“I do not think I am very capable in matters of sentiment,” he said.
Alexander laughed with a bit more amusement,
“Good thing she is not marrying you for sentiment,” he said.
Marcus raised an eyebrow. But before he could reply, a knock sounded at the door. Garrett entered with a low bow.
“The wedding party has begun to assemble, my lord,” he said.
Marcus nodded. His hands felt curiously detached from the rest of him as he pulled on his gloves. Garrett stepped back to allow them passage. Marcus looked at Alexander, who gave no speech or jest. There was only a slight dip of his head before he turned toward the door. Marcus followed.
They descended the staircase in silence; the air filled with the subdued sounds of preparation. Marcus’s thoughts turned inward as they crossed the marble foyer and approached the chapel. What had begun as a necessity had become something else. Not quite hope. But a stirring of something unfamiliar. Something that bore no resemblance to the careful logic that had guided his life thus far.
Whatever brought them to this moment, he must now make it more than convenience. He must make it a life.
Chapter Two
“Really, Catherine, how can you sit so composed, when in but two hours’ time you are to be made a countess?”
Rosalind Hartwell’s voice was bright with affectionate incredulity as she guided a curl into place above her cousin’s temple. Her hands moved with quiet efficiency, the brush gliding steadily through dark strands before pausing to twist and pin.
Catherine sat at the dressing table in the chamber she had occupied since girlhood, her gaze drifting to the pale blue silk gown suspended from the wardrobe door. Morning light traced its altered neckline and sleeves, the seamstress’s artful adjustments having transformed it from an afternoon visiting dress into something suitable for a wedding.
She tapped her fingers lightly in her lap, out of Rosalind’s sight.In two hours, I will become the Countess of Penwood.The title felt as though it belonged to someone else, like a garment borrowed but not yet worn in. It promised a husband, a home of her own, and a place in society no longer tethered to her brother’s household—yet convenience, not affection, had brought her to this moment.
Rosalind spoke in a cheerful tone, her voice light and bright as she described the chapel’s floral arrangements and the mildness of the weather.
“You must have brought the sunshine with you,” Rosalind went on, her voice bright again as she adjusted a pearl comb above Catherine’s temple. “It has not been so fine all week. Mrs Ashcombe was in raptures over the roses. She says the white ones near the chapel door have never bloomed so early.”
Catherine nodded, smiling idly. “They did look lovely when we walked yesterday.”
Rosalind met her eyes in the mirror. “You remember that?”
Catherine laughed. “Of course. I remarked on the scent, and you said it reminded you of Grandmother’s walled garden.”
Rosalind’s expression softened.
“So, I did,” she said. “I thought you seemed too distracted to commit such a thing to memory, is all.”
Catherine shrugged, surprised at her nonchalance.
“I was thinking,” she said calmly.
Rosalind resumed brushing.
“You have seemed calm all morning,” she said quietly.
Catherine shrugged again.
“Should I not be?”
“I do not know,” Rosalind admitted slowly. “You are about to marry a man you have known less than a fortnight.”
Catherine nodded.
“Yes,” she said.
Rosalind looked at her as though she were mad.
