Page 17 of The Highlander’s Improper Wife

The earl looked up. “Last night? Taran, if you—”

“If I what, Father? I am here, alive and well, the Viscount you need to acquire a fortune.” He forked eggs into his mouth.

“I want a grandson by August.”

Taran raised a brow. “At your service, my lord.”

The earl buttered a piece of toast. “Once you have fulfilled your obligation, you may do as you choose. With the money your marriage brings into the family, I can see your sisters well married, as well as run Strathmore and all our other affairs.”

“All? I am sure my wife will be pleased to learn you will see to her needs while I am doing as I choose.”

His father gave a mirthless laugh and Taran realized the earl had no compunctions about stepping in should a grandson not be forthcoming. For the thousandth time since learning the title had fallen to him, Taran considered defying his father and not marrying Caroline. The tactic had worked when Taran had insisted the earl close the illegal gaming hall he owned. The earl had refused until Taran had announced he would not wed the needed heiress while the threat of scandal hung over his head. The gaming hall had kept the estate out of the tax collector’s hand, but couldn’t compare to the twenty thousand pounds a year Caroline Wilmont brought to the marriage.

Sadly, his father’s entrepreneurial enterprise drove the final nail into Taran’s coffin. If he didn’t marry Caroline, his father would reopen the gaming hall. Once the Crown got wind of the illegal operation, it wouldn’t matter that Taran had no part in the business, he would end up in Newgate. His two sisters would be destitute, doomed to spinsterhood, or worse, marriage to squires and living in some Godforsaken part of the country where they would breed children who then grew up to become squires themselves.

Caroline Wilmont was destined for a life with him and his father—for this she may not forgive him—but the girl was doomed in any case. Wealthy heiresses were to be bought and sold, and if he didn’t marry her, another would. Perhaps another man would be a better man than Taran.

* * * *

The rolls Caroline had stuffed into her mouth that morning twisted in her belly with a vengeance, but she surprised herself by giving a calm nod to her uncle as he released her elbow and took his place to her left at the altar. The low hum of chatter in the chapel rose to a slight pitch and she knew the guests were in awe of the corseted bridal gown she wore. Like the Aphrodite costume, the bodice dipped nearly to her nipples. A small tremor radiated through her. Would sight of her breasts remind Taran of last night?

She inhaled a deep breath—as deep as her dress allowed. Despite the low bodice, the muted red of the corseted top and the pale gold skirt said nothing of passion. Lady Caroline Wilmont was a woman who demanded she be in the first order of fashion. A gown like this was not to be abused as the Aphrodite costume had been.

But what if he did recognize her? She gave herself a mental shake. Foolish. His encounter with Aphrodite had been in thin moonlight, then a dark carriage. Gone was the blonde wig. Her raven hair lay atop her head in a fashionable bun, accented by ringlets framing face and neck.

The minister emerged from a door behind the pulpit and strode towards her. At the pulpit, he set a small hymnal on the stand, then smiled with the benevolence only the clergy owned. Caroline gave him a nod in return. To her relief, her nerves remained steady. The goddess of fortune hadn’t favored her this last day, but that good lady held no more sway over Caroline Wilmont. Today would end as best it could, but in disaster. But Taran would be free of her.

The low hum of chatter abruptly ceased. Lord Taran Blackhall had arrived. Caroline kept her gaze straight ahead. She had remained calm, but wouldn’t risk losing her nerve in this last hour. Despite her efforts, her heart beat like a drum. If he recognized her immediately, he would refuse to marry her on the spot. At least that would end this farce.

He had no proof she was Aphrodite. Would he openly accuse her? No, not Taran. John would have publicly humiliated her. Whatever Taran Blackhall was, he was not his brother. He appeared beside her. She felt his gaze on her, but kept her attention forward. He couldn’t see her eyes. Not yet.

The reverend cleared his throat. “All rise.”

A unified shuffle sounded, then silence reigned.

“Dearly beloved,” the minister began, “we are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of this congregation, to join together this man and this woman in holy matrimony.” He glanced down at his book and Caroline reached inside her bodice and pulled free the black, lace handkerchief she’d stuffed there earlier. Her heart pounded in anticipation of the moment the minister caught sight of the black handkerchief that openly stated the bride still mourned the groom’s brother.

His head lifted as he continued, “which is an honorable estate, instituted of God in the time of man’s innocency, signifying unto us the mystical union”—his gaze fastened onto the cloth—“that is betwixt Christ and”—he swallowed hard—“his Church.” The last word died on his lips and Caroline felt all three men staring at her.

With a steady hand, she dabbed at her eyes with the handkerchief.

“Er.” The minister dropped his attention back to the book. “His—His Church, which holy estate Christ adorned and beautified with his presence, and—” He flicked a glance at Caroline. She clasped the handkerchief to her breast and released a melodramatic sigh. The reverend’s eyes widened.

A murmur rose in the chapel behind her. Strong fingers seized her hand and forced her palm face upwards. She snapped her head up. Taran stared at the black cloth, his furrowed brow and dark eyes betraying…amusement? He released her and looked at the reverend who stared open-mouthed at them.

“Please continue, Minister,” he instructed.

The man remained motionless.

“Have you not seen a woman in mourning before?” he asked.

The minister looked at him. “I-well, I, of course, but—”

“But what?” Taran demanded.

The minister glanced helplessly about, then his gaze shifted to the hymnal, searching briefly for the words before he continued, “Which holy estate Christ adorned and beautified with his presence, and first miracle that he wrought, in Cana of Galilee—”

Caroline tore her gaze from the reverend who was droning on with the vows, and stared at Taran. He turned his head to reveal a slightly arched brow. The scoundrel was challenging her.