugality. The Fortis she’d married had been fashion conscious. Not a dandy, certainly, but always well-turned-out. Too bad breeches weren’t back in fashion. She liked the look. He wore them well. Extremely well. Well enough to make a girl forget quite a lot of things, ranging from helping the women lay out a luncheon to the risks of wagering one’s heart on a fool’s prospect. Perhaps she wasn’t beyond such foolishness as she thought. If so, she would need to be on her guard.

‘Let me take those.’ Mrs Baker came to help her with the basket of apples on her arm and she felt silly for standing about gawking at a man who’d dismissed her from his bedroom last night.

‘I’m sorry, Mrs Baker, I was just bringing the basket to the table,’ Avaline apologised hastily.

The woman smiled knowingly, following the recent trajectory of her gaze. ‘You must be thrilled to have him home, such a handsome man, and the two of you only married a short while before he had to leave. You can make up for lost time now.’

‘Yes, of course,’ Avaline replied automatically and hurried off to put the apples on the table. Perhaps she should take a cue from Fortis and immerse herself in work as well. Then she, too, would be less inclined to spend so much thought on his return. Perhaps it would indeed be possible to simply go on from here without confronting the past. Perhaps she should just accept Fortis as he was. She could not make him love her and it was hardly his fault that once she’d thought to love him. That had been her choice.

It was clear that was what Fortis meant to do. He’d been congenial at breakfast, stating his intention of meeting the tenants. He’d asked questions about the estate while they ate, showing a considerable interest in how she’d run things. That interest had been both welcome and unnerving. On the one hand, she was grateful to be able to lay down the burden. Estate management had not come naturally to her, but she’d learned. She’d had no choice. There’d been no one else. Between herself and her land steward, Mr Benning, they had managed admirably. On the other hand, as relieved as she was to surrender the burden, there was a sense of loss, too. She had done admirably. She’d come to take pride in how she’d made ends meet and kept the estate going against considerable odds and debt. She would miss that challenge. Her role now would be reduced back to playing Lady Bountiful and delivering baskets. After seven years of free rein, it was something of a demotion.

A long arm darted around her and grabbed an apple in a lightning-quick move. ‘I’m famished!’ Fortis laughed when she whirled around, startled. He took a big, crunchy bite of the fruit and finished off the apple in four bites. He reached for another, looking entirely boyish. He might have been any one of them instead of a duke’s son. She liked the notion of that—one of them, a part of Blandford in a way he’d never been a part of it before. Before, Blandford had been a nuisance, merely a piece of land he held for his father, not a home as she saw it. She’d grown up here. It was all she knew. Yes, perhaps her earlier thought was right—with Blandford between them, they could build something together out of their marriage.

‘There’s meat and bread, too,’ she offered, smiling back. It was hard not to. His smile was intoxicating, his good humour contagious and, as long as she was honest with herself about the limits of what this marriage could provide, it was safe to indulge. This man was easy to be with, perhaps even easy to work with. The men seemed to like him. She’d heard them joking up on the roof, bits of their conversation and laughter floating down to the ground. That was new, too, or was it that she’d not had time to discover it? Had all this good will and good humour been there and she hadn’t noticed? Perhaps she’d been too wrapped up in her own needs and disappointments to truly see him? ‘Let me make you something,’ Avaline offered.

‘I can make my own bread and meat.’ He grinned, stretching around her again. The action brought his body close to her, the smell of morning soap and afternoon sweat combining for a masculine appeal all its own. He assembled a stack of bread and meat and gave her a wink. ‘Come on, let’s find a place to sit before John has us back up there slaving away again.’

‘John?’ Avaline asked in surprise. A duke’s son was on first-name basis with a tenant farmer?

‘John Wicks.’ Fortis found them a piece of grass and sat down without ceremony. She joined him, tucking her skirts beneath her.

‘I know Mr Wicks. He’s a good man. He’s a leader among the tenants. He worked with me and Mr Benning to take care of those who needed it most while you were gone.’ Something nudged at her arm and she looked down to see Fortis holding out bread and sliced ham. ‘What’s this?’

‘Your lunch. You didn’t think I grabbed all of this for me or that I would eat it all in front of you?’ He laughed. ‘Take it.’

‘Thank you, that was very...thoughtful.’

He stretched out long legs that drew the eye. ‘John speaks highly of you. He says you’ve done a masterful job of keeping the estate going. He says Benning is a good man, too.’

‘You’ll want to look over the ledgers and decide where to go from here,’ Avaline offered generously, blushing from the praise. He would never know how much it cost her to make that offer, to begin turning the estate over to him, the running of her home handed over to a veritable stranger, never mind they’d grown up as neighbouring families. Fortis was seven years older than she was. It wasn’t as if they’d roamed the fields together. He’d already had a commission in the military by the time she was thirteen.

Fortis knit his brow. ‘I’m to make the decision? It seems I might be the worst possible person to do that at this point. I’m the one who knows the least what the estate needs. It seems that perhaps Mr Benning and yourself, myself, and perhaps John Wicks and others like him should make those decisions. I’d appreciate it, Avaline, if we handled the reins of the estate together.’

He paused and she almost choked on the ham. ‘You want my input?’ she stammered.

‘Yes,’ he answered simply. ‘Unless you don’t wish to offer it? Perhaps you want to lay it all down?’

‘No. Not at all,’ Avaline said firmly lest she accidentally throw this unexpected gift away. ‘I would be pleased if you would consult me. I will help in any way I can.’

‘Good.’ He gave her an infectious grin and swallowed the last of his lunch. ‘It looks as though John wants to get back at it.’ He rose and held out a hand to help her up. It was a natural enough gesture, a casual one. But Avaline hesitated, feeling as if taking his hand signalled something more, a sealing of their partnership, or at the very least, an acknowledgement of it. Was she ready for that? She supposed she didn’t have a choice. Ready or not, Fortis was here, offering his hand, and, in time, perhaps he might offer her something more. Avaline reached up and took it, aware of all the flaws and hope that came with the gesture.

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