“Eleanor, for heaven’s sake, you are the one who told me I needed to stop reading unrealistic novels and find a husband. My present circumstances have imperiled any future chance for a good match, and so I’ve decided to do something to erase the scandal hanging over me by the only means possible. What does it matter whom I marry, as long as it is done?”

But even as she shaped the lie, Mary anxiously watched Eleanor’s face for signs of distress, worried that this unwelcome news, while better than word of a possible assassin on the household staff, might still be enough to send her sister into labor. God knew she was already doubting her own agreement to this crazy plan.

What was she thinking, agreeing to marry West?

The armed footman hovering in the hallway did little to settle her fears, though she was grateful that West had reluctantly agreed to her demand that he not accompany her himself. It was hard enough to have this conversation with Eleanor without giving it all away. The last thing she needed was a handsome blond scoundrel glowering over her shoulder.

Thankfully, her sister seemed more interested in doubting her capacity for rational thought than succumbing to panic. “While I can concede it is important for you to marry someone, and rather quickly at that, whom you marry matters a good deal when the man in question is that damned Westmore!” Eleanor retorted.

“Well, he is the only one who has asked me,” Mary pointed out.

Eleanor waved a fist, clutching the scandal sheets—which had indeed printed the news of Mary’s eventful night out. “A fact which would not have happened again if you hadn’t snuck out last night to dance with the scoundrel!”

Mary spread her hands. “I can admit Westmore isn’t the optimum choice for a husband. He’s rude and crude and a bit too handsome for his own good. But the point is, I doubt I will receive another offer, particularly now that I’ve made the scandal sheets a second time. And I do so want to be a wife. A mother. Like you.” She smiled, hoping she looked at least a little besotted with the man. “I cannot help but feel this is my only chance for happiness.”

A lie, that. Because beneath such a flimsy, fabricated argument ran a ribbon of solid steel. In the end, Mary hadn’t hesitated to say yes. Hadn’t considered whether her answer might be based more on want than need. It might be unfathomable to her sister, but deep in her heart, in a place she didn’t care to unlock for further dissection, she wanted to be Mrs. Geoffrey Westmore.

Good heavens. No wonder her sister doubted her sanity.

Eleanor began to look uncertain. “You really . . . like him?” she asked dubiously. “You do not mind his . . . er . . . significant reputation?”

The blush that claimed Mary’s cheeks did not have to be manufactured. Did she like him? She was afraid she might feel more for him than such a bland, simple emotion.

But she was terrified, too. He was a man of a certain reputation. He made her feel things. Deeply. And as worried as he seemed to be for her safety, she was equally worried for his. They were tracking potential killers, one of them the most powerful of peers. History had taught her that love, whether for a father, a brother—or, she feared, a future husband—could be lost in the space of a moment. And in spite of his assurances that he wanted to marry her, in spite of her own desires, she couldn’t shake the feeling she was agreeing to a future heartache.

“I know he is a bit of a rogue, but perhaps I might yet shape him into a better man,” she said softly, wondering if perhaps she was giving too much rein to her imagination once again. After all, heroines might change the men they loved in books, but as she was discovering, things were a bit more difficult when experienced in the flesh.

In response to such nonsense, Eleanor gave a soft cry, swatting at her arm.

Mary looked down as something pinched her wrist as well. She could see a half dozen fleas, jumping across the lace edging of her sleeve, and hid a relieved smile to see her future husband was a man who kept his promises, even when they were of the “vermin-producing” variety.

“Fleas!” she cried, leaping to her feet.

“Fleas?” Eleanor echoed, looking dazed.

“There must be an infestation.”

“But . . . we don’t even have a dog! Or a cat . . .”

Inspiration seized Mary. “Well, you probably ought to get one, don’t you think?”

“Why would you say that?”

“Because if you had a dog, or a cat you probably wouldn’t have rats, which is no doubt where the fleas are coming from.” As Eleanor turned pale, Mary pulled her sister to her feet. “Come on, then, you can’t stay here. We’ll need to call an expert in to deal with it.” She all but dragged Eleanor from the bedroom. “But do not worry, you can stay with me tonight.”

“Stay with you?” Eleanor asked in confusion. “Where?”

“At Cardwell House. After all, where else would I spend my wedding night?”

“Today?” West’s mother asked, her hand fluttering about her high lace collar. She looked around the drawing room in horror. “Here?”

“This evening,” he affirmed. “Six o’clock.”

“But . . . we’ve no flowers!” his mother protested. “And I’ll have to send cook to the market if we are to arrange a wedding luncheon—”

“We do not require flowers.” It wasn’t as if this was a joyous celebration. Someone had threatened Mary’s life. The more planning that was put into this furtive ceremony, the more delay that was introduced, the more chance there was for something to go wrong. “Or a wedding luncheon,” he added, seeing his mother’s forehead wrinkle in objection. “We wish to keep everything simple.”

To have Mary gone so long from sight made his fingers twitch with worry. He’d accompanied her home, but had been forbidden to stand guard while she spoke with her sister. She’d insisted she needed privacy to convince her sister of this plan, and that his presence would only make things more difficult. Still, he’d dispatched his own footman to stand guard—he didn’t trust any of Ashington’s staff—and pressed his pistol into the man’s hand, warning him to be on guard. He’d dutifully loosened the fleas on his way out.

And he’d been on edge, every moment since.

His father laid a hand on his shoulder. “Geoffrey. I can see you are eager to have this done, but could we not even wait until tomorrow? Why such hurry? For heaven’s sake, it’s a Sunday. And we need time to send an invitation to your sisters.”

“I already sent a footman to Lucy’s house a half hour ago,” West countered, “and Wilson is delivering an invitation to Clare as we speak. I am afraid it is too late to summon Lydia from Lincolnshire, but I will simply have to beg her forgiveness when we see her at Christmas. I’ve sent a note to Grant, although I suspect it will be a miracle if he wakes in time to read it. They have all been instructed to be here by six o’clock this evening. Never fear, there will be the appropriate number of witnesses.”

His father took off his glasses, and peered myopically at West, as if trying to see his son for the very first time. “For God’s sake, Geoffrey, it isn’t only about witnesses. We’ve not yet even met Miss Channing. I know you intended to marry the girl after that business with the gossip rags, but I thought she had refused you, to our great relief.”

West bristled. Why should his parents be relieved Mary had initially refused him? And why would they hesitate to wish him well now? “When you meet her, you will think she is wonderful, as I do. I’ll have you know I feel fortunate to be marrying this woman.”

At their matching shocked expressions, he realized, then, how odd such a thing sounded coming from him. And how odd it felt to realize that it wasn’t even a lie.

He did think she was wonderful. He was fortunate. The threats delivered by that note may have provided the means to this marriage, but he was by no means averse to the outcome.

“It isn’t that we object to Miss Channing,” his mother protested. “It’s that we haven’t had a chance to meet her. You’ve never shown the slightest interest in a woman before, at least not seriously.” She hesitated a telling moment. “Does she know what she is getting in you?”

West realized, then, that perhaps they weren’t worried about him so much as they were worried about her. He was glad, perhaps, that their doubts were of the more familiar variety, a disappointment in him, rather than a disapproval of her. “I think she has a fair notion. And in spite of it, I vow to do my best to make her a good husband.” He turned on his heel. “I will leave the preparations to you then, Mother.” He aimed for the door. “No flowers. No luncheon. No guests beyond family and Grant.”

“But Geoffrey!” his mother’s voice tugged at him. “Where are you going?”

“I need to buy a wedding gift.” And given his future wife, he knew just the one.

By half past six, it was done.

The vows were mumbled, the rings exchanged. The sure, quick pressure of West’s lips against her own told the small audience of family and friends that she now belonged to him, but the gesture sent confusion cascading through her.

No matter his earlier claims to the contrary, he’d well proven himself a hero this evening, marrying her, giving up his future for her protection. They’d put on a proper show, but did he mean for this to be a real marriage? And what did she want out of it, beyond an assurance of Eleanor’s safety? All good questions in need of answers.

But first, she had a small gauntlet of guests to survive.

Dr. and Mrs. Merial stepped forward to offer their congratulations, followed by Lady and Lord Cardwell. They welcomed her warmly, though they all seemed a bit dazed by the suddenness of it all. Eleanor drifted away on Mrs. Merial’s arm, murmuring something about “needing to find her bed and lie down for a nap.” Mary knew Eleanor wasn’t happy about the marriage. But no matter how angry or confused she might be, her sister was at least safe.

Mary could not bring herself to apologize, or regret the lengths she’d taken to ensure it.

The stooped, smiling butler who’d opened the door that morning materialized in front of them, clearly as much a part of the family as anyone else in the room. “Mrs. Westmore,” the man said with a delighted smile, bowing formally in greeting. “I am so pleased to meet you.”

“And I you.” Mary smiled, appreciating the kindness she could see on his wrinkled face.

“This is Wilson, our family’s butler,” West explained. “Enforcer of manners and all around meddler in things that ought not to concern him.”

“Whatever you wish, Mrs. Westmore, you have only to ask,” Wilson said, chasing it with a small wink. “Especially if it’s a proper prank we might play on Master Geoffrey together.”

“Oh?” She glanced up at West, who was glaring down at the servant with a mixture of affection and annoyance. “A proper prank? I am afraid only the improper ones come to immediate mind. I shall have to wrap my head around that.”

“I shall eagerly await your ideas.” Wilson bowed again before taking his exit.

“He seems nice,” Mary giggled.

“You might wish to reserve judgment until you get to know him better,” came her husband’s dry reply. “Because if you let him, Wilson will harangue you within an inch of your life.”

A sullen, dark-haired gentleman stepped forward next, and the laughter died on Mary’s lips. She had noticed the man’s belated arrival, which had come nearly at the end of the brief ceremony. How could she not? He was impossible to miss—bleary-eyed, unshaven, two buttons undone on his wrinkled jacket.

And most importantly, glowering at her from the back of the room.

“Grant!” West exclaimed, slapping the man on the back. “So glad you finally deigned to make an appearance at my nuptials.”

“Yes, well, it seems I arrived too late,” the man growled.

“Well, late or no, I am still glad you cared enough to get out of bed.”

“Yes, well, if only I’d done so five minutes earlier, I might have had a hope of changing your course. Now it seems I must pray for an annulment.”

West tensed beside her. “Careful, my friend,” he said, his voice edged with a warning. “There is no cause for a lack of civility.”

“No cause for any of this, near as I can tell. Friends forever, eh?” The man snorted. “What a crock. I can’t believe I saved your life, only for you to throw it away like this.”

As he pulled a flask from his trouser pocket and tipped it to his lips, Mary felt a frisson of worry. So this was Mr. Grant, West’s friend and partner in infamy. Somehow, she felt as though she ought to try to make a good impression, though he clearly had no intention of doing the same. “It is nice to meet you, Mr. Grant,” she said softly.

“I wish I could say the same.” He scowled at her. “Not that I hold it against you personally, but you’ve managed to trap a good man with your charms.”

“I suspect charm had less to do with it than fate.” Mary looped her arm through West’s, knowing this performance would set the stage for how they meant to go on. “However I’ve acquired him, I am grateful. He is a good man.” Or at least, she wanted to believe he had the potential to be a good man—opera boxes and prostitutes aside. “And I intend to be a good wife,” she added, tightening her grip.

“Well, the best wives permit their husbands a certain amount of freedom. I suppose it remains to be seen which category you will fall under.” Grant’s gaze narrowed toward West. “As a start, will I see you at White’s later tonight?”

West shook his head. “I’ll be a bit busy, as I am sure you can imagine.”

“Oh, I can imagine. You forget, I’ve spent many an hour with you at Madame Xavier’s.” Grant snorted, then made a lewd gesture with one hand. “Tomorrow, then?”

Mary could feel West’s arm tense beneath her fingers. “I’ve only been married ten minutes, Grant. We shall have to see how it all goes.”

Grant shook his head. “I hope to God you know what you are doing.” And then he made for the door, his flask still fisted in his hand.

“Your friend doesn’t seem very . . . friendly,” Mary said, low under her breath.

West sighed. “Give him time. He just needs to come to terms with the change in my situation.” He pressed a quick kiss to her temple. “And understand that I might prefer to spend time with you on my wedding night instead of him.”

Mary nodded, though she couldn’t help but suspect there was trouble brewing there.

Finally, there was only one more person left in the drawing room, a blond woman who had earlier been introduced as West’s sister, Lady Lucy Branston. She stepped up to have her turn at them. “Couldn’t do this the usual way, could you, Geoffrey?” She gave her brother a playful tap on the arm. “Four hours’ notice for a wedding invitation? I didn’t even have time to fetch Branston from Westminster. I always knew you would crash spectacularly when love finally found you.”

“Yes, it’s been quite the whirl,” West said, not contradicting her in the least.

Mary felt like fidgeting when he didn’t do anything to correct his sister’s presumption. So, he meant for people to imagine this was a love match? Well, she’d read enough books with happy endings to pretend she knew how to do this.

She only hoped her acting skills were up to the challenge.

“And as for you, I hope you know what you’ve fallen into.” Lady Branston smiled down at Mary. “My brother is a terrible prankster.”

“Perhaps I can reform him.” Mary beamed at her new sister-in-law, hoping she didn’t look like a loon. Or perhaps she ought to look like a loon—if her sister and Lord Ashington were any indication, one turned a bit silly over it all. “Love has a way of changing the staunchest of scoundrels to responsible citizens.”

Lucy snorted. “I see you are fond of fairy tales.” She leaned in to kiss Mary’s cheek. “And you are far too lovely for the likes of my debauched brother.” When Mary gaped at her, she laughed. “Oh, but you must pay my teasing no mind. Geoffrey deserves his comeuppance for the ribbing he gave me on my wedding day.”

“Also done by special license, if my memory serves,” West pointed out.

“Yes, but I believe I gave you four days’ notice,” she retorted, then blew her brother a saucy kiss as she sailed away.

As the room’s sudden emptiness pressed in, Mary cut a curious glance at her new husband. He was staring down at her with a smirk on his face that could only be interpreted as . . . anticipatory. And then he took her hand and led her out of the drawing room, heading toward the huge, spiraling staircase that led to the upper floors of the house.

“Well, Mrs. Westmore,” he said, tugging on her hand. “It is time for the next phase of this mad adventure.”

“Do you mean you wish to plan our next steps?” she asked, thinking that by mad adventure he meant the assassination plot. “I haven’t had time to work on another list, but if you could find me a pen and paper I could list the gentlemen I spoke with last night—”

“Mary.” He pulled her up onto the first step. “You won’t need a pen for a solid few hours.” His easy smile shifted to something more wolfish. “You must trust me when I say your hands will be too occupied for lists.”

Mary swallowed. It was still quite early, not even dark outside yet—surely too soon to be retiring abovestairs. “Do you mean . . . they will be occupied with a fork?” she asked. “Because we’ve not yet eaten and I do think I could use a—”

“If you are hungry we can have a tray sent up to my bedroom.”

She tripped on the bottom stair. He’d said bedroom. Oh, good heavens. He wanted to do this now? Her free hand gripped the banister. “Wait!” she gasped, scrambling after him, but then her foot hit a place on the stairs that unleashed a loud, spluttering sound.

She froze, her cheeks burning as he looked over his shoulder.

“That is quite a wedding gift you’ve just given me.” His smile curled the edges of his mouth. “Fortunately, I have one for you, too.”

She shrank backward. Oh, but how could he think she would do such a thing? It hadn’t been her breaking wind, surely he knew that! But that didn’t make it any less mortifying.

“Don’t look so pained,” he chuckled. “It was a joke, and one not even intended for you.” He bent down and pulled a flattened object from beneath the step. “See? A wind-maker. I like to tease Wilson, every now and again. The man likes to lecture me in return. Somehow, we reach an equilibrium.”

Her breath caught in her throat, her own equilibrium anything but reached. She stared at this man who was now for better or worse her husband. He had placed that . . . that . . . thing beneath the stairs on purpose? Good heavens. Eleanor and Lady Branston had both warned her he was a prankster, but somehow, in the terror of the morning and the need to ensure her sister’s safety and the fluttering anticipation of saying “yes”, she’d forgotten what this man was capable of.

She was well-reminded now.

“Well then, no wonder Wilson wants to play a proper prank on you,” she frowned.

Unrepentant, he tugged her upward until she fell into his arms. She tried to hold tight to her annoyance, but her stomach slid somewhere to her knees as his lips met hers in a kiss far more steeped in promise than the perfunctory wedding kiss he’d given her below. His tongue traced the seam of her closed mouth, urging her to open until finally she did so with a small sigh of surrender. But that, of course, was when he pulled back, drat the man.

“Do not faint on me now.” He smirked. “Not until I’ve got you up the stairs and undressed, at any rate.” He tugged at her hand again. “Then you can faint at your leisure.”

As he urged her up the last few steps, she forced herself to breathe. Her new husband was a scoundrel of the highest order, and by his own words he meant to undress her. The conversation she’d had with Eleanor nearly two weeks ago flashed through her mind in bits and pieces. He’d had intimate relations with the household governess. Four woman at once.

And oh, good heavens, that bit about the corpse . . .

She’d quite forgotten about that in the chaos of the morning.

Too soon, she found herself pulled into his bedroom. She breathed in deeply, trying to force away the nervousness that plagued her. But that lungful of air only made the fluttering of her stomach intensify. His bedroom didn’t smell like a den of depravity, which she imagined would smell something like brimstone and opium. No, it smelled like him. Spiced rum and soap. Things that made her muscles clench in pleasant anticipation, not fear.

“If you are wondering where your things are, I suspect the footmen will bring your trunks up later,” he said.

“I . . . that is . . .” Her voice trailed off. How to articulate that when asked her preferences earlier, she had instructed the footman to place her trunks and things in the bedroom next door? She’d thought she was being brave at the time, even selfless, giving West his privacy. But now she only felt foolish.

She heard the door shut behind her and the key turn in the lock. She closed her eyes, slivers of doubt scratching at her. This was a man who could have any woman he wanted. He’d married her to protect her, not to ravish her. But then came the creak of rope, the sound of a mattress settling. As she scrunched her eyes tighter, mortified, she heard him chuckle.

“Frightened to watch me undress, Miss Mouse?”

Her eyes flew open. He was sitting on the edge of his bed now, one hand loosening his necktie with slow, lascivious intent.

“No,” she choked out, not willing to admit it if she was. She willed herself to be brave. Or at the very least, pretend to be. “And shouldn’t it be Mrs. Mouse now?” She hesitated, then gave voice to the fear that would not quite let her be. “Or is this just a ruse we shall maintain in public so others don’t suspect this is a farce of a marriage?”

“Hardly a farce.” He pulled his necktie free of his collar. “It’s as proper a marriage as it can be.” He placed the necktie to one side. “Or at least it will be, as soon as we divest you of your clothing.” He reached into his trouser pocket.

“What . . . are you doing?” she gulped.

He tossed her a bemused smile. Pulled out his revolver, checked the chamber, and placed it on top of the bedside table. “I felt I should disarm myself first.” He shrugged out of his jacket, tossing it over the back of a nearby chair. “Don’t want to go off half-cocked.”

She stared at his face, not wanting to see the silver gleam of the barrel. Too many bad memories there, memories that would only serve to make it all worse, if she gave her imagination permission to drift there. But it seemed, though, by the grin on his face, that he was no longer talking about a gun. “No?” she breathed.

He stepped toward her. “Oh, no. Fully cocked is the only way to do this. And trust me when I say I am already there.”