Marrying His Cinderella Countess

‘Upsetting?’ Blake poured two fingers of brandy into the glass and swirled it around, apparently focused on the golden brown liquid in the candlelight. ‘I am sure it will be a comfort to them.’

‘For you, I meant,’ Ellie said. ‘It will bring back memories that can only be painful.’

Blake’s hand was steady as he raised the glass to his lips. ‘It will be sad for everyone who remembers her.’ He looked her straight in the eye over the rim of the glass. ‘I am not holding on to the memory of a dead woman, Eleanor. I regret the way I dealt with her, that is all.’

‘But you love her still.’ It was not a question.

‘No. You are wrong. I do not love her—not even the memory of her, Eleanor. I give you my word.’

His eyes were the deep grey of old pewter and he did not smile.

‘Of course,’ she said.

He has given me his word and he is a man of honour.

Yet she could not but recall that conversation with Verity.

‘He has such darkness inside,’ she had said of Blake.

And Verity had replied, ‘Do be very certain that it is a dark space that you can bring light into and not a black emptiness that will suck you in too.’

Much as she hated the thought that her husband was still obsessed with this woman from his past, her suspicion that he might lie to her about it was even worse. And it was unworthy of her. This was the man she loved—her husband. She must believe him and must hope that one day he might find it in him to love her. Love their children. Want to make a home.

How would he feel about her when she was big with child…ungainly? How would their marriage survive when this easy lovemaking which sometimes seemed the only glue holding it together became restricted by childbirth and small children?

‘Of course,’ Eleanor repeated. ‘And the Trentons will be grateful for your support at a very difficult time for them.’

*

It was a relief to be able to focus on someone else’s marriage for a change, Blake thought as he stood in the stable yard and talked to his head groom.

‘I’d be very grateful for the accommodation—and the approval, my lord,’ Finch said as he heaved the saddle onto the back of Blake’s new hunter. ‘I never thought of settling down, but you know how it is with the females, my lord. One minute there you are, fancy-free and not an idea in your head about wives and babes, and the next you’re knocked on your back by a fine pair of eyes and it’s all up with you.’

‘I hope it’s more than a fine pair of eyes,’ Blake remarked as he ran his left hand down Tuscan’s neck. There had been a brisk exchange of views with Ellie that morning, when he had appeared with his right hand unbandaged, and he had finally submitted to a light strapping.

Just for the sake of domestic harmony, he told himself, ignoring the fact that he had enjoyed watching her solemn expression as she concentrated on getting the bandage just right, her lower lip caught between her teeth in fierce concentration.

‘Upsetting?’ he suggested.

‘It is that.’ Finch tightened the girth and straightened up. ‘She looks no more than a piece of fluff, but she’s got a backbone, has my Polly.’

Like mistress, like maid, Blake thought as he swung up into the saddle, automatically adjusting his balance as the big horse snorted and sidled.

‘He’s fresh, my lord. Needs the fidgets shaking out of him.’

‘I’ll take him down the drive to the hay meadows,’ Blake said. ‘Do you want to come? Try him against Romulus?’

‘Thank you, my lord, but there’s something I need to do. Another time, perhaps? They’re well matched.’

Blake turned through the archway, keeping the horse to a controlled trot until he stopped pulling and settled obediently, then let him canter. By the time they reached the long drive and he gave Tuscan his head he was as ready as the stallion for the freedom of a thundering, flat-out gallop. Tuscan was too full of oats, and Blake was too full of thoughts and emotions and conflict.

He needed this, he realised as he put the big bay at the hayfield gate and they soared over. He felt like hell.

The ceremony in the churchyard the previous day had been devastating, but not for the reasons he suspected Eleanor believed. Felicity was gone. She was the past. The upright figure who had stood next to him in her elegant dark grey ensemble, her hand on his arm, was his future. The best amends he could make to Felicity’s shade was to be a good husband to this living woman.

The memorial was a six-foot handsome column of white marble. An oval plaque had Felicity in profile on it, and on top was an urn draped with swags and ivy. Her name and ‘Beloved Daughter’ with the dates of her birth and death was its only inscription.

Lord and Lady Trenton had obviously been deeply moved, but he had been able to tell they were comforted by this symbol that their daughter had their forgiveness and acceptance at last. For himself he supposed it had drawn a sharp line under his history with Felicity. It was time to stop feeling regret, stop feeling guilt, and concentrate on making his wife happy—because she certainly deserved it.