The seemingly impossible had happened.
For the second time in her life, Tilly was a wife. And as on the occasion of her previous nuptials, she had married with a deep, abiding sense of duty. This time, however, she could honestly say she had married for love as well.
That day in the blue sitting room, when she had witnessed the depths of Adrian’s torment and pain, she had made a striking realization. Robin and Adrian were the same man. If she had loved one, she also loved the other. She was willing to fight for them both. For the man he had been and for the man he had become.
Despite her new determination, the air between herself and her new husband at their wedding breakfast was decidedly awkward. They were playing the part of a newly married couple who had fallen hopelessly, helplessly in love.
Partially to distract from the haste of their wedding, partially to divert from the fact that her period of mourning for Longleigh had been abnormally short, which had already caused whispers. Then, there was the matter of his time at Dunsworth. If anyone chose to go digging into Mr. Adrian Hastings’ past, the scandal that ensued would be the gossip of the century, she had no doubt.
Their guests were many. More than Tilly would have preferred. In truth, she would have far rather had no guests and no wedding breakfast at all. But she had known that to eschew tradition—particularly given the unique nature of her second marriage—would have been inviting more scrutiny than was advisable.
There had also been the matter of her mother. Mama was heartbroken that Tilly was getting married again with such appalling alacrity, as she had phrased it, holding a handkerchief to her misty eyes when Tilly had first broken the news. And to a mere mister.
She had not told her mother the particulars of the mere mister’s background. Nor his recent stay in Dunsworth. If she had, she shuddered to think what her mother’s reaction would have been. “You shall always be a duchess,” Mama had consoled herself. “Even if you are marrying a common yokel.”
Adrian was hardly common, and not a yokel.
Tilly had chided her mother for the insult and surrendered to Mama’s plea that she host the wedding breakfast. A mistake in accepting, it turned out, as Tilly glanced around the sea of faces assembled in her parents’ drawing room. Most of them were not friends.
“Your father does not like me.”
The quiet pronouncement at her side, issued by her new husband, startled Tilly. It was the first he had spoken to her since their stilted carriage ride from the church to her parents’ home in Belgravia. A far-less-lavish edifice than Haddon House, the townhome was nonetheless impeccable. Her parents were wealthy even if her father was a mere lord instead of a duke.
“He does not like anyone,” she said softly, which was also true.
Almost no one was good enough, titled enough, or wealthy enough to measure up to Lord Abingdon’s exacting standards. He had, however, approved of Longleigh. That rather said all she cared to say about her father.
“Yet he liked Longleigh, did he not?”
Her new husband’s assessment had her turning to find him watching her. The sight of him awaiting her at the church, dressed to perfection, his hair swept back from his high forehead in an unfamiliar style, had filled her with unexpected longing. Today, in his wedding finery, although his countenance remained grim, he was as beautiful as she had ever seen him.
As intuitive as well.
“He did,” she acknowledged.
“Hmm,” was all her husband said.
She wondered what the noncommittal grunt meant, but she expected she could infer. She was once more thankful for the presence of Pippa at her other side. Her oldest and dearest friend’s staunch support had not failed to touch her. Pippa had encouraged her to enter her marriage with an open heart.
Tilly hoped that was what she had done. It was also what she hoped would lead to a truce, a contentment, and mayhap even love once more.
As she had pledged herself to this new man, Mr. Adrian Hastings, speaking her vows in the church earlier, she had been searching for signs of the old man. Of Robin. She could not deny it.
He had sensed that also, for when they had settled into the carriage on opposite benches, he had met her gaze and told her coolly, “I am not him. You must accustom yourself to that notion, madam.”
I am not him.
The words and the reminder sent a shiver down her spine now.
He noticed. “Is there a draft?”
“Yes,” she lied, turning to Pippa. “Are you not chilled?”
In truth, the crush of guests in the narrow drawing room and the vast spread of tables and foods, coupled with the warmth of the day, had rendered the room quite hot. Indeed, her friend’s brow had the thinnest sheen of perspiration above it.
“Quite cold,” Pippa agreed loyally. “It is frigid in this chamber.”
“Frigid.” Triumphantly, she glanced back to her husband, a false smile pinned to her lips. “There you have it.”
