Improperly Wed. Anna DePalo

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.”

      “Intolerable,” her mother declared.

      For her part, Belinda didn’t feel like an heiress. In fact, from all of her family’s focus on making a good match, she felt more stifled than liberated by the Wentworth wealth. True, she was the beneficiary of a small trust fund, but those resources only made it bearable for her to live in Manhattan’s high-rent market on her skimpy art specialist’s salary.

      She’d been reminded time and again that her task was to carry the Wentworth standard forward for another generation. She was never unaware of her position as an only child. So far, however, she could not have made a bigger mash of things.

      “I’ll deal with the marquess,” Belinda said grimly, stopping herself from her nervous habit of chewing her lip.

      Somehow, she had to untangle herself from her marriage.