A Bride Bound by Duty (Preview)

Chapter One

The letter in Eleanor Vickering’s hand ought to have filled her with elation. Her closest, most trusted friend in all of the world was engaged. But Eleanor could feel only jealousy.

It was a fact that also made her feel guilty.

Glancing around the grand drawing room where she so often sat to read her letters and write her correspondence, she knew she ought to feel much better about her situation.

But upon reading the letter and learning that the man Olivia had been pining after all Season did, in fact, pine for her too, Eleanor felt even more detached from the world.

She and Olivia had often lain in the wildflower meadow at her father’s estate in Chester and dreamt together of their future, of marrying for love and filling their homes with laughter, joy, and children.

Her father had taken that from her. Or at least, his being set upon by pirates as a captain within the king’s navy had taken that from her.

She closed her eyes, clutching her friend’s letter in hand as she remembered the day of her father’s return to Oxford. Having received word that pirates had set upon his ship, she, her mother, and her sisters had all been terrified of what state he might be in when he returned.

Yet, to Eleanor’s astonishment, he had been in finer spirits than when he had left some weeks earlier. A little bruised and battered but in fine spirits, nonetheless.

“I have wonderful news, El!” he had told her as he clutched her by the shoulders at only seventeen years of age. “You are to be married!”

Eleanor had not believed it then. Nor had she ever believed her father could sell away her chance at love to pay a debt owed to another man for saving his life. It was absurd, to have her marry the son of a lieutenant all because he had saved him was quite simply poppycock to Eleanor. And she had told her father so.

She remembered her father’s face even three years later when she had attempted to defy him at every turn. In private, of course, for she would never have it said that Captain Weatherford’s daughter was rebellious.

Perhaps if her father had not grown sick, she might still be defying him now, still finding ways to put off this union.

But he had, and the marriage had been performed just three days before his departing their life for good.

Mr William Vickering was a good man; she could be sure of that in all that had been said of him. But as a new member of the East India Trading Company, he had left her only the day after having said their vows, setting sail for Heaven only knew how long.

And so, after having put her poor father in the ground, Eleanor found herself at her new husband’s estate in Cornwall, entirely alone save for the servants. She desperately longed for those carefree afternoons as a teenager when she and Olivia would dream together and talk of love and opportunity and finding their perfect match.

Then, she had hope. Then, she had time. Then, she had her father and her family.

Now, she had only loneliness as she sat aside from society in a grand house filled with expensive treasures but devoid of anything she actually wanted.

There was a great distance between Cornwall and Oxford, and every day, it seemed to grow greater still.

She had not seen her family since her father’s funeral some six months earlier. Though the lieutenant, now her father-in-law, did happen to visit several times. That was some small mercy, at least, though she did feel the urge to slap the widower every time he insisted that his son would likely be home sooner rather than later.

Six months married, and she had not laid eyes upon her husband since the night of their wedding, the night when she had laid with her back to him and him to her, and wept because she knew that this was not how one was supposed to feel on their wedding night.

“Urgh …” Eleanor groaned deeply. Just thinking about it all made her tired. She placed Olivia’s letter on the desk in front of her. It would take some time to compose a letter that did not hint at her upset and jealousy at her friend’s good news, so she decided it was best to wait before writing a response.

Instead, she turned to the window. Perhaps a stroll through the gardens might help her clear her mind enough to write.

But it was not to be for the spring rain was still falling as it had been all morning. Pattering upon the windowpane, it teased her with its freedom, causing her to bite back tears.

A knocking upon the door caused her to almost jump out of her skin. Spinning in her seat, she carefully wiped the tears from her eyes so her maid didn’t see.

“Carlton! You startled me!” she exclaimed as Daisy Carlton, the young daughter of the local baker, now her maid, entered.

“Forgive me, ma’am, I did not mean to—”

“Please, do not call me ma’am!” Eleanor said, cringing. It made her feel old. At not even twenty-one, she most definitely did not feel old enough to be called ma’am.

“Then what ought I call you, ma—” Carlton asked.

“As I have said previously, Eleanor will suffice in private. In public, you may call me Mrs Vickering.”

The maid dipped her head in acknowledgement. “Of course, Mrs Vickering.”

Eleanor bit back the urge to point out they were safe in the privacy of the room. She did not much like being reminded that she was not a Weatherford anymore, but it was preferable to be called Vickering than ma’am.

“Did you have need of something?” Eleanor asked when Carlton didn’t immediately explain her interruption.

“Oh, yes, this just arrived for you, Mrs Vickering,” Carlton explained, hurrying forth to offer Eleanor another letter.

How odd, she thought. Ordinarily, all her letters came once a day from the post office in town.

This letter was dappled with raindrops, and their smell made her want to take a walk in the rain.

“Thank you, Carlton,” Eleanor said, waving her maid away. It felt odd to be ordering somebody of similar age about, but as her mother liked to remind her in letters, she was the lady of the house now, and she ought to get used to it sooner rather than later. “I shall call if I have need of you.”

Carlton dipped a curtsey and left the room.

Somehow, the letter in Eleanor’s hand felt heavier than any she had held before it. The rain splotches upon the inked address made it difficult to discern whether she recognized the hand it was written in.

Taking her gold letter opener from her desk, she broke open the wax seal and removed the letter from the envelope.

Her heart hammered when she saw the writing inside. She did indeed recognize the hand, though she had not seen it since before their wedding night.

It was William’s hand. And for the first time in six months, he had written to her. His words were a shock to the system for it appeared he was finally coming home.

***

A week had been enough to play the dutiful wife, to ensure that the house was well prepared to receive its master and that all those important members of both their families were there to greet him when he arrived home. After all, she had kept the house in strict ship-shape while her husband was gone. She would not have it said otherwise. And with her mother already having been planning to visit, it seemed like just the right timing.

And so, Eleanor had done all she could. Thanks to the servants, the house sparkled and filled with guests felt far less lonely than it had the rest of her marriage.

But still, Eleanor grew vexed.

“He ought to have been here by now,” Eleanor muttered, more to herself than to anyone else within the parlour as they awaited the arrival of Mr Vickering himself.

Having come all the way from Oxford to greet her son-in-law home, her mother slipped her arm into Eleanor’s and whispered, “Do not worry so. I am sure he is well, merely delayed.”

Eleanor’s hand tightened on her punch glass. “Then he ought to have sent word.”

It was one thing to keep her waiting all these long months, but to insist he would be home by this evening, a week after his letter, and not show was quite another.

“I am certain it is no personal affront, my dear,” her mother insisted, brushing one of Eleanor’s pale auburn curls where it had fallen free of her hairpins.

“Perhaps I ought to have dinner served,” Eleanor suggested, fretting. She glanced at the grandfather clock beside the parlour door.

Their guests had arrived well over an hour ago. She was certain she could hear stomachs beginning to growl.

“Worry not; your guests appear to be having fun,” her mother insisted. It did appear so. Her younger sisters were indeed offering a great deal of laughter as they listened to the lieutenant’s stories.

If only her husband would come home as often as his father. She might not feel quite so nervous.

“I am certain Mr Vickering will have a great many tales of his own adventures to tell us when he returns,” her mother continued as if she were trying to cheer her.

Yet, all Eleanor could think was if he returns.

Even as she thought it, the parlour door opened, and a footman called, “Mr William Vickering and his honoured guest, Danowua.”

Danowua? What kind of a name is that? Eleanor thought. It certainly wasn’t English. As she turned towards the door, her mother’s gasp made her shiver.

Standing in the doorway was a huge beast of a man with dark skin the colour of red clay, hair so jet-black it looked like obsidian and a face so grim it caused Eleanor’s heart to stop.

Though he wore the typical garb of an English gentleman, britches, waistcoat, cravat, boots, and such, he also wore other adornments. Feathers in his hair and beads about his neck. Even a rabbit’s foot hung on a leather cord midway down his torso.

The gasping about the room said Eleanor wasn’t the only one astonished by the Indian’s presence.

How could her husband have brought a guest without first warning her? It would be awkward enough to set a new place at the table, but for the life of her, who would be open-minded enough to sit beside a man wearing a rabbit’s foot to dinner?

And her husband, oh, her husband. If this was, in fact, Mr Vickering, he looked nothing like the man she had stood opposite in the chapel six months earlier to say her vows.

Then, he had been clean-shaven, well-groomed, and perhaps even a little pale.

Now, he was unkempt. His brown hair, at shoulder length, was pulled back with a piece of leather at the nape of his neck, yet much of it had fallen loose from the tie, framing his sun-kissed face with sea-salted waving locks. Several days’ worth of facial hair adorned his strong jawline. And his green eyes, those eyes that had been dull and filled with concern on their wedding day, were now brimming with excitement.

In fact, in the handful of times that Eleanor had met him before their wedding, she had never seen him looking quite so … alive.

Nor had she ever seen him more handsome. He was disarmingly so, and even when her mother nudged her forward, she struggled to find the will to move.

A part of her wished to capture how he looked at that moment forever, for she could almost say that she felt something other than sheer indifference.

“Ahh! It is good to be home!” William declared, throwing his arms wide. “Please, Danowua, allow me to introduce you to everyone.”

The small number of guests started to congregate behind Eleanor, but never once did her husband look at her even as he said, “My wife, Eleanor, her mother, Mrs Weatherford, her other daughters, Emily and Elisa.”

He gestured at each of them in turn before his father swept up and threw his arms around his son. Sounding a little out of breath, William said, “And this is my father, Lieutenant William Vickering of the King’s Navy.”

As they stepped apart, the father and son saluted one another, looking each other deep in the eye. Eleanor wished her husband would look at her that way, but then again, mightn’t it have been awkward if he had?

Oh, she did not know anymore. But she was distracted from such thoughts when the Indian spoke, “It is my greatest honour finally to meet you all. Bill has told me a great deal about all of you.”

Eleanor wasn’t sure whether to be more astonished at the man’s perfect if heavily accented English or the fact William might have told him anything at all about her. After all, they knew so little of each other beyond their names. Then there was the Indian’s using of her husband’s most affectionate nickname, the name that only those closest to him – like his father – used.

“Danowua? What does that mean?” Elisa, Eleanor’s youngest sister, asked curiously. Both she and Emily were looking at Danowua as if he were a monkey in a circus.

“I am quite certain it means nothing, Elisa. Do not question the gentleman before he has even come through the door!” their mother scolded the fifteen-year-old.

“Actually, Mrs Weatherford, it does have meaning,” Danowua said, dipping his head to her as if he did not wish to offend.

It was William who clapped him on the shoulder in a most brotherly manner and said, “It means, Warrior, does it not, dear friend?”

Eleanor gulped. It was one thing to make a guest of such a foreigner, but to call him friend in such a way? She feared she did not know her husband at all.

“Danowua, warrior,” Elisa said, stretching her mouth as if feeling the words on her tongue.

“As Mama said, Elisa, let us not interrogate our guest before he has even set foot in the door,” Eleanor said, hoping it might award her some favour from her husband, yet it barely seemed to catch his attention.

In fact, he changed the subject near on immediately as he explained, “Danowua will be staying here in Cornwall with us for a while. There shall be a great deal of time for you to ask all the questions you like.”

“I am again most grateful for the hospitality, Mr Vickering,” Danowua said, and the man at least had the decency to turn to Eleanor and dip his head. “And you, Mrs Vickering.”

“Indeed, you are most welcome, Mr Danowua,” Eleanor said, though she was seething inside. After six months alone in their Cornwall home, she would have at least expected to be consulted on any guests they might have staying within the house, especially when that guest was not even an English gentleman.

She did her best to hide her anger as she said, “Dinner is almost ready to be served.”

“Oh, yes, yes, you must forgive our tardiness!” her husband insisted, looking about the room. “Danowua and I shall hurry to change and rejoin you if you will all permit?”

“Of course, Mr Vickering,” Eleanor’s mother said, and there were mutterings of agreement all around. Only Eleanor remained silent, heartbroken at the fact her husband had not looked in her direction before he hurried once more from the room.

Even in a room filled with people, Eleanor felt entirely alone.

“El?” She barely heard Emily even when her sister slipped her arm into the crook of her elbow. “Have you not missed him?”

“Of course,” Eleanor said automatically. It was expected. He was her husband. She had to miss him. But in truth, how could she miss a man when she had never known him in the first place?

The deep, aching, empty sensation in her gut was something much more than having missed her husband. What she missed, she had never had. What she missed was the fantasy that she could ever have a happy life, a marriage borne of love. What she missed was dreaming.

Chapter Two

How odd it felt to Bill Vickering to be home. Having not set foot on English soil in six months, he had expected to feel some excitement, even relief, but what came over him as he had stepped into the parlour that evening had been unlike anything he could have anticipated.

It was good to be home. It felt marvellous to be greeted by his father, his staff, and even by his wife and her family.

And yet, he had ruined their reunion.

On the coach ride from the docks, he had assured himself that all would be well. He was merely coming home to Cornwall, to his family. But the second he entered Vickering Cottage, he felt the difference in the air.

This was not the home he had known before he had taken on the duty of marriage. This was not the bachelor’s home it had once been.

It was clear to him that while he had been away on his travels, his new wife had been given free rein to do as she pleased. Though much remained the same, there were new curtains, new linen, and freshly cleaned rugs. She had done well, but it simply was not home.

Dinner, though spent with those he cared deeply for, had been awkward. Likely his own fault for not having greeted his wife in a better manner. But how was one to greet a wife he had been married to for six months but had not seen since their wedding day?

Standing in his bedchambers, refamiliarizing himself with the place, he thought about how his throat had grown dry when he looked at his wife in the parlour.

She had always been a true English rose, auburn-haired with striking grey-blue eyes and a pale complexion, but this evening she had been breathtaking. So much so that Bill had feared looking at her.

When he had agreed – reluctantly – to take the woman to wife, it had been on Bill’s understanding that most of his life would be spent on a ship or some distant land, that he would return every few years to attempt to sire children for the benefit of the family, but that otherwise he should be left to his own devices.

Yet, upon arriving home this evening, his world shifted in a way he could never have expected. One glance in his wife’s direction had left him questioning why he had ever left England in the first place.

A startling reaction to seeing her led him to understand suddenly many of the interactions he had shared with women upon his travels. Somewhat of a lady’s man before his wedding, he had always enjoyed the company of women, yet somehow, since he had said his vows, things felt different.

He was considering his reaction to seeing her, running his fingers over the fine silk of his new bedchamber drapes when there was a gentle knocking upon the door.

Before he could say a word, the door opened slightly.

“Husband?”

Her voice caused his chest to tighten. He had been her husband for six months, yet it was the first he had heard her speak the word.

“Please, Eleanor, come in,” Bill insisted, gesturing her into the room. “And remember, you must call me Bill, as all my friends do.”

His wife entered perhaps a little sheepishly, her head bowed and hands clasped before her. She was still dressed from dinner, her blue dress bringing out the blue in her eyes, though she kept them averted.

“Bill,” she corrected herself, offering a curtsey.

Bill couldn’t bear to see her acting so formally. This was her home, far more than it had been his of late, and he felt like a cad for the way he had been treating her, tonight and since their wedding, acting as if she did not exist.

How he could have allowed such a beauty to rot away in Cornwall alone, he would never know.

“You must forgive—” she began, but at the same moment, Bill spoke, cutting her off.

“You must forgive me for not having sent word on ahead of my bringing a guest,” Bill said, blushing a little with the awkwardness of their being alone together. They had not been so since their wedding night, since he had failed to consummate their marriage.

He had thought then it was simply nerves. Now he knew better. It was simply because she was too good for him.

“A little notice would have been nice,” Eleanor admitted, her cheeks reddening further. “I would have liked to prepare something more welcoming if I had known.”

“You welcomed us well enough,” Bill assured her, instinctively stepping closer.

Seemingly surprised, Eleanor lifted her gaze to his. “I would have made much more an effort had I known.”

Feeling guilty, Bill offered her his hand and was surprised when she took it.

Though, unlike him, she was still wearing her dinner gloves, Bill could feel the warmth of her flesh through the satin material.

It had been instinctual, but as they stood in silence, so close, hand in hand, he felt awkward. And in an attempt to make himself – and her – more comfortable, he began to babble, “I must apologize again for my tardiness. Had I known it would be so difficult to get a coach from the docks, I would have sent word ahead. And again, I must apologize for bringing Danowua here without consulting you first, but it seemed right. The man has been my translator and companion for near on four months. It seemed only right to repay the service while he is in England.”

“As I said, a little warning would have been nice, but this is your home, husband,” Eleanor reminded him, her cheeks still red. “You have every right to welcome whomever you like here.”

She squeezed his hand, and the gesture caused a strange sensation to flutter up his arm into his chest.

Feeling his cheeks reddening, he nodded and said, “Yes, well, you shall find Danowua quite amiable, kind, and a wonderful conversationalist.”

“If you recommend him so highly, then I am certain we shall get on famously,” Eleanor insisted, and it was then she raised her gaze to look at him once more.

Hand in hand, eye to eye, they were silent. The world stopped. Bill’s breath caught in his throat. All he could hear was the pounding of his own heart in his ears.

She truly was the most beautiful woman he had ever laid eyes upon.

Even with the beauty and magic of India still fresh in his mind, Bill was enraptured.

All the women of India could not have compared to her at this moment. He felt the trinket he had wrapped in a handkerchief in his jacket burning a hole in his pocket.

But before he could produce it for her, she released his hand and averted her gaze, turning her back to him.

Bill watched in fascination as she swept her long auburn hair over one shoulder, exposing the lacings at the back of her gown.

“Might … might you help me?”

Bill paled at the question. This was why he had returned to England, was it not? To be with his wife, to do his duty. But as he stood there, about to help her out of her gown, he couldn’t help feeling as if he were an intruder in his own home, in his own bedroom.

The robe hanging from the dressing screen was hers. The slippers just under the bed were hers. The powders, perfumes, and charcoals on the vanity table were hers.

Gulping, Bill pulled on the lacings, making sure he had loosened every one before turning away.

To his relief and subsequent disappointment, his wife slipped behind the dressing screen. He heard the thud of her heavy gown hitting the floor and heard her panting a little as she removed the undergarments. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her robe disappear from the screen.

And when she slipped back into sight, Bill’s breath was taken away all over again. She had unpinned her hair, and her auburn curls hung entirely loose over one shoulder, gliding below her waist.

She clutched her robe tightly with both hands as if she were more than a little uncomfortable, and again, Bill cursed himself. He never should have let her undress like that.

But he could not bring himself to apologize or even speak as she crossed the room to sit on the bed.

Still, she clutched her robe tightly shut, and Bill saw how she trembled.

I am a cad, indeed, he thought, a lout!

With a deep sigh, Bill crossed the room to sit on the bed beside her. When she continued to look most uncomfortable, as if her head and her heart were fighting between doing her duty and running from it entirely, Bill reached for her hands and gently pulled them from her robe.

The material fell loose, but not so loose as to reveal her breasts. Still, Bill was careful to keep his eyes upon hers as he clutched both her hands in his and assured her, “Eleanor, I shall not come to your bed until you invite me there, and I can see that tonight is not the night you wish to do so.”

Her hands stilled in his, her eyes widening. “It is my duty to provide an heir.”

Bill bit the inside of his lip. And it is my duty to ensure I have a happy wife. Something I have failed miserably in so far.

Smiling sadly, Bill raised one of her hands to his lips. They were bare now. The touch of her flesh on his almost made him wish he could be devoid of morals, ungentlemanly.

But he had always prided himself as a gentleman and, of late, he had failed on that front miserably also.

“There shall be plenty of time for that, Eleanor,” he assured her, kissing her hand again before gently touching her lap. “I have been remiss in my own duties as a husband. I shall not expect you to honour yours without first honouring my own.”

Eleanor looked entirely flabbergasted then but she recovered quickly, seeming about to speak. Before she could do so, Bill spoke again. “I wish to be a good husband to you, Eleanor, and it is my estimation that a good husband puts his wife’s comfort and contentment above all else.”

The shocked expression remained on his wife’s face.

Shaking his head, Bill added, “We shall no longer pretend that this marriage was borne out of anything but duty, though I do hope that one day, if we both shall give it a chance, we may find friendship, contentment and maybe even … more.”

Eleanor blinked at him, her lashes fluttering in that way that ladies did when they were trying to beguile. Yet, Bill feared it was he who had beguiled her.

“Bill, I—” she began, but fearing that she might tell him there could never be any such thing between them, he rushed to reach into his pocket.

“I have brought something back from India for you,” he said, pulling the silk handkerchief from his pocket, the trinket still safely tucked inside. “I do hope you shall like it though it is only a mere token of my … affection. I do hope it shall be to your taste.”

Feeling as if he were babbling again, he gently laid the gift in her hand.

“Oh, you did not need to bring me anything!” Eleanor insisted though the gleam of curiosity in her gaze was evident.

“Please, it is not much,” Bill said, nudging the gift further onto her palm.

He watched as she unravelled the silk handkerchief from the tortoiseshell comb.

When she gasped, he blurted, “You do not like it. I should have known better than—”

But Eleanor grabbed his arm with her free hand and exclaimed, “It is beautiful!”

Releasing his arm once more, she ran her fingers over the comb, her fingernail tracing the prongs before she looked him deep on the eye and said, “Thank you. I shall treasure it always.”

For the first time, Bill felt as if he could see past the carefully constructed mask his wife wore for all of society to see in public. He heard warmth in her voice and saw a vulnerability in her gaze that had not been there before.

“I am glad,” he said smiling, his own heart warmed.

Fearing that he might somehow mess up the first good interaction they had shared, Bill rose from the bed, stepped back and dipped his head.

“I shall leave you to your bed, wife,” he said, bowing low. “The hour grows late, and I do not wish to keep you any longer than necessary.”

“But … but this is the master’s bedroom,” Eleanor protested, but Bill smiled back at her and shook his head.

“You have been the captain of this ship these last six months,” he pointed out, still bowed respectfully. “I shall find comfort in one of our many other bedrooms.”

He stepped forward only then to take her hand and offer her knuckles one final kiss. “Sleep well, wife.”

He felt her watching him even as he left, felt her surprise and even his own. Their interaction had started awkwardly and even ended in slightly the same manner, yet somehow, Bill felt hope for the future.

She had liked his gift, and for now, that was enough. For now, he was content with knowing that her tough outer shell was not all that there was within his wife.

For the first time, he had seen a glimmer of the woman his father described when he had brought the news that a match had been determined between them.

He had seen past the strict, veiled face of a perfect woman, the woman she had been at the altar that day, and he had seen her smile. For tonight, that was enough.

He would go to his bed, whichever bed that was, content.