* * *
Mother had been right.
In the following days, Isabella had done nothing but get ready for her wedding, for her new life, for the biggest deceit she’d ever put up.
A life she hadn’t planned, expected, or thought of.
There were so many things to organise, they postponed the wedding for another week. Lawson had assured her she wasn’t showing, but she could swear a small bump had appeared on her belly.
The only good thing about the frenetic visits to the modiste, the endless writing of letters and messages to friends and relatives, and the discussions about the wedding breakfast was that she hadn’t had time or energy to think about her situation. Or worse, about the fact she would lie in bed with Anthony in a matter of days to make him believe the baby she carried was his heir.
Every time her determination wavered, she thought of Mary in that horrible dark room and her small child.
She hadn’t seen Anthony, which was good because she wasn’t sure she wouldn’t tell him the truth if he smiled at her and told her how happy he was. She hadn’t seen the Dowager either, which was even better. The matron suspected the truth. Isabella was sure of that. The elder woman possessed the uncanny ability to see through people.
Lawson was her only anchor. The only one who knew everything.
The night before the wedding, Isabella kept tossing and turning in her bed. In the quiet of her bedroom—the last night she would spend in her bedroom—the doubts and guilt tormented her.
Perhaps she should tell Anthony the truth right after they were married. He would hate her, but she wouldn’t carry the lie for too long. How awful. No matter how she considered the situation, she felt guilty.
Her wedding dress—a beautiful ivory gown made of lace and satin—stood in a corner of the room like a pale ghost haunting her.
She covered her face with the pillow, cursing again that night. If she didn’t talk with someone, she would scream bloody murder. She left the bed to go to Lawson’s room.
“Lawson.” A sob escaped her. “What am I doing?”
Lawson stopped packing her clothes in a trunk and hugged her. “The right thing.” She let Isabella cry.
“He was so happy when I told him I wanted to marry him. He has no idea. When did I become such a horrible person?”
“If he never knows, he’ll never get hurt. Once you give him his heir, everything will be better. And the child is his nephew, his own blood.”
“I feel despicable.” She shivered, grabbing Lawson’s shoulders for dear life.
“The alternative is death. Lady Mary was lucky to find a job and people to help her, and yet she’s struggling. Other women aren’t so lucky.”
Lawson’s words were of little consolation. But the wedding was going to happen.
The most difficult part would be to be in bed with Anthony. Not because she didn’t find Anthony attractive, quite the opposite, but because she would need to lie to him again.
* * *
Oddly enough,on the morning of the ceremony, Anthony wasn’t terribly nervous.
He checked his reflection in the mirror after Wilson had finished helping him get ready and dressed—a rather long affair, for which he’d risen well before dawn, even though he’d travelled the night before to Windsor to be closer to the chapel.
The only matter that bothered him was whether he should let his hair cover the scars or not.
No hair, he decided. Isabella had told him she didn’t mind the scar. As for the guests, he would endure the stares and mutters. With Isabella at his side, he would face the scorn.
He barely left his bedroom before Grandmama walked over to him as if she were ambushing him.
“You look elegant.” She gave him a long, assessing glance.
“Thank you.”
She straightened his collar and brushed an invisible speck from his shoulders. “Have you thought about what I told you last night?”
