Yet as the words settled, another thought intruded, a need to know whether the recent gossip held weight.
“Is it true that Miss Bourne raced to the house when the vicar was summoned?”
A maid had let the secret slip while dressing her hair, warning that Miss Bourne’s aunt had eyes and ears in every corner of the parish.
Mrs Boswell’s lips thinned. “She begged for an audience, but his lordship refused and had Mr Kincaid see her back to Wynbury Hall.”
“Why did she come?” Olivia asked, unsettled by Miss Bourne’s sudden return and what it might signify.
The older woman arched a knowing brow. “Why does any woman chase what she can no longer have? Pride and vanity.” She paused, casting a quick glance towards the chapel door. “May I offer a word of advice, Miss Woolf? I speak for the good of all in this house.”
“By all means.” The housekeeper’s insight would prove invaluable in the trying days ahead. “If I’m to live here, I shall need your guidance and support.”
Mrs Boswell’s kind eyes brightened. “Today, you will become the Marchioness of Rothley, a position most ladies only dream of. You possess the quiet grace and dignity, ma’am, but to thrive you must learn to command.” She lowered her voice. “Miss Bourne must come to know her place. And you must keep her there.”
Unease prickled at the mention of Miss Bourne, yet Olivia lifted her chin. “One step at a time, Mrs Boswell. Let me reach the altar first, but I’m grateful for your advice.”
A discreet cough drew their attention. An under-footman waited in the chapel doorway, pristine in his livery, a quiet emblem of the house’s order. “His lordship wonders if you’re ready, ma’am.”
She pictured him pacing, restless as a brewing storm, and gripped the pretty posy as if the fragile stems were an anchor. “I’m ready.” Her pulse quickened with dread and anticipation, but a marchioness did not falter under pressure. Not beneath Lord Rothley’s gaze.
Whispering a silent prayer to her mother for guidance, she stepped into the private chapel, braced for the chill of loneliness and the emptiness of vacant chairs. Instead, the man at the altar filled the space, leaving no corner untouched by his presence.
She scarcely registered the vicar in his black cassock and starched collar, gripping his worn Bible. He raised his hand for the congregation to stand, then faltered, remembering no one cared if their lives were ruined.
Oh, she’d be damned to the fiery pits of hell for this. Andyet she moved towards the man who would be her husband, one measured step at a time.
He watched her with a gleam of satisfaction in his midnight eyes, his gaze roaming over every inch of her, as if friendship were the furthest thing from his mind. She would need her wits. A man like Rothley could conquer with a glance, yet would surrender to no one.
“Miss Woolf.” He bowed, then eased the posy from her hands and offered it to Mrs Boswell. With a light, unwavering touch to her elbow, he guided her towards the altar.
They had barely begun, and already she was forced to make a confession. “Miss Hawkins,” she corrected. “Miss Olivia Frances Hawkins.” One could not begin married life on a lie. “I adopted the name Woolf when needing courage to run from the pack.”
He didn’t mutter a curse or appear disappointed. “I appreciate the late vote of confidence. Not that it matters. From this day forward, you belong with me.”
With me. Not to me. An important distinction.
“Anything else you wish to confess before we begin?”
“Not presently.” Though she might have admitted to being breathless at the brush of his hand, reassured by the steadiness of his grasp, thrilled by the awareness that passed between them.
“And what of you, my lord? Do you have anything to confess before we begin?” He might start by explaining why he’d deliberately left her corset unpacked. Or why he seemed so determined to wed a commoner.
His gaze lingered on her, like a cardsharp weighing the odds. “Only that I’ve felt a strange restlessness since the day we met.”
The admission appeared to unsettle him as much as it didher. Was it akin to the same pull she had felt while watching him at the washstand?
She forced all romantic notions from her mind. “Then we must hope friendship proves a potent remedy.”
“Indeed.”
The vicar coughed discreetly, but Lord Rothley stilled him with a raised hand. Drawing Olivia aside, he bent his head, his whisper grazing her ear and setting her pulse racing. “Be assured, what happens here will be spoken of in every fine house from London to John o’ Groats. We must give the gossips no reason to doubt our eagerness.”
She turned to him, realising too late how shockingly close their mouths were. He had taken a nip of brandy before the ceremony, its earthy essence rich on his breath. That he had needed to steady his own nerves proved strangely empowering.
“You want us to lie? Pretend this is about desire, not necessity?”
His laugh said he recognised the hypocrisy. “Yes.”
