Liverpool cocked his head and ran his gaze up and down Sin’s form. “You know no one would fault you for not marrying some nameless chit, regardless of the circumstances in which you were found. Her disgrace wouldn’t extend to you.”
Summerset flapped his hand. “Exactly what I’ve been trying to tell him.”
Sin snorted. The power that a name held for the English. If Miss Hannon had been Lady Hannon, how different their attitudes would be. “I was the cause of harm to Miss Hannon’s reputation. She is no less deserving of the protection of marriage than any other lass.”
“There have been odder alliances in your family’s history.” Liverpool shrugged. “I wish you well.”
Sin drew his shoulders back. The man probably knew more of Sin’s familial history than Sin did.
Liverpool paused at the door. “Let me know if the situation in Scotland requires more men. Bloodshed must be avoided at all costs.” And he slipped out the door, his presence as fleeting as a ghost.
“Well.” Sin tugged at his lapels. “Shall we get started?”
Summerset stopped him at the door with a hand on his sleeve. “I know you are determined in this marriage, but Montague, Rothchild, and Sutton would want to be here. Give them time to come in from their estates.”
Sin rubbed his chest. All four of his closest friends should be here. But it couldn’t be helped. He turned for the door. “I’ll throw a ball for everyone to meet my wife. That will have to do.” His hand paused over the latch.His wife.That was a phrase he hadn’t imagined himself uttering for a long while.
It rolled around his mind. In mere minutes, he would have a wife. Another person who was his responsibility. Under his care and protection.
The idea didn’t fill his stomach with dread, not like the thought of the tenants and servants of his estate did. So many lives a marquess was responsible for. He’d felt nothing but an imposter since inheriting the title at age thirteen, knowing that regardless of how smart a decision he rendered, how sensible a policy he laid down, he was always just one misstep away from destroying everything his forefathers had built.
But the idea of attending to the wants and desires of one woman for the rest of his life was … intriguing. A challenge instead of a yoke around his neck.
He pushed through the door and strode to his spot by the altar, Summerset a step behind.
His wife. The words had a nice ring to them.
***
Winnifred’s father stood at the small stained-glass window, his hands clasped behind his back. Red-toned light filtered onto his face, deepening the appearance of the grooves that lined his forehead.
“What were you thinking?” he asked her for the hundredth time. “Why would you visit Stamworth’s cellars alone?”
Winnifred stared at her reflection in the small mirror on the wall. She was pale, but that couldn’t be helped. It matched how she felt. Faded. Detached. Once the initial terror of knowing her life had upended had passed, she’d felt … nothing. Two weeks of impassively listening to her father’s rebukes. Fifteen days of organizing her life in preparation for her move.
She knew little of her future husband, but she appreciated the speed with which he’d arranged their banns to be read, and the efficiency with which he’d organized the wedding. If he was as diligent in all things, they should have as good a chance of suiting as any other couple with an arranged marriage.
“You know why.” She pinched her cheeks to no effect. “Mr. Raguhram asked us to find an 1810 vintage in his letter. I’ll admit acceding to his request would only have sated his curiosity, not accomplished anything of significance to test his hypothesis. But after all the information he’s been kind enough to exchange with us, I felt it was the least we could do.”
“You should have brought the bottle to me immediately, not lingered in the cellar.” He twisted his lips, as though he’d tasted something bitter.
“Yes, father.” If she had, her own chances of tasting the wine to see if she could detect any notes of ash would have been next to nonexistent. And she’d been curious. Did a volcanic eruption on the other side of the world affect the flavor of grapes grown in France? Could an ash cloud travel so far?
Her heart squeezed. All her work was at an end. Even had the natural philosophers of her correspondence been willing to maintain their exchange of ideas with her without the pretext of being her father’s secretary, no marchioness would be allowed such an eccentricity. There would be no more ‘assisting’ with her father’s experiments. No further study into the effects of chemical agents on the local flora. The one bastion of pure rationality that she could subsume herself within was no longer available. All that remained was the management of household affairs that would be expected of her.
Hardly sufficient to keep her mind engaged.
She sucked in a sharp breath, battling back the nausea that burbled in her stomach. Alas, she did feel something, after all.
“At least you’re marrying well. I’ve had nothing but congratulations from friends, and a slew of new people wishing to become my friend.” Her father turned. “Having a marquess as my future son-in-law has made me popular.”
Winnifred smoothed her hands down the bodice of her pale blue gown. That popularity hadn’t extended to her. Until she was safely wed, she was still the girl who had been caught in a compromising position. She didn’t blame the caution of her acquaintances, but when facing marriage to a stranger she realized it would have been nice had she cultivated true friendships. A woman to share her concerns with, perhaps someone already married who could give her some guidance.
The role her mother should have taken.
Her father frowned. “I’m only sorry he’s a Scot.”
“He doesn’t sound Scottish.” She’d wondered about that. He had the auburn hair and rougher appearance of their northern neighbors, but his accent was as cultured as any Eton-educated man.
