The wedding would proceed. Mariah couldn’t think of a single reason why she should reject Peter, and after his confession about his first wife as they sat beside the river, the sentimental part of her wanted nothing more than to marry him and wipe away the sadness of his past, like a heroine in a novel. Her parents were, of course, thrilled. And Victoria was beside herself with misery. But as unexpected and overwhelming as the whole things was, Mariah was certain she was doing the right thing.

Which was all well and good when it came to sitting across the supper table from Peter and talking about the weather in Cornwall, but as Mariah brushed her hair out that night, the night before her wedding, wearing her nightshift and robe and nothing more, contemplating what was about to be asked of her on an intimate level, a cold burst of trepidation filled her.

“What am I doing?” she asked her reflection, her hands and hairbrush frozen mid-stroke. She glanced down at the loosely-tied ribbon holding the front of her shift together. In less than twenty-four hours, a man whom she’d never met before that afternoon would have every right to her body.

A knock sounded at her door, and Mariah jumped. It couldn’t be Peter. He was unfailingly polite and wouldn’t possibly anticipate their wedding vows—unlike Robert—or so she assumed—but Mariah trembled as she turned to her bedroom door all the same.

“Are you decent?” Victoria’s impatient whisper sounded from the hall.

Mariah let out a breath and shook her head at herself, then stood. “Come in.”

Victoria opened the door, rushed inside, shut the door behind her, and launched into, “You cannot marry him, Mariah. You absolutely cannot marry that decrepit old man.” Her expression was filled with fiery determination, which, considering she too was in her nightgown and robe, painted quite a picture.

Mariah relaxed and crossed to hug her sister. “I know it’s unexpected, and it will be a huge change when I move away so suddenly.”

“It’s not that.” Victoria squirmed out of her arms and started pacing. “If you were marrying someone young and handsome, I’d be the first one in line to bless the vows and throw coins at your wedding.”

Mariah crossed her arms. She couldn’t argue that Peter was young, so instead she said, “He’s not as repulsive as you make him out to be. I found him quite handsome when we were on our walk.” In fact, a bit of sunlight had improved his complexion immensely. That or else getting away from the awkwardness of her parents had done wonders for his state of mind.

“But that hair,” Victoria protested. “The lines on his face. Ugh. Imagine what he looks like in other places.”

Mariah instantly went hot, not only out of embarrassment over the mention of other places, or the fact that her sister’s thoughts would head straight in that direction, but because when she had placed her hand on his leg for a moment during their heartfelt conversation, the muscle she had felt was firm and impressive.

But rather than letting her thoughts linger there, she said, “White hair can happen to a man—or a woman, for that matter—at any age. Michael Morgan was grey at the temples before he was twenty-five, like his father before him. And remember how the Johansen’s poor maid, Henrietta, went completely white after her mother’s house burned to the ground?”

Victoria made an impatient noise and waved her argument away. “He’s old, and you know it. I cannot let my dearest, darling sister throw herself away to a gnarled old—”

“Please stop trying to compare Peter to a villain in a fairy story,” Mariah barked, surprised at the vehemence of her tone and her defensiveness. “I believe he is a good, kind man who has endured a great deal of romantic tragedy in his life.”

“Romantic tragedy?” Victoria snorted. “Now who’s trying to make the man into a character in a fairy story? Lord Peter doesn’t look as though he has a romantic bone in his body.”

Mariah was certain her sister was wrong, although the only thing she had to base that on was her hope that it was so.

She opened her mouth to scold Victoria for her lack of manners, but there was another knock at her door.

“Mariah, it’s me, Mama.” A moment later, her mother opened the door and popped her head in. “Oh. Victoria. I didn’t expect to find you here.” She came all the way into the room, shutting the door behind her. She too was dressed for bed, with her hair covered by a floppy mobcap.

“I’m here trying to convince Mariah to put her foot down and refuse to let you and Papa drag her into this travesty of a marriage,” Victoria declared, her chin tilting up.

Their mother started, blinking at Victoria as though she’d grown a second head. “Lord Peter is an earl,” she said. “His fortune dwarfs our own.”

Victoria let out a frustrated growl and flopped dramatically on Mariah’s bed. “Why must everything be about money?”

“Because comfort in life and position in society are more reliable than affairs of the heart, my dear,” their mother said, crossing to sit on the bed as well. She patted the space next to her, indicating that Mariah should join them.

“Mama, I do believe you read too many Jane Austen novels when you were young,” Victoria scolded. “Single men of good fortune are not necessarily in want of wives. Particularly if they are old and shriveled and their prospective wives are still young and vibrant.”

“Lord Peter is far from shriveled,” their mother protested as Mariah sat gingerly beside her, wondering how much lower the conversation could sink. “He has taken very good care of himself, if what your father tells me is correct. He has never indulged in food or drink, has remained active in the administration of his land and mines, and is an important and respected member of the House of Lords.”

“But he’s so dull,” Victoria sighed, leaning back on the pile of pillows at the head of Mariah’s bed with a dramatic flourish. “The best years of his life are behind him. He’ll be walking with a cane in no time, and poor Mariah will be responsible for wiping the dribble from his chin.”

“Fifty is not a hundred,” their mother snapped. “I myself am fifty-two.”

Victoria gaped, sitting up suddenly. “You want Mariah to marry a man who is the same age as you?” She made a disgusted sound and buried her face in her hands.

Mariah cleared her throat. “Was there a specific reason you wanted to see me, Mama?”

“Yes, dear.” Her mother grew suddenly squirrelish as she turned to face Mariah. “Seeing as it is the night before your wedding, I believe there are a few things we should talk about.” Her eyes flashed with anxious mischief. “Victoria, it’s time for you to return to your room.”

Mortification threatened to swallow Mariah, particularly when Victoria threw her hands down and said, “Absolutely not. Under no circumstances will I leave this room. Especially if you are going to talk to Mariah about…about married things.” Victoria’s stubbornness took on a flash of curiosity.

“Victoria, you are not ready to hear what I have to say,” their mother insisted.

“I think I am.” Victoria’s chin tilted up again. “I think I have every right to know what kind of torture my dear sister is about to endure.”

“It’s hardly torture,” their mother said, her cheeks pinking.

The conversation wasn’t going to end well or go smoothly, so Mariah let out a sigh, stiffened her spine, and said, “All right, Mama. Tell me everything I need to know to prepare for my wedding night.”

“Victoria?” Their mother arched a brow at Victoria.

“No.” Victoria pounded Mariah’s pillow. “I’m not leaving. I will hear what you have to say.”

Their mother threw her hands up. “Fine. On your head be it, then. But if you dare to share a single word of what I am about to say with your friends, and if word gets back to their mothers and therefore to me that you were the fountain of information on this topic—”

“It won’t,” Mariah said, tired of the endless prevarication the conversation had become. “Please just get it over with.”

“Fine.” Their mother cleared her throat, picked at the embroidery of her robe, and blushed even darker. “Well….” She cleared her throat again, then glanced from Mariah to Victoria, then back again. “Men and women are formed differently.”

Victoria let out an irritated sigh. “We know, Mama.”

Their mother snapped an irritated frown at her. “You may be aware of the outward characteristics, but there are different parts which are not displayed to the world.”

“That’s what I was talking about,” Victoria replied in a tone that matched their mother’s so exactly that Mariah was tempted to laugh.

“We’ve seen the differences in artwork, Mama,” Mariah said, trying not to laugh.

“Yes, well.” Their mother shifted uncomfortably. “Unless you’ve seen the kind of artwork I do not particularly approve of, you have only seen the male parts in a flaccid state. When aroused, however—”

Victoria made a choking sound and twisted to bury her face in a pillow. Mariah’s face, neck, and entire body was hot with embarrassment, not only for her mother’s awkward explanation, but from memories of Robert taking her hand and pressing it to his trousers. He had been anything but flaccid, and if he hadn’t taken her by surprise, she might have had an entirely different response to his boldness. If she hadn’t been too startled to be curious, then everything might have turned out differently.

“I think perhaps we should move on,” she said, glaring at Victoria.

“I quite agree.” Her mother cleared her throat yet again—Mariah wondered if she should offer her mother water—and took a breath, seeming to study herself. “When a man is aroused, he becomes turgid.” Victoria snorted. Their mother scowled. “A woman, however, becomes viscous when aroused.”

“Viscous?” Victoria raised her head from the pillow and gaped.

“In particular places,” their mother went on, unable to look at either of them, and glowing so red Mariah was certain she could heat the room in winter. “The purpose of which is to provide lubrication when a man’s member is inserted into a woman’s…receptacle. That is, her most sacred vessel, encased between her legs.”

Mariah winced.

“Is that the same thing as a cunny?” Victoria blurted.

It was Mariah’s turn to make a strangled noise and bury her face in her hands.

“That is a filthy word,” their mother said with a lofty sniff, then added, “But yes, it is.”

“Oh,” Victoria blinked, tilted her head to the side, then repeated, “Ohh,” drawing the syllable out. The flash of understanding in her eyes was quickly replaced by fury. “That impudent snot!”

“Did someone speak that word to you?” their mother asked.

Victoria opened her mouth, then snapped it shut. “No.” Her denial was too quick to be true. Before either Mariah or her mother could go on, Victoria erupted in a sound of utter disgust. “Mother! You can’t possibly expect Mariah to submit to that ancient relic inserting his anything into any part of her. That’s…that’s…that’s barbaric.”

“I can assure you it’s not,” their mother said, her patience clearly at an end. “In fact, it’s magnificent. The experience is far and away my favorite way to spend an evening. When done right, a woman experiences the most glorious explosion of pleasure throughout her entire body.”

“Really?” Victoria arched a brow and crossed her arms, clearly doubting everything her mother said.

“And for your information, young miss, a man does not have to be fresh out of the schoolroom to produce that thrilling sensation. Quite the contrary.”

“Mama, I don’t think you—” Mariah tried to settle her mother.

But the woman was on a roll and kept going with increasing enthusiasm. “Men might slow down a bit and need increased stimulation for a longer amount of time as they age—which is quite all right with me, as it allows us both to take our time—but women can take pleasure in a great many things with an ever-increasing enjoyment as we grow older. Particularly when there is no longer any worry about getting with child. And believe you me, my dear, I’m sure you’ll find that a more experienced man knows quite a few ways to make your time together exquisite. Besides which, once you have had many years to learn each other’s likes and dislikes, every night will be—”

“Mama!” Victoria’s eyes went wide and she sat bolt-upright. “You’re talking about you and Papa, aren’t you?”

All of the energy behind their mother’s impassioned lecture scattered into pink-faced guilt. “Well, what your father and I do when we are alone is none of your concern.”

“Disgusting,” Victoria hissed, then followed it up with a sound as though she were going to be sick. “The two of you are relics. How could you?”

“Someday, my dear, you won’t be asking that question,” their mother said, her jaw clenched.

Victoria continued making horrible sounds and shaking her head as though trying to get the image out of her mind. Mariah attempted to be circumspect about the whole thing, but when she imagined herself ardently embracing Peter, her mind’s eye conjured up images of her parents. Naked.

She grimaced and waved her hand as if trying to dispel the images. “Just tell me if it hurts,” she said. “I’ve been told it hurts.” She wasn’t about to implicate their maid, Hannah, who had painted a grim picture of what went on between men and women all those years ago, when Robert was still alive. Mariah doubted Hannah had first-hand experience of the whole thing to begin with.

“The first time can be a bit of a shock,” their mother admitted. “If a woman’s hymen hasn’t already been torn while riding or during some other vigorous activity.”

“Good lord, what’s a hymen?” Victoria asked.

Both their mother and Mariah ignored her. Thankfully.

“I didn’t experience that much pain,” their mother went on. “I was far more preoccupied with surprise over how the whole length and girth of it felt moving deeper and deeper inside of me.”

“You’re right,” Victoria shouted, leaping off the bed. “I shouldn’t have stayed to listen to this.” She marched halfway across the room, then turned to scowl at their mother. “Mama, I shall never think the same of you again.”

With a final upward tilt of her chin, Victoria turned and marched to the door, then out of the room.

Mariah let out a breath of relief as soon as she was gone.

“You’ll do fine,” her mother said, patting Mariah’s leg, then standing herself. “Lord Peter strikes me as a kind man, and fit as well. He’ll know what he’s doing. All you need to do is trust him, and I’m sure you, like me, will find yourself enthralled with the new activity, and that you’ll welcome it every time he makes advances.” A flash of mischief brought a smile to her mother’s face. “And you are allowed to initiate it yourself, if you so choose. Don’t ever let anyone tell you otherwise.”

“I won’t?” Mariah still wasn’t sure what to do with all of the information that had been imparted to her.

But after her mother left, she was still bristling with confusion and embarrassment. How was she supposed to trust a man she didn’t know with something so intimate? Even if the marriage bed was as delightful as her mother implied—and the images of her parents together continued to supersede all else when she thought about it—how could she not break apart with nervousness the first time Peter attempted to touch her? And if Peter rejected her the same way Robert had when she flinched….

She got up and walked to her washstand, splashing cold water on her overheated face. It was one thing to stand in front of a clergyman and say “I do,” but actually being married, and with hardly any warning, would be the biggest challenge of her life.

Another fit of incredulous shrieking filtered down through the ceiling. Peter did his best not to cringe. Or laugh.

“What are those women talking about up there?” Edmund asked, swirling brandy in his snifter.

“Something tells me it’s better not to know,” Peter answered, although he had a few guesses. The voice behind the shrieks was Victoria’s, not Mariah’s, and if everything he’d heard and endured during the afternoon and evening held true, she was probably waging a full campaign to convince her sister to call off the marriage.

Peter sank deeper into his chair and finished off the last of his brandy with an exhausted smile. Mariah wouldn’t call off the wedding. He barely knew her, but he knew that much. When Victoria had whined and railed, Mariah had calmly accepted. Where Victoria was flighty and impetuous, Mariah had been circumspect and thoughtful. It didn’t take a wise man to see the intelligence in her eyes earlier. And the respect she’d shown for Anne as he related his sad tale to her, well, that had won him over fully.

“Thinking about tomorrow?” Edmund asked, an impish gleam in his eyes.

“Yes,” Peter admitted.

Edmund let out a contented sigh. “You have no idea how happy I am to see Mariah settled. She means the world to me.”

“I can imagine.” Peter sent his friend a tired smile. “Daughters are precious gems.” His smile faded into anxiety. And hope. Always hope, as if it were a disease he could never quite be cured of.

Edmund chuckled. “Mark my words. It’ll be your daughter someday too, you’ll see.”

“When I’m nearly eighty,” Peter mumbled.

Edmund snorted. “You’ll be fitter and sharper at age eighty than any of the rest of us will be in five years’ time.”

“I’ll believe that when I see it.” Peter saluted his friend with his glass, then leaned forward to set it on the low table in front of them.

“Of course you will,” Edmund chuckled. “You’ll have a young wife to keep you on your toes.” He downed the last of his drink.

Peter was too exhausted and warm from the brandy to object. “I have you to thank for that.”

“It’s my pleasure.” Edmund smacked his lips and put his glass down as well. “Although I should thank you for relieving all of my worries for her.”

“Worries for Mariah?” Peter cocked his head to the side, studying his friend. The more he could learn about his soon-to-be bride the better.

Edmund heaved a sigh. “She’s far too headstrong and intelligent for a spinster’s life. And if you ask me, she was too good for that rotter, Robert.”

“Yes, Mariah told me a few things about her late fiancé in confidence this afternoon.” Although Peter was sure there was much, much more to learn.

Edmund snorted. “Robert didn’t appreciate her. He would have been better off with Victoria, except that she was barely thirteen when he died. Mariah needs to be more than an ornament on a man’s arm and a body to warm his bed.”

“Does she?” Peter’s curiosity was piqued.

“By all means, give her something to do down there in Cornwall,” Edmund went on. “If she feels useful and challenged, she’ll be the light of your world.”

“And if not?”

Edmund hmphed. “Then you’d be better off letting your nephew, William, inherit the estate.”

Peter scowled. “I’d sooner dissolve the estate and give it to the good people who work for me.”

“Surely William can’t be as bad as all that.”

“Worse.” Peter sighed, tempted to ask for another snifter of brandy. “Not only has he squandered his mother’s fortune and accumulated debts while in America last year, I have reason to believe the money he owes his creditors in London is well beyond what he’s confessed to.”

“You don’t say.” Edmund sat back and studied Peter as though watching a particularly riveting play.

Peter shook his head. “The whole point of his jaunt to the States last year had more to do with fleeing creditors and searching for a rich wife than seeing the sights.”

“Did he find a wife?”

“No. He couldn’t even do that properly. Instead of taking his pick of wealthy young heiresses, he targeted Lady Cecilia Patterson.”

“You’re joking.” Edmund burst into a deep laugh. “Young William thought he could wheedle his way into Cecilia’s affections? Why, she’s a minx of the first order.”

“You don’t need to tell me.”

But Edmund went on with, “She seduced half the men of our fathers’ generation. Oh, William.” He continued to laugh, slapping his knee.

“It gets worse,” Peter went on. “Not only did he fail to marry what he thought was a wealthy widow with one foot in the grave, in addition to the debts that he’s still trying to conceal from me, there’s a chance that he was instrumental in the death of a young woman who had been posing as Lady Cecilia’s maid.”

Edmund’s laughter stopped abruptly. “Good Lord. William is a murderer?”

Peter winced. “There’s no proof.” But he wouldn’t put it past his nephew to have a hand in the death of someone he felt was beneath him.

Edmund shook his head. “Far be it from me to recommend cruelty, but you should consider turning your back on the young man before it’s too late.”

“That’s just it,” Peter went on with a frown, “I can’t. William is my responsibility. He has been ever since my brother Will died.”

“We all feel a responsibility toward the younger generation.”

Peter shook his head. “It’s more than that. It’s written into my brother’s will.”

“How so?” Edmund frowned.

Peter let out a breath. “Will knew he was dying. He also knew that his son was a rogue. I promised that I would always have a place for William, no matter what, but Will wanted that set in stone. We drew up a legal document in connection with his will that states I will always provide a home for William at Starcross Castle, come what may. The agreement says that if I turn William out or refuse to give him shelter at Starcross for any reason, he will inherit half the estate, whether I have a son or not.”

“But that’s ridiculous,” Edmund said.

“My brother knew what I didn’t, that William is beyond reform. I think he knew William would waste the money he inherited from his mother and lose her family’s estate, which he has.”

“So what is William doing now?”

Peter shrugged. “Last I heard, he was in London, taking full advantage of all my townhouse has to offer. And racking up more debts, no doubt. I keep paying the ones I know about, which I hope will keep him away until Mariah is well and truly settled at Starcross Castle. It’s the debts I don’t know about that worry me.”

“Yes, I can imagine.” Edmund arched an eyebrow. “Is Shayles involved?”

Peter tensed. “Not as far as I know.” But even the mention of Theodore Shayles made his blood run cold. Not only was the man his and his friends’ chief opponent in the House of Lords, it was well known in certain circles that Shayles owned an establishment, The Black Strap Club, with a particularly devious reputation. If William were involved with Shayles, there was no telling how far he’d sunk.

“You will keep Mariah safe, won’t you?” Edmund asked when Peter had been silent for too long.

“Yes, of course.” Peter tried to smile. “Once she becomes my wife, she will be my first priority and greatest concern.”

Edmund let out a contented chuckle. “I knew there was a reason I suggested this marriage. I predict you will have a long and happy union.”

“I certainly hope so.”

There was another shriek above them and a thump. Someone—Victoria by the sound of it—said something, then marched across the room, slamming the door. Edmund let out a breath and rolled his eyes. “I suppose I should figure out what to do with that one next.”

“If worse comes to worst, send her to Starcross Castle.”

“Really?” Edmund asked as though he couldn’t believe anyone would willingly take that on.

“Mrs. Wilson will straighten her out right away,” Peter joked.

Edmund laughed. “Your housekeeper is a formidable woman.”

“I have a feeling my house will be known for its formidable women in no time,” he said, then pushed himself out of his chair. “Now if you will excuse me, I think I’ll try to get a good night’s sleep.”

“Absolutely.” Edmund stood and thumped him on the back. “You’ve got a big day ahead of you tomorrow. We all do.”