Lady Eve's Indiscretion

Six

Eve tried to scramble away from the man holding her so gently on the couch, but his embrace became inescapable.

“They’ve gone, love. Stay a moment more. There’s nothing to be gained by haste at this point, and we need to sort this out before we face your family.”

Love? Now he called her love?

“Let me go. I can’t breathe…” She tried to wrestle free, but he had his hand on the back of her head, his arm around her back.

Out in the hallway, the front door didn’t close; it banged shut with the impact of a rifle shot ricocheting through the house… and through the rest of Eve’s blighted, miserable life.

“Mama slammed that door, Lucas Denning. Her Grace, the Duchess of Moreland, slammed a door, because of me, because of my stupid, selfish, useless, greedy, stupid, asinine…”

There were not words to describe the depth of the betrayal she’d just handed her family. She collapsed against Deene’s chest, misery a dry, scraping ache in her throat.

“Eve, many couples anticipate their vows, even a few couples closely associated with the Duchess of Moreland.”

The reason in his voice had her hands balling to fists.

“I will not marry you.” She could not, not him of all men. That signal fact gave her scattering wits a rallying point.

Deene did not argue. When an argument was imperative, he did not argue. His hand stroked slowly over her hair, and as the fighting instinct coursing through Eve’s body struggled to stand against a swamping despair, some part of Eve’s brain made a curious observation:

Deene was breathing in a slow, unhurried rhythm, and as a function of the intimacy of their posture, Eve was breathing in counterpoint to him. The same easy, almost restful tempo, but her exhale matched his inhale.

“We cannot marry, Deene. I won’t have it. A white marriage was as far as I was willing to go, and then only to the right sort of man, a man who would never seek to… impose conjugal duties on me.”

His arms fell away, when Eve would very much have liked them to stay around her. Better he not see her face, better she not have to see his lovely blue eyes going chill and distant.

“We need to set you to rights.”

His hands on her shirt were deft and impersonal, his fingers barely touching her skin. The detachment in his touch was probably meant to be a kindness, but it… hurt.

“Lucas, I cannot think.”

“We’ll think this through together. I can guarantee you not a soul will be coming through that door until we decide to pass through it ourselves.”

“I hate that you can be so calm.”

And—worst thought yet—she loved him for it too, just a little. He wasn’t stomping around the room, trying to subtly blame her, cursing his fate while figuring out how to duck away from it. He wasn’t thrusting her aside so he could put himself together while he left her floundering to right herself with clumsy fingers and a clumsier mind.

She loved him for his simple gestures of consideration, though one could love and hate simultaneously. When she’d been recovering from her accident, this truth had borne down upon her every time Jenny or Louisa offered to read her another hour’s worth of bucolic poetry.

“I feel just as if I were lying in that filthy sheep meadow, the scent of sheep dirt all about me, the cold in my bones, the…”

Eve snapped her jaw shut. What on earth was she babbling about?

Deene paused in his tucking and buttoning and put a warm hand on either side of her jaw. He kept his hands there until Eve managed to meet his gaze. “If you are in some stinking sheep meadow, I am there with you. Is there tea in this house?”

Tea. Oh, of course, tea. “Yes.”

And still he did not lift her from his lap. While she watched, he withdrew a handkerchief from a pocket and swabbed at his flat belly.

He had a moderate dusting of chest hair. That she would notice this made Eve doubt her sanity—Canby had had no chest hair—because her impulse was not to look away, it was to touch him. What would it feel like to run her fingertips over that chest hair? With self-discipline making far too late an appearance, she denied herself the appeasement of this one small curiosity.

When they were both more or less tidied up, Deene wrapped his hand around the back of Eve’s head and once more drew her face down to his shoulder.

“You shall not blame yourself for this, Eve Windham. You are a lady, innocent of any wrongdoing, and I have breached the bounds of gentlemanly behavior altogether.”

Not quite altogether, though the distinction would make no difference. “Lucas, you have no idea…”

He squeezed the back of her neck, gently, just as he had when Eve had been suffering a megrim weeks ago. “We’ll sort this out, Eve. You have nothing to make apology for, not to me, not to Their Graces, not to anybody.”

Papa’s heart would be broken. She closed her eyes at that realization. Her Grace would be disappointed; she’d get that tight “where did I go wrong?” look about her eyes and mouth, but Papa…

“Come along.” Deene patted her hip. “We’ll make some tea and get the color back in your cheeks. It won’t be so bad, Eve.”

He waited for her to extricate herself from his lap, and this took some doing because her hip was stiff—it hardly ever gave her trouble anymore, but of course it would today. When she was on her feet, Deene rose as well, tied her stock around her neck in a neat, graceful bow, saw to his cravat, and offered her his arm.

She took it, a reflex—one she resented even as they arrived to a spotless, empty kitchen.

“May I rummage for some food?” He asked her this as she tossed kindling on the coals in the hearth and took the kettle from the hob.

“There should be bread in the bread box.”

Maybe it was a propensity for self-preservation in the adult male, maybe it was the instincts of a former soldier, but as Eve assembled a tea tray, Deene’s foraging produced bread, butter, strawberry jam, and cheese. They domesticated in the kitchen in an oddly comfortable quiet, and by the time the tea was steeping in a plain white ceramic pot, Eve realized Deene had been giving her time to settle her nerves.

Or perhaps to settle his own—a cheering thought.

When she lowered herself to a bench at the worktable, Deene came down beside her, meaning she had to scoot a little.

“Don’t run off.” He poured her tea, buttered her a slice of bread, then spread a liberal portion of strawberry jam on it.

If he tried to feed her, she was going to bite off his hand. “I’m not helpless, Lucas.”

The look he gave her was impassive. “Pleased to hear it. Pass the sugar.”

So they sat there side by side, swilling tea, and not arguing. As Eve filled her belly—the food was a surprising comfort, as was Deene’s bulk beside her—she tried to reconcile herself to her fate while she topped up their cups.

“This is worse than if we’d been happened upon by strangers.”

“Your mother and sister will never mention what they saw if you don’t want them to, Eve.”

Eve studied his profile and saw he believed this made a difference. “They will never mention it in any case, though Her Grace will likely tell Papa. That they know makes a difference, Lucas. To me.”

“To me as well. I am formally renewing my proposal for your hand in marriage, Evie. Don’t hog the butter.”

“I am refusing your suit, though you do me great—don’t you hog the jam.”

“You want a white marriage. I cannot give you that. The responsibility for the succession lies with me, despite Anthony’s willingness to step in, if necessary. I wonder if your father will call me out.”

He reached for another slice of bread as he spoke, the observation so casual Eve wanted to slap her hand over his mouth. With no more regard than if he’d asked, “I wonder if Islington will put his colt in the second heat at Epsom?” Deene had heaped terror on top of Eve’s dread.

“He wouldn’t. Papa likes you.” The tea in her stomach started to rebel at the image of Lucas, facedown, bleeding his life away in some foggy meadow… Papa, facedown… Or—it had been known to happen—both men, dead or permanently incapacitated over Eve’s idiocy.

Oh, merciful, merciful heavens.

“Westhaven might see to it,” Deene went on, “given that His Grace should not be involved in such a scandal at this point in his life. All of your brothers are tiresomely good shots. I suspect Lord Val might be pressed into service—time spent in Italy generally improves a man’s command of the art of the sword.”

He munched away on his bread, while Eve concluded there was never a species, a gender, or a creature on earth as blockheaded as the honorable English male in possession of a pair of dueling pistols—or swords, foils, whatever the proper term was.

Unless it was she, herself, for allowing such folly to be contemplated.

Whatever was she going to do?

They tidied up the kitchen and put the parlor to rights—this involved arranging pillows so the smudges left by Eve’s dusty boots were covered up, but as one mundane, simple task followed another, Eve faced the growing realization that the last time she’d fallen so far from sense and proper behavior, the consequences had been disastrous.

This time, if she did marry Lucas Denning, they would be equally disastrous.

And if she did not marry him, they could be even worse.

When the groom led Grendel from the stables, the little trap rattling along behind, Deene tied Beast to the back and deposited Eve on the seat. He climbed in and sat beside her, not touching the reins.

She wasn’t going to drive. The man was a lunatic if he thought she could manage the reins in her present state. Grendel stomped a small hoof, likely quite aware that this journey would lead homeward and back to his nice grassy paddock.

“Deene, this proves nothing.”

“You’re not helpless. I have that on the best authority. It’s not two miles by the lanes, and you know the terrain intimately.”

Intimately. To elbow him in the ribs or not to elbow him in the ribs?

She hated him, no dispute about that now. She hated him, her life, this day, and herself.

But she took the reins.

Her Grace never paced, never worried a fingernail between her teeth, never appeared anxious. His Grace watched while she did all three, until he could bear it no more.

“Esther, come sit with me. Let me pour you a cup, and we’ll think this through.”

She paused at the window to their private sitting room, arms crossed, spine straight, and yet her posture testified to despair in the very rigidity of her shoulders.

“Percival, they had been intimate. I could smell it. Dear God…”

There had been more Dear God-ing going on in the previous twenty minutes than His Grace could recall in the past twenty years—and all over young people acting exactly like young people were slated to behave from the beginning of time. He took his wife by the hand, seated her on the sofa, then came down beside her.

“What is it, exactly, my love, that has you so overset about the situation? Deene is honorable. If Eve wants him, there’s an end to it.”

“But Eve…” She laid her head on his shoulder. “We’ve raised ten wonderful children, Percival. We’ve known heartache and grief.”

That she would speak of it was unusual and gave His Grace a pang. After more than three decades, the glances and silences were often articulate enough that painful words need not be spoken. “We’ve known wonder and abundant joy, too, Esther.”

“We’ve buried two, Percival.”

He couldn’t argue with that, but thank God it had been only two. Most families somewhere along the way bore the sorrow of an infant taken before the first year, an elder snatched away… as he’d almost been snatched away.

“We still have eight, Esther, and though that cannot compensate for the loss of Victor and Bartholomew, it does console, as do the grandchildren.”

She nodded, but His Grace knew she was working up to something, something that might allow her to finally cry, which—as harrowing as it would be for him—was probably necessary before they could sort out Eve’s latest contretemps.

“Percy, I will always miss the boys, I will always worry over the others, but Eve…”

He put his arm around her shoulders.

“Tell me, my love.”

“Death will come for all of us, and in Victor’s case, it was almost a blessing. I am selfish to say so, a bad mother—”

That nonsense required immediate contradiction. “You could not be a bad mother, Esther, not ever.”

“But Eve… Our sons were taken from us, and it was awful, but what was taken from Eve… Percy, that broke my heart, over and over. I grieved for our daughter every day she lay in that bed, hurting in body and spirit. And yet, I have never been as angry, either, never been as upset as when I watched our baby girl lose all her spark, all her joy, and all her confidence. That awful, awful man, whom we brought into the household as an employee… I wanted to strangle him with my bare hands. I wanted to aim a pistol at his… directly at him. I wanted to pour oil on him and watch while he was consumed by flames…”

He loved this about her, the ferocity, the soul-deep protectiveness toward those she loved. He hated, however, for her to be distressed.

“Eve was daunted, but she did not lose all her fight, Esther. As long as we love her, she’ll never lose the God-given strength to fight. She is a Windham, and one tempered at a young age by vicissitudes her siblings cannot fathom. She’ll win through.”

Her Grace was on her feet again, pacing to the window. “She will not. She will not see this as an opportunity to seize happiness and the joy she deserves. She’ll punish herself, and Deene will be too much a gentleman to force her hand. She was on top of him, Percy, in his lap, straddling…”

Not something a father ever wanted to picture, though His Grace allowed a touch of approval that any child of his would take the initiative in such a moment. Young Deene had likely not stood a chance.

“She was not forced, then, Esther. She is well past her come out, and this was her choice.”

Her Grace’s brows rose, then settled. “That is something.”

“It’s a very telling something.”

Her expression grew thoughtful. “On the occasion of Your Comeuppance, I believe I made the same point to you.”

His Comeuppance. Something had indeed come up on that occasion.

“Just so, my love. Come drink your tea. We must plan our strategy.”

To sit beside Eve and not touch her was difficult.

To sit beside her and not argue his case was making Deene clench his jaw and ball his fists and recite the Lord’s Prayer in Latin, Greek, French, and German.

Marrying Eve made such sense. When last he’d considered the notion, he hadn’t been dealing with nasty rumors that had Mildred Staines eyeing his crotch and the clubs going oddly silent when Deene walked into the room. The idea of taking Eve to wife loomed as not just right, but necessary for them both.

The list of arguments in support of their wedding circled through his head faster than the wheels of their conveyance bore them toward a reckoning:

He and Eve were of appropriate rank.

They had shared interests.

Their lands marched.

They were compatible in ways both mundane and intimate.

He needed to marry well, and Eve needed to marry a man who’d be a true husband to her if she was to have the children and loving family that was her God-given right. He’d give her all the children she wanted and delight in doing so…

A white marriage, for God’s sake…

As Eve turned the cart up the Moreland drive, it occurred to Deene that in some convoluted, unfathomable female manner, Eve was probably seeking to relieve her family of worrying over her and punish herself in the bargain with this notion of a white marriage.

Which he could not allow. She deserved so much better. She deserved every happiness a family and home of her own could afford, and more, given… given everything.

She tooled the trap around the circular drive before the house and on to the stables, her driving flawless, as he knew it would be. “You need not come inside, Lucas.”

“If I want to live beyond next week, I will not let you face this gauntlet alone.”

She winced, a small, gratifying suggestion that the only plan Deene had been able to formulate might bear fruit. He’d never convince her they’d suit wonderfully, but he might be able to scare her into marrying him.

Though the idea made him wince. He lifted Eve from the cart as a groom came out to lead the pony away. They stood alone in the stable yard, Deene’s hands on Eve’s waist to keep her from bolting.

“I will say again, Lady Eve, you have nothing to apologize for, nothing to explain. I took advantage of you, and I will face the consequences.”

“Do be quiet. I am cross enough with you and with myself as it is.”

She took his arm and stomped along beside him, nearly dragging him up to the house. When she would have slunk in a side entrance, Deene led her around to the front door. This provoked a gale-force sigh.

“We begin as we intend to go on, Eve.”

“We won’t be going on, Lucas. I will not marry you. Papa would never think of calling you out, and thus you are safe from my brothers. We didn’t even…” She waved a hand in circles.

“Her Grace will think we did.” Another wince. So he twisted the knife in her conscience. “Lady Jenny will think we did.”

Eve paused on the top step before the front door, her expression stricken anew. “Oh, God… Jenny. Poor, sweet…”

A knife once twisted could not be untwisted, and here on the gracious front terrace of one of the most elegant homes in the shire, Deene could not take his intended in his arms.

The front door opened, but it was not a butler who stood there—apparently not even senior staff could be allowed to witness the coming confrontation. His Grace manned the door, blue eyes flashing fire, his face an implacable mask of banked fury.

“Young lady, you will attend your mother in her sitting room at once.”

And Deene was supposed to just toddle back down the stairs to await an uncertain fate?

“If Your Grace would allow Lady Eve and me a chance to discuss the events of the—”

“You, sir!” His Grace was not inclined to keep his voice down when discretion might be most appreciated. This was known by all familiar with him, and beside Deene, Eve graduated from wincing to cringing.

“Your Grace, Lady Eve’s nerves are not aided by a display of temper, though you have every reason to rail at me.”

The ducal eyebrows went up. “I have every reason to kill you, young man. The harm you have done cannot be explained or excused, and no adequate reparation ever made to my daughter.”

This was the moment for Eve to step forward and explain that they were betrothed, that the indiscretion was just that, more a slip than a sin. Certainly not a matter of a lady’s slighted honor.

His Grace’s gaze went to his daughter while a silence stretched, a silence during which Deene wanted to go down on bended knee and beg the blasted woman to marry him.

“Unhand my daughter, Deene.”

Eve slipped away from Deene’s side and disappeared into the house.

His Grace waited a long moment while Eve’s footsteps faded rapidly, and then the older man glanced about. “You, come with me. And get that mulish expression off your face. The last thing Her Grace will do is castigate Eve for a situation that must lie exclusively at your handsome, booted feet.”

Was there a softening in His Grace’s eyes? Deene was not about to bet his life on it. When the duke led him to a chamber on the first floor, Deene noted an absence of footmen, maids, or other curious ears.

“Your Grace, I think you well might have to call me out.”

Moreland opened the door to the ducal study and preceded Deene through it. He closed the door, then turned, and without any warning whatsoever, delivered a walloping backhand across Deene’s cheek.

“Perhaps I shall have to call you out, Deene. Let’s make it a convincing show, then, shall we?”

“Mama, you cannot allow Papa to do anything rash.”

Eve stood over at the window, arms crossed at her middle, her shoulders back, and her chin up.

Their baby girl was such a little soldier.

Her Grace took a seat on the sofa, a fresh tea tray on the table before her. “I’d say if there was rash behavior this day, your Papa is not the one to be faulted.”

“And neither is Luc—” Eve’s jaw snapped shut and remained that way for as long as it took to pour one cup of tea. “Deene is not to be blamed either. There cannot be any duel.”

“Am I to felicitate you on your upcoming nuptials then?”

Another silence while the duchess added cream and sugar to the tea.

“You are not. You must know I have no desire to marry.”

“Come drink your tea, Eve, and to be honest, I know no such thing. You’ve had your Seasons. You’ve had many proposals. It’s time you settled down and had some babies to love.”

The duchess trusted implicitly in her husband’s command of tactics, but this course was difficult for a loving mother to carry off in the face of the bleak determination in Eve’s eyes.

“Mama…” Eve sat on the sofa, staring at the empty hearth. “I do not… I cannot…”

Esther passed her the cup of tea, unable to listen to Eve struggle to bring up things that had remained undiscussed for seven years. “Drink your tea, though if there’s to be no wedding, I expect we’ll see more than one duel.”

Eve set her teacup down on its saucer with a clatter. “More than—!”

“I don’t need to tell you His Grace is an old-fashioned man when it comes to a lady’s honor. Your brothers are almost more conservative than their papa.”

“Mama, how can you sit here, swilling tea and contemplating violence as if, as if—somebody could be hurt, somebody could be killed.”

“That would be a pity.” Esther took a sip of her tea, sending up a silent prayer that Percy was faring more successfully with Deene.

“I cannot marry Lucas Denning.” Eve sat forward and dropped her face into her hands. “Mama, I cannot.”

His Grace had patiently pointed out that Eve was not balking at the intimacies of marriage—men could be so blunt!—which had put things in a very different light, indeed.

“If you can ravish the man on a sofa in the broad light of day, Eve Windham, I beg to differ with that conclusion. You can marry him, but you don’t wish to.”

The look Eve shot her was not that of a dutiful, troubled, or even confused daughter. It was the look of a full-grown woman bitterly resenting her circumstances. “I can marry him. I do not wish to marry him. Doesn’t it count for anything that he’s already proposed to me twice and I’ve rejected him both times?”

Esther considered her teacup. She’d had the sense Deene was more than a little interested, and it was hard not to show satisfaction at being right—though two proposals was admittedly fast work.

“Your rejections count for nothing. Deene should have approached your father before mentioning any intentions toward you.”

“I am not a child, Mother, that I can’t be spoken to without permission from my father.”

“You are not a child, but your position is childish. Your refusal to accept an eminently desirable suit will put at least your father, if not your brothers, at risk, and go a very long way toward ruining any lasting chance Jenny has at a family of her own. You are apparently not shy of your marital obligations, Eve, which reservation I might have understood or been able to address, so you are just being stubborn. It does not become you in the least.”

The last statement was downright cruel, implying a disapproval Esther could never feel toward her daughter, but seven years was long enough to punish oneself—and one’s parents—for an understandable misstep.

“I hate this day.”

“You do not hate Deene.”

This remark seemed to double the sorrow in Eve’s eyes. “I like him a great deal, I care for him, I—”

The duchess let a beat of silence go by while words were not said that might have surprised even Eve were they spoken aloud. “If you care for him, then I don’t think you can jeopardize his welfare simply for a stubborn whim, can you?”

While Esther pretended to sip tea, the fight drained out of Eve’s posture. “Jeopardize Deene’s life, Papa’s, my brothers’…” She hunched in on herself. “I can’t do that, and Deene would never consider dodging off to the Continent for a few years.”

“Would you take such a course?”

The idea of Eve running and hiding hadn’t occurred to Percy, but from the duchess’s perspective, it was clearly an option under consideration.

“No, I cannot even be left in peace on some bucolic little French farm, because the idiot men in this family would blame Deene for that, and come after him no matter what I did or said. Everybody would conclude I had left the country to bear Deene’s child, and Jenny’s fate would be sealed.”

“I do believe you’re right.”

Eve slumped back against the cushions while Esther allowed herself a cautious hint of hope. “We’ll obtain a special license, hold the service here if you like. Every debutante making her come out will envy you the match.”

“You must do as you please, Your Grace.”

Your Grace. The chill in that form of address made Esther doubt the wisdom of Percy’s plan. “It’s your wedding, Eve, you ought to—”

But Eve was off the sofa and halfway to the door. “Please, excuse me, Your Grace. I find I need some solitude.”

She opened the door, and Esther had every intention of letting her go without another word, but there stood His Grace, and Eve’s… intended, the latter sporting a right cheek a good deal more pink than the left.

Papa had his tempers, his rants, his perpetual frustrations with the Lords, with Prinny, with the way the old mad king was treated, but nothing Eve had seen before prepared her for the cold-eyed stranger standing next to Deene.

She’d always known His Grace had served in the cavalry, known he’d faced Canadian winters, wolves, and worse, but the look in his eye now…

For the first time in her life, Eve Windham was afraid of her father. Not afraid he would harm her, afraid he would stop at nothing to protect her, even when such protection was hopelessly misguided.

She stepped back as His Grace stormed into the room, Deene following a few paces behind.

The duke had struck him. Such a blow in the context of a duel meant no apology could mend the situation. The beginning of a headache threaded itself into all the other miseries ricocheting around in Eve’s body.

“Eve.” His Grace turned a glacial stare on her. “Deene has something to say to you. I suggest you give him your entire attention, but mind me: he can apologize to you all he wants. That does not address the disrespect done to me and my house this day. Your Grace.” He turned to the duchess and offered his arm. “You have ten minutes, Deene. I suggest you spend them on your knees—in prayer if nothing else.”

They swept out, leaving Eve alone with a man who had every reason to think her daft or worse.

“Not here.” Deene took her by the hand and led her to the French doors. “They’ll post a damned sentry in the corridor, and what we have to say to each other requires privacy.”

He took her into the garden, which helped ease a claustrophobic sense gathering in Eve’s chest. While they walked along in silence amid beds of tulips and hyacinths, what registered in Eve’s benumbed brain was that Deene’s hand was warm and dry, not cold and clammy as hers felt.

“Here.” He gestured to a bench behind a privet hedge. Roses were leafing out in the nearby beds, but only a few tight buds had yet formed. When Eve took a seat, Deene lowered himself beside her and once again took her hand.

“Well?” It was all she could manage.

“Well.” He did a curious thing: he smoothed his fingers over her knuckles and brought her hand to his mouth, pressing his lips to her palm. “A kiss for courage. His Grace has given me three days to notify my seconds—Anthony is in Town, and I suppose Kesmore will serve in addition—while Rothgreb and Sindal are put on notice on His Grace’s behalf. We’ve agreed to recruit Fairly to serve as the surgeon.”

Such a cozy family murder they were planning. “Three days?”

“A bit biblical, but His Grace and I agree this needs to be wrapped up before the Season officially starts.”

They agreed. What they were agreeing to was obscene, but no more obscene than that Eve would allow it to go forward.

“Deene, if I married you, you would be more displeased with your choice than you could possibly know.” She hoped and prayed he’d listen to reason.

“Disappointed has a great deal to recommend it over dead, though you must do as you see fit. I cannot promise you your father will delope, Eve, though I assuredly will. Then, too, he has not discounted your brothers issuing their own challenges, and deloping does not seem in character for any of them.”

She’d condemn Deene to facing four firing squads, then, and what was to stop her three brothers-in-law from joining the fun? She had never known her father to back down, not ever. Her brothers were just as bad.

And she… She was the one being monumentally, murderously stubborn. None of her menfolk would have a chance at Deene if she would just say yes to his proposals.

One glimmer of hope penetrated her misery, a tiny, chimerical possibility: if it came down to a wedding night, Deene might not notice her lack of chastity.

Except he would. He wasn’t a stupid man or lacking in perception.

“I can make you a promise, Eve Windham. Several promises, in fact.”

“Just not vows, please. I cannot abide the thought of vows.”

“If we marry, we will consummate the union for legal purposes and to put the compulsory obligations behind us. Thereafter, I will not press you for your attentions until such time as you indicate you are willing to be intimate with me in a marital sense.”

She peered over at him. His cheeks were the same color now. “You would leave me in peace after one night?”

“Not entirely. For appearances, we will live together as man and wife, share chambers, and go down to breakfast together. We will dote and fawn in public and make calf eyes at each other across the ballrooms, but I will not importune you.”

The small, guttering flame of hope burned a trifle brighter. His plan had potential to avoid disaster. She did not know what motivated his foolish generosity, but the plain fact was, after the wedding night, he might not want to have anything to do with her.

“And if I never indicate that I’m interested in my conjugal duties?”

“Never is a long time, and I am a very determined man who is quite attracted to you. Also a man in need of heirs, and I am confident you’ll not deny me those.”

The flame nearly went out. Of course he’d need heirs.

“Unfair, Lucas.” Except, he was compromising, while Eve was practically loading four sets of dueling pistols and aiming them at Deene’s chest. “You have an heir.”

“Who is unmarried, older than me, and for reasons not relevant to the current discussion, not a good candidate for marriage. The succession is my obligation, Eve, and I’ve avoided it long enough.”

She had at least ten childbearing years left, possibly twenty. That was a long time to muddle through with a man who had been nothing but considerate toward her.

And an impossibly long time to mourn him, should the worst occur.

“On the conditions you’ve stated—that following the wedding night you will not exercise your rights unless and until I’m comfortable with the notion, we can be married, but, Lucas, when you hate the choice you’ve made—when you hate me—don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“I will not hate you, I will not hate my choice. That I do vow.”

His arm came around her. He gently pushed her head to his shoulder, and they sat there amid the thorny roses, officially engaged.

Deene held his intended on the hard bench in the brisk spring sunshine and knew a sense of relief disproportionate to the circumstances. His Grace had proven canny, pragmatic, and ultimately more interested in his daughter’s happiness than in any lethal displays of honor.

“You are the first fellow Eve has permitted to do more than sniff her hem since her come out, Deene. If she wants you, then I’ll deliver you to her trussed up like a naked goose if I have to.”

They’d shared a much-appreciated drink, and Deene had listened to an old soldier plot a campaign remarkable for its cunning and simplicity. Eve’s family was rallying around her once more; she simply didn’t realize it.

“Shall we go in, Eve? Your father will send an armed searching party for us in another five minutes.”

She nodded and rose, keeping his hand in hers. Her complexion was so pale he could see the freckles sprinkled across the bridge of her nose, and her eyes were taking on a pained quality he’d seen in them before.

“This won’t be so bad, Eve, I promise.”

“This?” Could her expression be any more bleak?

“This discussion with your parents, this engagement, this marriage.”

Nothing, not a nod, not a grimace. They were back in the parlor, where Her Grace sat on a sofa before the tea service and His Grace lounged against the mantel, glowering fiercely.

Eve took a seat beside her mother, while Deene remained standing. “Your Graces, I am very pleased to inform you that Lady Eve has accepted my suit.”

A moment of silence, while Deene suspected His Grace was trying not to let his relief show.

“I’m pleased as well,” the duchess said softly. “Very, very pleased. Welcome to the family, Lucas.”

His Grace blew out a breath. “I’ll send for the special license then, and, Deene, you and Eve go have the obligatory tête-à-tête with the vicar. Duchess, I expect you have invitations to address, and I have every confidence Sophie and her baron will be over here for dinner this very night to celebrate with us. Perhaps they’ll bring the children, seeing as the weather’s moderating.”

Deene watched Eve as her dear papa shifted from outraged patriarch to doting father. She was still pale, and the pinched look behind her eyes was more noticeable. He took a gamble, keeping a close watch on Eve’s reaction. “Your Graces, there is no need for a special license.”

Her Grace’s brows rose, while all good cheer evaporated from His Grace’s expression. “What does that mean, Deene, no need?”

“It means that despite what Her Grace thinks she saw, there is no need whatsoever to rush matters. I would prefer—and I expect Eve would prefer—a few weeks to cry the banns, plan a ceremony, and otherwise prepare for the upcoming nuptials. It will kick off the Season with a flourish and give all parties an opportunity to accustom themselves to the circumstances.”

He shot the older man a look, willing him to understand that circumstances in a marital context meant settlements, and settlements meant negotiations. Negotiations meant solicitors, and that meant at least a few weeks were needed.

“Evie?” His Grace frowned down at his daughter. “What’s it to be? Deene has rather a point—we want no hole-in-the-corner associations with your wedding.”

“I agree with Deene,” Her Grace said. “A few weeks will allow some time to enjoy the preparations.”

“I’d rather the banns were called as well,” Eve said. “There is no need for haste, as Deene has said.”

Their Graces exchanged a look that might have been a little puzzled, though Deene could almost hear them conclude that any baby might come three weeks early with no one the wiser.

“Let’s remark this occasion with some decent libation, then,” His Grace suggested, good cheer quite back in evidence. “I believe there’s some ’89 in the cellar worthy of the moment.”

“May I defer that generous offer, Your Grace?” Deene crossed the room to offer Eve his hand. “Lady Eve would likely enjoy a moment of privacy, and it would be my pleasure to escort her upstairs.”

There was no mistaking the relief in Eve’s eyes, which allowed a fellow to comfort himself that he’d gotten at least one thing right in this otherwise confounding day. Eve was silent as he led her through the house, silent as he stopped outside her bedroom door and took her in his arms.

She sighed, and to his great pleasure, wrapped her arms around his waist.

“Why the sigh, love?”

“This has happened too fast, and I am not at all at peace with it. I like you, Lucas, I like you a very great deal…”

Whatever arguments she was trying to resurrect, they died on another sigh as Deene started massaging her neck. “I like you a very great deal too, and we’ll manage, Eve. Trust me on that. I’ll call on you tomorrow before I head into Town, and expect to see you there forthwith. No leaving me to face all the good wishes myself, if you please.”

The longer he worked at the tense muscles of her neck, the more she rested against him. “Give me a week, Lucas.”

“Do something for me.”

She was becoming a warm, boneless press of female against him with results as predictable as they were inappropriate. “What?”

“Drive out. Take that little fellow who was in the traces today, hitch up one of your sister Sophie’s great beasts, but don’t hole up here and fret yourself into a decline. Drive out, Eve Windham. Get into the sunshine, call on the neighbors with your news, let Her Grace show you off a bit, but get the ribbons into your hands again soon.”

She pulled away a little to peer up at him. “This is an odd request, but I’ll tend to it.”

“And my only request until I can squire you about in Town.”

She blinked. “My headache feels better.”

He’d been able to ease her headache, and she liked him a very great deal. Deene kissed her cheek, waited until she’d disappeared into her room, then strode off to have that drink His Grace had mentioned.

Eve had agreed to drive out. A celebration was, indeed, in order.

To the eye of a devoted and loving baby sister, marriage and motherhood agreed with Maggie Windham Portmaine in every particular. Eve found a softness about her eldest sister, a warmth in her gaze, and a gentleness of manner that hadn’t been present before the Earl of Hazelton had taken Maggie to wife.

And yet, the discussion Eve had in mind was likely the most difficult she’d ever undertaken.

“I am so pleased you’ve brought Deene up to scratch, Evie. He is more than passingly handsome, and I’ve long suspected he holds you in special esteem.” Maggie smiled a smile that had her green eyes sparkling, making a gorgeous counterpoint to a glorious mane of red hair.

“At least you aren’t prosing on about the proximity of Denning Hall to Morelands, Deene’s friendship with St. Just and Bart, or our ranks being appropriate.”

God in heaven, Eve hadn’t meant to sound so grumpy.

Maggie put her teacup down and surveyed her sister. “Is this marriage to your liking, Eve? You can always join our household. Benjamin has already said so—you or Jenny, any time. You’d love Cumbria, too. I’m sure of it.”

Join their household? To be enveloped in the marital bliss of a couple who’d found each other despite daunting odds, settled down, and promptly conceived the requisite heir? At least Deene was sparing Eve that fate.

“I am pleased to be marrying Lucas, but I did not come here exclusively to discuss the nuptials.”

Maggie’s smile was feline. “Of course not. Who needs to discuss anything when that exquisite ring says it all?”

Eve glanced down at the ring Deene had given her the day after… the day after it had happened. She now had two milestones in her life: the accident and it.

“This is a Denning family heirloom, not part of the entail.” And the ring was quite pretty, green emeralds in a delicate gold setting that did not dwarf Eve’s hand. Deene had put it on her finger and whispered something about the rest of the parure being for their wedding night.

Almost as if they were truly…

“If you didn’t come here to show off your ring and glory in making a magnificent catch, then what else is there that could possibly merit discussion?”

Eve glanced at the half-open door, and was gathering her courage to get up and close it when Maggie’s husband stuck his head past the jamb. “May I interrupt for a moment?”

“Husband.” Maggie was on her feet, her arm twined around Hazelton’s waist in a move that looked comfortable and natural.

Eve topped up her teacup. “Greetings, Benjamin. You’re looking well.”

Well, handsome, content, quietly glowing just like his wife.

While Eve was back to wanting to smash teapots.

“And you are looking engaged.” Hazelton left his wife’s side long enough to kiss Eve’s cheek. “I don’t need to tell you Deene is a fine prospect, Eve Windham—and I’ve reason to know.”

Deene had had some hand in the matter that had brought Maggie and her Benjamin together, but Eve did not know all of the details. Perhaps when she and Deene were married…

Though likely not.

“He speaks highly of you too, Benjamin. Shall we save you some tea cakes, or are you going out?”

“I’m to meet my cousin Archer at the club for luncheon, so I will decline. Lay waste to the cakes. My love, I will be back in time to drive out with you, if that’s your wish.”

They exchanged a look suggesting driving out might not be at the top of Maggie’s list of wishes. Eve ate two tea cakes in succession while Maggie left for a moment to walk her husband to the door.

“You can close the door,” Eve said when her sister returned. “I have a delicate question to ask you on behalf of a friend.”

Maggie closed the door and resumed her seat on the sofa. “Ask. If I know the answer, I’ll tell you, but if it’s about the wedding night, expect it to be lovely. All the idiot notions that circulate among the debutantes are just that.”

Lovely? In Eve’s mind, an image arose of Canby raising his hand to deliver a stout blow. She recalled the sharp pain of a window sash gouging at her back, and the memory of saddling her mare in the predawn darkness, hands shaking, guts roiling.

Her hands did not shake as she sipped her tea—surely a sign of progress?

“As it happens, this question relates to wedding nights, though certainly not to my own. I’m sure Deene will acquit himself competently.”

“Jenny suggested confidence in the same regard when I expressed my concern for you.”

Another cake disappeared, while Eve mentally hopped over what Jenny had likely said, and forged on to even more difficult terrain. “My friend is concerned that on her wedding night, her husband might be disappointed to find his bride had suffered a lapse, one lapse, years previous.”

“He might…?” Maggie’s brows drew down. Eve ate the last cake with chocolate icing. The ones with almond icing started to appeal strongly as well.

Maggie nibbled a fingernail. “She’s concerned he could detect her lapse, though it occurred years previous? Afraid the physical evidence of her purity was tangibly destroyed?”

Plain speaking. Even married and besotted with her earl, Maggie was still capable of breathtakingly plain speaking.

“That’s it exactly. Will he be able to tell?”

The question lay between Eve and her sister, leaden and ugly, just as it lay between Eve and any hope of a decent future with Deene.

“Might your friend not ask a midwife?” Maggie was studying the teapot as if she’d never seen a teapot before.

“Midwives talk. My friend is watched over by her family very carefully, and even arranging such a meeting would be difficult.”

Also beyond daunting.

“Benjamin knew.” Maggie said this softly, her eyes taking on a distant quality. “He knew he was my first, though not until…”

“Not until he was your first. I see.” Not the answer Eve had longed for desperately.

“Can’t your friend take her intended aside and have a quiet talk with him?”

“I’ve asked her this myself many times.” Countless times. “She does not want to make any premature or unnecessary disclosures, because if her intended reacts badly, then the choices are to cry off or to go through with a doomed marriage.”

“But he might not react badly at all, and then your friend need not worry herself to death over nothing.”

Might. Might was quite a word to hang one’s entire future on. And if Eve cried off at Deene’s insistence, would the idiot men in her family start cleaning their dueling pistols again?

They might.

“I will suggest to her again that she have this discussion with her fiancé, but there isn’t much time—and if the man can’t detect her lack of chastity, not much point, either.”

Maggie’s lips pursed while a silence stretched, and Eve tried to convince herself again that she should just tell Deene the exact nature of the bargain he was getting.

“Tell your friend something for me.” Maggie chose now to spear Eve with a knowing, older-sister look. “Tell her that when she is tired of trying to manage everything on her own all the time, no matter the odds, a fiancé can be a very good sort of fellow to lean on, and a husband even better. I have learned this the hard way, Eve Windham, under circumstances Deene has my leave to acquaint you with. It is sound advice. Shall I ring for more cakes?”

Eve saw the plate was empty. Now, how had that happened?

“Yes, if you please. More of the chocolate, if you have them.”

“I want one more opportunity to talk you out of this marriage.” Anthony kept his voice down, thank God. He knew as well as Deene did that the primary function of a gentlemen’s club, besides providing a refuge from the long reach of female society, was fomenting gossip.

“Not here, Anthony. I’m on foot—perhaps you’d like to accompany me home.”

They left amid the usual casual farewells and the occasional comment on Deene’s upcoming nuptials.

“It’s going to damned rain,” Anthony muttered as they gained the streets. “Am I to hold my tongue all the way home, until we’re behind a locked door, or might I make my case now?”

“I’m meeting with Westhaven later in the day, so you might as well unburden yourself now.”

They paced along in silence, while Deene reflected on the previous two weeks of being engaged. Were it not for the growing sense that Eve remained reluctant, they would have been two happy weeks. The debutantes and even the merry widows were leaving him in peace, his domestics were happy at the thought of a marchioness on the premises, and marital prospects had a way of improving a man’s financial expectations as well—even in the face of Dolan’s damned rumors.

And yet, Anthony was determined to piss on the parade.

“Until the moment the vows are spoken, Deene, I will oppose this marriage if for no other reason than that you’re being coerced. The lady was in no way importuned, in no way publicly compromised, and this entire farce is unnecessary.”

“I say it is necessary.”

“I will damned marry, Deene. I’ve told you this more than once. I have a list of candidates we can select among this evening. She must be well born enough to serve as your hostess, or someday—may God forbid it ever be so—as the Marchioness of Deene.”

Deene found himself walking faster. “Choose all you like and hope the candidate of your choice doesn’t mind that tidy establishment in Surrey, because she’ll find out, Anthony. The ladies always find out.”

His mother had devoted much of her miserable marriage to finding out…

“I do not seek a romantic entanglement with any wife of mine, Deene. If she finds out, so be it. Ours will be a practical arrangement. The point is, I can provide you your heir without you having to make this sacrifice.”

It was heartening to know Anthony’s loyalty truly ran so deep, and it was also disconcerting to admit Deene had questioned his cousin’s integrity to any degree at all.

“So you marry and you even have a son or two, Anthony. Do you know how many sons of titled families I saw fall to the Corsican?”

“Younger sons, of course, the military being their preferred lot. Name me one heir, though, who came to grief in such a fashion.”

“Lord Bartholomew Windham.”

That shut Anthony up for about half a block, but as they approached the Denning townhouse, Anthony started up again. “I am not sending my offspring to war when the succession is imperiled. Do you think I’m stupid?”

“Of course you aren’t stupid. His Grace, the Duke of Moreland, is not a stupid man, either, Anthony, but he lost one son to war and another to consumption. Other families have run through many more heirs than that and turned up without a title to show for it. I can’t allow you to meet an obligation that is squarely, properly, and completely my own.”

“Fine, then. Stick your foot in parson’s mousetrap, but what of the girl?”

“Eve?” Deene glanced at his cousin. This was a new tack, a different argument. “I will make her a doting and devoted husband.”

“For about two years at the most. Get some babies on her, and you’ll be back to those feats of libidinous excess that have characterized the Marquis of Deene since the title was elevated from an earldom and likely before.”

A nasty argument, one Deene would not entertain.

“How is it, Anthony, that you know better than I what sort of husband I shall be? My libidinous excesses, as you call them, date from five, even ten years ago—despite what gossip would inaccurately imply. I could dig into your past or the past of almost any man who came down from university with me and find similar excesses. What is your real objection to this match?”

While Deene waited for Anthony’s answer, the first few drops of a drizzling rain pattered onto the cobbled walk. The scent in the air became damp and dusty at the same time—a spring scent, a fragrance almost.

“You want my real objection?” Anthony glanced around, but the threatening weather had apparently cleared the streets. “All right: my real objection is that you’re forcing the girl into a union she neither sought nor wants. Bad enough when your sister was treated thus, and it ended tragically for Marie, didn’t it? Now you’re repeating history with your prospective bride, and that I cannot abide.”

Anthony fell silent, while Deene absorbed a significant blow to the conscience.

“I am not forcing Eve Windham to do anything.” Except… viewed from a certain angle, not that oblique an angle, perhaps he was.

“If you say so.” Oh, the worlds of righteousness the man could put into such a platitude. “Shall I accompany you to this meeting with Westhaven?”

Because it dealt with finances, the question was logical. Because it was a change from a very uncomfortable topic, Deene answered it.

“You shall not. For once, the transaction flows exclusively to our financial benefit, and that much I think I can handle on my own.”

“About the household books…”

In the flurry of wedding preparations, Deene’s focus on finances had slipped a bit—but only a bit. “I started on the ones you provided last week, Anthony, but with expenses one place and income another, I don’t see how you keep track.”

“One learns to, and that way, nobody else can take the measure of your worth with a single peek at the books. When this wedding business is behind you, we’ll muddle through it all, I assure you.”

This wedding business.

“I shall look forward to that. Don’t wait dinner for me. I’ll likely be dining with Eve and her family.”

“Of course.” Anthony looked like he might say more—apologize, perhaps, for his earlier broadside? “I will stand up with you at the wedding, Deene. Have no fear on that score.”

“My thanks.”

Grudging and belated, but perhaps that was an apology. Deene hurried into the house to change for his meeting with Westhaven—a negotiation Deene looked forward to. Yes, the settlements would benefit him, but they were also the last, necessary step to ensuring that the wedding actually happened.

Then too, it was not a crime for a man to profit from marrying a woman for whom he cared for a great deal. No crime at all. He had myriad uses for the money, not the least of which would be maintaining the kinds of establishments Eve deserved to have for her homes.

And he was not forcing Eve to the altar.

Likely thanks to Her Grace’s influence with the Deity, the day of the wedding brought the most glorious spring weather London could offer. The Windham family had gathered en masse, including even the Northern contingent, represented by St. Just and his increasing coterie of female dependents—two daughters and one countess, plus a happy gleam in the man’s eye that presaged further developments.

As His Grace eyed the packed pews of St. George’s on Hanover Square, he reflected that a father better versed in the essential parental art of self-deception might be telling himself he was relieved to be seeing his youngest, smallest daughter off into the keeping of an adoring swain.

The organist took his seat while the crowd in the pews and balconies exchanged their final tidbits of greeting and gossip.

His Grace was not relieved. He himself had been the most adoring of swains once upon a time, and yet Her Grace had had her hands quite full with him, for at least the first ten or twenty years of their union.

Possibly more.

Marriage—a good, loving union such as the Almighty contemplated and sensible people longed for—was a damned lot of work, and much was going to be asked of Evie and her swain before His Grace could aspire to anything approaching relief on his daughter’s behalf.

He turned back to the small chamber where Eve stood in her finery, and the sight caused something like a small seizure in his heart. Evie was so petite, but she’d been a fighter since she’d surprised them all by showing up several weeks prior to her expected birth date.

“Daughter, you are the most beautiful sight in the realm today.”

She glanced up from her bouquet, an odd little gathering of pink and white heather, orange blossoms, and a few sprigs of hawthorn—for solitude, loveliness, and hope, if His Grace’s memory served. Her expression was more anxious than radiant.

“Thank you, Papa. How much longer?”

He turned back toward the nave. “Not long. Your mother has taken her place.”

Her Grace had been subdued in the carriage, but the duke suspected he understood why: they’d lost Eve in some sense seven years ago. Losing her again today revived the old aches, old doubts, and guilt. Since that long-ago day, there had been a chasm of bewilderment between Eve and her parents, one they all possessed enough love to want to breach, and yet the chasm remained.

His Grace turned his back on Polite Society in all its spring finery and once again surveyed his daughter. “Tell me something, Evie.”

She set the bouquet aside and offered him a painfully brave smile. “Papa?”

“Why are you marrying Deene? Is it because I was wroth with him for trespassing on your… for taking liberties?”

She blinked, looking very like her mother after His Grace had made some inelegant remark before the children. “I was not comforted to think of either you, my brothers, or Deene coming to harm on your idiot field of honor, but that wasn’t the entire reason.”

His Grace closed the door to the chamber, signaling, he hoped, that he’d have an answer, and Polite Society could go hang until he did. “I should wish regard for your intended played some role. Deene’s not a bad fellow.”

“Lucas is a good man, and I esteem him greatly.”

He crossed his arms, as that little recitation wouldn’t fool the most dense of fathers.

“I’ve seen Deene’s racing stables in Surrey, you know.” She picked up her bouquet and started fussing the little sprigs of hawthorn. “It’s a lovely place, very peaceful. We’ll be there for the next few weeks, possibly through the Season.”

Which His Grace took for a bit of genius on Deene’s part. The newlyweds would get no peace in Kent or in Town. “What has this to do with marrying the man, Evie? And don’t think to bamboozle your old papa. I was young once, and I know marriage is a daunting business even when you’re entirely besotted with your intended.”

She frowned. She did not smile hugely and assure him with a mischievous wink that she and Deene were quite besotted, though His Grace suspected, hoped, and prayed they were.

“When I was with Deene in Surrey last time, I helped birth a foal. The colt had a leg back, and the mare was small. I was best suited to aiding her, and Deene says the foal is thriving.”

What this had to do with anything was… His Grace tried not to show his surprise. Eve had recently started driving out. That signal fact had contributed to her being unchaperoned at Lavender Corner, but it had also given Her Grace the first glimmer of hope Eve was “putting that whole sorry business behind her.” Hope was a welcome if anxious burden for both of Their Graces.

“You always enjoyed foaling season, always enjoyed the stables.” He made the observation cautiously, pretending to make a final inspection of the ducal regalia in the mirror while he instead studied his daughter’s reflection.

“If I hadn’t been there, Papa, the mare and foal both might have perished, or they’d have lost the mare for sure and tried to save the foal. But I was there, and Lucas allowed me to help her.”

Lucas. That Eve thought of her prospective husband as Lucas was encouraging. Only Her Grace called His Grace by name, and likely conversely.

“I’m to name the colt, Papa, but it’s as you used to say: you can’t just slap a name on an animal willy-nilly, you must first learn who the beast is. I want to learn who that little, bucking, playing, gorgeous beast is.”

He cracked open the door and peered into the church, lest he interfere with whatever point Eve was leading up to. “And you needed to marry Deene to do that?”

“Horses can live a long time, thirty years or more with luck and good care. Someday, I want to walk down to that colt’s paddock with my granddaughter and feed the old boy some apples. I might tell her tales of his races and his sons, tell her how magnificent he was when he swept across the finish line, or what heart he had in the hunt field.”

What on earth was she saying?

“I often enjoyed taking you children to the stables on fine summer evenings. You would talk to me then. I could have you to myself one or two at a time.”

He’d forgotten this. It was a dear, dear memory, and he’d forgotten it.

Now she smiled at him, perhaps not radiantly, but genuinely.

“I have not forgotten those fine summer evenings, Papa. And when I take my granddaughter down to see my old friend, I will tell her he had to struggle very hard to come into the world and make his way here. I will tell her… he could have given up, but he didn’t—he fought and struggled and eventually prevailed, and I did not give up on him either. Not ever, not for a single moment.”

Good… God.

Mercifully for His Grace’s composure, the organist chose that moment to begin the fanfare, sparing the duke from any reply. As he led his dear daughter up the aisle, past all the curious smiles and doting acquaintances, all he could think was that on her wedding day, Eve had talked to him of never giving up on a loved one, and of horses.

It had been seven years since she’d spoken to anybody of horses, and she’d chosen to start with her papa—which only made it harder today, of all days, to give her away.

No thunderbolt had stopped the ceremony at the last minute; no messenger of God had spoken up to state a reason why the union should not go forward. Eve Windham had been pronounced a wife, though the bishop’s voice had sounded as distant to her as the hunting horn blowing “gone away” on a far, windy hill.

“Eat something, Evie.”

Deene bent close to her, his smile doting though concern lurked in his blue eyes.

“I couldn’t possibly.”

His smile slipped, and Eve wondered if they were to have another bad moment. They’d already avoided one when Deene had realized Mr. Dolan had been present at the wedding, little Georgina dutifully turned out in her finest, the governess looking a good deal more spruce at her side than when Eve had met them in the park.

“Perhaps you’d like to leave?” Deene made the offer quietly.

“May we?”

“At some point it’s obligatory, if these good people are to truly indulge in the excesses of a ducal wedding breakfast.”

“How do we do this?”

She did not want to leave with him, did not want to take any single step closer to the ordeal facing her at the end of the day, but neither could she abide the noise, the good wishes, the concerned looks from her family, and the increasing ribaldry from the guests.

And her wishes became moot, for Deene had apparently colluded with her brothers to choreograph the moment. At some subtle signal, Westhaven stood up and tapped his spoon against a delicate crystal glass.

“Friends, esteemed guests, beloved family—if I might have your attention?”

The long tables filled with guests grew silent as Westhaven went on speaking. “For reasons understandable to any who beholds my baby sister and her adoring groom, we must now bid Deene and his bride farewell. A round of applause to speed them on their way!” Westhaven lifted his glass, and Eve was scooped into her intend—her husband’s arms. Deene had her out the door and bundled into a waiting carriage before the last guest stumbled onto the terrace, and then she was on her way to Surrey… and God knew what kind of confrontation with her intend—her husband.

“You had the grays put to. Papa likes to save them for special occasions because they look so smart with the black coach and red trim.”

Deene gave her an odd smile, and it occurred to Eve that small talk wasn’t going to get them very far. Not at this moment, not in this marriage.

“Eve?” He turned on the seat beside her and undid the veil and headpiece she’d worn all day. “This is a very special occasion.”

“Oh. Of course.”

He withdrew pins from her hair, making Eve realize how uncomfortable that part of her wedding ensemble had been. He had kissed her once outside the church as the reception line was forming, just a little buss to the cheek she’d found both fortifying and alarming.

“Come here, Wife.”

Merciful heavens. To have a husband was one thing, to be a wife quite another. Deene’s deft hands had undone even her bun, so her hair hung down her back in a braid.

“Husband.”

“That would be me.” His arm settled around her shoulders.

“I’m practicing. I have neither had a husband before nor been a wife. This will take some adjustment.”

Now she was babbling. Deene shifted beside her, so his fingers closed on her nape and gently kneaded her neck. “We will adjust together. So far, I regard my station as an improvement over the unwed state.”

He wasn’t teasing. “In what regard?”

“It’s more peaceful, for one thing. I’m not prey to the matchmakers, the rumors have lost a great deal of their interest for everybody, and I can look forward to spending much of the Season in our honey month rather than being stalked like a sacrificial goat.”

Not very romantic of him, but honest. “Did those rumors trouble you?”

“A bit.”

Maybe a decade from now she’d be able to fathom exactly how much “a bit” was when uttered in just that tone while Deene glanced out the window with just that grim expression. Or maybe by then they’d be entirely estranged.

“You were troubled when you saw Mr. Dolan and Georgina at the wedding.”

He scowled at the lovely spring day, probably the first nasty expression Eve had seen on her… husband’s face.

“He had no business attending.”

Did she pry, or did she back away and start mentally listing the things they would tacitly agree not to discuss? “I don’t think Her Grace gave it a thought when she made up the guest list, Deene. He’s raising your niece and thus he’s a part of your family. I gather you and he are not cordial?”

Eve would not pry, but she would invite.

“He all but killed my sister after making her endlessly miserable and ashamed. If I hold my father accountable for one thing, it’s selling Marie into that grasping, ungrateful, ignorant vulgarian’s arms.”

The very lack of inflection in Deene’s tone was chilling, particularly when Eve herself might be the object of her husband’s ire before a few more hours had elapsed.

“He seems a devoted father for all that.”

Deene was silent, while the countryside rolled along outside their window for a good portion of a mile. “Anthony had been courting Marie, a match she apparently welcomed. It made sense, they were enamored, and between themselves, I believe they had an understanding.”

Eve took Deene’s hand in hers. “And then?”

“And then Dolan came strutting along, all trussed up in purchased finery, and offered for her on terms my father didn’t even attempt to refuse. Marie was wed to a stranger, one with no family to speak of, no gentility, nothing to recommend him except a growing fortune and a reputation for grasping at any opportunity for financial or social gain.”

Something wasn’t adding up, though Eve found it difficult to put her finger on the discrepancy. “If Marie was integral to Dolan’s plans for betterment, he’d hardly treat her ill.”

“She was seventeen years old, Eve. She’d been sheltered all of her life and fully expected to marry into the world she’d been raised in. She tried to talk me into getting her a horse so she could run off the day before the wedding, as if that option were any safer for her.”

“How old were you?”

“Nearly thirteen.”

What a burden to put on a boy, particularly a boy being raised to fill his papa’s titled shoes. “How did she die, Lucas?”

He was silent for so long this time Eve thought he might not answer, and part of her didn’t want him to. The tale had to be painful for him, and there would be enough to cope with on their wedding day without adding this recitation to it.

“She lost a child, and they could not stop the bleeding. She faded, and her last request to me was to make sure I took care of Georgie. Dolan will call the child only Georgina—he must ape his betters even in speech—but to Marie, she was Georgie.”

Eve let her head rest against her husband’s shoulder. “You fault him for getting her with child.”

“Georgie’s birth was not easy. I have no doubt the accoucheur had cautioned them against having more children, but to Dolan he’d bought and paid for a broodmare, and a broodmare he would make of her.”

Many men regarded their wives in this light—many titled men, who would set the broodmare aside if she failed to produce. They’d find a way to nullify the union, strip their wives of any social standing or decent company, and set about procreating merrily with the next candidate, all with the complicity of both church and courts.

“You should know the skeletons in the Deene family closet, Eve, though I’m sorry to bring this up today of all days.”

Were she any other bride, she’d like that he felt that way, like that he was confiding in her. “Windhams have their share of skeletons.”

This earned her another curious smile, but rather than permit Deene to interrogate her, Eve closed her eyes and leaned her head back. “Weddings are tiring, don’t you think?”

Her… husband did not reply.