Page 24 of Dangerous

Adam jerked the reins with a clumsy spasm.

His ham-fisted handling of the ribbons startled his groom so badly, the man almost fell from his perch. “Your Lordship?” Thompson’s eyes were round.

Adam didn’t bother to explain. Besides, what could he say? That he was crippled with jealousy over a woman he’d known less than a week? He was stunned, ashamed, and terrified by the crude animal possession that had come out of nowhere, seized him by the scruff of the neck, and shaken him like a kitten.

The disturbing image of the footman and Mia again tried to slither into his head.

Mia! Just when did she become Mia, you dolt?

Adam gritted his teeth and shoved both the hectoring inner voice and snarling green-eyed monster into a corner of his mind and then locked them away.

He’d be damned if he would tolerate Veronica’s brand of rampant whoring from this particular wife. If Euphemia Marlington wanted to rut like an animal, she could bloody well do so within the confines of his bedchamber. Or hers. Either way, Adam’s body would be the only one she would be writhing beneath for the foreseeable future.

He gave a humorless crack of laughter, not caring who heard. Whatever scheme she was planning in her pretty little head—and he didn’t doubt for a heartbeat she was up to something—it had better not involve Adam in the role of cuckold. He would not tolerate shaming from a third wife.

Chapter Eight

The informal wedding ceremony went smoothly. Even Cian behaved—after offering to spirit Mia away to freedom during the brief carriage ride to St. George’s.

“It’s your last chance, Mia. You merely need give me a sign and I’ll have Cheyne turn the carriage.”

“And where would you take me, Cian? Back to Carlisle House? To Burnewood Park?”

He’d leaned across to take her hands. “Ask Father to give you more time. There are other men . . . men who are less—”

She’d pulled away her hands. “Please do not speak ill of my betrothed, Cian.”

He’d sat back at her sharp tone and Mia relented.

“Let us not argue, Brother. I have made my decision.”

She’d not only made her decision, she’d then gone through with it; she was now the Marchioness of Exley.

Mia glanced around the big room as it filled with guests, her head rather muddled after the whirlwind of the past ten days. The wedding had taken place just before noon and they’d returned to Carlisle House for a celebration feast. Small clusters of guests stood about the formal receiving room, conversing in low voices. The number of people gathered out in the street—and outside of St. George’s—had been mob-like by comparison.

They were the most notorious couple in Britain.

The scandal sheet headlines shrieked, THE MURDEROUS MARQUESS TAKES THE DUKE OF CARLISLE’S MYSTERIOUS DAUGHTER TO WIFE!

Her new husband had taken it all in stride, flinging the sack of coins to the maddened crowd with the same cold contempt he showed everyone, peer or commoner.

The wedding had actually been far larger than she’d expected. Mia had had no hand in planning any of it. It had all been her cousin Rebecca’s doing. After that first day, when her cousin had cried herself into a stupor, Rebecca had embraced the wedding with so much enthusiasm it might have been her own idea.

“He is, without a doubt, one of the most elegant men in the country, my dear,” she’d told Mia in the confiding tone of one passing along a secret. “His personal wealth is enormous—even without the entailed properties.”

Rebecca’s sudden about-face amused Mia. “Are you privy to His Lordship’s ledgers, Cousin?”

Her cousin’s pale cheeks flared, the color making her appear young and pretty. “I am merely repeating what is well-known, that he possesses several magnificent estates.”

Mia already knew that from their ride in the park—the only time they’d been alone in the days before the wedding. Exley had seemed determined to avoid spending time alone with her and she’d learned little else about him during the past week and a half. Anyone who might have told her about the marquess was hardly likely to gossip about him after their betrothal had been announced. The only person Mia knew well enough to ask about her mysterious husband was Baron Ramsay. She somehow doubted the privateer-turned-lord knew anything about the marquess as he’d hardly been back in England much longer than Mia.

As if her thoughts had summoned him, Lord Ramsay entered the room and stopped to greet the duke. She still found it difficult to think of Lord Ramsay as anything other than One-Eyed Standish, a man whose exploits and sudden return to England had filled as many—if not more—scandal sheets than Mia.

More guests entered and the duke turned to welcome them, leaving Ramsay standing alone.

Mia leaned toward her cousin, who was clucking over some matter involving seating. “If you’ll excuse me, Rebecca.”

“Of course, my dear, of course.”