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But the floor never touched her.

The sensation of falling stopped, and she was simply suspended in the air as two strong hands grasped her by her shoulders. It was like a guardian angel had come to save her, the force so much stronger than anything she was capable of.

She felt warm, safe, and protected. A little out of breath, too. His touch sent wonderfully prickly sensations, like tiny bubbles, rushing through her.

The next moment, she was yanked upright. He let go of her, and once again she stood empty and alone, with her heart slamming her ribs, staring into the icy eyes of the duke.

The vicar cleared his throat, and the rush of voices around the church silenced, as well as the organ.

“May I begin, Your Grace?” asked the vicar.

“You may,” said the Duke of Rath.

Oh, that voice… Deep and velvety, buttery and smooth.

The rest of the ceremony passed quickly, as if in a haze. The vicar droned blessings and prayers, and then the duke said I do, and so, blasted, did she.

When it was time for him to put the ring on her finger, her cold, clammy hand shook as she stretched it out for him. When he took it in his hand, she realized something odd…his right hand was encased in a glove. A thick leather glove, black like the rest of his clothes, and his hair. The leather was smooth, except for a few patches where it was rubbed raw from use.

Why was he wearing a glove? Was his hand injured? That must be it, perhaps a cut or a riding accident; it must be healing.

With his ungloved left hand, he placed the golden band on her fourth finger, the one that connected to the heart, they said. The touch of his warm, dry fingers sent a shudder through her body. His fingers were long, his hand large and utterly masculine, slightly bronzed by the sun, with scabs on his knuckles… Had he hit something recently? What must the other hand look like if this one was ungloved?

Then they signed the parish marriage register, and it was done.

Under cheers and murmurs, they walked back down the aisle without touching each other and climbed into the carriage waiting outside. Someone showered them with petals.

But there was no joy in her heart at all. It was the hardest day of her life to keep her positive thoughts afloat. Her papa would be safe. Her sisters and her mama would be safe.

But would she?

5

The carriage was rocking under her, and stunning countryside passed by the window, with its rolling hills and hedgerows under a sky the color of her husband’s eyes…

The air was fresh, but Patience was breathless.

The duke and she were alone.

It must have been the first time in her life she was alone with a grown man who wasn’t her papa or brother. It was most definitely the first time she had sat in a carriage drawn by four horses, with a driver and two footmen standing at the back. The first time she was in a vehicle draped in black and red silks embroidered with golden lions in flames.

The cost of the curtains and the silky material covering the walls must have been more than all of her sisters’ gowns combined. Goodness, she could have asked Anne to make a ball gown out of this fabric.

Out of the window, she could now see fluffy white clouds passing overhead, tenants working the fields, clusters of trees dotting the landscape interspersed with bushes and undergrowth.

All this belonged to him. As did she.

She fingered the crease of her gown in her old lace gloves, her whole body clammy, the straps of her bonnet digging in too tight under her chin. He sat, handsome and intimidating, with eyes that were dark blue now, the color of the endless ocean, under long, thick, elegantly arched eyebrows. She could smell him over the rich scents of leather, wood, and clean fabric—musk, bergamot, and pepper. Good Lord, he even looked a little like a lion. With close-set eyes, high cheekbones, and a nose that looked broad and long while still being regal and attractive. His sharp, angular jaw worked under his perfectly smooth skin, the full lips of his broad mouth stretched into a flat line. His shoulders under the exquisite coat were tense, his large hands fisting the edges of the bench so tight, the leather glove on his right hand was stretched to the limit. His dilated pupils flickered left and right as he tracked the passing trees, bushes, and fields. He was breathing hard, the edges of his crimson waistcoat rising and falling quickly.

Definitely displeased. Or was he simply as uncomfortable as she was, having just married a stranger?

The need to smooth the situation, to lighten the mood, to make him feel at ease scratched at her stomach. That was what she did best.

But what did one ask their own husband when one knew nothing about him?

Could she ask why he was so vexed?

What did he have for breakfast today?