Stranger in My Arms(5)

“Yes, on a few occasions. She and Hunter were discreet, but it was obvious that they took enormous pleasure in one another’s company. She liked all the same things he did-riding, hunting, horses. I’ve no doubt that he visited her often in private after we were married.”

“Why didn’t Lord Hawksworth marry Lady Carlysle in the first place?”

Lara hugged her knees and lowered her chin, unconsciously drawing herself into a ball. “I was much younger, whereas she was past childbearing age.

Hunter wanted an heir… and I suppose he thought he could mold me to his liking. I did try to please him. Unfortunately I couldn’t seem to give him the one thing he wanted from me.”

“A child,” Rachel murmured. From the expression on her face, Lara knew that Rachel was thinking of her own miscarriage, which had occurred only a few months ago. “Neither of us has had much success in that regard, have we?”

Lara’s face burned as she continued. “At least you’ve proven that you’re able to conceive. With God’s blessing you’ll bear a child someday. I, on the other hand, have tried everything-I drank tonics and consulted moon charts, and put myself through any number of ridiculous and humiliating exertions.

Nothing worked. When Hunter finally left for India, I was so glad that he was gone. It was a blessing to sleep alone and not have to wonder each night if I would hear his footsteps approaching my door.”

Lara shivered at the memories that flashed through her mind. “I don’t like sleeping with a man. I never want to again.”

“Poor Larissa,” Rachel murmured. “You should have told me these things long before now. You’re always so eager to solve others’ problems, and so reluctant to discuss your own.”

“Had I told you, it wouldn’t have changed anything,” Lara pointed out, making an effort to smile.

“Had it been left to me, I would have chosen someone far more appropriate for you than Lord Hawksworth. I think Mama and Papa were so dazzled by his position and wealth that they overlooked the fact that you didn’t suit.”

“It wasn’t their fault,” Lara said. “The blame was …. . I’m not really suited to be anyone’s wife. I should never have married at all.

I’m much happier on my own.”

“Neither of us landed the kind of match we hoped for, did we?” Rachel reflected with sad irony. “Terrell with his moods, and your lummox of a husband … hardly the stuff of fairy tales.”

“At least we live close to each other,” Lara pointed out, trying to dispel the cloud of regret that seemed to hang in the air. “That makes everything bearable, at least for me.”

“For me as well.” Rachel left the chair and went to hug her tightly.

“I pray only good things will happen to you from now on, dearest. May Lord Hawksworth rest in peace-and may you soon find a man who will love you as you deserve to be loved.”

“Don’t pray for that,” Lara said, her alarm half feigned and half real.

“I don’t want a man. Pray instead for the children at the orphanage, and poor old Mrs. Lumley, who is going blind, and Mr. Peacham’s rheumatism, and-” “You and your ever-expanding list of unfortunates,” Rachel commented, smiling fondly at her.

“Very well, I’ll pray for them too.”

The moment Lara ventured into town, she found herself inundated with questions, everyone demanding to know the details of her husband’s return from the dead. No matter how often she stated that “Hawksworth’s” appearance in London was most likely a hoax, the citizens of Market Hill wanted to believe otherwise.

“Well, if ‘tisn’t the luckiest woman in Market Hill,” said the cheesewright as soon as Lara entered his shop, one of many that lined the town’s primary street of Maingate. The air was redolent with a pleasantly milky, tangy smell that wafted from the slabs and rounds of cheese stacked on the wooden tables, Smiling halfheartedly, Lara set her willow basket on a long table and waited for him to produce the round of cheese she came to collect each week for the orphanage. “I’m fortunate for many reasons, Mr. Wilkins,” she replied, “but if you’re referring to the rumor about my late husband-” “A lovely sight you’ll be,” the cheesewright interrupted heartily, his jovial, big-nosed face glowing with good humor. “The lady of the manor again.”

He hefted a cheese that measured nearly a foot across into her basket.

The soft curds had been salted, pressed, wrapped in muslin, and dipped in wax to ensure a mild, fresh flavor.

“Thank you,” Lara replied evenly, “but, Mr. Wilkins, I must tell you I’m sure you that the story is false. Lord Hawksworth is not coming back.”

The Misses Withers, a pair of elderly spinster sisters, entered the shop and tittered in pleasure as they saw Lara. Identical flower-trimmed bonnets covered their small gray heads, which bobbed together in a swift exchange of gossip. One of them approached Lara and laid a frail, blue-veined hand on her sleeve.

“My dear, the news reached us this morning. We’re so happy for you, so happy indeed-” “Thank you, but it’s not true,” Lara insisted. “The man who claims to be my husband is undoubtedly an impostor. It would be a miracle if the earl had managed to survive the shipwreck.”

“I say hope for the best until you’re told otherwise,” Mr. Wilkins said, while his stout wife, Glenda, emerged from the back of the shop.