In horror, still reeling from Locksley’s proclamation, Portia watched as he turned to Marsden. “I assume you have no objections.”

The marquess smiled. “None whatsoever. I was rather hoping for this outcome when all was said and done.”

Locksley turned back to her. “What say you, Portia? Much better to be my wife than my mother, don’t you think?”

“No.” The word came out harsh, abrupt, but inside she was screaming, No, no, no, no, no! She could not marry the viscount. Absolutely could not. She was here to marry the marquess. An old man who thought he needed an heir when he already had one.

Not his strapping son, who caused her insides to flutter every time he looked at her, her body to warm when he touched her, her entire being to dissolve into a heated puddle when he kissed her. She could not, would not, marry him.

“No,” she repeated with the authority of her conviction.

With a cluck of his tongue, he tossed the papers onto her lap and settled against the sofa in an insolent lounge, his arm resting along the back of it, his fingers tapping merrily. “Then the contract is null and void and we’re done here.”

“No.” She looked imploringly at Marsden. “You and I are to marry. That’s what we agreed to.”

He gave her a sad smile, the wrinkles shifting over his face. “That’s what we discussed in our correspondence, but the contract is worded a bit differently. It states you must provide me with an heir.”

“I can’t provide you with an heir if I’m not married to you.”

“You provide him with an heir by providing me with one,” Locksley said, his voice teeming with arrogance.

Jerking her attention to him, she wanted to snatch that smug, self-satisfied smile right off his gloriously handsome face. He thought he’d won, when he didn’t even know what she was battling for, what was at stake. If she told him . . . God, if she told him he wouldn’t be sympathetic, he wouldn’t understand. He’d cast her out as brutally as her family had.

“The contract states that you marry and provide the Marquess of Marsden with an heir. It doesn’t specify whom you marry. If you give me a son, you have in essence provided him with his heir. And actually much tidier. If you give my father a son, you’ve merely given him a spare. Who may or may not inherit. Give me a son, and you’ve provided the next heir apparent. Honestly, Portia, I don’t understand why you’re not throwing yourself at me. That’s what you want, isn’t it? A son who will inherit titles, estates, power, wealth. Is it that you object to being merely a viscountess rather than a marchioness? The marchioness title will come eventually, but perhaps not soon enough for your aspirations.”

She heard the disgust, revulsion in his voice. How could marriage to him be pleasant when he hated her before the vows were even exchanged?

But if she said no, where would she go? What would she do? How would she survive? She could not return to what her life had been. It would destroy her. He would destroy her.

She rose to her feet and turned to the fireplace. Cold, so cold. She wished there was a fire, but she doubted even that would warm her, as she was chilled to the very marrow of her bones. She needed to find a reason for him to cast her aside, while ensuring that Marsden would still want her. “But surely you want a noble woman, someone with a proud lineage to stand by your side.”

“It wasn’t one of my father’s requirements. No need for it to be one of mine.”

“He’s a good man, my son,” the marquess said. “You couldn’t want for better.”

“Oh, I suspect she could. Why don’t you go outside and see if you can catch sight of the vicar arriving, tell him we need a little more time?”

“Jolly good idea. Give you two a moment alone to sort things out.”

She heard the creak of his bones as he got up, the shuffling of his footsteps as he made his way out. She didn’t want to be alone with his son. Never again did she want to be alone with him.

She was acutely aware of Locksley suddenly standing beside her, the heat and power emanating from him, even though he wasn’t touching her. Why did she have to be so blasted aware of him?

“You judged me correctly, Portia, when you said I wanted to protect my father. I will do whatever necessary to shield him from anyone who would dare to take advantage of him or wish him harm.”

“I’ve told you that I don’t wish him harm. I will provide him with companionship, another child, an absence of loneliness.”

“I don’t trust you not to take advantage of him. As you saw, he’s not always in his right mind.”

She faced him. “So you will marry a woman you detest?”

“I have no interest whatsoever in love. I never have. I watched it drive my father insane. I will not follow that path. But I do require an heir. I could hardly do better than a woman who is willing to let me take her from behind, on her knees, or upside down.”

She slammed her eyes closed. She’d been trying to shock him, put him in his place, get him to leave off. That approach certainly hadn’t produced the results she’d wanted.

He touched his finger to her jaw. Opening her eyes, she jerked back.

He angled his head, mockingly lifted a corner of that wicked mouth. “Not exactly the response on the terrace.”

“Damn you.”

“You can’t deny there’s an attraction between us, so we’ll have that at least. I can assure you that within my bed you will find pleasure.”

“Not arrogant, are you.”

“I’ve traveled the world. I’ve learned a good many things. You’ll benefit from the knowledge.”

“And outside of the bed?”

“We’ll be polite to each other. Respectful. The day will be yours to do with as you please. The night will belong to me.”

The way his eyes darkened with the last few words told her exactly how the night would belong to him. She didn’t dread what he might do to her; she dreaded only that she might not be able to resist falling under his spell. Once before she’d tumbled head over heels for a man who exhibited confidence, boldness, assertiveness, but every aspect of him paled when compared with Locksley. He not only knew his place in the world, but he owned it, commanded it. She suspected he never had doubts, never questioned himself. She was drawn to that self-assurance like a moth to a bright flickering flame. He could destroy her so easily if she weren’t careful. But without him she hadn’t even a glimmer of hope for survival.

“Will I have an allowance?”

He grinned darkly. “Naturally, my little mercenary.”

“How much?”

“What would please you?”

“A million quid a month.”

He laughed, a deep rich sound that circled around her, through her, and took up residence in her soul. “Fifty.”

“One hundred.”

“Seventy-five.”

She could make do with that, set aside enough to ensure she would never be penniless again, wouldn’t be totally dependent on his kindness.

He cradled her face, and this time she stayed as she was, gave him leave to touch her. “You’ll never suffer at my hands. I can be quite generous.”

She almost scoffed. She’d heard that before, lies painted so prettily, only then she’d been young and naïve enough to believe the falsehoods, to embrace them, to pin all her hopes and dreams on them. Never again would she fall under any man’s spell to such an extent that she lost sight of herself.

“Then, in case you need a reminder, there is always this.”

He blanketed her mouth with his, urging her lips to part, then his tongue was slowly stroking hers, creating sensations that she wanted to deny brought her any sort of joy. But what was to be gained?

She’d already lost her advantage. He wasn’t going to step aside and allow her to marry Marsden. And she couldn’t risk leaving here with nothing. He was suddenly her only hope. If she didn’t anger him further, if she pleased him as a wife, perhaps he would protect her with as much vigilance and determination as he did his father.

So she rose up on her toes, wrapped her arms around his neck, and flattened her breasts to his chest. He knew her to be a widow. No sense in playing the shy miss. She knew how to pleasure a man. It would certainly be no hardship to be intimate with him.

With a growl, he crushed her to him, angled his head slightly, took the kiss deeper. Hunger thrummed through him. Need. He wanted her. She could feel just how badly he did pressed against her belly. She understood it was reckless, dangerous to accept his terms when she knew so little about him except for what she’d heard from the gossips. But he was the lesser of two unfavorable choices.

Drawing back, breathing heavily, he skimmed his thumb over her swollen, tingling lips. “Take a day to think about it. It’s worth a hundred quid to me for you to be sure.”

With that he released her abruptly, causing her to stagger back, and headed for the door. For some strange reason, his words erased all her doubts.

“I don’t need a day.”

That stopped him in his tracks. He swung back around. “You’ve made your decision?”

She’d made it the moment she answered the advert. She had no choice. She’d never had any choice. “I’ll marry you.”

Locke was taken aback by the sharp relief sweeping swiftly through him. He hadn’t realized how desperately he wanted her to say yes. Not that he wanted a wife, but he did want her in his bed, with her luscious mouth and her tart words and her whiskey eyes. He liked the way she challenged him, suspected she’d be challenging him every night. They could have fun with each other. Not ideal for a marriage but not the worst reason either.

He held out his hand to her, watched as she inhaled deeply before crossing over to him and placing her hand in his. He squeezed her fingers before wrapping her arm around the crook of his elbow and patting her hand where it now rested on his forearm.

“It’s vulgar to gloat,” she said.

“You’d be doing the same if our positions were reversed.” He arched a brow at her mulish expression. “You know you would.”

She gave him a little half smile that made him wish the vows were already exchanged so he could close the door and take her up against the wall.

“I think we’re going to get along splendidly,” he said with utter belief and conviction. “We understand each other.”

“Not as well as you might think.”

He shrugged. “Well enough. I know all I need to know.” He didn’t need to know her any better, didn’t want to know her any better. He wasn’t going to come to care for her. She was the means to an end. A bedmate for him. An heir for Havisham. Other than that, he required nothing else from her.

As he escorted her into the foyer, the front door opened and his father stepped through, the vicar in tow, and smiled brightly. “She agreed to accept you in my stead?”

“She did indeed.”

“Marvelous.” He walked over, took her hand, squeezed it. “I could not be happier. You will be as well, my dear, I promise you. Allow me to introduce Reverend Browning.”

Browning was only slightly older than Locke, relatively new to his post. He didn’t know why it bothered him to see the man holding her hand longer than he thought necessary. He wasn’t jealous. He didn’t care about her enough to be jealous, but he was possessive.

“Vicar.” He hadn’t meant for the word to come out as a bark, but it did cause the thin man to jump back, releasing Portia, his face turning an unbecoming mottled red.

“Lord Locksley, congratulations. So shall we get to it?”

He glanced over at his bride. “Black seems a bad omen for a wedding. Is there something other than black in that trunk of yours?”

She nodded. “What woman worth her salt wouldn’t have something other than black?”

He expected she was going to be worth her salt in a good many areas.

“Why don’t we give my bride a chance to freshen up after her long journey?” He assumed it was long. He suddenly realized he had no idea from whence she’d traveled. It didn’t matter. She could have traveled from Timbuktu for all he cared. “I need to see about my lady’s trunk. Then I’ll meet you gents in the library for a nip before the vows are exchanged.”

Still reeling from the sudden change in plans, Portia watched her soon-to-be-husband stride out the door. Marsden patted her shoulder.

“I’m so pleased, my dear.”

“I came here to marry you.”

He looked at her sadly. “It’s better this way.”

And she wondered if her marrying his son had been his plan all along. She’d equaled madness with stupidity. What a fool she’d been, but then she suspected most desperate souls were easily duped.

Locksley strode back into the residence, the trunk balanced on one shoulder. She’d assumed he’d fetch one of the stable lads to cart it up, had obviously misjudged his strength. He could easily kill her if he desired, might consider it if he ever learned the truth of her situation. She would have to tread very carefully where he was concerned.

“I’ll show you to your room. Precede me up the stairs,” he ordered.

She almost objected to his tone, but realized he’d no doubt be ordering her about quite a bit. It was the price she was paying for security. She started up the sweeping stairs. “I don’t know if I’ve ever known a lord who can heft a trunk with such ease.”

“It’s often to one’s advantage when traveling to see to one’s own supplies and equipment.”

“I would have thought you’d hire others for that.”

“For some things, yes, but I like to ensure I’m never caught without.” At the landing, he said, “To the left.”

The hallway was wide enough that they could walk beside each other. It was dusted, tidy, but there were no flowers, no little extras to make it pleasant.

“My father’s chamber is there.” He turned slightly to the left. “My mother’s is right beside it. It goes without saying you’re never to set foot in there.”

Yet he’d felt compelled to say it. She wondered if there would ever come a time when she wouldn’t be irritated with him. “Where is your bedchamber?”

“End of the hallway, last door on the right.”

“And mine?”

“End of the hallway, last door on the right.”

She stopped walking. He turned to face her, arched a brow.

“Will I not have my own room?” she asked. Surely Marsden had prepared a room for her or had he expected her to share his? His she wouldn’t have minded sharing, but Locksley’s? She was fairly certain he’d dominate the space.

“I don’t see the point, do you? You’ll be with me all night.”

“Still, it might be nice to have a place where I can be myself.”

“Are you not being yourself now?”

Did he have to read something sinister into everything she said? “I simply meant that my own little sanctuary where I can relax would be very much appreciated.”

“The room is large with a sitting area that should suffice. I won’t bother you there during the day.”

“Because you have your library. I will feel as though I’m a prisoner if I am relegated to one room.”

“You can use the parlor.” He spun on his heel. “What the bloody hell is in this trunk? It’s heavy as the dickens.”

So he was human, after all, not some god who could balance the world on his shoulders. She took grim satisfaction in the knowledge.

He reached the end of the hallway. “Can you get the door?”

She was tempted to take her sweet time doing it, but she needed to keep him in an amicable mood to ensure things between them became as pleasant as possible. After swinging open the door, she followed him in, watched as he set her trunk at the foot of a massive bed, and had no success not envisioning lying there with his large and powerful body hovering over her. Her mouth went as dry as sawdust.

Circling the room permeated with his sandalwood and orangey scent, she wasn’t surprised by the absolute masculinity of it, the dark woods of the furniture, the burgundy striped paper on the walls, the burgundy cloth covering the chairs and sofa before the fireplace. There was also a starkness to the setting. Only the minimum amount of furniture, no trinkets cluttering any surfaces to provide any insight into his tastes. She supposed that was telling enough regarding his preferences. He cared only for things that were useful. She would have to ensure he considered her useful.

“There’s no dressing table,” she said.

“Pardon?”

Turning, she discovered him leaning negligently against one of bedposts. “Most ladies require a dressing table in order to prepare themselves properly.”

“I’ll see about having one ordered for you.”

It was quite possible one was sitting unused in another bedchamber, but then as nothing was to be disturbed . . .

“Thank you.”

“Meanwhile, I’ll send Mrs. Barnaby up to assist you.”

“I appreciate it. I shan’t tarry.”

“Take all the time you need. The vicar’s not going anywhere and neither am I.” He headed for the door, stopped, glanced back to her. “It’s not too late to change your mind.”

It had been too late before she’d ever arrived. “Your manner of courtship needs some work.”

His laughter circled the room. “I think we’re going to get along, Portia.”

“I hope so. It will make for long years if we don’t.”

“We’ll be waiting for you in the library. Mrs. Barnaby can show you the way.”

Then he was gone, leaving her alone with her misgivings. Opening her reticule, needing something familiar to help settle her, she snatched out a peppermint and popped it into her mouth. After placing her purse on the bed, she walked to the window and gazed out on the wildness of the land surrounding the manor. If the marquess never went out, perhaps she would be allowed to tame it. And surely in this massive manor, she could claim one small room as her own.

She pressed her forehead to the glass, felt the tears threaten, and cursed her weakness to perdition. She was gaining what she wanted, just not the person with whom she’d hoped to gain it. Instead of a few years of marriage, she’d have a lifetime. It would be forever before she acquired her dower house, her independence. Whether or not she and the viscount got along, she knew the years ahead of her were going to be extremely long indeed.

Striding into the library, Locke was greeted with the robust laughter of his father and the vicar. He really thought a man of God should be more solemn, but Browning was obviously enjoying the spirits the marquess had offered him. Both men were sitting in front of the fireplace, each holding a glass half filled with amber liquid.

Locke went to the sideboard, poured himself two fingers of scotch, and joined them, pressing his shoulder against the mantel.

Appearing far too merry, his father lifted his glass. “Cheers to the groom.”

Taking a sip, Locke considered. “There is the small matter of the license.”

His father patted his chest. “Special license right here.”

Locke held out his hand. “May I?”

His father reached inside the breast pocket of his jacket, pulled out the folded paper, and handed it to Locke, who gave it a brisk snap to open it. “My name is on it.”

The marquess didn’t even have the decency to appear contrite. “I’ve been after you for two years to marry. Can you blame me for nudging things along?”

“And if I hadn’t been quite so gullible?”

“I have a license in my name. I wasn’t going to break my promise to the girl that she’d marry today. Don’t look so disgruntled. You’re drawn to her, that much was obvious in the parlor. I’d wager you kissed her when you got her alone.”

He’d never doubted his father’s sharpness, only his ability to remain in reality. “How much do you really know about her?”

“She’s strong, healthy, and fertile. That’s all that’s required for her to provide you with an heir. You’ve imprisoned your heart, Locke. I know that, so whether you could love her was never a consideration.”

Nor apparently was love a consideration for his little mercenary. “How many women responded to your advertisement?”

“She was the only one.” He skewed up his face. “Seems I have a reputation for being mad. Makes me a risky prospect. Your mother wouldn’t have liked it anyway, my getting married. But she will be thrilled with the news that you’ve taken a wife.”

The vicar had begun shifting in his chair, as though just realizing that everything within this household might not be quite right. Locke couldn’t recall him ever visiting. “You all right, Browning?”

“Oh, yes, just considering that all this is rather unconventional.”

“Have you not heard that the St. Johns are seldom conventional?”

As though fearing he might have insulted them, he said, “The church does appreciate the new pews the marquess is providing.”

So that was how he’d managed to get the vicar to agree to perform the marriage here. Should have known. Everyone had a price, including his lovely bride. He wouldn’t resent it, but neither would he ever feel any warmth toward her. He would view her as little more than a high-priced—

Every thought in his head scattered as she strolled in wearing a gown of deep blue, sleeveless, revealing alabaster skin that the black had kept covered. Her neck was long, sloping down to delicate shoulders and the barest hint of swells that indicated he might have misjudged how her breasts would fill his hands. They were likely to overflow. He wanted to peel off the white gloves that rode past her elbows as slowly as she had peeled off the black. She’d tidied her hair in such a way that it demanded he mess it up.

Before he crushed his glass, he placed it on the mantel. He wanted to sweep her up into his arms, cart her to his bedchamber, and have his way with her now, this very moment. The vows could be exchanged later. The sultry look she gave him told him that she knew the exact path his thoughts traveled.

“Isn’t she a vision of loveliness?” Mrs. Barnaby declared.

She was a vision of raw sensuality, and she damned well knew it. Ah, the little vixen. She fully intended to make him suffer until he could get her into bed.

Oh, yes, they were going to get along splendidly.

His long strides ate up the distance separating them. Taking her hand, he held her gaze as he pressed his lips to her gloved knuckles. “I approve.”

She blinked slowly as a corner of her luscious mouth lifted. “I thought you might.”

“Step aside, Locke,” his father said, shoving on his shoulder. “You’re not supposed to be this close to the bride until you’re exchanging vows. My son is a savage. Allow me to escort you to the parlor.”

He certainly felt uncivilized, barbaric as his father offered her his arm and she placed her small, delicate hand on it. He consoled himself with the knowledge that as soon as the vows were exchanged, he was taking her to bed.

Run, run, run!

Her mind played the constant refrain as the marquess escorted her to the parlor. Feeling as though she were traversing through a nightmare, Portia fought to tamp down the trembling that threatened to erupt at any moment. Never in her life had she seen such unbridled hunger in a man’s eyes. When Locksley had taken her hand, pressed his lips against it, it didn’t matter that she wore gloves. The heat emanating from him was such that she felt scorched.

As they entered the foyer, she knew if she were smart, she’d head straight out the door. She was no novice to men when it came to what they were capable of, but she suspected nothing in her experiences had prepared her for what Locksley would deliver. She’d thought being provocative would give her the upper hand, and all it had done was cause her to realize that she might be completely out of her element with him.

Even now, she felt his gaze boring into the nape of her neck, traveling across her bared shoulders, sliding down to her hips, back up. His hands would no doubt be taking the same journey after nightfall. Why, why, why hadn’t she read the contract more carefully? Why hadn’t her solicitor pointed out its flaws? Why did the viscount have to be so protective of the marquess?

As they entered the parlor, Marsden held her back while the vicar went to stand in front of the fireplace. Locksley joined him there. He dwarfed the other man. She didn’t want to consider how later tonight he might dwarf her. Swallowing hard, she bucked up her resolve not to let his size or his demeanor intimidate her. Hearing the patter of feet, she turned to see three servants scurry into the room. All appeared to be only slightly younger than Marsden.

“Allow me to introduce my staff,” the marquess said. “They’ll serve as witnesses. Gilbert, our head butler, Mrs. Dorset, our cook, and of course, you’ve met Mrs. Barnaby.”

They bowed, curtsied, smiled brightly, seemed completely at ease as though this were an everyday occurrence.

“A pleasure,” she muttered, striving to wrap her head around the fact that this was happening, while wondering if ever there had been a stranger assortment of guests for a wedding.

“I brought you these.” Mrs. Dorset extended a handful of wilted flowers, her smile bright with hope. “A bride ought to have flowers. I picked them myself from the meadow.”

“Thank you. They’re lovely.”

The woman curtsied before stepping back into line. Marsden led Portia over to the vicar, waited while she mentally gauged her distance to the door and had a final wild thought that she should make a dash for it.

Browning cleared his throat. “Who gives this bride?”

“I do,” Marsden announced, placing her hand on Locksley’s arm before stepping back once and over so he was now standing by his son, apparently serving as his best man.

The vicar waxed on about the sanctity of marriage, as though neither she nor Locksley truly understood the significance of what they were doing, as though what was happening wasn’t an utter and complete farce. Each word pounded into her as though delivered with a sledgehammer. If she were decent, she’d stop this outrageousness, but then if she were decent, she wouldn’t be here at all. She kept her gaze focused on Locksley’s neck cloth, on how perfectly it was knotted. So much easier than looking into his eyes, seeing the accusation there, the disapproval because she’d sought to marry his father for gain—only what he thought she wished to gain wasn’t at all what she wanted to obtain.

After the vicar recited the vows she was to repeat, she opened her mouth, only to find Locksley’s finger beneath her chin, scorching her as he lifted her head until she met his gaze. Why the devil didn’t the man have the decency to wear gloves for such a solemn occasion?

“Don’t make your vows to my neck cloth.”

“I wasn’t planning to.” She took no comfort in it being one of the smallest lies she’d told this day. Why did he have to make the moment so much more difficult by insisting that they look at each other as they exchanged vows?

“Repeat the words for her, Browning,” he ordered.

“I remember them,” she shot back, hating the way he studied her as though he expected her to engage in some nefarious behavior. Even knowing she should walk away, she couldn’t seem to make her feet move from this spot. It was more than his fingers and his eyes holding her captive. It was the absolute authority he wielded. He would never yield to another. He would defend what was his. She knew it with absolutely certainty, and once they were married, she would be his.

She should have negotiated better terms than an allowance and the daytime belonging to her, but it was too late now. After all her careful planning and scheming, when it had mattered the most, she had given in far too easily. But she wouldn’t regret it, not when she was gaining her ultimate goal.

Calmly, and with a voice far steadier than she felt, she reiterated the phrases, grateful that noticeably absent was any reference to love, that at the very least the promises they were making were honest, not hypocritical. She would cherish, honor, and obey, in sickness and in health, until death.

Still she was unprepared for the same vows being repeated in his strong, deep voice, with his eyes boring into hers as though he wanted them branded on her very soul. Finally, his finger dropped from her chin, but even with it no longer supporting her, she couldn’t seem to make herself look away from him.

“Have we a ring?” the vicar finally whispered.

“Ah, yes.” Marsden patted his pockets, one after another as though he’d forgotten where he’d placed it. “Here ’tis.” He handed it to Locksley. “Your mother’s.”

With his words, Portia’s gut clenched with such force and so painfully that she very nearly doubled over.

“Are you certain about this?” Locksley asked quietly.

“Quite.”

Solemnly, he turned to Portia, took her hand—

She balled up her fist. “I can’t.” She looked at Marsden, at the hope and joy reflected in eyes as green as his son’s. “You loved your wife. Your son and I don’t love each other. This is simply a marriage of extreme convenience. You can’t truly want me to wear her precious ring.”

“Linnie wants you to wear it. I shared your letters with her. She approves of you.”

Oh, God, he truly was mad. Perhaps Locksley was not only saving his father from her, but saving her from his father. Although the viscount cared not one whit about her, so why would he care if she was saddled with a madman? “Talk some sense into your father,” she implored Locksley. “Tie a piece of string around my finger. That’ll work just as well.”

“Once he’s determined his course, there is no talking any sense into him.”

“But it makes a mockery of what they shared.”

“No, it doesn’t, my dear,” Marsden said. “It’s a testament to our belief that you’ll be a true and good wife to our beloved son.”

Only she wasn’t good. If she had been, she wouldn’t have been brought to this moment. If she was good, she’d walk away.

Locksley squeezed her hand. “Unfurl your fingers.”

“You can’t want to do this.”

“Neither did I wish to get married today, yet here I am. Open your hand and let’s get this done.”

Reluctantly she did as he bade, watched as he slid her glove down her arm, over her hand, before passing it on to his father. Taking a deep breath, he guided the ring of tiny diamonds and emeralds onto her finger. It fit perfectly, which for some reason made it all the worse. She felt the extreme weight of it, the warmth it had absorbed from his skin as he’d held it.

“With this ring, I thee wed,” he said solemnly.

She lifted her gaze to his, the magnitude of what they’d just done making it difficult to draw in breath. She was married. To Viscount Locksley. Not at all what she had schemed to occur. She had an insane urge to apologize, to tell him she was sorry. She would be as good and true a wife as she could be, but that didn’t mean that he wouldn’t eventually come to hate her. That she might even come to hate herself.

“I now pronounce you Lord and Lady Locksley. You may kiss the bride.”

Her husband—her husband!—lowered his head, giving her what she assumed would be the very last chaste kiss he would ever bestow on her. His mouth brushed lightly over hers as though there had been no passion between them earlier. He’d barely stepped back before Marsden was bussing his lips over her cheek.

“Welcome to the family. I can’t tell you how happy you’ve made me this day.”

She wished she could claim happiness as well. Then she found herself surrounded by the servants, pumping her hand, hugging her, offering congratulations.

But as she looked over her shoulder at her husband, he was staring at her as though he’d just discovered something about her that he’d rather not know.