Leo had neverbeen less inclined to celebrate an occasion in his life. Indeed, he had been at funerals which held a more joyful air. And for all that, he may as well be attending his own for the implications of what he had just done.
The wedding breakfast consisted of ten courses, and only because Brodeur, his French chef, had lost his head upon being informed of his employer’s imminent nuptials. Leo did not touch courses one through seven—all that had been served thus far—for he had no appetite.
The woman at his side, Jane Palliser-turned-Bridget O’Malley-turned-the Duchess of Carlisle, did not seem any more eager to eat. She had been wringing her hands in her lap for the past hour, and for the time before that in the carriage ride following their hasty wedding, and for the time before that as she had faced him and spoken her vows.
Her expression continued to be that of a woman who had just witnessed a death. He knew the feeling well. He had witnessed deaths, after all. Had caused them in the name of the Crown and his own self-defense. Every action he had taken in the years since he had been at the helm of the Special League had been without regret, without remorse. It had been done knowing he had no choice, that what he did was in the best interest of his queen and his country.
What he had done today had been selfish.
And stupid.
He had married Miss Bridget O’Malley, a Fenian colluder, a liar, and God knew what else, and he had done so to save his own skin. Because Trent, a man he had previously counted a friend, had been correct. The Duke of Arden wanted the League for his own, so badly the man would leap at the chance to supplant Leo should word of his misconduct with Miss O’Malley be revealed. And the League had been everything to him for so long it was like a part of him, as inseparable as a limb.
He would do anything to continue leading it, including sacrificing his honor.
His own weakness where Miss O’Malley was concerned had done him a favor. His deceptions with the Home Office concerning her death had left him free to do as he wished. Even when he had returned to London to conduct his investigations, he had not revealed the reason for his inquiries. Which meant keeping his misconduct a secret would be terrifyingly easy. All he needed to ensure was the silence of the Duke of Trent, which he already had, and his brother Clay.
Leo winced at the thought and reached for his wine goblet. It wasn’t whisky, but it would do. He dreaded informing Clay of what he had done. Even now, he felt as if a dagger had been slammed between his ribs. He had betrayed his best friend to protect himself. What manner of man was he?
Another course was removed.
Words reached him, dimly at first, as if arriving from another chamber, so consumed had he been in his own burning thoughts.
“…and of course, you shall come and stay with us,” the Duchess of Trent was telling Miss O’Malley.
Christ. Strike that
She was his wife now, was she not?
And despite the bile rising in his throat, he could not stay the swift surge of lust such a thought inevitably brought. His body did not know what a traitorous banshee Bridget O’Malley was, and it had plans all its own. Plans he would not deign to acknowledge.
“No,” Leo bit out, slamming his wine back onto the table with so much force it sloshed onto the pristine linens.
Three sets of eyes swung to him. The Duke and Duchess of Trent had been the only others present to witness his ignominy. His mother Lily would have his hide when she learned of what he had done, and that she had not been invited. The haste—and the awful deception and nefarious choice of bride—had precluded him from extending such an invitation.
“No?” The duchess’s eyes narrowed upon him, and he was once again revisited by the distinct impression the lady did not hold him in high regard. “But my sister and I have been separated for so long. Surely you can part with her for a bit to allow us to make up for our lost time.”
“No,” he repeated succinctly. And when the eighth course was laid before him—les salades à la Parisienne: a confection of lobster, vegetables, and truffles—he stabbed it viciously with his fork despite never having truly developed a taste for lobster.
“Your Grace,” the duchess persisted, “surely you can see reason. Sisters ought not to be without each other for as long as we have.”
The lobster in his mouth was cold, oily, and tasted of the murk of the sea. He swallowed it whole to remove it from his tongue. “She will remain here with me,” he said tightly. And then he found his wine goblet, gulping the remainder of it down.
“But I am sure you would be more at ease with me elsewhere,” said his wife.
His. Fucking. Wife.
Damn if his cock didn’t twitch at the reminder.
More wine was what he required. An efficient footman dancing attendance recognized his plight and refilled his glass. “I would not, my darling. I cannot have you far from my side or my sight.”
He infused his words with meaning, though he spared all of them from further elaboration on account of the servants at hand. To his household, this was a real marriage. Miss O’Malley—Christ, the duchess—had received her official introduction to the staff. If anyone had wondered why she had already been installed in the duchess’s chamber under lock and key for the last few days, they were wise enough not to question it.
Indeed, the domestics at Blayton House were accustomed to his eccentricities, and they were well paid to turn a blind eye to his myriad indiscretions. Wild parties, drunken revelers, any manner of depravity—nothing surprised them. To the public, he was a careless rakehell, a notorious voluptuary with a wicked reputation. It was how he hid so well behind what he truly did working for the League.
“I suppose that is settled then,” said his wife with a notably tart inflection in her lilting voice. “I am to remain here as His Grace’s prisoner.”
Devil take the woman.
