Chapter One
Rosecombe Chapel
“Are you ready?
Olivia winced at the sharpness in her brother’s tone and tightened her grip on his sleeve. Though she focused her attention on the stitching in gold thread around the cuff and the perfectly formed buttons that had been polished until they shone, she could still feel his gaze upon her.
He was not a man to be denied.
In fact, he’dneverbeen a man to be denied. He commanded the admiration and respect of hundreds of souls whose lives depended on him, who spoke his name in hushed tones.
His Grace, the Duke of Whitcombe.
Aristocrat, landlord, master. Husband, father…
And brother.
Orhalf-brother, though he threatened to destroy anyone who dared make the slightest reference to Olivia’s birth.
“Sister?”
She winced and lifted her gaze.
Though he was silhouetted against the morning light, she could see the intelligence gleaming in his deep-set eyes. Their expression spoke of a strength of will that could never be matched, let alone conquered.
In short, he was the most imposing, terrifying man she had ever encountered. Save one.
The man waiting at the end of the aisle who, with his bare hands,could crush whole armies.
The man she was soon to call husband.
Olivia’s brother lifted his hand to her face and frowned as she flinched. He cupped her cheek and his lips curled into a smile as he spoke, his tone softening.
“Olivia, are you ready?”
She nodded.
“He’s an honorable man. He’ll treat you as you deserve to be treated.”
“As a bas—” she began, but he took her wrist.
“As the sister of the Duke of Whitcombe,” he said, the hardness returning to his voice. “How can you expect the world to respect your position if you cannot respect it yourself?”
Moisture stung her eyes, and she blinked. A tear spilled onto her cheek, and he brushed it away with his thumb.
“He’s a fortunate man to have you,” he said. “He’ll come to realize that. If not, I’ll—”
“Yes, brother,” she said, wincing at the bitterness in her tone. “I know what you’ll do. I’ve seen the marriage contract.”
He sighed. “The stipulations in the contract are there to protect you.”
“Do I need protection?”
He glanced toward the altar. “No more than any woman.”
She turned and followed his gaze. On one side of the chapel sat her sister-in-law, Eleanor. Her bonnet was trimmed with the pale-green ribbon to match the sash around Olivia’s waistline. The two of them had chosen it the day the modiste fitted Olivia with her hurriedly made wedding gown, and Olivia’s cheeks warmed at the memory of the pointed glances Madame Dupont had made toward her belly.
Did the rest of the meager congregation—the dowager duchess sitting next to Eleanor, smothered in black-lace-trimmed silk, a handful of friends in the pew behind, the housekeeper and butler, the steward,and a smattering of tenants—share the modiste’s suspicions?
