She inhaled slowly, never taking her eyes from Searle’s. “Yes, I will be your wife.”
His eyes closed for a brief moment, and the mask he wore dropped, revealing the man. He looked as if he had just been declared the victor of a bitter war.
What had she done?
And who, precisely, was the Marquess of Searle?
Chapter Three
Morgan’s seed hadbeen planted, and the Earl of Rayne was, at long last, returning to England. What the earl did not know—could not know—was he was already too late to save his darling sister.
Hours ago, in a ceremony attended by the Duke and Duchess of Whitley, the Kirkwoods, the dowager Lady Rayne, and Morgan’s cousin, the Duke of Montrose, Lady Leonora had become the Marchioness of Searle. And Morgan had become exponentially nearer to gaining his retribution.
He watched her now as he introduced her to his domestics, this stranger who was his wife. Her lovely countenance was animated as she spoke to his housekeeper, Mrs. Arbuthnot. She was painfully beautiful and also kind, and the combination made his chest tight.
For the past few weeks, he had seen her on only a handful of occasions, deliberately keeping their interactions limited and few as the necessary preparations for their nuptials were underway. He had no wish to court her or get to know her better. Nor did he desire to make a connection with her that ran any deeper than the physical. She was his wife now, and he would bed her, but that was all. Anything else, and he ran the risk of developing a weakness for her.
Her worth to him was not in her compassion or her gentle beauty.
Her worth to him was in the suffering he could visit upon the bastard who had sent him to hell on earth. The scars on his flesh, hidden beneath the respectable trappings of a gentleman, burned in reminder.
“Mrs. Arbuthnot will see you to your apartments,” he announced, the need to escape making him intervene. “I have other commitments which require my attention.”
His new marchioness’s gaze met his, her expression falling. “May I speak with you for a moment, my lord?”
He ground his jaw. “A moment and no longer, my lady.”
Her frown had returned, that lone vee marring the otherwise smooth, creamy skin of her forehead. And her limping was more pronounced. The nature of the day had required a great deal of standing. More than she was probably accustomed to. He hated himself for making her frown as much as he hated himself for taking note of her wellbeing.
He escorted her deeper within Linley House, away from the prying eyes and ears of the servants who had gathered in preparation for their first arrival as husband and wife. It was a deuced old custom; one he should have eschewed as it would have garnered him the opportunity to leave immediately upon delivering his new marchioness to the doorstep.
“What is concerning you, my lady?” he demanded.
She flinched, presumably at the cold, emotionless tone of his voice. But she would do well to accustom herself to the man he truly was. War had robbed him of all softness. His compassion was as dead as his charm and his soul.
“It is merely that this is our wedding day, my lord,” she said hesitantly. “I was hoping for the opportunity to spend some time with you, for us to get better acquainted.”
Hope had no place in their marriage, and she would be wise to learn it now.
He flashed her a grim smile. “I married you out of necessity, my lady. Not because I wish to be your friend.”
There was hurt in her eyes, but he refused to feel the slightest prick of guilt for being the cause. What had she expected of a forced marriage and a whirlwind, scarcely extant courtship? Did she imagine they would exchange kisses and declare their endless affection for each other?
“Of course not, my lord. I understand the situation in which we find ourselves completely.” Sadness underscored her tone.
She was wrong about that, far more wrong than she could even guess. For she had no inkling of the true nature of the situation in which they found themselves. But she would. Soon enough.
“War has left me with precious little care for polite society,” he told her, and that much was true.
While half the lords and ladies he knew had been at home, fretting over seating arrangements and new dance steps, he had been facing enemy bullets and being dragged across Spain by Boney’s most vicious and depraved forces.
It was the wrong thing to say, and he knew it the moment her expression gentled.Christ, this woman was like a lamb who had been served up to a ravenous lion.
“Of course it has. I cannot fathom what you must have experienced, my lord.”
There was a quaver in her voice that made him want to take her in his arms, carry her directly to his chamber, lay her upon his bed, and drive home inside her. How he longed to excise his grievances through the use of her willing, pliant flesh. But lust, too, was a weakness.
“You are correct, my lady,” he said grimly. “You cannot. It would be best, therefore, if you do not even try.”
