Chapter One
"I do," she said, and only then allowed herself to wonder
what she'd done.
But there wasn't time to think once she'd said it. The
vicar went on, then her fiancรฉ's voice, light and amused
even now, said the words he had to say to her to make her
his wife. There was still time to protest -- to undo it!
she thought in sheer panic, which passed as quickly as her
new husband's light kiss brushed across her lips.
"Courage," he breathed for her ears only, but even that
sounded to her as if it held a world of amusement. He
wasn't a fellow who took things seriously, not even his
own marriage or the compromise he'd made to be married to
her.
Nor was Lady Annabelle Wylde a woman who grieved for what
couldn't be, she reminded herself as she straightened her
spine and pinned a smile on her lips. Grief didn't matter,
nor could it change a thing. It was as useless as tears
shed railing against her fate. Good for effect, but
effecting no change. She'd learned that, at least.
Annabelle put her hand on her husband's arm and let him
lead her up the aisle to the back of the church, where
they could greet those few well-wishers who had come -- as
well as the horde of gossips and curiosity-seekers who
thronged the place this morning.
They stood in the gray stone vestry, bathed in color, the
morning sunlight pouring down fractured and brilliant
through stained glass windows high overhead. The bride
wore a long-sleeved, high-waisted white gown with a sheer
gold overskirt set with myriad brilliants that caught the
light, casting icy sparks that glinted on her fair skin. A
wreath of white orchids was wound into her soft sable
curls. She was small but her figure was perfect, shapely
in all its proportions, from her high breasts to her
gently swelling hips. Her alabaster face, justly famous
for its beauty, was serene; the long lashes that shaded
her cerulean eyes hid their expression.
Her new husband took congratulations; she, at his side,
accepted best wishes. She believed none of them. These
people were there in the same spirit Londoners swarmed to
hangings: to see something desperate, titillating, and
decisive. Today they gathered to see one of London's most
beautiful women finally wed. Beautiful, and doubtless
damned, because she was seven-and-twenty and had never
managed to marry a man she had wanted. Instead, today she
had wed a relative stranger to them all -- as well as to
herself.
Nevertheless, the new Lady Pelham smiled as she accepted
their good wishes, false or not, because if she knew
nothing else, she knew the correct thing to do. She never
lost that smile, not even when a gloriously handsome
gentleman and his equally stunning blond wife, who was
obviously with child, paused to wish her well. The line in
back of the gorgeous pair grew hushed. Not a flicker in
the bride's celestial blue eyes hinted that she'd ever
thought the gentleman would be the man at her side now,
instead of merely offering his congratulations. Her smile
didn't slip even when she spoke with his wife, who was
carrying the child she'd thought would be hers.
The bride greeted the next couple, a redheaded military
man and his wife, with the same sangfroid, as though half
of London didn't know he'd been the next man she'd set her
cap for. Nor did her smile slip as a tall, thin, elegant
gentleman took her hand and his lady greeted her, though
he'd been another that rumor said she'd aimed her heart
at, a year ago.
She'd give no one cause to gossip this day, even though
these men were the reason she was a married woman now. Not
one of them had chosen her; they'd gone to other women.
Her birth, fortune, those famous good looks, conversation,
and charm had done her no good. Each had rejected her --
only because of fate or chance, or so her mother assured
her. London gossips said more. None of it was true, but
she no longer knew what was, except for the fact that
she'd been rejected so often it was a joke to everyone but
herself.
But no more. She'd married this morning. They'd have to
find someone else to make sport of.
She watched the gentlemen as she accepted their murmured
good wishes. They were bland, cool, and as charming as she
was. She was grateful for it. She could bear speculation
and gossip, but not pity. Which was the reason she'd
passed this bright morning marrying a stranger ... not
quite a stranger, she corrected herself. They had, after
all, known each other for two months.
Her father had come to her with the viscount's offer two
months ago. Then, she'd refused. Until her father sat and
talked with her as never before, with solemn insistence.
"I'm a good judge of men," he'd said. "And intelligent
enough not to rely on just that. I've had him investigated
too. Miles Croft, Viscount Pelham, is entirely eligible.
He's recently returned from abroad and newly settled into
his honors. He's handsome enough to please any female,
only five years your senior, and has a clean reputation.
He needs a wife of good standing."
"Why would a fellow of such looks, sterling reputation,
and great prospects want to marry a female he's never even
met?"
"You didn't always use that tone of voice with me," her
father said with a frown.
She'd been honestly confused.
"That note of venom," he explained, "that sly spite."
"But then we don't talk together often, do we, Father?"
He'd looked down. "My fault entirely," he'd murmured.
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