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Married For His Convenience
Eleanor Webster
A plain countess…Tainted by illegitimacy, plain Sarah Martin has no illusions of a grand marriage. So when the Earl of Langford makes her a proposal which will take her one step closer to finding her half-sister, she can’t refuse!Sebastian’s dreams of romance died with his late wife’s affair, so now he needs a convenient wife to act as governess for his silent daughter. Yet Sarah continues to surprise and challenge him, and soon Sebastian can’t deny the joy his new bride could bring to his life – and into his bed!
A plain countess...
Tainted by illegitimacy, plain Sarah Martin has no illusions of a grand marriage. So when the Earl of Langford makes her a proposal that will take her one step closer to finding her half sister, she can’t refuse!
Sebastian’s dreams of romance died with his late wife’s affair, so now he needs a convenient wife to act as governess for his silent daughter. Yet Sarah continues to surprise and challenge him, and soon Sebastian can’t deny the joy his new bride could bring to his life—and into his bed!
She rubbed her hands together. They made a chafing sandpaper sound, emphasising the chill silence of the room.
‘May I offer you refreshment?’ she asked belatedly.
‘No, thank you. Indeed, I will get straight to the point.’
‘Please do.’ She exhaled with relief. ‘I much prefer blunt speech.’
He straightened his shoulders and shifted to face her more squarely, as though putting his mind to an unpleasant task.
‘Miss Martin, I need— May I have the honour of your hand in marriage?’
Author Note (#u03f91c07-f4c5-5163-aa79-be71aa34ab91)
I fell in love with the drama of the French Revolution when my mother and I attended a showing of the movie A Tale of Two Cities.
To say the film was old is an understatement. Even in the seventies it bordered on antiquity—a black and white 1935 release, with Ronald Coleman as Sydney Carton. But that film captured my imagination in a way that few films have done before or since. I remember blinking dazedly at its conclusion, literally feeling as though I had been transported to another place and time and was myself waiting on that tumbril.
Those timeless words—‘It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known’—continue to thrill. Thank you, Charles Dickens.
Later I became fascinated with the history of the Revolution: with its ideals—which so soon dissolved into bloodthirsty chaos—and its impact not only on France but on the world.
One day I will set a novel based at its epicentre. But for today I am thrilled that Married for His Convenience at least touches this fascinating period.
Married for His Convenience
Eleanor Webster
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ELEANOR WEBSTER loves high heels and sun—which is ironic as she lives in northern Canada, the land of snow hills and unflattering footwear. Various crafting experiences—including a nasty glue gun episode—have proved that her creative soul is best expressed through the written word. Eleanor is currently pursuing a doctoral degree in psychology, and holds an undergraduate degree in history. She loves to use her writing to explore her fascination with the past.
Books by Eleanor Webster
Mills & Boon Historical Romance
No Conventional Miss
Married for His Convenience
Visit the Author Profile page at millsandboon.co.uk (http://millsandboon.co.uk).
In memory of my mother, who loved history and books and inspired me with that love. To my father, who loves history, the English countryside and all creatures great and small. To my childhood pets, who greatly added to my joy, and to Oreo, a special rabbit who shared our home for all too short a time.
Contents
Cover (#ub26de665-3808-5943-bc1e-54541bab40e9)
Back Cover Text (#u31c5efe5-0eca-56a7-8a63-e4f5eefb8e13)
Introduction (#ue1950fb8-8122-56df-b51a-123f2646ddf2)
Author Note (#u841f0e0f-0372-59f0-aa36-e0e8bea0dd27)
Title Page (#u6d7c8a4a-deb7-5343-9811-f32c0e3131b3)
About the Author (#u288b0da5-0b22-5c5e-9076-2a4516d2967c)
Dedication (#u964cadf6-04d0-5de0-ad4c-67e8500885fb)
Prologue (#u44f5a699-2650-5cdb-8654-a068a0b80135)
Chapter One (#ufd89e0ba-d515-5804-97a5-4857546f340a)
Chapter Two (#u2b8bd1f4-e1b6-5580-9744-0e1bcc02d17f)
Chapter Three (#u90d1e456-fffb-53dd-9020-ae39e0a42e96)
Chapter Four (#uf16ad9b8-c21b-538e-ade8-05a891484501)
Chapter Five (#uf31dae8e-d357-5ae8-a708-c6e1e12a8c88)
Chapter Six (#u78a67832-fe54-5fb9-be81-8dc675e24176)
Chapter Seven (#u86969370-0f45-56b5-a8ac-dbcc6bca60f7)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
Prologue (#u03f91c07-f4c5-5163-aa79-be71aa34ab91)
November 8th, 1793
The severed blonde curl lay in stark relief against the polished wood of the desk.
‘Hardly conclusive evidence of my wife’s demise.’ Sebastian Hastings, Earl of Langford, kept his glance dispassionate as he lifted his gaze from the silken strands.
‘This might be more convincing,’ Beaumont said, removing a single sheet of paper from the inside pocket of his coat and smoothing it out with meticulous care.
A death certificate.
‘I did not realise the citoyens of the Committee of Public Safety had sufficient time to document Madame La Guillotine’s every victim,’ Sebastian drawled.
An ugly colour suffused the other man’s features. He was tall and had quick eyes set within a narrow face; everything about him was angular except for the pouches under his eyes and a lax softening of his chin.
Sebastian had always disliked Beaumont, but that was a pale sentiment compared to his hatred now.
Sebastian wanted to kill him.
He wanted to squeeze the man’s throat with his bare hands until his eyes bulged and his face purpled into lifelessness.
But he would not do so. He could not do so or any hope of recovering his children would be lost.
‘Given my wife’s apparent demise, might I enquire after the welfare of my children?’ he asked instead, keeping his face expressionless and his tone bland.
‘They are in my care.’
‘How reassuring. And what will it take to get them out of your care and into my own?’
Beaumont smiled, the thin lips curving upward to reveal neat white teeth. He leaned over the desk and Sebastian smelled the cloying sweetness of the man’s cologne. ‘Your children will be returned for a price.’
‘And if I am unable to meet that price?’
Beaumont reached for the blonde curl, twisting it through his well-manicured fingers. He moved it slowly—around, between, under and over. ‘Efficient lady—Madame La Guillotine.’
Sebastian stood, the movement violent and impossible to contain. His chair crashed against the wall. It fell sideways and banged to the floor.
Beaumont jumped back, but Sebastian rounded the desk and was on him. He had the man by the throat, pulling him so close he could see the pores of the man’s once-handsome face.
‘I promise you one thing,’ Sebastian ground out between his clenched teeth. ‘If my children are hurt, you will not live.’
Chapter One (#u03f91c07-f4c5-5163-aa79-be71aa34ab91)
April 7th, 1794
Sarah Martin lifted her skirts. Her feet sank into the mud and water dripped rhythmically from the bushes bordering the woodland path.
Neither fact lowered her spirits.
Smiling, Sarah sniffed the earthiness of the English countryside and held her skirts higher than was respectable.
Mrs Crawford would have frowned, but then Mrs Crawford spent considerable time in that occupation.
Sarah’s sun had risen, metaphorically, shortly after luncheon with a last-minute dinner invitation from Lady Eavensham to even the numbers at her dining table.
Such events did not often happen to Sarah, although they occurred with delightful frequency in her writing. Her current heroine, Miss Petunia Hardcastle, had just recently made a stunning entrance in a diaphanous blue dress created from her grandmother’s ball gown.
Unfortunately, Sarah’s dress was neither diaphanous nor blue, but a serviceable grey. Moreover, unlike Miss Hardcastle, Sarah’s longing for fashionable company had nothing to do with romance and everything to do with London. The mere mention of that city gave her a wonderful thrill of hope, a prickly sensation like the goosebumps she used to get at Christmas.
One day she would go there. One day she would keep her promise. One day—
A crackle of twigs and leaves startled her out of her reverie. She stopped. A second scuffle caught her attention and she peered into the ditch. ‘Pauvre lapin,’ she spoke quickly in her mother’s language.
A rabbit lay, sprawled among the weeds and grasses. Its back paw was entangled in a poacher’s trap, its brown sides moving in frantic undulation.
Sarah bit her lip. Kneeling, she placed her valise to one side. She eyed the trap, but did not touch the mechanism for fear of hurting herself or causing the animal harm. She was familiar with the device, but it was vastly different to manipulate its jaws whilst they were empty than to contemplate doing so while this petrified creature lay within its grip.
