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By force of habit, Belinda leaned forward to fix tea. It gave her something to do—and the illusion of being in control while not meeting Uncle Hugh’s gaze.
“I intend to obtain an annulment or divorce, of course,” she said evenly.
Despite her self-assured attitude, there was nothing of course about it.
She surveyed the tea tray. A proper English tea was more than loose tea and hot water. There were the customary finger sandwiches, buttery biscuits and warm scones.
Really, she could drown herself in scones right now. Crumbly blueberry ones…rich raisin ones…decadent chocolate-chip ones—
No, not decadent. Definitely not decadent. It came too close to mimicking the behavior that had gotten her into her current fix with Colin.
She was decidedly not into decadent behavior, she told herself firmly.
Nevertheless, an image flashed into her mind of lounging on a king-size bed with Colin Granville, sharing champagne and strawberries high above the flashing lights of Las Vegas.
Her face heated.
“…a youthful indiscretion?”
She fumbled in the process of pouring hot water into a cup.
She jerked her head up. “What?”
Her uncle raised his eyebrows. “I was merely inquiring whether this unfortunate situation came about due to a youthful indiscretion?”
She knew she must look guilty. “Can I claim so even though I was thirty at the time?”
Uncle Hugh regarded her with a thoughtful but forbearing expression. “I’m not so old that I don’t remember how much partying and club-hopping can go on in one’s twenties or beyond.”
“Yes,” Belinda said, more than ready to accept the proffered excuse. “That must be it.”
Her uncle accepted a teacup and saucer from her.
“And, yet, I’m surprised at you, Belinda,” he went on as he took a sip of his tea. “You were never one for rebellion. You were sent to a proper boarding school and then to Oxford. No one expected this scenario.”
She should have guessed that she would not be let off the hook so easily.
Belinda stifled a grimace. Marlborough College’s most famous graduate these days was the former Kate Middleton, Duchess of Cambridge, who would mostly likely be queen one day. She, by startling contrast, had failed miserably on the matrimonial front. She now had the wreckage of not one but two wedding ceremonies behind her.
She hated to disappoint Uncle Hugh. He had been a father figure to her since her own father’s death after a yearlong battle with cancer when she’d been thirteen. As her father’s older brother, and the head of the Wentworth family, her uncle had fallen naturally into the paternal role. A longtime widower, Uncle Hugh had been unable to have children with his wife and had remained single and childless since then.
On her part, Belinda had tried to be a good surrogate daughter. She’d grown up on Uncle Hugh’s estates—learning to swim and ride a bicycle during her summers there. She’d gotten good grades, she hadn’t acted out as a teenager and she’d kept her name out of the gossip columns—until now.
Uncle Hugh sighed and shook his grayed head. “Nearly three centuries of feuding and now this. Do you know your ancestor Emma was seduced by a Granville scoundrel? Fortunately, the family was able to hush up matters and arrange a respectable marriage for the poor girl to the younger son of a baronet.” His eyebrows knitted. “On the other hand, our nineteenth-century land dispute with the Granvilles dragged on for years. Fortunately, the courts were finally able to vindicate us on the matter of the proper property line between our estate and the Granvilles’.”
Belinda had heard both stories many times before. She opened her mouth to say something—anything—about how her situation with Colin was different.
“Ah! I see I’ve finally run you to ground.”
Belinda turned in time to watch her mother sail into the room. She abruptly clamped her mouth shut to prevent herself from groaning out loud. Out of the frying pan and into the fire.
Her mother handed her purse and chiffon scarf to a servant who hastened in from the doorway before turning for a discreet retreat. As usual, she looked impeccably turned out—as if she’d just come from lunch at Annabelle’s or one of her other customary jaunts. Her hair was coiffed, her dress was timelessly chic and probably St. John and her jewels were heirlooms.
Belinda thought that the contrast between her and her mother could hardly be more pronounced. She was casually dressed in chain-store chinos and a fluttery short-sleeved blouse that were paired with a couple of Tamara’s affordable jewelry pieces.
Even aside from the accoutrements, however, Belinda knew she did not physically resemble her mother. Her mother was a fragile blonde, while she herself was a statuesque brunette. She took after the Wentworth side of the family in that regard.
“Mother,” Belinda tried, “we spoke right after the wedding.”
