As viscount, I had no need of her fortune. I had not even realized she possessed one until I saw the documents that arrived from her father. Ironically, if thetonhad been aware of her portion, she might have attracted notice earlier. There was more than one cash-strapped gentleman willing to overlook her temperament and appearance for the £10,000 she brought to the marriage. I, however, was not one of those men—not that I had any access to it, regardless.
No, Mr. Summers did not like me, did not respect me, and was quite certain that I would make his sister very unhappy, indeed. He should have addressed his concerns to her as she orchestrated this entire sham. Now I could feel his glower on the back of my neck, burning through me. I wished that my bride would disabuse him of that notion. She was about to receive everything she had schemed so hard for, the least she could do was call off her dog.
My betrothed was clad in yet another unfortunate gown. This one was a peachy shade that offset her natural flush poorly. Once again, it was covered in too much lace and too many ribbons. Her hair was just as awful, decked again in too many baubles.
In the months that I had managed to delay this wedding, she had worn nothing like that red gown. Nothing that would give me a spark of hope for this marriage. It was equally a relief and a disappointment. I could almost forget the effect she had on me in that closet. For that brief moment when I found her, not too much, but instead perfection itself. It was a trick of the moonlight, a fabrication of drink and proximity, nothing more.
Beside me in the church, covered in flounces and frippery in a garish gown, she was every bit the too much I remembered her to be. Her forgery that night made her all the more hateful. That one second where I felt something akin to relief when her cousin ordered us wed, had never resurfaced. The lingering scent of jasmine and orange blossoms when my head found my pillow that night—morning—vanished. The ghostly contours of her waist in my grasp, the one that had me clenching my fists around nothing but bedsheets, was only an apparition. And the black-red swirl of silk that burned behind closed lids was an illusion, a fiction, some kind of trick to entrap and ensnare me.
And behold her success. She stood beside me while the vicar droned on about marriage being a remedy to sin. Was it still a remedy against sin if it was brought forth in furtherance of a sinful, deceitful, agenda? I could hardly ask the skinny, hooked nose fellow as he rambling on.
I was barely able to hear the clergyman’s words over the rushing of my ears. In spite of such difficulties, I must have been able to comprehend the words because my blood froze for a moment, desperately listening for an objection at the appropriate time.
Instead, all I heard was an ill-timed cough from Tom—probably on purpose. He, at least, seemed to find this entire debacle to be a source of great amusement.
The rushing returned with a vengeance, so severe that I nearly missed my cue but for the curious stares from the vicar. And my bride.
“I—” My chest was so tight and my voice so hoarse that I had to clear my throat before continuing. “I will.”
Miss Summers shut her eyes, relief perhaps. Surely, she could not think I would jilt her now. Such a thing would ruin me as well as her. As a gentleman, I could never throw off a bride.
Her own “I will” was little more than a whisper. She refused to meet my gaze through the entire ordeal.
Finally, her hateful brother handed her to the vicar, who passed her to me in turn. The process was accompanied by another frown from her brother, as though this mess was my fault.
I repeated the words monotonously. I promised to love and to cherish with my gut twisting with shame and uneasy deceit. Her repetition was clear but, again, barely above a whisper. She stared at the floor and her mouth was twisted into some unreadable knot.
At the vicar’s direction, I twisted the simple gold band on her finger.
Together, we knelt before the man bestowing prayers and blessings on deaf ears. Time passed slowly, seconds felt like minutes, and minutes felt like hours. At last, we were given leave to rise and sign the register.
And just like that, it was done.
I was an unhappily married man, surrounded by those offering congratulations. A glance to my side confirmed that my bride was missing. Turning back, I found her with her brother. His hands were on her cheeks while he whispered something to her. She closed her eyes, tipping her head back to allow him to press an affectionate kiss to her forehead.
It was a bizarrely intimate scene that I interrupted. I caught the end of his words to her. “Be brave, little Katie.”
And her answer, “I love you too, Kit.”
She turned her attention back to me, offering her hand—the one without a ring—to place in the crook of my arm. I guided her, my wife, out of the church and into my—our—carriage.
Twelve
GRAYSON HOUSE, LONDON — NOVEMBER 25, 1813
KATE
Katherine,Lady Grayson. Viscountess. The words tasted foreign on my tongue and, in my mind, just as they had since the moment I tried them on. In spite of Kit’s assurances, I was his little Katie no longer.
Desperate for something to look at other than my husband, I spun the delicate gold band around my finger. Not a ring, it was a more effective trap than even the thickest of shackles. I was his now, until death did us part. A life sentence for the sin of hiding in the wrong closet.
Apparently, my bridegroom felt no more need for conversation than I did. He peered out of the carriage window at the passing London streets. Assured of his preoccupation, I glanced at him under lowered lashes.
It shouldn’t have been possible for him to have grown more broad, but he certainly seemed like he did, hulking across from me. The stitches on the shoulders of his tailcoat agreed with me, straining under the bulk of his shoulders and biceps.
He had cut his hair for the day. It had been brushed back with a bit of pomade, but it was defying him, a few pieces flopping in front of his eyes. His ice gray eyes… I thought he looked at me with distaste before, but it was nothing compared to the hatred he viewed me with now. Those eyes were topped by that permanently furrowed forehead. A single canyon formed, a line carved between the two dark, straight brows. Forget a smile, I couldn’t recall actually seeing his lips in the months we had been betrothed. Instead, I found them pressed tight together into a steely gash. Somehow even the dimple on his chin seemed to deepen in disapproval of our circumstances. I suspected that the clenching of his jaw had something to do with it.
There was no question; my husband hated me.
