They bowed their heads in prayer. Olivia lowered her gaze, her own thought rising in silence.
Lord, grant me but one sign this was your plan.
Let it not be a mistake.
The vicar cleared his throat and opened the prayer book. Lord Rothley placed a plain gold band upon the page, and the blessing was spoken so softly Olivia hardly heard.
Then the marquess took the ring and slid it slowly onto her finger, his hushed hum of approval drawing her deeper under his spell.
She stared at the simple band. No jewel sparkled, no crest proclaimed ownership. It was unadorned, a token of trust rather than possession. In a world steeped in deceit, its simplicity felt almost sacred.
Perhaps this was the sign she had prayed for.
And in the next breath, they were pronounced man and wife. “Those whom God hath joined together, let no man put asunder.”
Mrs Boswell clapped in delight, then drew in a sharp breath as Lord Rothley caught Olivia’s chin between his fingers and tilted her face to his.
“A seal upon our vows,” he murmured.
The world stilled. His mouth met hers in a kiss innocent enough for the vicar’s eyes, yet warmth coursed through her until her knees weakened. His breath mingled with hers, the kiss a contradiction, innocent in appearance, yet the slow,intoxicating slide of his mouth spoke of desire simmering beneath the surface.
The air between them vanished. A low sound escaped him, half sigh, half growl, before he drew back sharply and mastered himself once more.
Olivia dragged her gaze aside and found Mrs Boswell staring, wide-eyed, her expression caught somewhere between surprise and confusion.
The vicar produced the parish register, and they sat at the table to sign their names. Her hand wavered only once before she wrote, the black ink binding her to him more surely than words ever could. Lord Rothley added his name with firm, decisive strokes, and the witnesses followed in turn.
When the book was closed, he straightened and addressed Mrs Boswell. “See that the vicar is served tea. I wish to spend a private moment with my wife.”
Despite the heat of their kiss, Olivia knew the private moment amounted to opening the valise and examining its contents.
When at last they were alone, she drew a breath and said, “Now that we’ve dispensed with formalities, I suppose we should retire to your study and get to work.”
His mouth curved. “You mean to test your husband’s abilities so soon?”
“Is that not the role of a wife, my lord?”
His gaze sharpened. “Gabriel. You will call me Gabriel.”
The name caught in her throat. She was not sure she could, not when she remembered the way it had fallen so easily from Miss Bourne’s lips.
He studied her hesitation, astute enough to know the cause. “Do not let another woman’s ghost keep you from what is rightfully yours.”
He spoke as if he belonged to her, not she to him.
Mrs Boswell’s words echoed in her mind: to thrive she must learn to command. Olivia lifted her chin. “I’d like to show you what’s in the valise, Gabriel. It makes no sense to me, and by your own admission, you enjoy a puzzle.”
“No puzzle unsettles me more than you, my lady.”
She met his gaze without wavering, though the weight of her new role pressed upon her shoulders. “Puzzles have a way of consuming a man.”
“Perhaps being consumed by you is no bad fate.”
She gave no answer, only a measured glance as they walked on. But the question pressing in her mind refused to wait.
“I’m told the main study is vast enough to impress visiting dignitaries, with a desk fit for a king and shelves that reach the cornice. Why keep to a few rooms when the house holds two hundred?”
He stiffened beside her, a shadow passing over his features. “For some, home is nothing more than walls to contain one’s sorrow. Do you recall saying that?”
