“What?”
“That you had a proper wedding gown—white satin and orange blossoms, like a real bride ought to.”
Marianne touched the silk, remembering Adrian’s gaze the night she had worn it to Lady Weatherby’s. “This will do.”
It had to. There’d been no time for anything else—not with the special licence requested, the arrangements made overnight, and the need to act before gossip hardened into ruin. Her father had handled the practicalities with his usual brisk efficiency, while her mother had spent the night alternating between worry and determined preparations.
A soft knock interrupted her thoughts. Her mother entered, already dressed in her finest morning gown, every pleat precise.
“The carriage will be ready within the hour,” she said, dismissing Sarah with a glance. She moved behind Marianne, meeting her daughter’s eyes in the mirror. “How are you feeling?”
“Like I’m about to step off a cliff in the dark.”
“That sounds about right.” Her mother’s hands came to rest on her shoulders. “It’s not too late, you know. We could leave London—Paris, perhaps Rome. Wait for the scandal to fade.”
“And spend the next five years hoping some merchant’s son overlooks my disgrace?” Marianne shook her head. “No. I’ve made my choice.”
“You made it rather quickly.”
“Did I?” Marianne met her mother’s eyes in the mirror. “Or has it simply been coming to this since the night at the opera?”
Her mother sighed. “You’re very like your father. Once your mind is set, the world may as well step aside.” She reached into her pocket and drew out a small velvet box. “This was my mother’s. I wore it at my wedding.”
Inside lay a pair of pearl earrings—simple, luminous. Marianne’s throat caught. “Mama…”
“Every bride should have something of her mother’s, even if the wedding is…” She hesitated, then smiled wryly. “Unconventional.”
“You mean hasty, scandalous, and entirely ill-advised?”
“I meant ‘unexpected,’ but yes, those too.” Her mother fastened the earrings with careful fingers. “Marianne, you must understand something about marriages of convenience.”
“Is that what this is?”
“Isn’t it? He salvages your reputation, gains a wife of his own choosing; you gain a title and protection. It’s convenience, pure and simple.” She turned her daughter to face her. “But convenience and affection are not always strangers. Your father and I married for practical reasons—his ambition, my family’s connections. Love came later. Or something close enough to build a life on.”
“And if it doesn’t come?”
“Then you build anyway. You find purpose, routine—perhaps children, if fortune allows. You make something from what you have, not what you wish you had.” Her mother studied her face. “But that man looks at you as if you live under his skin, and you look at him as if he’s fire and you’re the moth. That isn’t convenient, my darling. That’s perilous.”
“I know.”
“Do you? Passion burns bright—but it consumes. When the flames die, you’ll need something sturdier to stand on.”
“Like what?”
“Respect. Trust. Shared purpose.” Her mother smiled sadly. “Things that take time to build. Time you haven’t had.”
Before Marianne could respond, her father’s voice boomed from downstairs. “The carriage is ready!”
The ride to St George’s blurred past. She sat between her parents, gloved hands folded tightly in her lap, the silk of her gown whispering with every breath. Beneath it, the locket lay warm against her skin—its weight a reminder of the man waiting for her at the altar.
Adrian Blackwell. In an hour, she would be his wife. In name, in law, and—soon enough—in body.
The last thought sent heat flooding through her despite the morning chill.
St George’s loomed ahead, its portico stark in the pale light. Only a handful of carriages waited—no crowd, no guests. Just witnesses and an unfortunate clergyman roused at too early an hour.
“Ready?” her father asked.
