The bride should be the center of attention on her wedding day and, as far as her groom is concerned, on every day thereafter.

—MISS PENCE

August 12, 1891
London

In light of the unfortunate kisses of the day before, when Charlotte met Alex at the altar, which had been covered with fragrant orange blossoms, pale pink roses, and lilies, she kept her gaze firmly on the clergyman and not on her groom. And when the time came to present the bride and groom as newly married, Charlotte presented her cheek for Alex to kiss.

Even though everything in her wished for just one more taste of Alex Hambly’s kisses.

Instead, she settled for taking his name, though upon its pronouncement by the dour white-robed clergyman, some of the bluster of her grand plan evaporated.

Or perhaps the cause was the weight of the Hambly diamond, an egg-sized stone set in a tiara of lesser diamonds and plunked on her head in the early morning hours by Alex’s enthusiastic mother. “All the Hambly brides have worn it,” she had gushed.

And they all surely went to bed with headaches on their wedding nights. Charlotte resisted the urge to pull the thing off her head and toss it away.

To distract herself from the temptation, Charlotte looked up at the canopy of roses and orange blossoms that covered the cathedral aisle, then out at the sea of faces, most of whom were completely unfamiliar. Her attention fell on Gennie, resplendent in embroidered violet satin and matching feathered hat, beaming with joy while Papa tugged at his cravat. Charlotte grinned as she spied her little brother, seated between Gennie and Papa, mimicking the elder Beck. Grandfather and Uncle Edwin completed the front pew, though neither seemed particularly happy to be there.

Directly behind her family sat Colonel Cody, who winked when he caught her looking. Charlotte returned the wink and added a sly grin.

According to Papa, the colonel had slipped away from his show, currently playing in Manchester, to attend. With him were several of his performers, all former visitors to Papa’s Colorado ranch. The sight of these cowboys and Indian braves dressed in their Sunday best had surely lifted a few brows of the stodgy Londoners in attendance.

On the other side of the aisle, Alex’s mother, a vision of elegance in gray silk, sat alone with no sign of the twin brother Charlotte had thus far only heard about. Apparently the earl was not well. At least that was what Alex’s mother had offered in explanation.

Charlotte felt someone tug at her elbow and found Alex watching her. “We’ve done it,” he said.

“Yes,” she managed to whisper as the last of the six bridesmaids filed past, “we have.”

She smiled at each of the Wellesley girls, all dressed in matching pink chiffon Marie Antoinette-style gowns with frills of lace and bows. If only Gussie could have been there, but she was far too busy with her own wedding. To George Arthur, of all people. Proof that there was a man for every woman who sought one. And sometimes for the woman who did not.

The viscount linked arms with her, and they followed the wedding party down the aisle and out into the gloomy British morning. Umbrellas were quickly raised above her, obliterating all but a tiny glimpse at the gray skies, while some poor soul kept the heavy duchesse satin train at the back of her dress off the soon-to-be-drenched ground.

As Charlotte allowed herself to be led to the carriage that would take her to Grosvenor Square for the wedding breakfast, she could only pray that the tiara balanced precariously atop her elaborate coiffure would not give her a splitting headache before the day was done. The tiny teeth of the tiara’s combs were already jabbing her. But then, so was her conscience as she smiled and carried on the charade of being the adoring bride to Viscount Hambly.

Safely inside the carriage waiting to take them to breakfast, Charlotte watched Alex climb inside to take the seat across from her.

Just as the carriage door was about to close, Uncle Edwin reached inside to thrust a small package toward her. Along with the gift came the distinct odor of alcohol. Uncle Edwin’s unsteady posture confirmed the source.

“For the bride on her wedding day,” he said before peering up at Alex. “Care for her as if her uncle might find you and cause you great pain should you not.”

“I shall, sir,” Alex said with more deference than Uncle Edwin’s behavior deserved. He passed the package to Charlotte without comment.

“Thank you,” she told her uncle. “It was very kind of you to bring a gift.”

His laughter once again sent the stench of alcohol wafting through the carriage. “I warrant you won’t thank me once you’ve opened it.”

And then he was gone. Charlotte looked down at the gift. A small book, it appeared, or something of similar size and shape.

She found Alex staring at her. “Are you going to open it?” he asked.

“Perhaps later.” Setting the gift aside, Charlotte resisted the urge to tug at the tiara. “For now, I’ll just sit very still and try not to ruin the Hambly diamond by tossing it out the window before the end of the day.”

A short while later, the tiara still intact, Charlotte stepped out of the carriage and into the wedding breakfast, where she navigated the crowd of well-wishers, swelled to at least triple the number who attended the church service, to find her place at the bride’s table.

By the time the second course was served, Charlotte could barely hold up her head, such was the pain from the diamond-studded instrument of torture. Somewhere, she thought, the dreaded Miss Pence was smiling.

The sun, what there was of it, indicated the lateness of the afternoon. Alex slid a sideways glance at his bride as they walked toward the waiting carriage. Gone was the defiant, green-eyed charmer whose talent to spark his temper was unmatched. In her place was a woman of docile temperament who neither spoke nor smiled.

The change in Charlotte Beck, now Lady Charlotte Hambly, was profound.

And slightly unwelcome.

Perhaps the Hambly tiara had done her in. Or maybe the hours of making polite conversation and greeting hundreds of guests was the reason. Whatever the cause, a meek and compliant Charlotte unnerved him. It was as if the earth had suddenly decided to turn on its axis and revolve the opposite direction. There simply was no precedent for it.

Daniel Beck followed them out into the London afternoon, clasping Alex’s shoulder. “Congratulations, son.”

Alex responded appropriately, but his attention—and his thoughts—centered on Charlotte.

“Buttercup,” Mr. Beck called, but Charlotte continued walking. Her father stopped her, then enveloped her in an embrace that lasted only a moment before he handed her into the carriage.

When Charlotte was settled, Mr. Beck thrust his hand toward Alex. “I trust you understand you’re to take only the best care of my daughter or you’ll have me to answer to.”

“I do, sir, and I shall. You have my word on it.” For the brief time that Charlotte was his wife, he intended to do just that.

“I’ve arranged for a suite for you tonight.” Mr. Beck met Alex’s gaze. “My driver will see that you reach the ship tomorrow afternoon in time to sail to Venice. I trust you’ll have Charlotte in Denver in time for Christmas.”

“Yes, of course.” Alex knew all too well their travel plans for the remainder of the year. How he would manage to pass the time in such close contact with his bride without kissing her again, he had yet to figure out.

Alex shook his father-in-law’s hand, then climbed into the carriage, where he found Charlotte leaning against the cushions, eyes closed and the tiara in her lap. He left her alone until the carriage halted in front of the hotel.

When he touched Charlotte’s knee, she swatted his hand. Startled awake, she gathered up the tiara and gift from her uncle and slid out of the carriage, leaving Alex to follow. Too soon he had retrieved the key from the front desk and arrived at the door to the suite, his silent spouse a step behind him.

“Shall I carry you over the threshold, Lady Hambly?” he asked to lighten the mood.

Charlotte ignored him, opened the door herself, then promptly attempted to shut it in his face.

Alex stuck his boot out to prevent it from closing. “Now that’s the Charlotte I know,” he said.

She moved away, the combined challenge of balancing the gift and the tiara apparently causing her to give up on both. Depositing the tiara on the nearest table, she tucked the gift—a book, Alex thought—under her arm and gave Alex a look that told him exactly how welcome he was in what she apparently felt was her own private domain.

In typical Beck style, their rooms were well appointed and lavish, as were the beautifully wrapped gifts languishing in piles in one corner of the sitting room. Alex watched Charlotte cross the expansive room, back straight and steps brisk despite the many yards of fabric in her wedding gown.

Their trunks had been delivered, as had an abundant feast. Charlotte reached for a grape with her free hand and popped it into her mouth, then moved toward the bank of western-facing windows without sparing Alex a backward glance. The orange glow of the setting sun cast his bride in shadows, preventing Alex from seeing her face.

The sound of voices in the hall behind him alerted Alex that he had not yet closed the door. When he did, Charlotte whirled and stepped into the circle of lamplight.

“Come no closer.”

He ignored her. Instead, Alex shrugged out of his jacket and tossed it on the nearest chair. Next came his shirt collar, which he gladly deposited atop his coat.

“As per our agreement, I’ll not share this suite or anything else with you, Alex Hambly,” Charlotte said, eyes wide. “So you can forget any ideas you have. Do you understand?”

Alex held up his hands. “Trust me, Lady Hambly, I’ve entertained no such ideas.”

Not exactly true, though he’d never considered his musings might actually turn into reality.

She seemed to relax as she threaded her fingers together. “Well, good. As long as we understand one another.”

“Oh, I think we understand each other just fine.”

He moved toward her deliberately and without removing his attention from her eyes, which widened with each step he made. Just before he reached her, Alex settled onto the settee by the window and affected a casual pose, though tension had him stretched taut inside.

If only he hadn’t kissed her yesterday. Hadn’t allowed himself a taste of the lips he’d been unable to forget.

On the table before him lay yet another platter of fruit, meats, cheeses, and several choices of breads, no doubt also courtesy of his bride’s father. Had there been champagne or a bottle of wine, he might have poured a glass to bolster his courage. Or, perhaps, to dull the humiliation of marrying for money even though the marriage would soon be declared over.

When watching Charlotte ignore him became too much to bear, Alex turned his attention out the window, where the people of London went about their business, filling sidewalks and spilling onto streets clogged with all sorts of conveyances. Down there the noise was deafening, the stench ever present. But here in the honeymoon suite, the silence was deafening, and the room reeked of orange blossoms and lilies.

“Alex?” Charlotte’s voice wrapped around his name and pronounced it with the slightest waver of uncertainty. When he met her stare, she continued. “It will benefit both of us to remember that ours is a marriage of mutual agreement.”

Mutual agreement. Alex tried not to wince. Instead, he gestured for her to join him on the settee.

“I prefer to stand, thank you.”

He shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

“We really must stick to the terms as agreed upon yesterday.”

“Immediately after which, you kissed me,” Alex countered. Charlotte tried to protest, but he didn’t let her. “And given your penchant for ignoring your end of our bargains, what assurances are you offering that this will not happen again?”

Charlotte shook her head. “Truly, Alex, you are insufferable.” She moved toward the settee but made no effort to sit. “I’m serious.”

“Then join me and let’s have a serious conversation.”

Alex watched her. After much deliberation, Charlotte perched on the edge of the settee, her back finishing-school straight and her entire demeanor stiff.

And yet her hair massed in wild curls at the nape of her neck, and a lovely flush of pink danced across her cheeks. From where he sat, Alex could see impossibly long lashes sweep closed, then open again.

Her fingers, still wearing the gloves she’d worn to marry him, worried with the trim on her dress. When he said her name, they stilled.

He itched to cover her hand with his. Instead, Alex rested his palms on his knees. “So, tell me how you plan to keep this proposition of yours.”