LITMIR.BIZ

       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

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