Three weeks wasn’t enough time to plan a wedding, but somehow, Marigold pulled it off. Alex had no idea how, not so much because he was mystified by Marigold’s organizational skills—although he was—but because in the time since he’d spoken to her father, he’d barely had time to have tea with her, let alone sit down and plan a wedding.

“Are you certain she’s going to show up and go through with it?” his younger brother, Edward, asked as the two waited at the front of the modest church in Kensington, close to the Bellowes house.

Alex wasn’t certain at all. Their whirlwind courtship seemed like a dream he’d awoken from to find parliamentary business tearing along as usual. Turpin had pulled his strings and made his deals with the devil to push back the vote on the women’s rights bill while vexing the Liberals with his own suggestions for a repressive bill. The whole thing had caused a fierce debate that needed Alex’s complete attention on a daily basis. And although he still very much wanted to marry Marigold, doubt had been creeping up on him since speaking to Percy Bellowes. Had they flown into the whole thing half-cocked? Was his proposal fueled by needs he could have satisfied at any of the higher-quality brothels in town? Would Marigold regret shackling herself to a man as committed to government as he was to her?

And those questions didn’t begin to scratch the surface of larger, more personal doubts. Did he have anything left to give a woman after Violetta? What would Marigold make of James?

James. Bloody hell, in the whirlwind of their speedy courtship and parliamentary business, he’d forgotten to tell Marigold about his son.

“That’s the face of a man about to embark on a voyage of marital bliss.” The wry comment came with a hard slap on the back from Malcolm Campbell.

Alex flinched, face heating over the fact that he’d been caught staring, horrified, into space by one of his oldest friends. “It’s no more serious than the way you looked the night you married Tessa,” he fired back.

Malcolm’s teasing grin turned into a sad smile of regret. “There were extenuating circumstances for Tessa and I, God rest her soul. You, on the other hand,” His mischievous look returned, “have no such worries. You’re marrying a beautiful heiress who, reportedly, has a good head on her shoulders. So why the frightened bunny look?”

Alex rolled his eyes and stared flatly at his friend. “So help me, Malcolm if you ever refer to me as a ‘bunny’ again….” He let his threat hang for a moment before adjusting his stance and steering the conversation away from him and his worries. “I heard about the business with Peter’s nephew.”

A bitter look entered Malcolm’s eyes. “William was murdered by Shayles, pure and simple.”

“Can you prove it?” Edward asked.

Malcolm clenched his jaw and rubbed a hand over his face. “Not yet. But there’s no doubt in my mind.”

“Is that why Peter isn’t here?” Edward asked.

Malcolm’s expression lightened. “No, Peter isn’t here because he’s too busy consoling his bride and beginning preparations for the new heir.”

Alex laughed at the surprise revelation. “I hope for his sake that there are no problems this time.” They all knew the heartbreak and misery Peter had gone through with his first wife’s barrenness. What surprised Alex was how quickly Peter had managed to bring about the potential joy of an heir with his new wife. His friend would be a much better father than he’d ever been to James. “I wish them all the best,” he added.

“And I wish you the best.” Malcolm thumped his back once more. “It’s about time.”

Alex crossed his arms. “Have you been talking to Katya?”

A look that was halfway between hunger and defiance flashed in his eyes. “Not if I can avoid it.”

Edward snorted and shook his head. “Only a fool runs from the one person wiser and more cunning than them.”

Malcolm glared at Edward for a moment before clearing his throat and saying, “Speaking of people who run, no word from Basil, eh?”

Alex blew out a breath at the change in conversation. “I would have sent him an invitation if I had the slightest clue where the fool has run off to.”

None of their group of friends had the slightest idea where Basil Waltham had disappeared to. He’d been missing for more than two years now, ever since embarrassing himself pitifully over a certain Miss Elizabeth Gray, now Lady Royston, and even though they were all constantly on the look-out for him, it was as if the man had dropped off the face of the earth.

“At least Armand made it,” Malcolm went on, turning and waving to their tall, serious-looking friend, seated beside Katya in a pew several rows back, engaged in deep conversation with her.

Armand was perhaps the most unique of Alex’s friends, having studied medicine and gone into practice before suddenly inheriting a title and estate, and the peerage that went with it all. He was as adept at arguing in the House of Lords as he was treating complicated illnesses, specifically in the fledgling field of gynecology. But it wasn’t Armand who caught and held Malcolm’s attention.

“That bloody woman,” he muttered, color rising on his face as Katya bit her lower lip and winked at him.

It was Alex’s turn to thump him on the back. “Why don’t you just put all of us out of our misery, and yourself to boot, by admitting you were wrong and begging her to marry you.”

Malcolm snapped to him with a look of fury in his eyes like only Katya could inspire and grumbled an oath that would have made sailors blush, following that with, “Mind your own business,” before stomping off to the other side of the church to take a seat.

Edward laughed as he and Alex resumed their proper places. “I’m beginning to think that Basil isn’t the only one running from his problems.”

Alex didn’t have time to answer that. The organ burst into the loud strains of a wedding march, and the doors at the back of the church flew open. A dazzling ray of light filled the vestibule, and out of that walked Marigold on the arm of her father. All else was forgotten. She was resplendent in a white dress, cut in the latest fashion. Her masses of golden hair were caught up in an elaborate style, and topped with a sheer, white veil. As her father escorted her up the aisle, the curious wedding guests watching her in approval and adoration, all Alex could think was that yes, he’d made the right decision after all.

Percy Bellowes paused at the front of the pews to kiss his daughter’s cheek, his eyes waterier and more full of sentiment than most Englishmen would be willing to show. He whispered something in her ear, then walked her the last few steps to Alex.

“Keep her happy, or I’ll tear your balls off and stuff them down your throat,” Bellowes growled under his breath with a fierce glare.

A genuine twist of fear hit Alex’s gut. He didn’t have the best history of keeping women happy. This time would be different, he swore to himself. His balls depended on it.

Marigold’s long-suffering sigh of, “Papa, really,” turned Bellowes’s comment into a cause for humor.

Alex nodded to Bellowes, then took Marigold’s hand, beaming at her. “You look perfectly lovely,” he said.

She blushed, making the picture even prettier. “Thank you.”

They stood there staring at each other for a few too many moments before the priest cleared his throat. Alex arched a brow, as though he and Marigold had been caught misbehaving, and escorted her the last few steps to stand in front of the priest.

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today in the sight of God to join this man and this woman in holy matrimony.”

Alex drew in a breath, standing straight and doing his best to pay attention. It struck him that he’d managed to avoid standing in exactly that spot for almost fifty years, but now here he was. He glanced up at the painted cherubs and image of God above the altar, praying that he was doing the right thing. He thought of Violetta, how madly they’d loved each other…until they hadn’t, and about how lonely she’d been at the end. For her sake, he’d have to do a better job of being a man where Marigold was concerned.

For all the importance that was placed on the transformation in a woman’s world, Marigold was astounded by how quickly she went from being a maiden to a wife.

“And do you, Marigold Louise Bellowes, take this man, Alexander Nathaniel Croydon, to be your lawfully wedded husband, to love, honor, and obey, in sickness and in health, until death do you part?”

She took a deep breath, her heart singing with joy and excitement, and glanced to Alex. “I do.”

He smiled, almost as though he were relieved she’d gone through with it. The lines around his eyes were filled with happiness, and even though he was a powerful and imposing figure in his expensive suit, the grey at his temples lending him an air of distinction, Marigold felt a rush of possessiveness. He was hers now, and she was his.

“Then by the power invested in me by God and Her Majesty, Queen Victoria, I now pronounce you husband and wife.”

Marigold held her breath as Alex turned to face her fully, lifting the veil so that he could kiss her. Was that all it took? A few words, and her life had been altered forever. He slid one arm around her waist, bringing her close to slant his lips over hers in a kiss. It couldn’t hold a candle to the kisses they’d shared in the elevator, but even so, a hundred people watching them sighed with happiness and romantic sentiment instead of gasping in shock and scandal. All because of a few words.

The world was a strange place indeed.

The ceremony was over, but as soon as Alex whisked her down the aisle and out to the carriage that waited to take them home, to the wedding breakfast and an afternoon of celebration, a carnival of festivities began. Everyone who had attended the wedding and then some piled into the Bellowes house, and even though the residence was large for a townhouse, it felt as though there were people up to the rafters, talking, laughing, and wishing her and Alex well.

“Have you ever seen anything like this?” Lavinia asked, nearly needing to shout, as the two of them wove their way through the crowd to find a bit of refreshment.

“It’s worse than the most popular balls of the season,” Marigold agreed with a laugh.

“That’s what you get for marrying a star of Parliament,” Lavinia told her.

Marigold glanced over her shoulder, seeking out her husband in the crowd. He stood near the middle of the room, a flute of champagne in one hand, surrounded by stuffy-looking men who she’d seen on the floor of Commons, all congratulating him roundly. He looked up and met her eyes for a moment, joy and a mock look of panic on his face. Marigold laughed and shook her head, then continued on with Lavinia.

They only made it a few more feet before Lady Stanhope stepped away from the conversation she’d been having to intercept them.

“Mrs. Croydon, you’re positively glowing,” she said.

Marigold laughed, her spirits too high to mind that a bite to eat would have to wait. “I suppose I have you to thank for that.”

Lady Stanhope gave a modest shrug, but the spark in her wicked, blue eyes said she knew full well what she’d accomplished. “I expect we’ll begin to see great things from you as well as your husband soon.”

Marigold pressed a hand to her heart. “I wouldn’t know where to start.”

“Oh, my dear, I think you do,” she shot back, arching a brow. “I saw the way you were charming Mr. Gladstone earlier. He seems quite taken with you.”

“I couldn’t breathe when he was standing there talking to us,” Lavinia agreed. “But you just went on as though he were the butler when he used to be Prime Minister, for heaven’s sake.”

“Mr. Gladstone is a pleasant man,” Marigold said with an off-hand gesture.

Lady Stanhope laughed. “You may be the only one who’s ever said that.” Her grin turned sly. “But if you can charm the man who ruled this country—no offense to our dear queen—and may one day rule it again, if your husband doesn’t take that honor from him, then you can set your sights as high as you’d like.”

Marigold laughed, but a quiver of fear tickled her gut. How much power did she really want? Marrying Alex had happened so fast that she hadn’t stopped to consider what her new position would mean. Evidently, Lady Stanhope had, which left Marigold with a whisper of doubt as to whether she’d been manipulated into the whole thing.

“All I care about right now is enjoying this wonderful party that my father put together for me,” she said.

“You put it together,” Lavinia added. “Your father simply paid for it.”

Lady Stanhope studied Marigold with a smile of admiration. “You arranged this event?”

“She did,” Lavinia answered.

Lady Stanhope scanned the room, giving Marigold the impression that she was marking each guest and assigning points to notable and significant members of society. “Well done, indeed.”

“I simply invited my friends and Alex’s,” Marigold said. “And perhaps a few people I knew would be interested in the sudden wedding of an MP.”

Lady Stanhope focused on Marigold again. She was about to make a further comment when their group was interrupted by an exasperated sigh from Lady Prior.

“Lavinia,” she said in her most scolding tone, grasping her daughter’s arm. “What have I told you about engaging in public conversation with undesirable sorts?”

“Mama!” Lavinia squeaked, turning pink with embarrassment.

Lady Stanhope merely laughed, completely nonplussed. “You’d better whisk her away, Matilde. I can feel my influence corrupting her more by the moment.”

Lady Prior made a distinctly unladylike sound and tugged on Lavinia’s arm. “Come away, Lavinia. You can rendezvous with Mrs. Croydon later. I’ve spotted several eligible men I would like for us to be introduced to.”

“Oh, Mama.” Lavinia shook her head, sending Marigold a wary look and Lady Stanhope an apologetic one, before letting herself be marched off into the throng of guests.

“What do you suppose Matilde Prior would say if she knew I could introduce her daughter to half a dozen highly prized gentlemen?” Lady Stanhope said, standing by Marigold’s side and tapping her chin as they watched Lavinia stumble off.

“She would suddenly change her opinion of whether the men in question were truly the right sort, due to their association with you, I think,” Marigold said, then touched her fingers to her lips. “I’m sorry. That may have been too harsh.”

“Not at all,” Lady Stanhope laughed, turning to face her again. “Especially since you’re right.”

They shared a mischievous look. Marigold was filled with the satisfying feeling that the older woman could be her friend as much as her mentor. That feeling grew when Lady Stanhope took her arm and led her slowly to an alcove at the side of the room, guarded by two potted trees.

“I wonder if anyone has had a word with you about tonight,” she said, looking as wicked as ever.

Heat and expectation that felt embarrassingly out of place in a room packed with a hundred people filled Marigold. “If you mean what I think you mean,” she said, glancing around to make sure no one could overhear them, “sadly, my mother died when I was quite young, and I suppose Papa didn’t feel up to the task.”

“Then I will give you the only words of advice you’ll need,” Lady Stanhope declared, stopping between the potted trees and turning to Marigold with a triumphant smile.

Marigold let out a panicked laugh, glancing every which way, certain everyone in the room was now listening in. “Right here? Now?”

Lady Stanhope shrugged. “When several dozen people are conversing all at once, it’s as good as being secluded on an island in the middle of the North Sea.” She paused. “I suppose that’s a bit of advice you might do well to remember in the coming years as well. I’ve had some of the most intimate conversations of my life in crowded ballrooms.”

“Is this destined to be an intimate conversation then?” Try as she did to appear as sophisticated and calm as Lady Stanhope, Marigold’s insides filled with butterflies.

Lady Stanhope rested a hand on her arm and leaned in to say, “Sexual relations are one of the finest joys in life, my dear. And if my guess is correct, you’ve married a master of the art. Trust him and enjoy it.”

Marigold was certain she’d gone beet-red in a heartbeat. She was suddenly so hot that she was sure the trees on either side of her would catch fire. “I don’t know what to say to that,” she managed to stammer in reply.

“There’s nothing to say, my dear. All you need to do is listen to me. There are any number of ninnies out there who will try to tell you that a woman, even a married woman, should be chaste and horrified at mankind’s carnal instincts.”

Marigold thought instantly of Lady Prior. “I believe that.”

“But they couldn’t be more wrong,” Lady Stanhope went on. “Passion is a woman’s prerogative, my dear. And pleasure is our recompense for the pain of surrendering our freedom to a man. Grab hold of that pleasure with both hands and revel in it. Don’t ever let any of these frigid mamas or milksop misses tell you sex is dirty or disgraceful. It is power, my dear. It is divine.”

Marigold pressed a hand to her stomach, finding it suddenly difficult to breathe. Her skin tingled as though Lady Stanhope had shared with her one of the secrets of the universe. In fact, she might have. The benediction that the priest had spoken over her and Alex didn’t feel as world-changing as the simple speech Lady Stanhope had just made.

“Ah, so this is where my lovely wife has gotten off to.”

The tingling that spread across Marigold’s skin, and deeper, doubled as Alex strode up to them. The heat that was making her giddy seemed to coalesce in secret places, as much as it had when the two of them had been alone in the elevator. She glanced to Alex, meeting his eyes and finding the hunger she remembered and had dreamed about beneath his jovial, public smile.

“Ah, Alex.” Lady Stanhope shifted to stand between the two of them. “I was just having a word with your lovely wife.”

Marigold’s breath caught in her throat. Aside from the woman’s audacity for calling Alex by his given name in public, she wouldn’t put it past Lady Stanhope to tell Alex exactly what they’d been talking about, and she wasn’t sure she could endure the full intensity of those emotions in her father’s ballroom.

“Good words I hope.” Alex smiled at her, his brow lifting with a hint of a question.

“I’ll leave her to explain to you later,” Lady Stanhope said. Marigold breathed a sigh of relief. “But before I leave the two of you alone to continue dazzling your cadre of important guests, I have a wedding present for you.”

“A wedding present?” Marigold asked, wondering why she hadn’t mentioned anything before.

Lady Stanhope gave them both one of her most mischievous grins, then opened the reticule that had been dangling from her wrist throughout the party. She took from it a small but fat envelope, handing it to Alex.

“You said you wanted a way to get rid of the man,” she said, arching one brow cryptically. “There you have it.”

Alex’s brow knit in confusion as he looked at the envelope. It wasn’t sealed, but when he opened the flap to peer at the papers inside, his frown deepened. “I don’t understand.”

Lady Stanhope grinned. “You will when you’ve had a chance to look it over in detail.” Before Marigold could ask what the envelope’s contents were, Lady Stanhope went on. “And now, if you will excuse me, I see that Malcolm is here and I haven’t had a chance to ruffle his feathers in months. I wish the two of you every joy in the world.”

She squeezed Alex’s arm and kissed Marigold’s cheek, then sailed off into the sea of party guests, which parted easily for her. Marigold stared after her, mystified, then nearly laughed out loud when Lord Malcolm flinched at Lady Stanhope’s approach, hard enough to almost upset one of the footmen carrying a tray of champagne. The way he and Lady Stanhope stared at each other was as explosive as dynamite.

“I take it they know each other,” Marigold said, sliding her arm through Alex’s.

He smirked. “They used to be lovers.”

“Really?”

“More than a decade ago.” He shrugged. “Nothing ever came of it, though.”

“Why not?”

“None of us really know.” He frowned, turning the envelope over in his hands.

“What is that all about?” she asked.

He handed the envelope to her. “I’m not sure. Sometimes it takes a while to decipher Katya’s clues.”

Marigold peeked into the envelope, reading what she could of the writing that was visible to her. It was a constable’s report about a woman named Ruby Murdoch, but that was as much as she could read. “She seems to think this will stop someone? Stop whom? And from what?”

Alex turned to her with a feigned scolding look. “Do you really want to spend your wedding party pondering the mysteries of Katya Marlowe?”

“No,” Marigold answered, closing the envelope and handing it back to him. “We have much better things to do.”

“We do indeed,” he said, lowering his voice to a timbre too scandalous for public use.

The butterflies in Marigold’s stomach launched into action once more as Lady Stanhope’s words came back to her. The divine mysteries of passion seemed just a heartbeat away.