Glenarvon's back was to the bedchamber door when Catherine quietly slipped into the room. He was sitting on the edge of the bed alone, unbuttoning his shirt, his valet long dismissed.

Without turning to look at Catherine, he said, "You knew about this."

It wasn't an accusation. The words were flat. Lifeless.

Wincing, Catherine walked around the corner of the bed to face her husband. She sat next to him, placing her palms flat on the bedspread.

"I did," she said.

The marquess finished unbuttoning his shirt and glanced at Catherine, then looked down at his empty hands. "Were you ever going to inform me?"

"I–" Catherine stuttered. "I did not think it my place to divulge the secret."

A pink flush crept up Glenarvon's sinewy arms. "I am your husband. I would have kept any secret you ever cared to share with me. But–" he swallowed, "–something tells me that you had other reasons to keep Anne's secret to yourself."

Now it was Catherine's turn to pull her hands into her lap. She studied their lines, the fine bones that danced beneath her skin as she flexed her long fingers. Finally, she closed her eyes, surrendering herself. "I should have told you. I should have told you before I agreed to marry you." Her voice quavered as she fought back tears. "I was afraid of what such a secret might mean for me and for my family. Anne does not deserve the scandal that will befall her after this news comes to light!"

Glenarvon shook his head silently. An enigmatic gesture. Catherine could not tell if he was livid or simply disappointed. Or perhaps both.

Continuing to unburden herself, Catherine said, "Every day I have thought on this thing that I have kept from you, and I have shuddered at its immensity. It is a terrible act to have a secret so early in a marriage. I admit freely that I have done wrong. When I married you, I may have–"

Holding up a hand, Glenarvon stopped Catherine mid-sentence. "Don't say it," he said.

Catherine blinked. "What?"

He turned to her, a strange fire dancing in his eyes. "I suspect I know what you're about to say, Catherine, and I don't wish to hear it. Whatever reason you married me for..." He paused for a moment, his look growing far away.

So, she had married him for security. For the social benefits of being a marchioness. Glenarvon had to admit that the thought caused a small twinge in his heart, but he shuttered it away before the feeling took hold. He considered what he was hiding from Catherine and determined that it was far worse than Anne's dalliance with a farmer. Catherine had done what she had to do to keep her family safe. That was admirable. Glenarvon, on the other hand, had married Catherine as part of a seedy bet. Their nuptials were anointed with the sheen of revenge. The desire to rid himself of Daventry, to somehow make up for all that had gone wrong with fire-haired Rebecca, had consumed him. Nothing would have stopped him from wedding Catherine so that he could finally claim his victory over both Rebecca and Daventry.

Bile rose in his throat as Glenarvon considered how despicable, how unlovable he truly was. Here was Catherine, prostrate before him, begging for his forgiveness, when he was the one who should be begging for hers.

But if he revealed the truth now, it would only drive her away. Straight into Daventry’s wicked embrace. Glenarvon couldn't have that. Yes, it was better to remain silent, to hide the reality of their marriage for as long as he could bear it. Telling Catherine would only hurt the both of them.

A win for Daventry was a loss for all others.

Glenarvon spoke again. "Whatever reason you married me for, I cannot blame you. Consider yourself forgiven."

Now Catherine truly was crying. Great, fat tears streamed down her pink cheeks. The marquess wiped them away with his warm hand, cupping her face. He brought his mouth to hers in a quiet, tender kiss. Catherine leaned into him, smoothing her palms across his bare chest. She kissed the marquess again, gratitude overwhelming her. Finally, the secret was out, and somehow Glenarvon had found it within himself to forgive her. Catherine’s kiss grew more demanding, deepening as she considered her good fortune.

A strange, wild sensation gripped her, and she lifted her skirts, straddling Glenarvon. Sucking on the marquess's lower lip, Catherine snaked her arms around his neck, pulling him closer to her bosom.

Unable to control himself, Glenarvon slid his hands up her thighs, reveling her soft, supple flesh. He cursed himself even as his manhood grew stiff between his legs. Self-hatred coursed through him. He didn’t deserve Catherine’s gratitude. He shouldn’t be allowed to lay a finger on her. And yet, he couldn’t stop himself from digging his hands into her flesh, pulling her even closer to him. Her scent was intoxicating, a heady mixture of ripe blossoms and dying embers that made him feel almost wine-drunk.

In but the work of a moment, Glenarvon's breeches were down. He needed her, now. Before he could stop himself. He grasped at Catherine's pert bottom, guiding her onto his rigid manhood. She gasped as he entered her, throwing her head back in pleasure.

Glenarvon kept his hands on Catherine, showing her how best to please him. There was a desperation to their lovemaking. Their movements were frantic and rough, as if each of them were trying to somehow fill a void in their very souls. Catherine's nails dug into Glenarvon's shoulders, tracing a violent red pattern upon his flesh. He rocked her back and forth on top of him until she finally cried out his name, shuddering in ecstasy. As Catherine clenched around him, Glenarvon felt himself begin to quicken, and just as she had finished her joy, he let himself spill over, moaning quietly.

Finally, he lay back on the bed, pulling Catherine into a tight embrace. He looked down at her, moved by the content expression on her sweet face.

Truly, he thought, he did not deserve Catherine.

"Undress now," he said, stroking her auburn hair. "And in the morning, we shall consider what should be done about Miss Edmonson and Mr. Wynn."

Catherine nodded. "Thank you for considering it all," she said. "I know it is a great burden to bear." She lit a soft kiss upon his arm, then rose to change into her sleeping shift.

A while later, she crawled into bed next to Glenarvon, but the marquess did not stir. Better that she think he was already asleep. He had a long night of thinking ahead of him.

* * *

Just as he had expected, the marquess did not sleep a wink that night. When the first rays of the daylight hit his eyes, however, he knew what he needed to do. This was a decision that would not only affect Miss Edmonson and Mr. Wynn, after all, but also Glenarvon and Catherine. Nothing was to be taken lightly, and finally, finally, he had devised a plan.

He arose and dressed quietly, hoping not to disturb Catherine. The dim morning light in the room added a hazy glow to her complexion, blessing her closed eyes with a heavenly radiance. For a moment, Glenarvon stilled his movements and simply looked her, taking in her beauty. Then, he roused himself, and quickly hurried out the door.

Soon, he was in the stables, his horse already tacked and waiting for him. Glenarvon inhaled the scent of fresh hay, rubbing away the sleep from his eyes. He gave his horse a quick look-over, rubbing its neck and whispering sweet words in its ear. Then, he jumped up onto the magnificent roan beast and spurred it into a soft trot. Across the estate he flew, enjoying the feel of the crisp wind in his hair, ruffling the ties on his shirt.

It was so green out today. More so than it had been for many months. The lush, pigmented trees of the drive gave way to rolling fields as Glenarvon rode, and finally, he was cantering amongst the farms.

The sun was just peeking up over the tallest trees when he arrived at Mr. Wynn's cottage. The marquess pulled the reigns up short, bringing his horse to a slow stop. He hopped down and tied the leather pulls to the wooden fence surrounding the property. No one was around to steal his horse, and he would damn anyone to hell who tried anyway.

Walking up to the door, Glenarvon inhaled, the aroma of wild grass tickling at his nose. He held a closed fist up to the wood, ready to strike. He paused, his palm sweating.

Why the devil was he so nervous? Mr. Wynn should be the one who was shaking in his boots, and yet Glenarvon could feel a cold trickle creeping down his neck. He wiped the back of his hand over his brow, then raised it to the door once more, and knocked.

There was a quiet commotion inside. The sound of a kettle simmering reached Glenarvon's ears. Someone hit their foot upon something in the darkened room and cursed. Finally, the door opened a crack, and a child's face peeked through.

The boy quickly turned away, hollering at someone behind him. "Peter, it's a man! Must be for you!" Then, he walked nonchalantly away from the slightly open door, leaving it ajar.

Glenarvon chuckled. Children were very trusting in the countryside, it seemed. He could be anyone, after all. A highwayman. A vagrant. Never had he seen someone over the age of five behave in such a way in London. This was a safer place–a haven from the dark realities of life. How wonderful it would be to be sheltered from certain horrible things.

The door opened wider, and Peter Wynn came into view, rubbing his eyes. "Don't mind my brother..." He yawned, then started as he realized who his visitor was.

"Lord Glenarvon!" he said. "Pardon me. I did not realize–"

The marquess waved the niceties away. "No need to apologize, Mr. Wynn," he replied. "You and I are past such things, I would expect."

"Please, come inside." Peter opened the door further, ushering Glenarvon in.

The marquess complied, stepping over the threshold with an odd curiosity. It was a rare occasion when he got to see one of the farmhouses on his land. Mr. Wynn's was cozy, but immaculately kept. The fire from the night before was mere embers in the hearth, but the abode was still warm. Of course, it was very small. Such things could not be helped, he supposed. Still, Mr. Wynn and his family were living in comfort, even if they were not so comfortable as Lord Glenarvon.

The two men stood awkwardly for a beat, neither sure who should make the first move.

Peter licked his dry lips. "Please, sit," he said, indicating a chair with his hand.

Glenarvon nodded, and walked to the proffered chair. He sat down, back straight, hands on his knees. Peter hesitated for a moment, then sat across from him.

"Lord Glenarvon–" he said. "May I–Perhaps, I could inquire as to why you are here at such an early hour?"

Glenarvon didn't answer. Instead, he cleared his throat, then said. "I liked your father, God rest his soul."

"Thank you, Lord Glenarvon."

The marquess nodded. "Yes. He was a good man, and he had great plans for you. He was also an excellent tenant, and a fine farmer. He came to me, many years ago–I was still at university at the time, but I visited the estate often–and asked me what I thought the value of an education was. I told him that my education meant a great deal to me, and that it would mean a great deal more to someone whose position was not so secure as mine. A second son, for instance. That inspired him. Or, perhaps, he was already inspired. The very next day, he asked for my help. He wanted to know how a boy like you, raised on a farm, could ever attend a university. Together, we created a plan. First, you needed to go to school. Your father had a surprising amount of money saved up. I'm still not sure how he did it. Regardless, I believe that was your first year in school."

Peter's brow furrowed. "That was a very long time ago, Lord Glenarvon."

"I am aware. Nevertheless, you are educated. Am I wrong in believing that you never made it to Oxford or Cambridge?"

"I never made it. My father died just after I finished my initial schooling," said Peter, the corners of his eyes drooping. "I came home to take care of the farm and my family."

"I see. How old is your brother? The one who answered the door," asked Glenarvon.

Peter shook his head. "Just twelve. My other brother is seventeen. But why–"

Glenarvon interjected. "Could not a boy of seventeen run a farm, given some guidance? You were not much older than him when you started."

"Perhaps," said Peter slowly. "But I do not see why he might find cause to do so."

    "I am sure, Mr. Wynn, that you have attended Sunday service at the parish church?"

"Every Sunday, yes," replied Peter, a bit confused by the marquess’s sudden change in tack.

Glenarvon shifted his weight in the chair. "Then you must know that the current vicar, Mr. Roth, is growing quite old. And you must also be aware that I am the patron of said church."

Disbelief began to dawn in Peter's eyes. "Lord Glenarvon, surely you cannot mean–"

"To make you vicar?" Glenarvon asked. "Not quite yet. You'll have to go to university, of course. I still have connections at Oxford. Then, you will need to be ordained. All these things shall take time and money. If you are to be my brother-in-law, then you need only worry about time. I will pay for university."

Shaking his head, Peter's eyes grew wide. "I could not possibly accept," he said.

"I think you had better," replied Glenarvon, eyes narrowing. "If you were to marry Anne as you are–an unconnected farmer–it will bring scandal upon her and my wife, and their youngest sister. It may even affect me." The marquess sniffed. "I have no intentions of letting such a thing happen. University." He clapped his hand on his leg for effect. "And then ordainment. Then, Mr. Roth, who has been dreaming of retirement, shall make you curate of the church. When he passes, I will bestow the living upon you, and you shall be vicar. Is this acceptable to you?"

Throwing his head back, Peter ran his hand through his sleep-tousled hair. When he looked at Glenarvon again, his eyes glistened.

"Lord Glenarvon," he said. "I cannot think of anything that could be more acceptable to me. From the bottom of my heart, I thank you. You have no idea what this means–" His voice cracked upon the last word, and he looked away, overcome with emotion.

Pretending not to see Peter's tears, Glenarvon stared at the glowing embers in the hearth. "Of course," he added. "This will not be without scandal. But I think this will generate the sort of gossip that might be forgotten within a few seasons. The alternative is much worse. Regardless, I would advise you not to announce your engagement with Miss Edmonson until you leave Oxford and your position in society is more secure. Let people think that I took a liking to you and raised you up and that your relationship with her grew out of that."

The marquess stood with a finality. Wiping his eyes, Peter took Glenarvon's cue and stood as well, leading him to the door.

"I shall take your advice, Lord Glenarvon," he said, ushering the marquess out. "And again, thank you. More than I can say, thank you."

Glenarvon clapped Peter on the back, finally cracking a small smile. "Welcome to the family.”

* * *

    Catherine was just rising when Glenarvon re-entered the bedchamber. Though he was covered in morning dew and horse hair, the marquess climbed into bed next to her, brushing his lips upon her cheek.

    Wrinkling her nose, Catherine sleepily murmured, “You smell of wet hay.”

    Glenarvon brushed an errant hair off of Catherine’s brow. “I’ve just been to see Mr. Wynn.”

    Catherine’s eyes flew open. “What?”

    “We’ve made a plan. I’m to sponsor him, legitimize him. He’ll go to university. Oxford. And in time, he will take over as vicar of the parish church. I’ve left it to him to tell your sister.”

Without speaking, Catherine grabbed her husband and laid her lips upon his. She drank him in, gratitude thrumming through her very skin.

When they finally came up for air, Glenarvon raised one brow nonchalantly. “I suppose this is enough to repay my billiards debt?”

Laughing, Catherine placed another kiss on her husband. “Yes, my lord. I do believe it is. But, may I ask one favor in return?”

“Anything.”

“Well, it is my especial opinion that such good news requires a celebration…”