Page 27 of The Matrimonial Advertisement

He still wondered.

He’d thought he would feel easier after seeing her today, but since their encounter at the inn, a whole new set of doubts had begun to prey upon his mind.

She was hiding something. That much had been plain from the moment of their first meeting. What it was, he couldn’t tell. But something had compelled her to answer that blasted advertisement. Something—or someone—had frightened her. Had made her desperate enough to marry a stranger. And not just a stranger. A bastard ex-soldier of no birth and moderate fortune. A man with burn scars and a reputation marred by scandal and vicious innuendo.

He wanted to demand she tell him, but who was he to expect Helena to confess all of her dark secrets when he had so many of his own? To do so would be unfair. Hypocritical.

And what did it matter anyway? Theirs was not a love match. And it certainly wasn’t a mingling of the souls or any other such drivel. It was a business arrangement. A marriage of convenience. He needed a wife and she needed someone to keep her safe.

But safe from what?

Or from whom?

It had occurred to him as she spouted that nonsense about being clumsy and accident prone that she might already be married. It would certainly explain a great deal. Indeed, the possibility seemed so likely that, for one fleeting moment, the reality of it had squeezed at his heart and his lungs, making it rather difficult to breathe.

And then he’d reminded himself that he trusted Finchley’s judgment implicitly. And that Finchley, for all his meddling, would never have sent him a woman who was still bound to her husband—no matter how brutish that husband may be.

No. Helena Reynolds wasn’t married. Nor had she ever been. He could tell that much from her kiss. He’d wager his last penny that it had been her first. Her lips had trembled and softened beneath his, her breath uneven and her eyes squeezed shut. She was that inexperienced.

She was also lush and sweet and fairly brimming with untapped passion. He could easily have kept kissing her. And he would have done, too, had he not been recalled to his senses by the activity in the yard. Good God. If they’d been seen…

Well. It was less than ideal, certainly. He had no desire to cause her embarrassment. And he certainly didn’t relish the villagers spreading more tales about his being a conscienceless monster. But he couldn’t regret kissing her. It was the finest thing he’d experienced in a very long while. Finer still because there was the promise of more to come.

Tomorrow, Helena would be his wife. And no matter her secrets, he wouldn’t be sorry she was the one who’d answered his advertisement.

Neville returned a moment later with a bucket of warm bran mash. The water sloshed over the rim as he placed it in Hiran’s loose box. “Justin?”

“Yes?”

“Are you going to marry that lady?”

Justin shot his old friend a distracted glance. He’d long since ceased to be surprised at Neville’s ability to discern the substance of his thoughts. “I am. Tomorrow morning.”

“At the church?”

“At the registrar’s office in Abbot’s Holcombe. You’re welcome to come if you like.”

Neville vehemently shook his head.

His refusal wasn’t a surprise. He hated coach journeys. And he hadn’t set foot in Abbot’s Holcombe in years. “Suit yourself,” Justin said.

Neville retrieved his pitchfork and resumed turning over the straw. “Where will she live?”

“Here at the Abbey.” Justin ran a brush over Hiran’s flank.

The sound of the rain, falling hard and fast on the roof tiles, nearly drowned out Neville’s quiet reply. “Where will I live?”

A needle of guilt pricked at Justin’s conscience. When it came to Neville, it was a feeling that was as familiar as breathing. “Here at the Abbey,” he repeated. “Nothing’s going to change.”

“But Miss Reynolds—”

“You have a home with me for as long as you want one. It makes no difference if I marry.” He paused, adding, “Or who I marry.”

Neville leaned his pitchfork against the side of the loose box and let himself out into the aisle. “Do you like her?”

Justin was taken off guard by the question.

Like her? He was attracted to her, certainly. He felt protective of her as well. Any halfway decent gentleman would. But like her?