The Wagered Wife

by Wilma Counts

Genres: Regency Romance

Synopsis

A Loveless Wedding

When the Honorable Trevor Jeffries loses everything at cards, there's only one way to cancel the debt--by marrying his opponent's unwanted ward, Miss Caitlin Woodbridge, a country girl fresh from the schoolroom. Their forced union proves to be a glum affair; and Trevor, leaving Caitlin well provided for, hastily escapes from it by enlisting for the Peninsula and urging her to seek an annulment.

A Passionate Reunion

Seven years have transformed Caitlin into a nonpareil of style and charm, adept in the enrichment of her long--lost husband's estate. Though her senses flame at the sight of her handsome bridegroom, she cannot forget his abrupt abandonment and long silence. But before she will surrender to him his heritage, and her heart, Trevor will have to vie with half the young bloods of London in an ardent courtship--of his own wife!

Release date: May 28, 2013

Publisher: Zebra Books

Print pages: 256

Sample

May, 1808

“How long do you intend to continue burying yourself in debauchery, little brother?” The Honorable Marcus Jeffries addressed what might have been a younger version of himself—had he been suffering the aftereffects of a night of pursuing the bottom of a bottle.

Trevor lifted his aching head from the pillow and squinted against the light when Marcus flung open the drapes. “As long as it takes. What are you doing here? Did Hansen not tell you I am not in?”

“He told me. My God, Trevor, how can you live like this? This room reeks.” Marcus pushed the window open to let in fresh spring air.

“Go away, Marcus. It will do no good for you to ring a peal over my head. Our estimable father—the ever-so-worthy Earl of Wyndham—and his heir were here before you last week.”

“I know. They told me. Thought you might listen to me.”

“Oh, I’ll listen. Not much choice, eh? I’ll even want to do as you wish. But always it comes back. I keep seeing that damned carriage and Terrence and Jason just lying there . . .”

“Trev—it was not your fault—”

“Yes! It was! If I had not pushed the idea of the race . . . They did not even want to buy that team, you know.”

“It was an accident. No one blames you.”

“Well, they should.” Trevor ran a hand through his dark-brown hair. “I should have been driving.”

Marcus snorted derisively. “With a broken hand? I doubt it.”

“Could we talk about something else? Maybe say goodbye as you leave?”

“I’m not leaving. Now get yourself out of that bed. Robbins is preparing a bath for you, and Mrs. Simpson is sending up some coffee and food.”

Trevor groaned and pulled himself to a sitting position. He knew his brother well enough to know that Marcus would not give up. And perhaps—just perhaps—talking with Marcus would keep the memories at bay.

But as he settled into the tub, they returned. Everything reminded him of Terrence—even the smell of his bath soap. And why should it be otherwise? After all, he and Terrence had shared everything all their lives—even the womb before they saw light of day.

And now Terrence was gone. Along with quiet, amiable Jason Garret with whom the twins had shared so many schoolboy escapades.

And Melanie. Do not forget Melanie. You ruined her life, too, he told himself. She and Jason might have made a match of it but for your selfish need to see what a pair of prime goers could do.

He would give anything—anything—to undo that day. He had talked Terrence and Jason into joining him in the purchase of a racing curricle and a splendid team of grays. Despite the others’ reservations, the three of them had felt like real men of the town—cocky, sure of themselves, reveling in a marked degree of popularity. He knew how they were viewed—those handsome Jeffries twins and their friend Jason. An inseparable threesome. Invited everywhere.

“Trevor! Are you going to take all day?” Marcus called through the open dressing room door, interrupting the reverie.

“I’m coming.” Trevor grabbed at the dressing gown Robbins held out to him.

Soon he was seated at a small table devouring poached eggs and toast that had been sent up on a tray. Marcus sat across from him, sipping a cup of coffee.

Finally, Trevor sat back and eyed his brother. At nine-and-twenty, Marcus was eight years older than Trevor. His hair was slightly darker, but the blue-gray eyes were a mirror of Trevor’s own. Trevor had only to regard Marcus to see himself a few years hence. The mature body of his older brother was fuller, more muscular than Trevor’s slim, wiry physique, but they both had large, well-shaped hands.

“Well? Out with it,” Trevor demanded. “I suppose Father and Gerald sent you.”

“As a matter of fact, they did not. However, you must know we all care about your welfare. Melanie is beside herself with worry.”

“Rubbish. Father and Gerald care only for their precious earldom and their standing with the ton. Melanie might care—”

“Of course she does. Good grief, Trevor, Terrence was our brother, too. This wallowing in self-pity has to stop. It has been four months since the accident.”

“Self-pity? Is that how you see it?”

“For the most part, yes. All right—it was an accident. An unfortunate accident. And if there is any blame to be laid at a doorstep, there seem to be candidates enough.”

Trevor gestured dismissively. “You just do not seem to understand—”

“I know there was more than your vehicle out there racing on a public thoroughfare. What were there—five? Six?”

“Five.”

“All right. Five. And the race was not your idea, was it? I understand it was Fitzwilliam who suggested it. True?”

“Yes. But what does it matter now?”

Marcus stood and began pacing. “He should have known better than to issue such a challenge to a bunch of green-lings—young bucks like you.”

“Now see here.” Trevor straightened up, taking umbrage at his brother’s condescending tone. “We knew what we were about.”

“Sure you did. But it was Fitzwilliam who collected on all those bets, was it not?”

“Fitz won the race. He even offered to forgive my loss, but as it was a debt of honor—”

Marcus snorted. “More like dishonor, I should say.”

“Look. I know you have no great liking for Fitz, but he is our—my—friend. ’Twasn’t his fault that farmer’s cart pulled out in front of Terrence and Jason.”

“Perhaps not, but Fitzwilliam was in the class ahead of me at school. Always instigating things that made him look good—and left him free of blame.”

“Be that as it may—”

“Trevor, do you not wonder why a fellow well into his thirties seeks the association of men so much younger than himself?”

“Maybe because we ain’t into our dotage yet?” Trevor raised an eyebrow in sarcasm.

“And maybe,” Marcus said grimly, “he finds preying on green boys extremely profitable.”

“Having reached my majority, I am hardly what you would term ‘a green boy.’ ” Trevor knew his voice had become haughty and defensive. “Did you come here this morning—sorry—this afternoon—to choose my friends for me?”

“No. I came to discuss the Bennington Trust with you.”

“What about it?” Trevor vaguely recalled his maternal grandmother having left funds for her daughter’s younger children.

“With Terrence gone, the trust is to be divided between you and me and Melanie. As the eldest—that is, the eldest of the younger sons—I, along with the solicitors, control the distribution of the trust.”

“So? We knew that. Grandmother Bennington was such an old pinchpenny there cannot be a great deal of money involved. Remember that ancient carriage she went around in? Her clothing was always woefully outdated, and her drawing room carpet was positively threadbare.”

“She was a frugal soul.”

“So just give me my twenty guineas and I shall use it to start tonight’s game.”

“That is what I feared.” Marcus resumed his seat. “It is considerably more than twenty guineas, Trevor.” He named a sum that Trevor found hard to fathom at first.

“Wha-a-t? You cannot be serious.”

“Yes.” Marcus repeated the amount. “However, there is a catch—”

“Why does that not surprise me?”

“Apparently, our grandmother was more astute than any of us gave her credit as being. Your share of the fortune is the Atherton estate in Suffolk. Properly managed, it could produce a tidy income, but it cannot be sold—only passed on to your heir.”

“Are you saying there is no money in hand now?”

“That is precisely what I am telling you.”

“What about you? And where would Terrence have fit in all this?”

“Terrence and I were to share the investments on the ’Change, from which part of Melanie’s dowry is to come as well. I shall continue to manage the investments and will share with the two of you Terrence’s portion of the profits as they accrue. When they accrue.”

“There are none now?”

“No. Napoleon’s blockade of British shipping has hit us rather severely.”

Trevor recognized his brother’s propensity for understatement.

“Hell! Damn! Blast!”

“Just so, little brother. You must curb your profligate ways. Father has reached the end of his patience with you. There will be no increase in your allowance from him.”

“Hah! When did Father ever show patience with any of us but Gerald—and you on occasion?”

“You may have a point. Well . . .” Marcus set his hands on his knees and rose. “I must be off.”

While he did not do so intentionally, in the weeks that followed, Trevor nevertheless dismissed from his mind the interview with Marcus. There was too much of his father’s and Gerald’s stodginess in the second brother, Trevor told himself. True, Marcus was not nearly so pompous as Gerald—and had always been more understanding of the younger siblings than either the earl or his heir. Still, the age difference was such that the twins had never had much in common with either of the two older boys.

Trevor was sure Gerald had been born with a middle-aged mind-set. And he thought Marcus had long since forgotten how to have fun. Terrence would have understood. And Melanie seemed to.

In this, her second season, Melanie was well received. She had gone into mourning for their brother and had only recently gone into half-mourning. Trevor knew she had had more than one offer of marriage.

One afternoon he called at the Wyndham townhouse primarily to see Melanie, though his mother was in the drawing room when he arrived and deigned to acknowledge her son. The townhouse was his mother’s residence, since the earl rarely came to town—except when he wanted to dress down an errant child, Trevor thought sourly.

“Oh, Trevor, you are just in time to drive me in the park,” Melanie said as she bade one of her suitors goodbye.

“You failed to talk Thornton into doing so?” He gestured to the closing door.

“He offered. I want to spend time with you,” she said brightly.

Instantly he was on his guard. “I do hope you are not going to join the rest of the family in haranguing me about how I spend my time and the company I keep,” he said, sounding defensive even to his own ears.

“I am sure you deserve such—but no, that is not my intention. So will you drive me?”

“No. I will gladly walk with you, but you know very well I do not drive or ride for any but the most necessary purposes anymore.”

“I forgot,” she said contritely and placed a hand on his arm. “I heard Bellson bought the grays.”

“And my hunter.”

“I’m sorry, Trev. Surely you do not blame the animals for what happened.”

“No, of course not. Just my insane interest in them. I shall never again allow myself to become involved with horses for sport or pleasure.”

“But, Trev, you love them so. Even when we were small children, you loved them far more than Terrence and I did. We feared them at first. You never did.”

“And look what disaster my obsession wrought . . .”

She had started up the stairs to the bedchambers above. She paused on the first step, turned, and took his face in both her hands, forcing him to hold her gaze.

“Trevor, it was an accident.” She clipped each word off precisely. “It was not your fault. You must stop this.”

He held her gaze a moment, then looked away. “Hurry on up and get your cloak,” he said.

As they walked along toward a small park a few minutes later, he turned to his sister.

“Out with it, Mel. What is it you wanted to tell me without the countess hearing?” The twins and Melanie had always referred to their mother in this impersonal fashion. Early on they had realized that the position of countess was infinitely more important to her than the role of mother.

“Um . . . you know Sir Andrew Sheffield, do you not?”

“Drew? Of course. We were in school together, though he was two classes ahead of Terrence and me.”

“Wh-what do you think of him?”

“Nice enough fellow. Why?” He paused and turned to her.

She colored up. “Well . . . he and I . . . we . . . he has called several times,” she ended lamely.

“I see. I always thought you and Jason . . .”

“I know,” she said gently, “but that was a young girl’s infatuation. Perhaps it would have eventually progressed to something more, but . . .” She paused. “Andrew is . . . Oh, Trev, I truly do care for him.”

“So what is the problem?”

“The countess, of course. Andrew is a younger son. His father is a mere baron.”

“I see. This is an obstacle—for her.”

“How do I get round her?”

“Hmm. Enlist the aid of Marcus, to start with. She usually attends what he says.”

“What about Aunt Gertrude? She is acquainted with Andrew’s family.”

“Good Lord, no! The countess detests Aunt Gertrude. Wait. If Aunt Gertrude were to oppose such a match, our esteemed mother would automatically approve it.”

Melanie laughed. “Yes, but Andrew says Aunt Gertrude is quite fond of him.”

“Well, if it would put a stick in our mother’s wheel, I am sure Aunt Gertrude could be persuaded to dissemble. Would you like me to speak to her?”

“Oh, Trev, would you? Please?”

He patted her hand. “You are sure this is what you want?”

She was sure. They spent a pleasant hour sharing bits of gossip and irreverent observations on the antics of various members of the ton’s elite.

Later, however, Trevor admitted to himself he had been taken aback by his sister’s tendre for Andrew Sheffield. Not that there was anything wrong with Sheffield. Fine fellow. A rising star in diplomatic circles, if rumor was to be credited.

It was just that . . . well . . . Melanie seemed to be getting on with her life so easily. Was he the only one who treasured the memory of Terrence and Jason? Was he alone in continuing to mourn them?

God! How he missed them. He wished Terrence were with him tonight. He could always count on Terrence to say “Enough” without getting his—Trevor’s—back up.

And play was likely to be deep this night.

He shrugged. His luck was due to change. . . .

It was late. Very late, Trevor thought, judging by the level of liquid in the brandy bottle at Lord Fitzwilliam’s elbow. Fitz still sat at the table, though he had ceased playing some time ago. Others who had also played earlier stood around the table idly watching the play. Only two players remained—Trevor and Baron Fiske, a balding man of middle years with small, pale-blue eyes in a round, too-soft face. There was nothing soft about his hard look of triumph as he raked in his winnings.

“Another hand, sir?” he asked invitingly.

“I should dearly love to accommodate you, my good man,” Trevor said a trifle too expansively, “but I fear you have reduced me to penury.”

“Oh, come now. Not as bad as all that.”

“No, but uncomfortable all the same. Tonight’s losses along with the vowels you already hold put me sadly in your debt, sir.” It occurred to Trevor that, had he not imbibed from the bottle quite so freely, he might be less frank about the state of his finances.

Fiske gave him a speculative look. “Sure you will not go one more hand?”

“Sir, I’ve nothing of value left to wager.”

“Oh, I would not say that,” Fiske suggested in soft innuendo.

“I shall redeem those when I have my quarterly allowance.” Trevor pointed at an appalling stack of IOUs. Though how on earth I will meet any other obligations is beyond me, he thought. How on earth—or why—had he allowed himself to get in so deep? Oh, God, Terrence, I needed you this night. He looked over at Fitz, who seemed to give him a look of sympathy.

“I should be glad to give you a chance to redeem them now, Jeffries.” Fiske calmly shuffled and reshuffled the cards.

“You do not understand. My pockets are to let. I have nothing left to wager.”

“Oh, but you have.”

Trevor gave a short, scornful laugh. “I have no idea what it would be.”

“You. Or more to the point, your name.”

“What do you mean?” Trevor looked from the baron’s beady eyes to Fitz, who shrugged and looked away. Others seemed to tense with anticipation.

“It is my intent, young man, to make you a wager you cannot refuse,” Fiske said.

“You are free to try.” Trevor was both curious and disinterested. He knew he should get up and leave, but he sat and took yet another sip of brandy.

“I propose we play one more hand,” the older man said. “If you win, I will turn over all your vowels of indebtedness to you.”

“Go for it, Jeffries,” a voice on the sidelines said. “You’ve had three devilish bad hands in a row. Next one has to be a winner.”

“Easy for you to say,” another voice said, but Trevor was looking at Baron Fiske.

“And if I lose?”

“If you lose,” the baron replied, “I will still turn them over to you.” He paused as others leaned in closer. “But—you will marry my ward—my wife’s niece—before the week is out.”

There were several gasps, but no one said anything, waiting for Trevor’s response.

“Ridiculous. Impossible.” Trevor started to rise.

“Now just hold on, son. I think tonight’s losses along with those from previous sessions amount to a good deal more than a quarter’s allowance—even for one of Wyndham’s sons.”

“So? You know I will honor my debts.”

“But I should like them settled sooner than later, you see.” Fiske squinted his little pig eyes at Trevor in a cold look. “I should hate to have to approach your father . . .”

Trevor felt his stomach knot up. The last time his father had bailed him and Terrence out of a scrape, the earl had cast him a glare that made the baron’s frigid look seem positively tropical by comparison. And then had come the humiliating lecture, telling them precisely how worthless his younger sons were. And this situation was worse by far.

He returned the baron’s stare. “Win or lose, the debts are cleared, right?”

Fiske smiled mechanically. “Right.”

“Don’t do it, Trev,” someone said.

The baron turned a malevolent eye on the speaker. “This is none of your concern, young man.”

“At least get a new deck,” another voice said. “For luck.”

“An’ let Fitz deal,” the same voice added.

“All right by me,” the baron said. “You?” he asked. Trevor shrugged his acquiescence.

The new deck was called for, and silence weighed heavily until it arrived. Lord Fitzwilliam shuffled the cards thoroughly and offered them to Trevor to cut. He dealt the two hands and waited. There was none of the usual betting—after all, there was only one wager on the table. My life, Trevor thought ruefully.

Trevor exchanged two cards. The baron exchanged three, and the dealer turned up the trump card. The baron took the first trick. They seesawed back and forth. The tension in the room mounted. The players were even when it came to the last trick. Trevor’s last card was a king, giving him great hope. He laid it on the table.

Only to have the baron trump it.

For a moment, Trevor thought he might be violently ill. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

“Well, son, you are about to join the ranks of married men.” The baron fairly chortled as he handed over the stack of IOUs. “We shall set the ceremony for Saturday morning. Perhaps you will call tomorrow to meet your bride.”

“Saturday will be soon enough,” Trevor said.

“As you wish.”

“You wished to see me, ma’am?” Miss Caitlyn Maria Woodbridge entered her aunt’s sitting room feeling both curious and apprehensive. In general, Aunt Sylvia ignored her niece’s presence in the household.

“Yes, my dear. Do come in and close that door so we may be private. Sit there.” Sylvia Fiske pointed to a particular chair, and Caitlyn felt her inner tension grow. She sat and began nervously pleating and repleating her skirt.

“I have great news for you, Caitlyn.”

“You—you have?” Caitlyn’s experience was that, when Aunt Sylvia broached a topic with such patently artificial enthusiasm, the news did not bode well for others.

“Your uncle has arranged a splendid match for you, darling.” Aunt Sylvia clasped her hands together in a show of delight.

“Oh.” A tremor of fear assailed Caitlyn; then she relaxed. “Oh. Bertie did persuade his father to relent.”

“Bertie? Oh, you mean that Latham boy. No, my dear. Hubert Latham is the son of a mere viscount. Fiske has arranged your marriage to the son of an earl. Is that not wonderful?”

Caitlyn was struck speechless. No. This could not be happening to her. And Aunt Sylvia expected her to believe such a disaster to be. . .