Chapter 2
Marabelle couldn’t believe her own cheekiness. As she crossed over the ancient and beautiful stone threshold of Northly, now a married woman, the earl was just a step behind her. She was glad she hadn’t acted the shrew.
For, in her opinion and quick summation, the Earl of Gray wasn’t a man who could be prodded or bullied into submission. Castigating him for his tardiness would have done her no good. At least, not in that moment.
She was still in awe of the way he had dashed up to the church. He had appeared with his cloak swirling, his dark hair flicking, and his eyes blazing over cheekbones so sharp one might cut oneself on them.
Oh yes. He was handsome. And he was thrilling.
She had known handsome men all her life. Handsome men had proposed to her, danced with her, teased her.
But she’d never actually met a truly thrilling one.
It had been the most delighted she’d felt since. . . Well, since before her world had slipped into endless mourning.
Perhaps. . . Just perhaps, she was going to finally have the excitement and adventure she’d longed for all her life. And love. She was determined to have love, just like her parents had. Soon enough, the earl would cooperate in this. She was certain.
The servants stood in the massive foyer in a long line. All of them were at perfect attention, starched to within an inch of their collective lives.
She wondered how he would manage this day. He didn’t seem to be a man who followed rules, regulations, or established codes.
The Earl of Gray, her husband, was almost certainly going to prove unpredictable. . . Something difficult to fathom for the rule-driven English staff.
Ford, their butler, had yet to meet the earl. He stepped forward, gesturing for a footman to take their things.
Within moments, they were both divested of hats and cloaks and gloves.
Ford gave the barest smile. “Your guests are waiting, my lady.”
“Guests?” barked Sebastian. His voice was rough, echoing off the high ceiling and columns.
“The wedding breakfast,” she replied, unable to decide if she should be horrified or amused.
She’d wanted adventure and she’d gotten it. The poor man looked like he was some great wild lion, forced into captivity. Now, the only thing he could do was snarl a bit and bat at the bars of his cage.
Gray stared at her, his dark eyes as hard as obsidian. “Wedding breakfast?”
Despite that stare, she licked her lips and smiled. Though with each passing moment, she felt a sort of ridiculous breathlessness at all his coiled energy. “I did mention at the church we’d have people waiting. You see, I took it upon myself to invite the local gentry to celebrate our nuptials.”
His sensual lips turned downward. “I see. It couldn’t be avoided?”
“It is customary,” she replied. She hid her dismay at his blatant wish to avoid the people who were to be a part of his future circle. “And they are all curious to meet you.”
She could have sworn he shuddered. The barest movement, to be sure, but he seemed appalled. What had he thought would transpire when he arrived?
Finally, he clasped his strong hands behind his back, his dark coat stretching over his broad shoulders. “Lead on, then.”
Without another word, but a growing sense that her adventure was going to prove fraught with frustration, she did exactly that.
As she led him up the stairs to one of the large rooms at the front of the massive house, she reminded herself that she knew next to nothing about her husband. Nothing except for what a bit of gossip here and there had provided.
“What is that odor?” he asked suddenly.
She placed a hand on the balustrade and glanced back at him. “Odor?”
He frowned. “Yes. It smells like a tree.”
She laughed. “You make that sound terribly offensive. I’ve had boughs brought in. You’ll find them all over the house. I adore Christmas.”
“Do you?” he drawled, looking pained.
She furrowed her brow, a feeling of dread lodging deep in her stomach. “And you do not?”
“No,” he said tersely.
“Why?” she blurted, appalled that anyone could hold such disinterest or disdain as he clearly did.
To that, he replied with stony silence. Then to her shock, he took her hand in his and began striding purposefully down the hall. . . Towards the din.
As soon as he led her through the opened doorway, a cheer went up from the guests.
“Huzzah!”
“Three cheers for the bride and groom!”
“Felicitations!”
The cheers were raucous and delighted.
The wine she had ordered to be served was clearly being imbibed apace.
A footman passed with a silver tray and she seized a glass.
Her husband stared then took a glass for himself.
“You know, you do that a good deal,” she whispered just before she took a long, barely-ladylike drink.
“And what is that?” he asked, lifting his glass to the merry room in barest acknowledgement.
“Stare,” she replied.
He sputtered on his wine but managed not to choke or spill.
The crowd of well-wishers was now applauding and clearly waiting for them to say something.
So, she raised a hand.
“Dear friends,” she began. “I have known most of you all my life. And it is my pleasure now to introduce the new Earl of Gray to you.”
And with that, she turned to him, waiting for him to do as he should and make a small speech.
He did it again. He stared at her, like a fox that had suddenly spotted the hounds.
For a brief and terrifying moment, she wondered if he was going to turn tail and dash for the door.
He did not.
Instead, he faced their guests. He said with as little excitement as one could possibly manage, “Thank you all for your attendance. I am very pleased to see you all.”
And then he strode off towards the tall windows overlooking the parkland.
By himself.
With his drink.
She stood stock still, in the spot he’d left her before their gaping guests and tried not to glower daggers at him.
Dear God, she’d married an arse. An utter arse.
A handsome arse. But an arse, none the less. There was really no other way to put it.
Could he truly hate to be married to her so much? She’d always rather thought herself a good catch.
After a moment, the crowd returned to their wine. Whispered gossip about the strange turn of the morning filled the air.
“The fellow seems to be confused,” a deep and perfectly-articulate voice said behind her.
“I couldn’t agree more,” a familiar female voice added.
Marabelle winced and allowed herself a moment before facing the Duke of Huntsdown and his new bride. She sighed. “He certainly seems to be ill at ease.”
“He thinks he’s at a funeral, I do believe,” the duchess observed.
“Oh Olivia!” Marabelle exclaimed. But then she leaned in and confessed. “He was late to the wedding.”
“No,” Olivia gasped.
The two had become fast friends since Olivia had become her neighbor and the Duchess of Huntsdown. Marabelle adored Olivia. Their friendship had arisen at an incredibly important time and, though the duke had been courting Marabelle, they’d both ensured that the peer had seen who was truly meant to be his duchess.
“Shall I go speak to him?” the duke asked. “I do think we’ve met. Years ago.”
“Please,” Marabelle encouraged with a note of gratitude. “Anything to raise his dark spirits. One would think I’d put a noose about his neck this morning in reality, not just as a metaphor.”
The duke’s lips twitched with amusement. He nodded and headed off to join the recalcitrant earl.
“He’s exceptionally handsome,” Olivia stated.
“Yes,” Marabelle agreed, clutching her wine glass like it was an anchor in a turbulent sea.
“And brooding,” Olivia added with an admiring grin.
“You should have seen him ride up to the church, all wind disheveled. Right out of the most glorious romance.”
Olivia’s eyes danced. “But reality isn’t proving quite so romantic?”
“No,” Marabelle confessed. “I’m not sure what to do. Do you think he just has bad manners?”
“He has lived abroad for some time, has he not?”
Marabelle nodded, wishing that half the county hadn’t witnessed her husband’s odd behavior. But then again, she’d never been overly concerned with the opinions of others. “Yes. It’s why I was so looking forward to marrying him.”
“Have you told him that?”
“When could I?” Marabelle pointed out.
“Tell him as soon as possible,” Olivia advised, brushing a russet curl from her brow. “I have found that the delay of speaking one’s mind with a man, while often lauded, is, in truth, a vast mistake.”
“I’ll bear that in mind,” Marabelle agreed, grateful for her friend’s advice. “Though he seems like he might eat me alive if I utter more than a few words to him at present.”
“It’s the shock.”
“Of what?” Marabelle protested. “Me? Am I so very terrible?”
Olivia blinked. “Marriage, my dear. Marriage! It’s quite a shock to a man’s system,” she said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
Marabelle laughed. “I should have thought he was made of sterner stuff than that.”
Olivia shook her head knowingly. “Babes. They’re all babes in the end. Best you remember that. It’s we ladies that are made of iron.”
Ford caught Marabelle’s eye and gestured with an ever so slightly frantic air towards the dining room. The movement was a clear sign that it was past time to go in for the wedding breakfast. But her husband and the duke seemed to have wandered off.
“I think I best draw upon that mettle now,” whispered Marabelle. “For I must go and collect my husband before the breakfast grows cold.”
“Send the drinks around again,” Olivia advised quickly. “The duke will convince him that, at least for this morning, he mustn’t act too much like a badgered bull put to pen.”
“My goodness. What an image. He does look rather gruff, does he not?”
The duchess proceeded to pluck up a glass of wine from a passing tray.
A wonderful thing. If the duchess was imbibing again, it was almost required that the room join her.
Marabelle didn’t often give thanks for the copious amounts of etiquette in her life. But at this moment, she could think of nothing better.
For, at least, the more wine drunk, the merrier the group would be. That way, they’d be less likely to think her husband felt as if he’d married a horrendous hag.