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Her mother glanced at her and widened her eyes. “Yes, darling, but you gave me only the vaguest and most rudimentary of answers.”
Belinda flushed. “I told you what I knew.”
Her mother waved a hand airily. “Yes, yes, I know. The marquess’ appearance was unexpected, his claims outlandish. Still, it all begs the question as to how precisely you’ve been married two odd years with no one being the wiser.”
“I told you the marquess claims that an annulment was never finalized. I am in the process of confirming that claim and rectifying matters.”
She had not hired a divorce lawyer yet, but she had phoned an attorney
in Las Vegas, Nevada, and requested that Colin’s claim be verified—namely, she and Colin were still married.
Her mother glanced at Uncle Hugh and then back at her. “This scandal is the talk of London and New York. How do you plan to rectify that matter?”
Belinda bit her lip. Obviously, her mother, having met with resistance to her first line of inquiry, had moved on to another.
It was ironic, really, that she was being subjected to questioning by her mother. She had turned a deaf ear to her mother’s personal affairs over the years, though they had been the subject of gossip and cocktail-party innuendo. She hadn’t wanted to know more about affaires de coeur, as her mother was fond of referring to them.
Her mother looked fretful. “How will we ever resolve this with the Dillinghams? It’s disastrous.”
“Now, now, Clarissa,” her uncle said, leaning forward to set down his teacup. “Histrionics will not do a bit of good here.”
Belinda silently seconded the sentiment and then heaved an inward sigh. She and her mother had never had an easy relationship. They were too different in personality and character. As an adult, she’d been pained when her mother’s behavior had been shallow, selfish or self-centered, and often all three.
As if on cue, her mother slid onto a nearby chair, managing somehow to be graceful about it while still giving the impression that her legs would no longer support her during this ordeal. “Belinda, Belinda, how could you be so reckless, so irresponsible?”
Belinda felt rising annoyance even as she acknowledged she’d been asking herself the same question again and again. She had acted uncharacteristically.
“You were expected to marry well,” her mother went on. “The family was counting on it. Why, most of your classmates have already secured advantageous matches.”
Belinda wanted to respond that she had married well. Most people would say that a rich and titled husband qualified as good enough. And yet, Colin was a detested Granville and thus one who was not to be trusted under any circumstances.
“We spent a long time cultivating the Dillinghams,” her mother continued. “They were prepared to renovate Downlands so you and Tod might entertain there in style once you were married.”
Belinda didn’t need to be reminded of the plan, contingent on her marriage to Tod, to update the Wentworths’ main ancestral estate in Berkshire. She knew the family finances were, if not precarious, less than robust.
Truth be told, neither she nor Tod had been swept away by passion. Instead, their engagement had been based more on practicalities. She and Tod had known each other forever and had always gotten along well enough. She was in the prime of her friends’ matrimonial season, if not toward the end of it, at thirty-two. Likewise, she knew Tod was looking for and expected to marry a suitable woman from his highborn social set.
Tod had said he would wait for her to resolve the situation. He had not said how long he would wait, however.
Her mother tilted her head. “I don’t suppose you could lay claim to part of Easterbridge’s estate for being accidentally married for the past two years?”
Belinda was appalled. “Mother!”
Her mother widened her eyes. “What? There have been plenty of real marriages that have endured for less time.”
“I’d have more leverage if Easterbridge were divorcing me!”
Belinda recalled the marquess’ jesting offer to remain married. It was clear she’d have to be the one to initiate proceedings to dissolve their marriage.
“You didn’t have time to sign a prenuptial agreement at that wedding chapel in Las Vegas, did you?” her mother persisted and then sniffed—ready to answer her own question. “Why, I wouldn’t be surprised if Easterbridge carried a standard contract in his back pocket.”
“Mother!”
Uncle Hugh shook his head. “A man as sharp as Easterbridge would have seen to it that his property was not vulnerable. On the other hand, we wouldn’t want the marquess to make any claim to Wentworth property.”
Her mother turned back to her. “It’s a good thing that none of the Wentworth estates are in your name.”
“Yes,” Uncle Hugh acknowledged, “but Belinda is an heiress. She stands to inherit the Wentworth wealth. If she remains Easterbridge’s wife, her property may eventually become his to share, particularly if the assets are not kept separate.”
