“Well, hopefully he’s been civilized.” Her father stepped forward and took her hands. “You look lovely. I only wish your mother were here to see this.”
The back of her eyes burned, and she dropped her gaze. A knock at the door thankfully prevented them from traveling down that road any farther.
“It’s time.” She turned and tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. She led him out the door and down a corridor. The double doors to the nave stood open, and they paused between them.
The Marquess of Dunkeld stood at the altar, his stylish friend by his side. Her future husband was clean-shaven today, his hair neatly swept back into a low queue tied with a black ribbon. The tailoring of his coat and green plaid waistcoat displayed a broad chest and thick arms. His thighs were as wide across as birch trunks, and he stood as though ready to take on an army of invaders. His size was intimidating, the set of his mouth stern. Her belly quivered.
Dunkeld’s eyes alit on her, and he gave her the smallest of nods, an acknowledgement that they were in this jumble together, and it settled some of her nerves. She pulled her shoulders back. It was, after all, only marriage. A condition that was the lot of the majority of women. Nothing to make a fuss over. She was observant and adaptable; she would analyze her husband to determine the proper actions that would make this union a success.
Winnifred took a deep breath, and the first step toward her new life.
Her father patted her hand as they slowly paced down the aisle. “I always could count on you to face things sensibly,” he whispered. “Just think. My daughter. A marchioness. And he’s a member of the House of Lords, you know. You’ll visit London often. But I will miss you.”
She squeezed his arm. She hated to leave him. When her mother had left, he hadn’t risen from bed for a month. But he was as practical as she. They both knew the time had to come.
He leaned in to kiss her cheek before handing her off to the marquess. Dunkeld’s hand swallowed her own, and he held hers gingerly, as though afraid she would break.
Looking up, she gave him her most reassuring smile. She would make this man a good wife. Care for him and their children, if they were so blessed. Be reserved and sensible in all things.
And he would never suspect the truth about her.
Chapter Three
“You don’t mind that we left straight-away?” Sin eyed his wife as the carriage jostled her from side-to-side. She’d spoken hardly a word during their wedding breakfast. Made no complaints when he’d bustled her into his carriage to head for home straight after. Either the events of the day had left her in a mild state of shock or he’d married the most biddable woman in history.
She adjusted her cap. “Not at all. I’m eager to see my new home. How many days until we reach Scotland?”
“We’ll be on the road about ten days.” He quirked his lips. “Not the most comfortable way to begin a marriage.”
“Oh?” She turned her wide blue eyes on him. They were a lovely light color; like the sky on a bright, sunny day. “I wasn’t aware marriage was intended to be comfortable.”
He snorted. She hadn’t intended to by diverting, but he found her amusing all the same. No, he supposed there might be a reason comfort wasn’t mentioned in the vows. Sin shifted on his seat, a damn spring poking into his arse. Something else that wasn’t comfortable. He rarely rode in his carriage, preferring to travel on the back of a horse, and the contraption had become worn down. But he had a wife to consider now. It was time for the carriage to be refurbished or replaced.
“I intend to make you most comfortable.” A particularly deep rut jolted the carriage, and Winnifred bounced. His gaze dropped to her bosom, his groin growing tight. He intended to make her content in many ways. A dutiful husband, should see to all his wife’s needs. He slapped his glove against his thigh. Damn family tradition. Ten days was a long time to wait.
She looked out the window, giving him the profile of a most stubborn-looking chin. But her words were as bland as porridge. “And I you, husband.”
“Sinclair. Or Sin, if you prefer.”
She faced him. “Pardon?”
Sin leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “I have yet to hear you use my Christian name.”
“As you wish, Sinclair.”
He shoved back, feeling disgruntled for no reason he could think of. It was every man’s dream to have a woman so acquiescent as a wife. Picking up his hat, he turned it around in his hands. “You never did tell me about this theory of your father’s. Something about this damned dark summer.” The sun was being a coy bitch this season. When it should have been shining its strongest, making their crops grow tall, it played peekaboo through a haze that seemed to stretch endlessly.
Winnifred linked her gloved fingers together and placed her hands on her lap. “It was more a theory of one of my father’s colleagues. Mr. Raguhram lives in Dutch East Indies. He believes a volcanic eruption in the southern hemisphere it the cause of our current weather.”
“One volcano would disrupt the weather half a globe away?” He arched an eyebrow. That hardly seemed likely, but then, he’d never witnessed such an event. He had no conception of how powerful an eruption could be.
She raised one shoulder. “That was his theory. I have no opinion on the matter.”
Did she have any opinions? She’d asked for no special concessions for their wedding; no preferences on the food served at their breakfast, no concern over which church Sin chose. Her agreeableness was highly irritating.
“And how did drinking half a bottle of wine help prove, excuse me, disprove, that theory?” A muscle in his right thigh cramped, and Sin stretched his leg out, his boot resting on the seat beside Winnifred.
She gave him a reproachful look. “Tasting the wine wouldn’t in itself disprove anything. Mr. Raguhram asked us to taste an 1810 vintage merely for anecdotal reactions.”
