Chapter One
Late November, 1817
Since meeting herhusband two hours ago, Eleanor Compton of Dulac, now Marchioness Ferncroft, had made three observations. He was very handsome, he was exceedingly formal, and he was unusually grateful. It was the last that had her curious.
Lissa, the Baroness of Bellamore and her dear friend, tapped her on the arm as the vicar reverently pulled out the register from a locked cabinet. She whispered, “Are you pleased?”
Pleased? Ellie was still in awe. “I’m far beyond that. For once my mother has been singing my praises because I was going to marry a marquess. His children are darlings and are so well behaved, I’m not sure I can believe it. And he is far younger and more handsome than any man I’ve spoken to in two Seasons.”
“Shh, Ellie.” Lissa put her finger to her lips.
Drat.Her excitement had raised her voice again, and now Lord Ferncroft looked at her inquiringly.
She gave him a small smile and a nod before turning back to Lissa. “Did you notice I didn’t trip or bump into anything? Maybe getting married will mean I won’t have any future mishaps.”
Lissa squeezed her arm. “It doesn’t matter. You are a wonderful person with a big heart, and I just know that yourhusband and his children are going to benefit greatly from having you in their lives.”
Ellie risked another look toward her new spouse as he spoke in low tones with the vicar. She still felt as if she were in a dream. Until now, the only men interested in her at the ripe age of a score and four had been men her father’s age. Lord Ferncroft was no more than ten years older than her and had absolutely no white hair. Her pulse tended to speed up every time he looked at her. She turned back to Lissa, who, with her husband, the marquess’s brother, had instigated the match. “Thank you. You are the best of friends.” She squeezed Lissa’s arm to make clear her sincerity.
“You were there for me when I needed help. It’s only fair. In fact, I even slipped the book into your chest. You’d forgotten it.”
At Lissa’s statement, Ellie frowned. “No, I’m quite sure I packedOn the Construction of the Heavensby Herschel. I would never leave that behind.”
“Ellie, notthatbook. The one that will help you gift the marquess with another son.”
She’d purposely left that particular book in her armoire back at the Belinda School for Curious Ladies, since she’d had no time to read it before leaving. She’d planned to let Sophie know where to find it. Sophie loved reading. Knowingthe bookwas in one of her chests for a maid to find had heat filling her face. “Oh.”
Lissa patted her hand. “Don’t worry. I wrapped it in paper.”
Relieved yet still rattled, Ellie looked about just to be sure no one overheard them.
“Lady Ferncroft, if you would?” The vicar, a kind older man whose white hair was noticeably missing on his pate, held his hand toward the register.
“Of course.” She quickly moved to the table where the book lay and stood next to her new husband.
“My lord?” The vicar nodded as if telling them it was time to sign.
Darius Taylour, the Marquess of Ferncroft, lifted the quill and dipped it into the inkwell before confidently affixing a sprawling and elegant signature in the register. When he finished, he handed her the quill.
Not trusting her voice as her heart fluttered at his attentiveness, she gave him a short nod before leaning over to set the quill in the inkwell for additional ink. Somehow, though she wasn’t quite sure how—whether it was the fluttering of her heart or the bird shadow that flew by the small vestry window—she missed the opening and accidently pushed the inkwell, which sent it skidding across the table, only to overturn, splatter black ink upon the vicar’s vestments, and fall to the floor. “Oh no! I do apologize.”
The vicar appeared to be in shock as he stared down at his black-spotted white surplice, his mouth open.
Her heart sank, partly because she’d thought that possibly, by being married, her penchant for being clumsy had miraculously disappeared, and partly because she was quite mortified at what she’d managed to do. “Maybe I can help.”
As she started to turn, the marquess grasped her wrist. “I’m sure the good vicar will be fine with acquiring a new surplice, which I will be pleased to purchase for him. I think it best that you sign the register.”
Feeling her face heat with embarrassment, she acquiesced. “Of course.”
Thankfully, the marquess took the quill, which she hadn’t realized she still held, from her hand. He then calmly walked around the table, crouched down to dip the quill in a puddle of ink on the stone floor, and brought it back to her.
As she looked up at him to thank him, feeling more gratitude than perhaps the situation warranted, he placed the quill in her hand. “Will you sign?”
She nodded, caught in his mysterious gray gaze.
“On the register?”
Blinking to stop staring, she forced herself to face the book on the table and scrawled her name, not nearly as elegant as her husband’s but clearly legible. At the realization it was the very last time she would be known as Eleanor Compton of Dulac, a surge of happiness filled her, and she dropped the quill on the book to turn and smile at the marquess.
