Eight

Devonworth had almost managed to convince himself that marriage wasn’t a daunting prospect. He had lived his life after arranging things with Miss Dove much as he had before. His days were spent between his office and roaming Lords, while his evenings were spent in his study at home peppered with the occasional dinner out where politics was always the main course. That didn’t leave much time for ruminating over a future wife. Aside from the dinner last night and having his housekeeper ready a bedchamber for her, he hadn’t done very much to prepare at all.

The self-deception that his life wasn’t about to change had worked right up to the point when Miss Dove had joined him at the altar at St. James’s. The wedding had been a small affair attended by close family, David and Strathmore, and a handful of others. To say that it was understated would do a great disservice to how very little fanfare had gone into the whole thing. They had exchanged vows, and then the vicar had pronounced them man and wife, which had been followed by muted well-wishes.

Now, however, as he sat in his private carriage with her making their way through the crowded streets of Mayfair, it was impossible to ignore the fact that she shared it with him. She would be sharing it with him for years to come. At least two. She was his wife.

His wife.

She sat opposite him in the carriage with her face turned toward the window. The air was softly perfumed with lavender, a scent he was coming to associate with her. Her alabaster complexion seemed even paler than normal. The sprinkling of freckles over her nose and cheeks stood out like gold dust against the white of her skin. Her hands were clasped in her lap so tightly that her gloves seemed to be stretched too taut against her knuckles.

She was probably still anxious about the breakfast. They hadn’t spoken to each other beyond the vows. He should say something to put her at ease. What did one say to a wife?

“Did you find the ceremony to your satisfaction?” It sounded wooden even to his ears.

She stirred and set her wide gaze upon his. “Yes, it was a fine ceremony.” She looked as if the slightest jolt of the carriage could shatter her.

“I agree.” It was a failed attempt that went nowhere. She gave him the barest hint of a smile and then looked back toward the window.

He couldn’t remember ever feeling this awkward around a woman. His mind grasped at things to say to make her feel comfortable, but nothing seemed right. Reminding her that she had nothing to fear from him would lead to suspicion. Usually, those who meant harm were the ones promising not to do any.

Perhaps a compliment would help. Every bride wanted to look beautiful on her wedding day. “You look lovely.”

Her gown was a simple confection of white satin with a veil that had been pinned back from her face. The white was very striking against her hair, which appeared deep red in the watery morning light. She was actually quite lovely in a way that he found dignified. She wore her prettiness like a rose that had yet to unfurl. Her beauty was understated and contained, not ostentatious. Not like Sofia’s.

Bloody hell. He would not think of that woman on his wedding day, and he absolutely would not compare his wife to her. Miss Dove deserved more than that. Despite the fact that their marriage was very much a transaction, he would extend her that courtesy.

She gave a small nod of acknowledgment as if his compliment had been expected. As if it were customary and not a sincere expression of his feeling. Both happened to be true. “Thank you,” she said. “You look very handsome, as well.”

“Thank you.” He wore his blue morning coat.

She immediately looked back out the window, and he sighed inwardly. So much for conversation. His mother followed in her carriage along with Mrs. Dove and her two daughters. He hoped she was faring better. He’d bet anything that she was having the opposite problem. The Dove family tended toward conversation and mild theatrics—Mrs. Dove had loudly exclaimed how happy she was several times. His mother tended toward quiet.

Since conversation seemed to be out of the question, perhaps information would be more beneficial. Anytime he encountered a new situation, he gathered information and found it inevitably helped him to feel more at ease. Like tiny building blocks that made this new foundation more secure.

Clearing his throat, he said, “Hathaway and I spoke to Mainwaring last night after dinner, and it seems he’s intent on marrying Eliza.”

She nodded. “Yes, he sent a note over.” He couldn’t tell if this pleased her or not.

“I thought we would leave for my . . . our townhome after the breakfast to get you settled. We’ll depart for Timberscombe Park later on after you’ve had time to settle in here in London. It will give you the opportunity to see the place, and I can see how the repairs are progressing.”

“Repairs?”

Ah, he hadn’t completely explained his need for the marriage. At their negotiation, she had brought up the issue of the marriage being in name only, and he hadn’t properly given her the details after that. He was struck again by how vulnerable she had made herself with this marriage. There had been no one to advocate for her or even ask the right questions. Hathaway had signed all the required paperwork through his London solicitor, but he hadn’t asked the questions that Devonworth thought he should. The questions Devonworth might ask on behalf of his own daughter or ward. Questions that would verify her future husband had taken her well-being to heart.

He briefly explained to her the bizarre March weather that had damaged the roof of his estate and how that had forced his hand with the marriage. “It’s not much of a wedding trip, I know, but we can plan one for later in the summer anywhere you want.”

“That’s fine.” She gave him a shy smile. “I don’t need a wedding trip.”

The declaration left him speechless for a moment. Yes, the wedding trip was about them getting to know each other, but perhaps more importantly it was a social convention that was expected. If they neglected to take it, people would find that noteworthy, which meant it would be gossip-worthy. His career couldn’t afford the unnecessary chatter, not on top of the inevitable gossip this marriage would bring. His seat might be hereditary, but getting the votes to go his way required a reputation that didn’t court scandal.

He cleared his throat as he debated how to explain things to her in the most delicate way. “We must go somewhere. It will make things easier if people see us doing the usual things that couples do.”

“Oh.” Her eyes widened before she closed them and nodded. “Yes, you’re right. I didn’t consider that. You must be especially concerned given how much your work at the House of Lords means to you. I wouldn’t want to do anything to put that in jeopardy.”

He relaxed against the seat. “I’m glad you understand. Our marriage will be enough fodder for the rumor mill. It’s true that most marriages are still arranged; ours will be seen as a bit more . . . mercenary, if you will. We don’t have to fool everyone that we’re in love, but we do need to display a vague affection and like for each other.”

“Of course. I’m very boring, so I think the gossip will die down sooner rather than later.”

She might be boring, but her mother most definitely was not, which brought up another issue. “Will your mother be staying in London?”

“Yes, Camille has offered to have my mother and sisters stay with her in Town through the summer. Camille will be in Paris visiting Mr. Thorne much of that time.”

Good. He shuddered to think that her mother might move in with them in the autumn, but that was a battle for another day. Perhaps her sisters would be married by then and one of them could take her in.

“Speaking of your mother. What is her maiden name? My investigator wasn’t able to find it with her wedding certificate having burned.”

She froze. It was nearly imperceptible, but there had been a momentary panic in her expression before she got it under control. He’d had a nagging suspicion that she hadn’t been completely honest with him during their negotiation. Now he was certain. There was something in the woman’s background that gave her some unease.

“Why do you need to know?” she asked.

“So that it can be recorded in the family book.” That was one reason. The other larger one being that he didn’t enjoy surprises. He planned to figure out what they were hiding before it was presented to him at a most inconvenient time.

“Smith,” she said.

How fitting. “Thank you, Miss Dove.”

She smiled, and this time it was truly genuine. “You probably shouldn’t call me that now that we are married.”

He felt himself blanch. “Quite right. I had nearly forgotten.” It felt too intimate to refer to her by her first name, but there was no help for it. “Cora.”

“What should I call you?” she asked.

“Everyone calls me Devonworth.”

“Your title? That seems rather formal. What does your mother call you?”

“Devonworth.” His wife hadn’t yet learned how starchily formal everything could be here. It must seem strange given how very casual her own family was with one another.

“Your mother calls you by your title?” She frowned, displeased by this.

“My father died years ago, so I inherited the title as a child. Everyone calls me Devonworth.”

Her brow furrowed in distress. “It seems so . . . impersonal. Would it be all right if I call you by your name? Don’t you think the informality will go a long way toward making that affection you mentioned seem real?”

She made a good point. “Fair enough. You may call me by my first name.”

She smiled again, and it was so bright that his breath caught. A warm, comforting feeling seeped into him, and he made a mental note to try to make her smile at him like that again.

“Good. Leonidas it is, then.”

He laughed. “I’m afraid that would cause considerably more talk than Devonworth.”

She stared at him in question before realization overcame her. “Leopold!” She spoke through the hands covering her face in shame. “Your name is Leopold, not Leonidas.” Then almost absently, she added, “That’s worse than Devonworth.” Her hands moved to cover her mouth, horrified that she had said the thought aloud. He burst into laughter. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. It’s a very fine name,” she hurried to add.

“No, you’re right. Leopold is an old family name, which makes it stuffy and pretentious. I never cared for it, if I’m being honest. Leonidas is rather kingly.” He couldn’t seem to stop laughing, and after a moment more, she laughed, too. It was soft and breathy. He found it so pleasant that he vowed to make her laugh again and soon.

“Perhaps Leo, then?” she asked.

No one had ever called him that. For the amount she had paid him for this marriage, he was willing to let her call him almost anything, but he found himself agreeing because he had genuinely enjoyed this exchange and he wanted her to feel comfortable. Unexpected as it was, he liked his wife.

He took a deep, settling breath. There was hope that with a little time, they would find their way together. Marriage didn’t have to be a terrible curse. Before they could talk further, the carriage came to a stop in front of Sterling House, the Duke of Rothschild’s home in Town. The duke and his duchess, an American heiress he had married a few years back, had offered to host the wedding breakfast as a show of support for the marriage. Devonworth believed it was the intention of August and her sister, Violet, who had married the Earl of Leigh that same year, to take the Dove sisters under their wings to help ensure their acceptance into Society. He hoped to God it worked. Those vultures might eat her alive otherwise.

He disembarked and reached back to offer Cora his hand. She accepted it and stepped down, her expression tight with nerves. His mother’s carriage pulled up behind them. The moment the door opened, chatter spilled out followed by his mother and then the Dove family. Cora’s sisters hurried over to her while Mrs. Dove walked slower, her head swiveling as she took in the exclusive neighborhood. The houses here were larger than the terrace homes found in other parts of Mayfair and home to many notable people. The prime minister himself lived just down the lane.

“What a charming street,” Mrs. Dove proclaimed as she approached. She was dressed more appropriately today in a high-necked walking dress that had been styled to complement his mother’s. They were both light shades of blue with darker blue buttons and trim. “In New York, newer is better. I never considered that age could lend such beauty.”

“And character,” his mother added in a tone filled with meaning. “Age should lend character.”

“Shall we . . . ?” He held out his arm to his new wife only to realize her sisters had swept her up between them and intended to see her inside.

She gave him a sheepish glance over her shoulder. “I need a moment to freshen up before the guests arrive.”

Before he could reply, Harry approached. He had ridden with David, Strathmore, and Warwick in the carriage behind the Doves. He and David had stood up with him at the ceremony. Harry had the look of their father with his brown hair and eyes. He also had inherited their father’s nose, which was much too large for his face, but he carried it off with a devil-may-care attitude that charmed many women. Mrs. Dove was one of them.

“Lord Harry, darling,” she said with the faintest hint of an upper-crust London accent. “See me inside, won’t you?” She attached herself to his arm before Harry could answer and began walking up the steps. His brother didn’t seem to mind as he pointed out the finer aspects of the Georgian facade of the home.

“What manner of woman have you entwined us with, Devonworth?” his mother whispered at his side, leaving him wondering if the comment was prompted by Mrs. Dove’s faux pas in addressing Harry by the wrong title, a conversation they’d had on the ride over, or the more general eccentricities that were Mrs. Dove.

He honestly didn’t know how to answer her. Instead of addressing her question, he turned to her and said, “You look lovely today, Mother.”

It was true. She was still considered one of the beauties of the ton. He had been lucky to inherit her bone structure and high cheekbones.

She gave him a quick glance of censure, aware of his attempt to change the subject, before taking his arm and following the group up the steps.

“I am certain you’ll find Cora more to your liking,” he said. “I’ve found her to be intelligent and thoughtful. Do not hold your resentment of Mrs. Dove against her.”

His mother sniffed. “I should hope she is both of those things, but she is not who I wished for you. If your father—”

She broke off and her eyes shimmered. There was no use in going down that line of thinking. If his father hadn’t died so young, if he’d made even half of the investments that had been presented to him, if he’d done anything to modernize, then they might not be in this situation. Sofia might be the woman he had wed this morning. Despite how he’d left things with her, he couldn’t stop himself imagining her as his bride. The fact that she wasn’t left a bitter taste in his mouth no matter how he tried to dismiss her from his thoughts.

“Forgive me.” She pulled out a handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed the corners of her eyes. “This is not what I wanted for you.”

“I understand, but this is how things have to be.” Taking her hands, he said, “Cora must be made to feel welcome. None of this is her fault. In fact, without her, we would be in more trouble than you know.” He hadn’t dared share Harry’s gambling with his mother. “Can you help me do that?”

She nodded. “I won’t do anything to make her feel unwelcome. That is all I can promise.”

It would have to be enough.