“Bea! You will simply not believe—” Cecily stumbled inside, bright-faced and breathless, but halted the instant she saw the look on her sister’s face.
Her bonnet slipped from her fingers, and her smile vanished.
“Is something wrong with the baby?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
Beatrice shook her head as she stood up. “No, she’s well.”
Cecily’s gaze flicked from her sister’s pale face to her mother’s rigid stance, to the baby in the basket. “Then what happened?” she breathed.
Beatrice opened her mouth, but Lady Moreland answered instead, her tone clipped. “You should sit down, Cecily.” She smoothed her skirts, offered no further words, and left the two girls alone.
Cecily didn’t move. Her eyes went wide, frightened. “Please, just tell me.”
Beatrice swallowed. “It’s about the rumors.”
Realization dawned at once—and with it, dread.
“Tell me it’s just gossip. Tell me they’re not turning you into the villain.”
Beatrice’s throat tightened. “It’s worse than gossip. And they will not stop.”
Cecily shook her head sharply. “But you have done nothing wrong.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Beatrice sighed. “The truth rarely does when thetonhas made up its mind. They say that His Grace and I have a child together.”
For a moment, Cecily was silent. Then the fear in her eyes darkened into fury.
“So what are you going to do now?” she demanded. “Hide? Apologize for breathing? Leave London like some disgraced?—”
“I’m getting married,” Beatrice cut in, the words scraping their way out.
Cecily stared at her. “Getting married? Tohim?”
Beatrice nodded once.
Cecily’s breath hitched. “But you deserve love. Choice. You’ve worked so hard to be everything they expect: the perfect daughter.”
Beatrice’s voice shook despite her will. “What choice do I have? The child needs protection. And my family… You all need shielding from this.”
Cecily wiped an angry tear and stepped forward, taking Beatrice’s hands in her own. “Oh, Bea,” she murmured. “I had hoped for something very different for you.”
Her grip tightened before she reluctantly let go, searching Beatrice’s face for any sign of hesitation and finding none.
Beatrice turned away, unable to withstand the sight of her sister’s pain. She lifted the baby and held her close, the faint warmth seeping through her gown.
She swallowed hard. The man she would marry was the last one she had ever wanted, yet the first this child would callFatherand shehusband.
CHAPTER 5
The chapel was small. Too small for comfort, too quiet for a man with too many thoughts.
Edward stood at the altar before the priest. His attire was impeccable—he had seen to that, at least—but the perfection of it mocked him. The starched linen collar pressed at his throat, and the coat felt too tight across his shoulders. He looked, he suspected, like a man awaiting sentence rather than marriage.
Four days. That was how quickly this had happened. A special license. A handful of signatures. Weddings, he had always thought, were meant to be loud affairs of crowded pews, music, and friends drinking too much.
Yet here he was, preparing to tie his entire future to a woman he barely knew, in a chapel quiet enough that he could hear his own heartbeat.
A thin beam of sunlight fell through the high window, catching in his hair, and he almost resented it. There was nothing sacred about this morning.
