The vicar stood at the end of the aisle, a Bible open in his hands, his expression impassive. As a child living on the estate, Olivia, like the rest of the village children, had been a little afraid of Reverend Ouston. But from the moment her brother had recognized her as a member of the Whitcombe family, the vicar showed her nothing but kindness and deference as the duke’s sister. But did he now suspect her to be a fallen woman? Would he look upon her with the kind of disdain that the majority of the world turned upon her merely due to her birth?
Her gaze slipped sideways to the groom’s side of the chapel—empty, save a solitary guest at the front. The sunlight formed a halo around his hair, bathing him in light. And standing within a few feet of him at the front of the aisle…
Oh, heavens!
Her stomach fluttered as her gaze settled on the one thing she dared not look at…
The bridegroom.
His tall, powerful frame dwarfed that of every other soul in the chapel. Dressed in a dark-blue jacket, with a thick head of dark hair curling about his shoulders, he seemed to absorb the light. He stood, his back to her, body tense, as if ready to engage in a fight to the death. His jacket seemed to stretch in protest across his shoulders. His hands hung at his sides, curled into fists. Then he moved his left hand, and Olivia caught a flash of light reflecting off the signet ring on his fourth finger—a dark-red ruby to match that on the ring on the third finger of her left hand, the large red stone that seemed to wink malevolently at her like a silent, watchful eye.
Stop being such a fool!
Silently, she cursed her imagination.
He was not the devil, nor even a demon. He was a living, breathing man. One who deserved compassion, for he did not fit into the mold of the Society gentleman.
He was, perhaps, as much of a misfit as Olivia herself. And hewanted this marriage as much—or rather, as little—as she.
Eleanor said that two hearts could unite when they were compelled to face adversity together. What better way to describe the situation Olivia found herself in now, standing at one end of the aisle, on the brink of cleaving herself to the man awaiting her at the other?
“Come, Livvie,” her brother whispered. “Show the world, and the groom, that today he is to become the most fortunate of men.”
She nodded and forced a smile. Her brother returned it, then he raised his hand and gave a sharp nod.
Almost at once, the music stopped. Then the organist filled the chapel with a fanfare to the tempo of a march, as if announcing the arrival of royalty—the princesses that Olivia used to read about in storybooks.
Only she wasn’t a princess. She was the bastard child of the late duke who, having compromised herself, was being hastily married to save her reputation and that of the present duke.
No. That was unfair. Her brother loved her and believed he was doing what was best to make her happy. She was like any other Society bride, embarking on a journey with a stranger. The bridegroom was an honorable man—his coming here today was evidence of that. And honor was as good a reason as any to marry. From honor came respect. And from respect, perhaps love might blossom.
“I’m ready,” she said, curling her fingers around her brother’s arm. “I’ll make you proud of me.”
“I already am,” he replied, smiling. “Shall we?”
She nodded and, head held high, let him guide her along the aisle. Buoyed by the music, Olivia felt her hope soar as they passed Eleanor, who smiled encouragement, her eyes shining with tears of happiness.
Then the groom turned.
Olivia’s stomach clenched in fear as he fixed his gaze on her. Eyes so dark they were almost black, mouth set in a hard line, he showed no sign of honor, hope, or joy. Instead, his very soul seemed to vibratewith anger—directed at her, the bride he never wanted.
And, in a matter of moments, she would become his, in the eyes of the law and the church, to do with as he pleased.
Chapter Two
London, six months earlier
“Welcome back toEngland, Lord Devereaux.”
Charles winced.
Curse that name! To most, it signaled breeding—a family line dating back to the Plantagenets with which it would be an honor to associate oneself. Or, most likely, a name that the ambitious wished to ingratiate themselves with to further their advancement in Society…
…whatever the fuckthatmeant.
How dare you curse in my home! Insolent, dim-witted boy!
Devil’s breeches, did that old bastard seek to plague him from beyond the grave?
