Married: The Virgin Widow by Deborah Hale

delighted to hear of your admiration.”
    Before he had a chance to respond, Ford’s voice rumbled behind them. “Congratulating my fiancée, are you, Crawford?”
    It was a perfectly civil question, but the tone held a sharp edge of menace. Drat the man! Did he have to discourage the one neighbour willing to offer her a kind word?
    Mr Crawford turned pale. “J-just so, my lord. I must congratulate you, as well, on your fine choice of a wife.”
    Bobbing a hasty bow, he fled.
    Ford gave a most infuriating chuckle. “A nervous fellow, your Mr Crawford. I get the feeling he doesn’t much like my company.”
    He offered Laura his arm, but she ignored it, marching back toward the carriage. Not caring whether Ford heard her, she muttered, “He is not the only one.”
    So Laura did not care for his company? Ford fumed as his carriage rolled north over the High Weald toward London. She flattered herself if she thought it mattered to him! The only reason he’d brought her along to London was to keep her away from Sidney Crawford while he was absent from Hawkesbourne.
    The way the two of them had stolen off for a secretive tête-à-tête in the churchyard the moment his back was turned had put him on his guard. Crawford’s nervous behaviour and abrupt exit were clear signs of a guilty conscience. Laura’s reluctance to come to London and her undisguised irritation at having her chat with Crawford interrupted were clear evidence she was up to something.
    Not that any one would suspect it, seeing her now. Ford cast a sidelong glance at his betrothed, dozing peacefully with her head lolled against his arm. Her scent made him fancy he was sitting in the midst of an orange grove on a sultry night with all the trees in bloom. She looked a picture of angelic innocence with a single golden curl tumbled over her brow. How deceiving appearances could be.
    If she planned to deceive him again, as she had seven years ago, she would not find him as easy a mark as she had then. He was no longer a love-blinded young fool without influence or resources. He would get her to thealtar this time and he would get her into his bed, if it meant spending a fortnight shadowing her every move.
    Gradually the muffled clatter of horses’ hooves and the rolling of the carriage wheels lulled Ford to sleep.
    A while later, he woke with a start, uncertain how long he’d been dozing. Quite a while, it seemed, for the view out the carriage window showed them to be on the outskirts of Southwark.
    Laura was still asleep, her head resting against his shoulder, the way it never would have if she’d been awake. On the opposite seat, Susannah slept, slumped against Belinda, who stared out the window, a tear sliding down her cheek. When she heaved a muted sob, Ford realised that was what had woken him.
    “What’s the matter, Belinda?” He kept his voice low so as not to rouse her sisters. “Are you ill?”
    She shook her head slowly. “I just saw h-home…I mean, the house where we grew up…for the first time since we left. A cousin of Papa’s lives there now. His horrid wife could hardly wait to get her hands on it.”
    Ford craned his neck to catch a glimpse of the Penrose house. He recalled a long-ago day and a sour-faced woman answering his frantic enquiries about Laura.
    “I’m sure I don’t know where they’ve gone. She’s made a fine match to some rich, old lordship. Perhaps she had him take her on a bridal tour to Paris to spend all his money.” The woman had sounded frankly envious of Laura’s good fortune. Every word from her sneering lips had struck a blow to Ford’s fragile hope that Laura’s tersely worded letter breaking their engagement was some preposterous mistake.
    Those wrenching memories hardened his bitterness, shoring up the weak spots Laura had begun to sap in his defences.
    He continued to gaze out the window as the carriage turned on to a familiar stretch of Harleyford Street. But something looked different.
    “What became