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Sunlight sparkled in the puddles left by the early morning’s light rain. The day was momentous, the day of his wedding, and Marcus turned from the window to finish dressing. He had ordered the creation of a jacket and breeches in a pearl grey with a silver waistcoat heavily embroidered with silk thread. From the top of his wigged head down to his diamond-studded heels, his valet took great pains to make Marcus’s appearance perfect, and the act of dressing took well over an hour.
Once finished, he walked through the adjoining sitting room, then beyond into the lady’s chamber. Most of Elizabeth’s personal belongings had already arrived, and he’d scattered them about the room in an effort to make her feel welcome and less alienated. Touching her things had seemed so intimate, he hadn’t allowed the servants to do it. He would keep his emotional distance as he had the last fortnight, but he had rights now and after all he’d been through for her, he would damn well enjoy them.
Glancing around the room one last time, Marcus made certain everything was where it should be. His gaze came to rest on the escritoire, where a small likeness of Lord Hawthorne sat. Marcus picked it up, the image bothering him as it always did. Not because of jealousy or misplaced possessiveness: No, the image disturbed him because of the niggling sense that he should be seeing something he was missing.
As often happened in recent days, his mood turned pensive. How different his future would have been had the handsome viscount lived. When Elizabeth married, Marcus had thought she would be forever out of his reach. Seduction had crossed his mind. Despite the Hawthorne title, he’d always thought of her as his, but when he’d returned to England she was already widowed, negating that course of action.
He returned the image to the escritoire, where it joined likenesses of William, Margaret, and Randall Chesterfield. The past was gone and best forgotten. Today, a great injustice that had been done to him would be righted, and then his life would return to some semblance of the normalcy he’d known before Elizabeth.
Moving downstairs, Marcus collected his hat and gloves before vaulting into his coach. He was one of the first people to arrive at the church and he breathed a sigh of relief to learn Elizabeth was already in the bride’s ready room preparing for the ceremony. Truth was, he’d half feared she would fail to appear. Until she spoke her vows, he couldn’t quite allow himself the satisfaction he longed to revel in.
Smiling, he spoke with family, friends, and important members of society as they arrived. With safety paramount, agents were spread out liberally among the guests. Aside from Talbot and James, who sat together, he was unaware of who they were, he knew only that they were there.
A curious sort by nature, he couldn’t help cataloging the personages in the pews, wondering who amongst them lived an agent’s life like he did. He also noted the marked reticence between peers and their wives, and wished he also felt such detachment from Elizabeth.
Would they have lost their minds, as he nearly had, if their spouses had been threatened? Was their every breath contingent upon the safety of their wives? He doubted it. It was unnatural, this fascination. Without its curse, his failure to protect Elizabeth would never have occurred, and he would not feel as restless as a caged animal.
Oddly, the only way he could conceive of finding peace was to wed himself to his torment. For four years, the loss of Elizabeth had been the thorn in his side. Now, he could pull it free. Now, he would be rid of the ache that plagued him. From this moment on, his mission and his own sanity could take precedence. Elizabeth would be his, and the world would know it. Those who thought to harm her would know it. She would know it.
There would be no more running, no more chasing, no more frustration. He’d wanted closure.
Today he would have it.
Chapter 16
“You’re trembling,” Margaret murmured.
“It’s cold.”
“Then why are you perspiring?”
Glaring, Elizabeth met her sister-in-law’s sympathetic gaze in the mirror.
Unperturbed, Margaret smiled. “You look beautiful.”
Lowering her eyes, Elizabeth examined her appearance in the mirror. She’d chosen pale blue silk taffeta with elbow-length sleeves, matching skirt and open overskirt. The result was serene, an emotion she wished she felt at the moment.
She sucked in a shuddering breath and grimaced. Having sworn this day would never come, she was completely unprepared for the reality of it.
“Your spirits will improve once you stand with him,” Margaret promised.
“Perhaps I’ll feel worse,” she muttered.
But a quarter hour later, as Elizabeth walked down the aisle on her father’s arm, the sight of Marcus arrested her, lifted her, just as Margaret had predicted. He was resplendent in his finery and gazed at her so intensely she could see the emerald color of his irises even from a substantial distance.
There was more between them than just this physical space. Marcus’s reputation and his work with Eldridge were great obstacles she wondered if they could surmount. He’d hinted at fidelity and agreed to consider leaving the agency, but he’d made no promises. If he failed to change his course on either account, she could grow to detest him. And if he married her for revenge, their arrangement was doomed before starting. She couldn’t help but worry, couldn’t help but be very afraid of the future.
“Are you certain this is the path you choose to take?” her father asked in a low tone.
Startled, Elizabeth glanced at him with wide eyes. He stared straight ahead, as aloof as ever, in much the same way Marcus had adopted in the last few weeks. “Why?” was all she could manage to say.
His lips pursed as he stared at the altar and the man who waited there. “I had hoped you would consider marrying for happiness.”
If not for the multitude of observers she might have gaped. “I would not have expected such a statement from you.”
He sighed and shot her a sidelong glance. “I would gladly suffer a thousand torments for the privilege of having your mother as long as I did.”
Her heart ached for him and the emptiness she glimpsed in his eyes. “Father—”
“We can turn about, Elizabeth,” he said gruffly. “Westfield’s motives concern me.”
As the doubts began to churn her stomach, she turned her head to study her groom. Marcus’s mouth curved with blatant charm, a silent encouragement, and her heart stopped.
“Think of the scandal,” she whispered.
He slowed his steps. “I care for nothing other than your well-being.”
Her breath caught for a moment and her steps faltered. How long had she waited for some sign that she mattered at all to her pater? Long enough that she’d thought it an impossible dream. The unexpected support for a hasty retreat was not only astonishing, but very tempting. She studied him and the occupants of the church, then she looked at Marcus again. She saw the tiny step forward he took and the clenching of his fists, barely noticeable warnings that he would give chase should she flee.
It should have frightened her further, that almost imperceptible threat. Instead, she remembered how the sound of his voice in the garden had filled her with relief. She remembered the way he’d held her after the stabbing, and how the trembling of his arms and voice had betrayed the depths of his concern. And the nights in his arms, how she craved them. Her heart started to race, but it was not the urge to run that moved her.
She lifted her chin. “Thank you, Father. But I’m certain of my course.”
Marcus glanced at his younger brother, who stood with him at the altar. Paul grinned, his brow arching in silent query. Any doubts? his look seemed to ask.
Marcus opened his mouth to whisper back when the sudden hush in the church drew his attention. Elizabeth entered beside her father and the sight of her took his breath away. Paul’s low whistle just before the music swelled said his unspoken question had been answered.
Marcus had never seen a more beautiful bride.
His bride.
Muffl
ed weeping moved his attention to his mother who sat tearfully in the front row. His youngest brother, Robert, held her fragile hand carefully in his and gazed at Marcus through gold-rimmed spectacles with a reassuring smile.
The soon-to-be Dowager Countess of Westfield was beside herself with joy. She’d adored Elizabeth upon their first meeting so many years ago, and now said that any woman who could move her eldest son to matrimony must be extraordinary indeed. Marcus had never quite managed to explain that he was dragging his fiancée to the altar, and not the reverse.
