“Damian’s residence,” she called up to the driver, her voice surprisingly steady despite the chaos inside her.
As the carriage rolled away from Julian’s mansion, Joan stared straight ahead, her jaw clenched, her hands still trembling in her lap.
One more day, she thought. Just survive one more day. Then it’s done. Then Victoria is safe. Then the family is secure.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“Do try to smile, Miss,” the maid said gently, her brush pausing mid-stroke. “Are you not pleased? It is your wedding day, after all.”
Joan sat before the looking glass in one of the guest chambers at her brother’s London townhouse, watching as the lady’s maid, a woman borrowed from a neighboring household, carefully applied rouge to her pale cheeks. The wedding gown rustled with every breath she took, a confection of white silk and lace that Julian had insisted upon. It was beautiful, she supposed, in an impersonal sort of way.
Joan forced her lips to curve upward, a mechanical gesture that felt nothing like genuine happiness.
The maid’s expression shifted to something like pity, though she tried to hide it. “I must confess, I am quite surprised. After all the talk about the Earl and his… situation… I did not think any respectable family would consent to an alliance withhim. Especially yours, Miss, given your family’s reputation for propriety.”
Joan’s smile remained fixed in place. “The Earl has always held my deepest affection. I am honored to finally become his wife.”
The lie tasted like ash on her tongue, but she delivered it with perfect conviction.
The maid looked at her with unmistakable pity now, but she wisely said nothing more. She finished applying the rouge and stepped back to survey her work.
A knock at the door interrupted the uncomfortable silence. The maid curtsied and left quickly, as though grateful for an excuse to escape.
Damian entered, and Joan felt her carefully constructed composure threaten to crack. Her brother looked haggard, his eyes red-rimmed, his face drawn with exhaustion and grief. He wore his finest evening clothes, but they hung on him as though he’d lost weight in the past week.
He crossed to where Joan sat and carefully tucked a small white flower into her elaborately arranged hair. His hands trembled slightly as he adjusted it.
“Your wedding gown is very beautiful,” he said quietly.
Joan smiled up at him. “Thank you.”
Damian met her eyes in the mirror. “We can still run. Right now. This very moment.” His voice dropped to an urgent whisper. “I can take you away from here. I have spoken with several officials who are growing impatient with Julian’s conduct. You and Victoria and I, we can leave London tonight. Disappear somewhere he cannot reach us.”
Joan felt something twist painfully in her chest. “If you attempt to ruin my wedding, I shall have you removed from the premises immediately.”
“Joan, ”
“I mean it, Damian.”
Her brother was silent for a long moment. Then he said, very softly, “What about the Duke?”
Joan’s hands clenched in her lap, hidden beneath the folds of her gown. “I do not care about the Duke. Why should I harbor hopes for a love so far above my station? He is a duke, Damian. He could have his pick of accomplished women who would strengthen his political connections and enhance his social standing. Why should I dream of such an impossible match? Whatever passed between us was merely a… a passing fancy. Nothing more.”
“You’re lying.”
Joan looked at her brother in the mirror and said nothing.
Damian turned her chair so she faced him directly. He knelt before her, taking her cold hands in his warm ones. “You like him. Don’t you?”
Joan opened her mouth to deny it. To dismiss the question with the same cold indifference she’d shown everyone else.
But this was Damian. Her brother who had become a man. Who had shouldered responsibilities too heavy for his years. Who deserved at least one honest answer from her.
“I do,” she whispered.
“Then why?” Damian’s voice cracked. “Why love one man and marry another? What honor is there in that, dear sister?”
“Feelings change.”
