Matt had salvaged the marriage. Miss Reverly’s much needed dowry would be his, and his grandmother could rest easy. He’d not be jilted on the morrow.

Then again, he’d not had a fear of that. Matt had known he could work his way around Willa. She’d had more to lose than he had. He could have found another heiress . . . but what sort of life would she have had if she had succeeded in rejecting him? He’d saved her from being branded an eccentric and toddled off to some nether place reserved for headstrong and foolish women.

Although his sisters would have applauded her on. There wasn’t a one of them who would have approved of how Matt had treated Willa. And he did feel a bit ashamed.

As he rode through London’s busy streets, Matt had to admit that Willa Reverly had caught him off guard.

In the past, when he’d called upon her, they’d not spoken on any topic with depth. It had not been necessary. She was a means to an end, a way to fill his empty coffers. She’d seemed poised enough to be a duchess, and that was all that one expected.

Besides, when compared to Letty, Willa had lacked fire. He’d convinced himself that would be fine. Preferable, even. Except he hadn’t been excited or even truly interested in marrying her—until she’d threatened to jilt him that morning.

Now, it was as if he was noticing Willa for the first time. She was an attractive bit, and there obviously was a brain under all her hair. She had proven she had some spirit to her as well.

His mare kicked out as she passed an ostler leading two horses through the busy streets. “Sorry,” Matt muttered in answer to the man’s curses, and pushed the mare forward as his thoughts returned to his bride, and a decision.

Over his months at Mayfield, he’d vowed that he would never again let a woman make a fool of him the way Letty had. He would ever again trust anyone so freely. He’d been too open with his heart, too caring, too bloody naïve.

No wonder he’d been such a terrible poet. And a foolish duke.

On the rare occasions when Matt had been with his grandfather, Henry had admonished him to not be “soft” like his father, Stephen. Both of his grandparents had believed that the actress Rose Billroy had bewitched Stephen into disappointing his family. Over the years, Matt had learned that they did not believe in the concept of “love.”

“Hogwash and nonsense,” Henry had declared when Matt had tried to defend his parents. “Love is lust in disguise. A forward-thinking man doesn’t let himself be led around by his short staff.”

Henry must have turned in his grave over the way Matt had tossed his heart at Letty.

However, Matt’s marriage to Willa was one of convenience. For both of them. A simple business transaction that would have met with Henry’s approval. Certainly, Minerva was pleased.

Matt would be a good husband to Willa. He would treat her fairly and with respect. In turn, she would have a position of authority in Society.

Nor was he going to mind bedding her. She was a tempting piece. Of the three Spinster Heiresses, Willa had been the one to catch his eye.

However, Matt was starting to think that, perhaps, his feelings for Letty had been nothing more than lust? Henry had once opined that if Stephen and Rose had lived longer, “They might have been as miserable as the rest of us. One can’t sustain passion.”

Certainly, Letty hadn’t been able to sustain her feelings for Matt for more than sixty days.

And the truth was, Letty had broken him. Matt would never allow himself to feel for any woman what he had for Letty. He’d never give his heart again. Or his trust. That was where he’d gone wrong. He’d given too much.

He turned the mare onto High Holborn Street. The hour was half past four. Matt caught up with his cousin George just as he was just leaving his chambers.

George Addison was at least twenty-five years older than Matt. They shared the Addison height, although Matt was inches taller. George’s dark hair was now streaked with gray and his eyes were a trustworthy brown. In looks and manner, he reminded Matt of his own father, Stephen.

George’s sire had been Matt’s grandfather’s twin, and the younger by a mere two minutes. Henry’s favorite jest was that if George’s father had been quicker, he’d have been the duke.

It was a poor joke. Then again, if George had any resentment, he never showed it. In fact, he’d always been kind to Matt. When Matt’s father had died, George had been the only member of the Addison side to attend the small service. It was at the funeral that Alice had approached George about setting up a meeting between her and their grandparents. George could have refused, and then Alice, who had been newly married and starting a family of her own, would have found it difficult to gain an audience with Henry and Minerva.

Instead, according to Alice, George had championed her desire to see Matt properly educated. He’d help swayed Minerva and Henry’s opinions. If his uncle William had a voice in the matter, Matt had never heard.

George had also taken Matt aside and urged him to study hard. “You never know which way life will go. Study a profession. Make yourself useful.”

So Matt felt close to George. He valued his opinion. When Matt had inherited the title, George had supposedly shared everything he knew about the estate’s affairs . . . everything except the blackmail. Matt was anxious to hear what he had to say.

George was surprised by Matt’s appearance at his door but greeted him warmly. “Ah, so the prodigal duke has returned from the country. There will be a wedding.”

“ ‘Prodigal’ duke?” Matt winced. “Is that what they are saying?”

“What? Do you believe I’d coin such a phrase? But yes, it is whispered that you are licking lovesick wounds. There isn’t a betting book in town that doesn’t have a wager over whether you would show to wed the Reverly Heiress or not.”

“Did you write down a wager?”

“A yellow George either way.”

“Hedged your bet, eh?”

“Always. I’m a lawyer, Your Grace. It is how I make money.” He then added slyly, “Have you heard the rumor that Letty Bainhurst asked one of her many male friends to place a wager on the matter?”

Matt grimaced. If he needed proof of what Letty truly thought of him, well, there was an answer. Doggedly, he focused his mind elsewhere. “How is Venetia?”

George was married to a woman who had been a renowned beauty in her time. However, Venetia had taken to her bed several years ago and rarely went out. George had once told him it was because of her melancholy nature. He and his children appeared devoted to her.

“Much the same,” he answered. “I wanted her to attend Evanston’s rout this Saturday with me. She might.”

“You have always been good to her,” Matt observed.

“That is marriage. You stand by your wife, your children, your family,” he added with a nod to Matt. “You do what is right.”

“Including paying off a blackmailer?” Matt asked.

George had been locking the door, but he now went rigid. His head turned to meet Matt’s eye. “How did you learn of this?”

“I confronted Minerva.”

“She wouldn’t have told you on her own. She didn’t want you to know.”

“I found the money missing in the ledgers. It was actually quite obvious. Shall we discuss?”

George pulled the key from the door and pushed it open. “Come in.” He followed Matt into the anteroom. It was filled with empty desks.

“Everyone has gone home early?” Matt observed. Usually the office was a hive of activity.

“My clerks? A few are on errands. Another I sent home. The lad appeared peaked and I don’t want his sniffles around me.”

George indicated that Matt should continue to his private chambers. Inside was a large desk covered with neat stacks of ledgers, much like the ones Matt had spent his time studying at Mayfield.

On the corner of the desk was George’s wig and stand, a symbol of his profession. A large bookcase took up one wall, and the room smelled of paper, bindings, and ink. George waved Matt to a chair in front of his desk.

Matt took a seat and placed his hat on the desk next to the wig stand.

George removed his own hat and set it on the wig. He took his chair behind the desk. “Would you like a drink, Your Grace?”

Matt shook his head. “No, thank you.” He needed his wits about him.

“You do not mind if I do?”

“Please, go ahead.”

George took a glass out of his desk drawer. The building was quiet at this hour, just the way Matt would wish it. No prying eyes or unwanted ears. The day was ending. The street traffic outside spoke of people hurrying to their homes or rushing to other activities. The overcast skies had been clearing and a faded autumn light came in the window and highlighted George as he poured his drink. He placed the decanter to the side before saying, “What do you wish to know?”

Matt leaned forward in his chair. “Tell me what you know of Hardesty.”

George looked away as if he would rather avoid the conversation, but then he said, “Hardesty is a criminal. My advice is that you steer clear of him. Or has he been in contact with you or the dowager?”

“No, we have not heard from him. Grandmother said that after William’s death, they have had no further contact. Why did you not tell me about the blackmail?”

“Because it was the past. It was done.”

“Except the man’s demands bankrupted the estate.”

“I told Henry to report Hardesty to the authorities when he first received the letters years ago. He wouldn’t. Instead, he asked me to hire some men to hunt the bastard down and beat him senseless. Of course, no one could find him. The man is like a shadow. We found signs of him and heard whispers but could never catch him. Worse, anything we tried only made Hardesty demand more. Henry was afraid . . .” He paused and then carefully said, “You know about William?”

“I do. Did you know about Uncle William?”

George drained his glass and set it aside before admitting, “I had heard rumors, although most people didn’t know, or so I believe. William was discreet. I will also say, he was a good, stalwart man. Ambitious, but honest. The last man one would believe of being—” His voice broke off. He looked to Matt. “I counted him a friend. He would have been a brilliant duke.”

Much better than myself , Matt could have answered. After all, William had trained all his life for the role. He’d been the Marquis of Tilbury. He understood the expectations. He’d been discreet in his amorous pursuits.

Instead, Matt sat quiet.

Leaning his arms on his desk, George said, “I suggested, especially when I saw how determined this blackmailer was of draining the estate dry, that Henry tell Hardesty to have at it, let William’s name be dragged through the muck. Your grandfather refused.”

“He loved his son,” Matt said. “Both of my grandparents did.”

“More like he didn’t want any scandal to taint the title and consequently himself. Henry was proud and vain. A stickler through and through. Look at what your grandparents did to your father. And to you before your sisters pushed you forward.”

“Grandmother will still not recognize them.”

“The duke and his duchess barely recognized you until William died.”

That had been true. “They made me angry,” Matt confessed. “They paid for my education but little else until I became the heir. I wasn’t going to accept the title. I could have lived my life without it or them.”

“What changed your mind?”

“My sister Alice. She’s always the peacemaker. Of course, I thought once I became Camberly, then I could use the title’s income to help their lives, educate their children. Thanks to Hardesty, there is nothing to share.”

George poured another drink. “I didn’t understand how Henry could be so cold, especially when your father died. He’d lost a son but he never spoke of it.”

“Or attend the funeral.”

George nodded. There was a beat of silence and then he said, “Venetia and I lost a baby. A girl. She was only five weeks old. I don’t believe Venetia has ever recovered.”

“I didn’t know,” Matt said. “I’m sorry to hear of the child’s death.”

“It was about the same time your father died. Hard for both of us,” George answered, and took a healthy sip from his glass. He set it down, forced a smile. “But now things are better for you, no? You will marry the Reverly Heiress and set the estate to rights.”

“That is my intention.”

“Her dowry is so vast, you can even educate those nieces and nephews. Of course, be ready, Minerva will not approve.”

“My grandmother does not have a voice in the matter.”

“And that is good. There is a fresh wind coming into the title. One that has a good head in these modern times.”

Matt acknowledged the compliment but then said, “Grandmother believes this Hardesty was behind William’s death.”

George sat up in his chair with a start. “No . . . she’s never said such to me.”

“Was there anything suspicious about William’s death that you knew?”

“Or that the magistrate noticed? I read the report, as did your grandparents. He broke his neck on one of his fool nags. He liked them spirited and silly.”

“He was a known rider.”

“Aye, he was a bruising one. I couldn’t hunt with him. He’d jump anything when it would have been twice as easy to go around. He loved a risk, especially on a horse. But the fact is, sooner or later, you come up against something that has the better of you.”

“So you don’t believe he was murdered?”

“I believe that is the wish of a grieving mother. But it doesn’t hold up. Why would Hardesty want to kill his pot of gold? Once William died, there were no blackmail demands.”

“Which is a bit surprising.”

“What do you mean?”

“My grandparents would have continued to pay to keep the story quiet. Their reputation, you know.”

“Or they might not have. I would have advised them against it. There’d be gossip and a bit of scandal, but it wouldn’t last more than a week.” George finished his drink. “You know the whole story now. Fortunately, it is behind you. You are free to rebuild what was all but destroyed.”

“At a great cost. And for that reason, I want justice,” Matt said. “I need those men you once hired to search again for Hardesty. I want the estate’s money returned.”

George leaned both elbows on his desk. “That might not be possible.”

“Then I’ll wring the money out of Hardesty’s hide.”

“We don’t know who he is. We could never find him.”

“I want to try again.”

George held his gaze a moment, and then shrugged. “You understand the sort of men I had to hire don’t work without coin up front.”

“I will pay.”

“Thank God for heiresses, eh?” George leaned back in his chair, crossing his legs and half turning from Matt. “And there are no guarantees.”

“Find me good men, true hunters. Set them loose.”

George acted as if he thought better of the request, but then conceded, “It will take time, but I will do as you ask. I could weep over what has happened to Mayfield. I confess, I was worried when you took over. I knew what was going on and feared you would not have the stomach for it.”

“I’m an Addison,” Matt answered. “We do not let any slight go unanswered.”

“ ‘Stand fast,’ ” George said, quoting the Addison family motto, the one created by the first Duke of Camberly.

Matt nodded his agreement and stood. “Thank you for your time, George.”

His cousin jumped up from his chair and bowed. “It is my pleasure, Your Grace. I will see you on the morrow.”

Matt offered his hand. The men shook on their agreement, and Matt left.

He was not surprised when he reached his home to find his coach at the front door. His grandmother had returned from Mayfield. Handing off the by now exhausted mare to a stable lad, Matt entered the house.

Minerva came into the hall from a side room. She held a brimming glass of sherry in her hands. “Well?”

“There will be a wedding on the morrow.”

Her relief was obvious, and he understood.

Now that he’d stopped fighting the marriage, the weight of responsibility that had been his constant companion since he’d taken the title had fallen aside. His money worries would vanish. It was as if he could draw a full breath for the first time in what seemed ages.

That night, he enjoyed a good beefsteak and a glass of whisky and embarked on a good night’s sleep—until he woke in the middle of the night and realized he did not have a groomsman.

He had not performed this most basic of groom’s duties, and it would be a telltale sign that Willa’s suspicions that he was not interested in the marriage were true.

Matt jotted a quick note to his friend Soren, woke his butler, Marshall, to see that it was delivered, and then went back to sleep, convinced that he had saved himself from a major blunder.

Willa had a terrible night’s rest.

Part of the blame she placed on her hair. At night, she wore it in a long braid that was as thick as her wrist. When her body turned, the braid would sometimes be caught beneath her. She hated being woken that way.

Last night, it had happened several times, and whenever she woke, her mind would take over with a thousand thoughts.

Her life was about to change. For the past three and even more years, all anyone spoke of was the man she would marry.

And now the time was here. Her life was finally going to begin.

She was past ready. Staring at the medallions and scrollwork on her ceiling, she ruminated on how happy Cassandra had appeared. How content. Willa wanted to be that content.

Of course, she barely knew Matt. Her husband. His Grace. Her Grace. Her Grace. His Grace.

Her father was very pleased with her. Apparently, he, too, had been anxious about Matt’s prolonged disappearance from London.

But now he was here, and in a matter of hours, Leland Reverly could proudly claim he had a duke for a son-in-law. Willa had no doubt that her father would even have calling cards made up that said, “Leland Reverly, father-in-marriage to the Duke of Camberly.”

Furthermore, the whispers had not been true. Matt was not indifferent to her. He was going to marry her.

However, what the gossips thought was of no importance . . . because Matthew Addison, Duke of Camberly, was a prize in Willa’s mind. Points aside. He was tall and exceedingly handsome. Why, there wasn’t a woman in London who didn’t crave his attention. He moved with energy. He had all his teeth. He had all of his everything .

And he had come for her. He’d challenged her decision to release him from the betrothal. She wasn’t naïve enough to believe that meant he cared, but at least he’d noticed her.

In the dark, she lightly rubbed the pad of her thumb over the place where Matt had kissed her wrist and added another characteristic of her own to Matt’s tally of traits—he was kind. That was a sign of goodness.

He’d been angry when he’d first arrived. No, he’d been irritated . There was a difference. But he’d listened to her complaints, and she believed he’d genuinely heard her. After all, wasn’t that what anyone wanted? To have someone who listened?

Last night, her father had stayed home. He’d joined her and her mother for a simple dinner. The kitchen had been too busy preparing the wedding breakfast that would be served shortly after noon on her wedding day. Kegs of ale and whisky had been laid in. Port, Madeira, sherry, and even French wines had been acquired. The actual ceremony at the church would be private and quiet, but, in her father’s mind, the wedding breakfast was what mattered. It was his opportunity to display his power and wealth.

Therefore, for once he had not minded a boiled capon and buttered bread. Even her mother had acted pleased about the marriage.

Willa tossed her braid once more across the pillow and, curling up, tried to sleep again. Tomorrow, she would experience the marriage bed. Matt was rumored to be a powerful lover. A line from one his poems echoed in her mind: Lost in her, deep within her, I find solace and grace.

When she’d first read those words, she’d stared them, trying to divine their meaning. They were both mysterious and earthy, as if the lover had special powers.

The man who wrote those words wasn’t a man like her father, who flitted from woman to woman. No, Matt’s poem told her that his lover mattered.

If that wasn’t enough to keep a woman awake—?

Especially when she wasn’t quite certain what all would happen.

She did fall asleep, because Annie woke her at half past seven with a breakfast tray. The house smelled of delicious food.

“You should see the rooms downstairs,” Annie said, opening the drapes. “The footmen worked all night setting up tables. They came in by the cartloads. I helped with the coverings. Cream and gold. Mr. Reverly is sparing no expense. Not for his daughter.”

Coming over to the bed, Annie gave her an indulgent smile. She had been one of the constants in Willa’s life. She had joined the staff as a nursery attendant when Willa was five. At that time, it was said that Willa had been a terror. She hated for anyone to brush her hair, and few said no to her.

With patience and the practicality and good humor of the Irish, Annie had coaxed Willa into letting her tame her wild tangles. She’d done it by telling Willa stories of mice who enjoyed tea parties at night in little girls’ hair. Willa still wished to believe any snarls and tangles were the result of too much treacle syrup.

Over the years, she and Annie had made a fast bond, although the maid knew her place. However, whenever Willa fell, Annie was there to pick her up. When the world was confusing, Annie helped her understand.

And when Willa needed to shine socially, Annie primped and ironed to be certain she did.

“Did you sleep all right?” Annie asked.

“Barely. My hair.” Willa rubbed her eyes and yawned.

“It is more than just your hair that kept you up,” Annie said with a twinkle. “You are about to become a duchess. Proud I am, Miss. Now, eat. A bath will arrive in a few minutes.”

While Willa nibbled a hot bun and sipped chocolate, Annie pulled from the wardrobe the wedding dress. It was of the whitest muslin, shot through with threads of silver and gold, and had capped sleeves. It was both innocent, and yet a touch enticing—which was the way Willa thought a bride should be.

The bath arrived with great ceremony. Even though the footmen had been up most of the night and would continue to be on hand this day, their spirits were high in her honor. They were going to be well rewarded for their hard work. There would be extra vails from not only her father but from the other guests.

Willa didn’t dally with her bathing. Her stockings were of the palest silk and she wore white kid slippers. The shoes also had a small heel, so they added perhaps an inch to Willa’s height.

Now that she was dressed, Annie sat her on a bench before the full-sized looking glass. “The pearls?” She referred to Willa’s pearl-tipped hairpins.

“Yes, I believe so.”

Annie fetched them and put them in Willa’s hand so she could hold them while the maid went to work.

Thinking about how tall Matt was, Willa said, “I want my hair as high on my head as you can build it. Is there a comb or something we can use?”

“Let me try this.” Annie wrapped a curl around her finger and pinned it into place with the plain pins from Willa’s other hand. The maid took on the concentration of an artist sizing up her masterpiece. She built several curls on top of each other before adding the pearls. “I like this. You look like a goddess with your hair up. When the duke sees you, he will be smitten.”

The last thing Annie added was a lace veil that trailed over Willa’s shoulders and down her back.

When Annie was done, she motioned for Willa to rise. “You are the loveliest you have ever looked, miss.” She reached down and pulled on the dress hem. “Everyone will be stunned to speechlessness when they see you. Especially the duke.”

Willa couldn’t imagine Matt speechless, but the idea pleased her.

Caught up in her own thoughts, Annie continued, “You and the duke will be very happy. I feel it in my bones. My nan was one who had the sight and I have a bit of her gift. Thinking of the two of you together, I receive the tingles.”

“The tingles?”

“Yes, it is when there are little shoots of awareness all over me. I have the tingles when I think of the two of you together.”

Willa laughed, enjoying the prediction.

A soft knock on the door interrupted them. Her mother entered without waiting for permission. She was dressed for the wedding in a deep purple gown. Her hair had been curled, and Willa thought she looked very handsome.

“Mother, what do you think?” Willa twirled.

“Very nice. Are you ready?”

“I have my gloves, and what is the weather? Can I wear a light shawl, or should I take something heavier?”

“It promises to be a perfect September day. The light shawl should suffice.”

Annie went to the wardrobe and pulled out a cream paisley shawl and a yellow one made of lace. Willa chose the paisley. She did not like wearing lace on lace. She reached for the gloves Annie had laid out.

Her mother walked around the room as if nervous. She paused by the bed. “Annie, we wish a moment of privacy.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Annie ducked her head and left, closing the door behind her.

Sitting on the bed, her mother patted a space beside her. “Your father wondered if I’d had a conversation with you . . . about the marriage bed. He wants to be certain you know what to expect.”

Finally . Heat rushed to Willa’s cheeks, but she’d been waiting for this discussion. She and Cassandra had always speculated. Leonie had never wished to take part in such discussions. She had claimed to be too shy. But Willa was curious. Cassandra had promised her she would like it. Willa sat on the edge of the bed, ready to hear if her suspicions were correct.

Her mother drew a deep breath as if bracing herself. “Young women seem to know so much these days. I’m not certain what I need to tell you. What is it you know?”

“I know my husband expects me to share his bed.”

“Yes, he will do that . . . for a while. Anything else?” Her tone was brusque. She didn’t act as if she was particularly anxious for questions.

And yet, if Willa did not ask now, she might come off as silly or foolish to Matt. “I have a hazy idea. He’ll want to join with me.” The word had been another line from one of Matt’s poems—On a bed of roses, we joined, finding our peace in each other.

“Do you know what that entails?”

“I’ve seen animals, Mother.” She’d also caught an eyeful of behavior from time to time on the street that proper young women should not have noticed. “But is there something in particular of which I should be aware?”

Her mother’s gaze drifted from Willa as if she wished she was somewhere else, and then her expression hardened. She faced her daughter. “It isn’t complicated. Your husband will instruct you. It will hurt.”

“Why will it hurt? I’ve never heard anyone complain of it.”

“Because of what men do,” her mother answered. “They stretch us. It’s painful.”

Stretch? Willa had also never heard talk of stretching.

“Your husband is a very big man. I fear you will experience great pain. You will bleed.”

Now she had Willa worried. She knew about a virgin’s blood, but “bleed” was more than a few drops.

“I hate it,” her mother confessed, as if she could not prevent herself. “I’ve hated it from the very first. It is our curse to bear for being born female. I’m disgusted to think I even had to submit to it. It is vile and disgusting and sticky .”

Sticky? That seemed an odd, and unanticipated, description to Willa.

“No proper lady would enjoy it,” her mother vowed. “But here is the secret, Willa—because men don’t want their wives to complain or ask questions—I found that if I silently counted backward from one hundred, well, then it would soon be over and he would leave me alone.”

“You just lie there?”

“Of course, there is nothing else you can do. Let the duke have his way with you, and no matter what, do not complain.”

Willa swallowed. “Will I bleed every time?”

Her mother shook her head sadly. “It depends on how violent he is.”

“Violent?”

“Men stir things up.” She circled her hand over the region of her belly, an area far deeper into her body than Willa had imagined her husband would go. “It is not pleasant, Willa. No one has ever said it was. My friends and I are happy now that our husbands leave us alone.”

Willa thought of the longing looks her mother often sent in her father’s direction when he was going off for his own pursuits. Had she misread them? “Cassandra doesn’t act as if she hates it.” Then again, they had not discussed such intimate things since Cassandra married. Yesterday, they had been too busy talking about the letter Willa had sent.

“Perhaps she is with child? Men leave their wives alone once they are pregnant, for obvious reasons.”

Those reasons weren’t obvious to Willa. “The poets praise it,” she offered.

“Poems are written by men. Of course they would praise it. They don’t have to bring children into the world. They would change their tune if they did.”

“But some women have more than one child. If it is so terrible, why?”

“Those poor women are not free to say no to the men they married. Or they can be the sort of coarse creatures your father prefers. Women who are not delicate and sensitive. I didn’t raise you to be that sort.” She reached out and touched Willa’s hair. For a moment, she was the mother of Willa’s childhood. “And I pray that birthing one of Camberly’s babies doesn’t cost you your life.”

Willa almost fell off the bed at her mother’s startling announcement. She leaned forward. “I overheard you talking to your friends about this. Why should this be a fear, Mother?”

“You are petite, Willa. It is a part of nature that a ram and his dam should be well proportioned to each other. Still, it is a worry for any of us. Mr. Jamerson at the lending library just lost his wife. The baby survived, but that poor woman did not.”

“Poor Mr. Jamerson.” Willa was fond of the young man who was always a help when she searched for a book. He had helped her find the duke’s book.

“Yes, it is terrible. Childbirth is serious business.”

“What of Cassandra? Or Leonie?”

“It can be a danger to them as well.”

This was not news Willa wanted to hear on her wedding day.

As if seeing her distress, her mother sat beside her on the bed, covering her hand with her own. “But don’t worry. Women like Cassandra and Leonie will just pop their babies out. It is delicate flowers like yourself who should worry. And one last piece of advice, my child—”

Willa didn’t know if she wanted to hear it.

“—don’t trust your husband. Ever . His only interests are his own and never yours. Remember to expect those little betrayals and you will have a decent marriage.” She came to feet. “Now, are you ready to leave for St. Stephen’s?”