Page 23

Humility softened her heart. He may be behaving like a child now, but he’d behaved as a man when it had counted most.

“You will find that love and that joy,” Mrs. Shepherd said. “I am confident of that, son.”

“You may be confident, but I am not. Of all the women in the world, you had to choose her—a woman who is as lifeless and dreary as her accomplishments. A woman with as much personality as a handkerchief.”

The compassion she felt before slipped from her grasp. She felt more the fool now than ever, having lent sympathy to the man who turned around and slapped her in the face with it.

The Shepherds instantly protested his words, but Marie did not wait to hear them. Her feet were already propelling her back to her bedchamber.

She had a mind to march straight back to the drawing room, demand an apology from Charles, and prove that he was wrong about her. But she knew the pain she felt at his criticism would cause her to become a blubbering mess. Even if she was a Shepherd now, she still had Oakley blood running through her, which meant she would maintain her dignity by refusing to ever cry in front of that so-called gentleman.

Instead, she would return to her bedchamber, make ready for the ball, and prepare mentally so she was ready to put on the performance of a lifetime.

Not for others, but for Charles.

She’d tried to be demure and polite, and he’d been bored.

She’d tried to let him know of her amiability, and he’d rejected her.

She’d tried to get along with him, and he’d accused her of lying.

And now, he said she was lifeless?

Well, Childish Charlie Shepherd had better secure his feet far into his stirrups. For if he wished for a wife who wasn’t lifeless and dreary, he was going to get one.

Chapter Seven

Marie stared at her reflection in the drawing room window that evening. With only the fire in the hearth and a few spare candles lit nearby, she couldn’t see beyond much of her outline, but having already examined her features in her bedchamber’s looking glass earlier, she’d been more than pleased with her lady’s maid’s efforts tonight.

Jane had outdone herself, which was exactly what Marie had requested. Her dark green gown accentuated her figure in all the right places, and her gold and emerald necklace and earrings highlighted the hollow of her throat and her dainty ears.

Her hair was a true masterpiece, as well, her black curls stacked high and glinting with her every movement. A golden-colored ribbon embroidered with shimmering beads had been weaved throughout her locks with delicate intricacy, and a light brushing of subtle pink had been added to her lips and cheekbones.

To any outsider, she appeared every inch the blushing, glowing bride. Which was perfect, really. It was just what she needed to give her enough confidence to complete her plan for that evening.

She turned away from the window and faced the doorway expectantly, standing in the empty room with a quiet regality.

She’d been rehearsing her behavior and actions for the last few hours now and was more than ready to face her husband.

Despicable man that he was.

A few short minutes later, Charles appeared on his own, nearly coming to a skidding halt in the doorway when he realized Marie was alone.

His eyes scanned the length of her, and pleasure pulled at her stomach at the clear approval in his expression. He remained silent, standing in the doorway.

“Is something the matter?” she asked.

He hesitated a moment longer, blinked, then shook his head in silence. Entering the room, he headed in the opposite direction of her and toward the hearth.

All the while, Marie maintained a steady gaze. Charles looked dashing tonight. Pomaded hair, high collar, breeches that accentuated his muscular legs, and a green waistcoat that matched her gown. Whether that was a coincidence or Mrs. Shepherd’s doing, Marie couldn’t be sure.

“You must be looking forward to this evening,” he said after a moment, his back to her.

“I am. I find balls a perfect way to discover more about a person.”

“One would imagine talking would suffice in that regard,” he returned.

“Conversing is unreliable.”