Chapter One
“Three hours until I wed a woman I have known for ten days. Tell me, Garrett, is that madness or merely poor planning?”
His valet of seven years gave no answer, only attacked the cravat with the grim resolve of a man confronting a battlefield. Marcus Pemberton stood before the looking glass, shoulders taut as over-wound clockwork. This was the third attempt, and still the folds refused to lie as they ought. Garrett’s fingers moved with practised precision, but Marcus knew the fault was not his valet’s. It was his own blasted collarbones—or rather, the nerves that made every movement stiff and uncooperative.
He reached for his pocket watch with fingers that betrayed his struggle for composure. The dial blurred before his eyes, each minute dragging him nearer to Miss Catherine Beaumont, a woman he had known for exactly ten days.
He exhaled through his nose, lowering the watch with the air of a man uncertain whether time was friend or foe. Garrett gave a discreet cough.
“Waistcoat, my lord.”
Marcus blinked. He had been standing there like a stone carving, offering neither arm nor cooperation. He lifted his arms and murmured an apology. Garrett, unflappable as ever, assisted him into the waistcoat and began fastening the buttons with care.
The fine mirror before him reflected a figure that looked marginally respectable. The dark coat suited him well enough. His collar was crisp. The cravat bore no resemblance to the careless knots he usually tied himself. His hair, though resistant to combs, had been subdued. But the man staring back at him looked more like a nervous clerk than an earl.
Two weeks ago, he had stood in this very room, oblivious to the gathering storm. The library had been in a state of elegant chaos. Ancient coins jostled for space beside half-translated Latin inscriptions, and parchment scraps sat curled beside chipped fragments of Roman pottery. His desk had disappeared beneath correspondence, excavation reports, and five separate copies ofTacitus. And Mrs Thornberry, his loyal housekeeper, had stood in the centre of it all, her expression somewhere between horror and vindication.
That morning’s post had delivered the Society of Antiquaries’ reply to his own letter. He had written several weeks before, proposing that Penwood host their annual gathering, describing hisrecently elevated statuswithin the field. By this, he had meant only the progress of his scholarship—his growing catalogue, his recognised translations.
But the Society had understood otherwise. Their letter confirmed, in florid terms, that not only would the gathering be held at Penwood Manor, but that they looked forward‘with particular anticipation to making the acquaintance of the Countess of Penwood, whose hospitality, refinement, and management would doubtless do justice to the occasion’.
Marcus had stared at that passage for a full minute before the implication took root. They believed him not merely elevatedin scholarship, but soon to be elevated in domestic state as well. Worse still, they implied that such a change had been decisive in selecting Penwood as their host. A bachelor’s household might be tolerated for casual visits, but never for so elaborate an occasion.
He remembered the cold, overwhelming sensation in his chest as he realised years of labour and reputation, built in study halls and dig sites, could unravel before a single evening of scholars whispering about his “misrepresentation.” To correct them would be to confess that his elevation was only academic, not domestic—and what then? Rivalry was merciless in such circles. A scholar who could not govern his own household might be dismissed as unfit to order his evidence.
And so, with the peculiar clarity of one facing professional ruin, he considered his options. Mrs Thornberry had suggested engaging a temporary housekeeper of refinement. Marcus had shaken his head. No housekeeper, however competent, could be presented as a countess. If the Society expected a Lady Penwood, then a Lady Penwood there must be.
Marriage, after all, was a matter he would have to address sooner or later. Better to settle it now, in service of both his domestic order and his scholarly standing. A practical arrangement, nothing more. With the same logic by which he might acquire a rare manuscript, he had resolved upon it. That very afternoon, he penned a letter to Thomas Beaumont, the barrister whose sister he recalled with unusual clarity: Catherine Beaumont, whose written advice on a misfiled deed had lingered in his memory for its precision—and for the way she had cited the Roman legal code.
Now, ten days later, he was to marry her.
Garrett stepped back, inspecting his handiwork with the same gravity he might apply to polishing boots or decoding an obscure cravat configuration fromThe Art of Dressing with Taste. Marcus ran a hand through his hair, immediately regretted it, and attempted to smooth the result.
“Would you care for a glass of sherry, my lord?” he asked.
Marcus looked at the decanter on the sideboard. He considered it for a moment, then shook his head.
“No, thank you,” he said.
Garrett inclined his head respectfully and moved to adjust the cuffs of the second coat, neatly laid upon the chair. Marcus returned to the mirror. He ought to appear calm, composed—stoic, even—as befitted an earl undertaking a necessary duty. Yet his stomach churned with a leaden dread, tempered by something far less definable. He did not fear Miss Beaumont. On the contrary, he had admired her composure, her brisk clarity of thought. She had visited Penwood twice since their agreement, and on both occasions had displayed a quiet efficiency that left him vaguely awed.
She had observed the state of the library without flinching. She had inquired into the guest list, the dining arrangements, even the plumbing, with such assured practicality that he had found himself content to follow her lead. The experience had been, most curiously, restful.
And yet, this was marriage. It was no mere contract for land, nor the procurement of a new cabinet for antiquities. He would share his household with her. She would occupy the same halls, sit at the same table, and reside within the same estate. The presence of another person—one who might discern his flaws, his distractions, his midnight returns to the study—was a different beast, and he did not know how to brace himself for such scrutiny.
A soft knock interrupted his thoughts. Garrett moved to the door and exchanged hushed words with the footman before turning back.
“The carriages have arrived, my lord,” he said.
Marcus nodded, his hands automatically reaching for his gloves. The leather resisted, or perhaps his fingers had forgotten how to move properly. He forced a breath, willing stillness into limbs that did not cooperate. He adjusted his spectacles, squared his shoulders, and stepped toward the door.
“Let us be done with it, then,” he said solemnly.
The door to the garden opened with a thud, admitting a gust of morning air. Marcus looked up to see Alexander Sinclair, Baron of Elmsworth—and his closest friend—windswept and ruddy-cheeked from his ride across the lower pasture. His greatcoat hung loose about him, the breeze having ruffled his dark hair into disarray. He paused just inside the threshold, boots damp with dew and surveyed the room with an expression that blended amusement and familiarity.
“You look like a man preparing for execution,” he said as he crossed the study.
Garrett, with the discretion of long service, excused himself quietly, leaving the two friends alone.
