Hypothetically Married Read online

  Hypothetically Married

  by

  Renata McMann & Summer Hanford

  With special thanks to our editors, Joanne Girard and Betty Campbell Madden.

  Cover by Summer Hanford

  Copyright 2018 by Renata McMann & Summer Hanford

  All rights reserved

  Table of Contents

  Table of Contents

  Part One

  Real Errors in Judgment

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Part Two

  Feigned Flight

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Part Three

  Nymphs in the Park

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Part Four

  Only Friendship

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Part Five

  Hypothetical Beginnings

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Part Six

  Wickham, Willfulness and Weddings

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Part Seven

  Real Happiness

  Epilogue

  By Renata McMann and Summer Hanford

  Pride and Prejudice Variations by Renata McMann

  Regency Romance by Summer Hanford

  About the Authors

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  From Ashes to Heiresses

  In the wake of a devastating fire at Longbourn, Elizabeth and Jane are taken in by their aunt and uncle in Meryton. Concerned about their situation, Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley come to Hertfordshire, but not before Mr. Wickham attempts to use Jane’s heartache to his advantage.

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  Part One

  Real Errors in Judgment

  Chapter One

  Mr. Phillips drummed his fingers on the desktop. His hands went to his cravat to see if it was tied properly. He briefly wished he had a mirror in his office, even if he’d rarely employ it. He moved his inkwell closer to the center of the desk. Once, thirty years ago, he’d accidentally knocked his inkwell off his desk when waiting for a particularly tense meeting. Since then, he didn’t like it to be near the edge.

  Pulling his attention from the inkwell, he straightened his blotting pad for the second time since telling his assistant, Mr. Whitestone, to show in Mr. Wickham. He set his fingers drumming once more. A light knock sounded.

  Mr. Phillips brought his hands together on the desktop, clasping them with deliberate lightness. He did not care for Mr. Wickham nor for what must be done. Still, the thing must be done, and he was the one who must do it.

  Working to ease the tension in his jaw, he called, “Come in.”

  The door creaked open. Mr. Phillips winced. He should remember to have Mr. Whitestone oil the hinges. The young man gestured Mr. Wickham inside, then backed out. He pulled the door closed with another creak.

  Mr. Phillips offered Mr. Wickham a nod but didn’t stand. Wickham sauntered across the room, expression affable. He stopped before the desk and offered an answering dip of his head, deep enough to be nearly a bow. His smile, when he raised his chin, was likely meant to be winning.

  Mr. Phillips had been an attorney for too many years to be moved by a show of even teeth. A handsome face and a pleasant smile did not guarantee a good person. Mr. Phillips was just sorry he hadn’t applied that knowledge sooner.

  “Sit down, Mr. Wickham.” Mr. Phillips made an effort to sound genially. “A glass of port?”

  “No, thank you.” Mr. Wickham took the chair opposite Mr. Phillips, giving every appearance of casual self-assurance. “I think you know why I’m here.”

  And why shouldn’t Wickham be assured? He knew Mr. Phillips had few options left for his niece. “Lydia said to expect you.”

  Wickham’s grin grew. “She’s a good girl.”

  “I’m relieved you think so, as you’ve asked for her hand.” Mr. Phillips had to work to keep back the rise of bile in his throat.

  “I did, true,” Wickham drawled. “Still, before I commit to marriage to Miss Lydia Bennet just yet, I must know the financial situation.”

  Mr. Phillips raised his eyebrows. “I rather thought your proposal and Lydia’s rather public display over it were a commitment.”

  Wickham sputtered a denial, half rising.

  Annoyance sparking in him, Mr. Phillips held up a staying hand. “Regardless, I will give you the information.”

  Mr. Wickham settled back in the chair, his smug look returning. He nodded for Mr. Phillips to continue.

  “In a nutshell, Lydia will have five hundred pounds a year, paid quarterly.” Phillips took in the avaricious gleam in Wickham’s eyes and couldn’t help a touch of smugness of his own as he continued. “But the principal can’t be touched. The money is to be paid to her. As her husband, you have the right to take it from her, but the payments are set up so that she must receive the money first.”

  Wickham’s wide lips pulled down in a frown. He opened his mouth to speak, but Mr. Phillips continued.

  “On her death, the principal and payments will be divided equally between any children she has, and the principal will still remain beyond reach. While they are minors, the payments will go to their legal guardian, presumably you.”

  Wickham scowled. “What if she doesn’t produce any brats at all?”

  “If she dies without issue, both the capital and stipend will be equally divided between her surviving sisters.” Containing a grin at Wickham’s obvious dismay, Mr. Phillips leaned back in his chair and waited for Mr. Wickham’s next question.

  “Lydia told me there was more money,” Wickham snapped.

  Well, that wasn’t exactly a question, but it served. “There is, but the remainder of the money is mine to control.” Mr. Phillips took mild pleasure in the anger that flashed in Wickham’s eyes. “And as I don’t want my ward’s husband to end up in debtor’s prison, I have taken the liberty of ascertaining the amounts of your debts to Meryton merchants. Those debts will be paid.”

  “With her principal?” Wickham demanded, sitting forward in his chair, eyes flashing. “That’s all but criminal. I’ll bring a suit.”

  Mr. Phillips held up a staying hand once more. “Via the interest. It is my estimate that you will begin receiving the additional money after two quarters.” He gave a sad shake of his head, affecting acute disappointment. “You haven’t been in Meryton even two months. I don’t see how you could have run up so much debt in that time.”

  Wickham brought a fist down on the desktop, causing the inkwell to jump. “You have no right to keep that money from me.”

  “I have no right to give it to you at any time,” Mr. Phillips snapped, unintimidated. “If Lydia chooses not to marry you, I will be happy to reinvest it for her benefit. Mark me well, I shall in no way press her to accept your suit, no matter how you’ve compromised her.”

&nb
sp; That set Wickham back in his chair again. He glowered at Mr. Phillips for a long moment. Finally, he forced an almost amiable smile. “She’ll marry me.”

  Mr. Phillips nodded. “I agree. She’s besotted.”

  “She’ll also agree that I should have the money.”

  “Which is why I am her guardian and why I have the making of that decision.”

  Wickham glared at him.

  Mr. Phillips returned the look calmly, waiting until Wickham dropped his gaze. “Don’t get upset about the money. When your legal debts are paid, you will start receiving the funds.”

  “Still, you have no right to withhold it,” Wickham muttered, gaze on the floor.

  The man was a child, Mr. Phillips realized sadly. Marriage to a man like Mr. Wickham was precisely the sort of thing he was supposed to prevent, but in spite of his bold words, he truly had little choice now. “I have every right and have the legal documents to prove it.” Mr. Phillips had made sure he had considerable control of his nieces’ money. He would never take a farthing for himself, but he wanted to be certain that no one else could do so, either. “By the way, I am not touching your gambling debts.”

  Wickham’s head snapped up. “Debts of honor should be paid.”

  “Then pay them.” Mr. Phillips shrugged.

  “Give me the money to.”

  “Absolutely not.”

  Mr. Phillips’ refusal instigated another staring match. Again, Wickham dropped his gaze. It was a wonder the man began such competitions. A conscience as heavy as his could never hope to prevail.

  “A debt is a debt,” Wickham groused as he resumed contemplation of his shoes.

  “Gambling debts are not legally enforceable, which means the only thing that will make you pay them is that you won’t be given credit unless you do,” Mr. Phillips stated. “Frankly, I will be made glad if no one in Meryton is willing to gamble with you.”

  He wondered what Mr. Wickham’s reaction would be when he discovered none of the merchants of Meryton would extend him any additional credit. Mr. Phillips had made it plain that while he wished Lydia’s union to begin with a clean slate, he didn’t want his ward’s husband to accrue more debt. He would not pay any debt acquired in the future.

  Face folded into troubled lines, Mr. Wickham stared at Mr. Phillips. “We will need more money. Miss Mary is marrying well, and Lydia’s other three sisters are sure to attract wealthy suitors. More could be given to Lydia. You should be glad to pay a little more to get her off your hands, especially under the circumstances.”

  “I will not cheat my other wards for Lydia’s benefit. You are free to refuse to marry her. There will be no breach of promise lawsuit, since you have no assets.”

  Wickham looked ready to spit, which Mr. Phillips hoped he would not, finding the habit disgusting. He waited, fascinated despite himself at how easy it was to read Wickham’s emotions, which was surprising because Wickham previously fooled him. The man’s struggle to rein in his anger was readily apparent.

  “I thought she would bring more money,” Wickham finally grated out.

  Mr. Phillips shrugged with cultivated indifference. Perhaps Wickham’s anger resulted from his having dug himself into a hole. If he repudiated the engagement, he would lose all credibility. Too many people witnessed him agree with Lydia when she said they were engaged. If he denied it, he would lose the respect the community had given him. He would also have trouble getting credit now and must realize that.

  “There is another way to get money,” Mr. Phillips finally offered, for Lydia’s sake. “I could use another clerk. I will pay you the same amount as I pay Mr. Whitestone, which is generous, considering your lack of experience.”

  Wickham, who’d leaned forward eagerly at the mention of money, jerked backwards. A sneer curled his lips. “Me? Work for you? With Whitestone?”

  Mr. Phillips’ smile was benign. “Mary is engaged to him. A moment ago, you said she is marrying well, so you must like what he earns.” A third time, he raised a hand to stay Mr. Wickham’s words, knowing what they would be, but wanting to try. “The offer is not charity. I will let you go if you don’t work. Don’t worry, I won’t make you work as hard Mr. Whitestone, but almost as hard.” Mr. Phillips waved his hand dismissively before dropping it back to the desk. “I don’t expect immediate competence, but you can read and write, and I can train you. I have documents that need copying. I’ll personally check to see that you do it neatly and correctly. I’ll give you more interesting work after you prove your competence.”

  Wickham stretched his legs out and smiled. “No.”

  Mr. Phillips shrugged. He hadn’t expected Wickham to accept. “You won’t take my offer of gainful employment, but you’re determined to marry Lydia?”

  “I am. Can we post the banns immediately?”

  “Certainly.” Before either party changed their minds and Mr. Phillips was left with a compromised, possibly pregnant, definitely willful, young woman on his hands. “Now may I interest you in a glass of port?”

  “Certainly.” Wickham’s tone mockingly mimicked Mr. Phillips of moments ago.

  Ignoring the barb, Mr. Phillips opened a drawer and pulled out two glasses and a bottle of port. He poured a little into each glass, then pushed one across the desk to Wickham. They clicked glasses and drank without saying a word.

  If anyone saw them, they would assume the two men drank in celebration. Mr. Phillips didn’t think either of them did, though. It was a measure of Mr. Wickham’s desperation that he was marrying someone who wasn’t worth more than Lydia. It was a measure of Mr. Phillips’ desperation that he was allowing it.

  Wickham drained his glass in one gulp. He smacked the empty tumbler down on the desktop. “May I assume you’ll have any relevant papers drawn up?”

  Mr. Phillips nodded. “You may, and may I assume you shall sign them?”

  Wickham shrugged. “So long as they say what you just told me, I suppose I will.” He stood, a grin overtaking his features once more. “I’ll go share the good news with Lydia.”

  Mr. Phillips nodded, keeping his expression blank. He set his glass down and stood, following the other man to the door, which he opened. “Good day.”

  “Good day.” Mr. Wickham strode past Mr. Whitestone without a glance, whistling as he left the office.

  “I’ll call if I need anything,” Mr. Phillips said to Whitestone.

  “Yes, sir,” his clerk replied.

  Closing himself in his office, Mr. Phillips returned to his desk. He poured a second, much larger glass of port. Anything to rinse away the sour taste Wickham left in his mouth.

  As much as he knew his niece was smitten with the man, Mr. Phillips couldn’t help but feel he’d failed as a guardian. His first mistake was in letting Lydia come out. Only fifteen, she was much too young. True, her mother would have wanted it, but that was no excuse. The five Bennet girls were his responsibility, and he should have known better.

  He sighed and took another sip of port. He’d been tired, though, so tired. Tired of arguing. Tired of conflict and strain. Of what seemed like endless sorrow.

  When the period of mourning for his wife ended, he’d been eager for his nieces to have the ability to get some enjoyment out of life. They’d spent almost three years in households dominated by illness and grief, first for their mother, then their father, and finally for their aunt. Keeping Lydia at home had only added strife to that sadness. Letting her come out had been a boon of laughter and joy.

  It wasn’t until after he allowed Lydia to join her four older sisters as an adult that he realized the burden on her was the least. The restrictions on the older girls, especially Jane as eldest and Elizabeth as second eldest, had been the cruelest. They’d been limited in their ability to move in society in the precise years they should have spent finding husbands. Lydia had never experienced that. The family’s prolonged period of illnesses and mourning had come when she was still a child.

  Still, no harm would have come of his decision to p
ermit Lydia out if not for Mr. Wickham. He poured another fingerful of port, dismayed he’d ever cared for the man, ever welcomed him into their home. Fool that he’d been, he’d repeatedly invited Mr. Wickham, enthralled by his easy manner and charm, the liveliness he’d added to a home so long kept quiet in mourning. Then, two nights ago, Mr. Wickham had revealed what sort of man he truly was.

  The household had retired for the evening. It had been a calculated decision on Mr. Phillips’ part to put Jane with Mary in one of the small rooms on the same floor as his, and Elizabeth with Kitty, in the other. In that way, he hoped to affect improvement in all five girls. Lydia, being the youngest and willfully social, was relegated to a tiny servant’s room above him. It gave him a sense of security to know she had several flights of steps between her and freedom.

  As it turned out, his sense of security was misplaced. The night Mary and Mr. Whitestone announced their engagement, Mr. Phillips woke to sounds that should not be coming from the bedroom of a fifteen-year-old girl. He hadn’t moved for a long, stunned moment. Then he’d sat bolt upright in bed, horrified.

  He’d jumped from bed and scrambled to dress. Whoever was with Lydia, and he had his suspicions, he didn’t want to confront them in his nightclothes. He was yanking on his shirt when he heard the telltale creak of the fifth stair, leading up, or in this case down, from the attic. He’d gone still, unsure what to do.

  He looked down at his thin arms, his bony hands. What did he think he could do? If it was Mr. Wickham, and Lydia’s interest in the man was so obvious, it seemed unlikely to be any other, Mr. Phillips couldn’t challenge him. To do so would be suicide. Even if he was brave enough, where would that leave his four other wards?

  If not Mr. Wickham, it was someone of a similar ilk. It was most likely Lydia had taken a soldier to her bed, and Mr. Phillips had never fenced or fired a pistol. Mr. Phillips slumped, defeated. Moments later, he heard the patter of Lydia’s bare feet as she returned to her room.