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Abbott was waiting in Brice’s sitting room, his face a mask of worry. The moment Brice stepped in, he was greeted with “Are you certain you want to go through with this? You could yet change your mind.”

His friend had been full of such wisdom these days. “Of course I could. Which is why I don’t intend to.”

“You scarcely know her!”

“Oh, bah. How often does a couple really know each other after a Season in London spent flirting and lying? All anyone ever cares about is pounds per annum, anyway.” A bit more cynical a view than he usually took, perhaps, but it served his purpose. He strode to the mirror and checked his tie for the fourth time. “At least we are
aware
that we don’t know each other. We haven’t false pretenses between us.”

“Nottingham.” Abbott used that solemn tone of voice with him rarely enough that it stilled him as his friend drew to his side. “Please don’t be flippant. Marriage is a sacred union, one that ought not to be entered into lightly. I am honored to count you as one of my dearest friends—I only want to be certain you’re not making a mistake.”

Brice turned so that he could look into Abbott’s actual eyes rather than his reflected ones. “I appreciate the concern, Ab. I do. But this is what I’m meant to do.”

But it was irritation in Abbott’s scrutiny, not acceptance. “Will you claim again that God told you to?”

Apparently it was too much to ask that his wedding day be all smiles and congratulations. Brice drew in a breath that did nothing to soothe the frustration. “You have never doubted me before when I said I felt the Lord pressing something upon me. Why now?”

Abbott spun away. “Of course I’ve doubted you—anyone in his right mind would doubt you! No one hears from God as you claim to. I’ve just always bitten my tongue, as it hardly mattered.”

Brice sucked in a breath, much as he would have done had his friend punched him in the stomach. That was about what it felt like. “All your talk of your beloved George Müller and his unsurpassed trust in the Lord, and you can say ‘no one hears from God’ like that?”

His friend flushed. “He was a man of God. Not a duke.”

Frustration simmered. No, not just frustration. Hurt. “So I am only permitted to be so close to the Lord if I am a missionary? Is that it? I cannot both follow Him
and
be a good steward of what my family has left me?”

Abbott turned partly away. “You spend most of your day seeing to the things of this earth. Tenants and rents and improvements, sessions and balls and soirees. Then you come and say God spoke to you, when I have dedicated my whole
life
to Him and never—”

“Abbott.” Brice’s sigh did more than rob him of energy. It left him aching. “You are one of the best men I know—the most faithful. I always thought we strengthened each other in our faith. Do you mean to tell me that I’m a hindrance to you instead? That you resent me or distrust me or . . . ?”

“No! It is just . . .” Abbott sank to a seat in the stiff armchair by the hearth. “You cannot always be right, Worthing. It is impossible.”

A lump stuck in his throat. No one called him Worthing anymore, not unless they slipped, forgot his new title. Hearing it from Abbott now took him back to their shared childhood, when it had never mattered that they were unequal in the sight of the world. He had thought it still didn’t—more the fool him, apparently, if his oldest friend had been judging his lifestyle all the while. “I never claimed to be always right. I know I make my share of mistakes.”

“So then pause for half a moment. Consider that this could be one of them.” Abbott splayed his hands, his eyes earnest. “This is the rest of your
life
.”

“And I have done nothing
but
consider that these two days! Disbelieve it and resent it if you must, but on this I am without a doubt. I am meant to marry Rowena.”

Abbott groaned and rubbed a hand over his face. “Do you not hear yourself? How you sound? Have you paused to actually look at this girl you’re marrying and realize that she isn’t like any of the young ladies you’ve flirted with?”

“Of course I realize that—I realized that the moment we were introduced.”

“What then? How will you make her happy? How will you get to know her? And how will she respond the first time you let loose some of your typical flattery, aimed at another woman? Have you thought of
that
?”

A valid point, that. Flirting
had
become his way, and he often didn’t even notice he’d done it until a gleam flashed in a set of feminine eyes. He had always imagined that his bride-to-be would be so secure in his affections that she would laugh away any slips he made.

But Rowena wouldn’t be. Couldn’t be. She was so very insecure in general, not to mention in their relationship, which was more potential than reality.

Brice sighed. “You’re right, there. And I thank you for the reminder.” He raised his right hand and straightened his spine. “I promise you, O Reverend Mr. Abbott, that I will guard my tongue, my heart, and my bride with equal fervor. I will do all in my power to win her heart, give her mine, and make her happy.”

Abbott didn’t relax. Didn’t grin. Certainly didn’t laugh. “You’re being flippant again.”

“But I’m not.” Sinking to a chair, Brice caught himself a second from running his fingers through his hair and mussing it. “Perhaps my tone is light, but my meaning isn’t. I know this is my life, Ab. And Rowena’s. I know we are strangers. I know the path to a steady, unfading love will not be an easy one. And yet . . . and yet I can’t help but think that it’s
because
we’re so different—and that
she
is so different from all the young ladies I’ve known before—that we will ultimately suit.”

Abbott breathed a sigh. “I will be praying for you.”

“Thank you. That is all I ask.” Since, apparently, outright support was too much to hope for. “And while you’re praying, keep our families before the Lord too—that we somehow bridge the decades of bad blood between our parents.”

“Well.” Abbott leaned forward, forced merriment in his eyes. “If you really want to win the favor of her family, I suggest you put that on.”

One glance at the kilt Lochaber had sent over and Brice snorted a laugh. “On second thought . . . I’m really not all that keen on her father’s favor, thank you very much.”

Eight

S
he was married. Rowena’s hands shook as she fumbled the clasp of the ruby bracelet Charlotte had given her minutes before they headed to the kirk. It was done. Official. She was the Duchess of Nottingham, lady of a manor she’d never seen in a place she’d never been, one of the highest-ranking peeresses in a country she’d never so much as visited, among ladies who would want nothing to do with her.

She was married, and in a matter of minutes her husband, who had been all beaming smiles and soft flirtation throughout the ceremony and the interminable banquet afterward, would come through that door that connected her temporary room at Gaoth Lodge to his. He would come in and expect to kiss her and put his hands on her and . . . and . . .

She couldn’t breathe. Her vision blurred. The heavy necklace choked her. She tossed the bracelet into the wooden box and tried to convince her shaking hands to work the clasp of the necklace.

“Easy, lass. Let me help.” Lilias strode calmly from the dressing room and brushed Rowena’s fingers away. Two quick motions and the necklace sagged, unclasped.

Still it choked her.

Humming, Lilias arranged the gems and gold in the box just so, framing the earbobs. She touched a finger to the gems dripping from those. “’Tis a shame ye couldna wear those too, Wena. We shall have to pierce yer ears so ye may.”

The shake of her head wasn’t so much at the thought of a needle piercing her earlobe as at the dagger buried hilt-deep in her stomach. She was married.
Married
. To a complete stranger. One who was sure to be disappointed in her. Who would come to resent her for intruding on his life. For standing between him and all the beautiful young ladies he’d no doubt been deciding between.

Or maybe she
wouldn’t
stand in his way. Maybe he was like every other powerful man she’d ever heard of. Maybe he even now had a mistress and would dally with whomever he pleased, expecting her to turn a blind eye. How was she to know?

She squeezed her eyes shut. “I’m going to be sick.”

Lilias’s fingers dug into her shoulders and forced her spine straight. “Ye willna. Deep breaths, Rowena. In and out. In and out. Ye can do this. Ye
must
do this.”

She understood the
must
. All of Lilias’s arguments made fine sense—if she were with child, which seemed more likely as each day went by, then her bairn would need a father. One who would love, instruct, protect . . . and what man would do that if he suspected the babe wasn’t his own? Yes, Lilias had reason on her side.

But reason didn’t change that Rowena simply
couldn’t
. She couldn’t lie to Nottingham about something so vital, when he had sacrificed his future to help her. She couldn’t let him touch her just to perpetuate that kind of deception.

Oh, how she wished Annie would come bursting in and toss herself into her lap.

Deep breath, in and out. In and out.

“There now.” Lilias soothed a hand over her Rowena’s hair, plucking pins out as she went. “See? All will be well, my darling lass. He’s a good man. I was talking with his valet when I came with yer things, and Davis said he’s been serving His Grace for a decade now. A better Christian he’s never met, he says. Kind, generous, upright of character. He’ll be a fine husband, Wena. Nothing to be trauchled about.”

The words swirled through her head like fog. Vapor. Smoke, cloying and suffocating.

“And tomorrow, he’ll take you from this place. From Malcolm. Ye’ll never have to face the monster again, and ye’ll be far away from yer father too. Safe. Protected.”

Unless Nottingham was even worse than Father. As bad as Malcolm, and as adept at hiding it. Two days ago she had been sure he couldn’t be, but she had already proven herself a terrible judge of character. She could have been mistaken about him too.

Soon she’d know. Because Lilias would leave and he would come in and she’d be at his mercy.

The last of the pins plinked into the tin box that held them. Lilias hummed a broken snatch of melody as she brushed through Rowena’s hair. All too soon the brush came to a rest beside the box of pins, and Lilias patted her shoulders.

“All ready, Yer Grace.” She grinned into the mirror as she used that strange title for the first time.

Rowena couldn’t smile back. The title wasn’t the one she’d always thought would be hers someday. Not Lady Lochaber. She would only be the Duchess of Nottingham now, too high a position for that mere “lady” to be attached to her name. A shiver stole over her. Duchess. Her Grace. A stranger even to herself.

“Aye, it is a mite chilly in here. Come. I’ll help you to the sofa and then fetch yer shawl.”

Rowena’s lips were numb, her tongue useless. She could find no words to object as Lilias helped her to her one good foot and then a-hobbling for the small divan situated by the fireplace. The heat from the fire couldn’t touch her. The familiar shawl that soon draped her shoulders felt heavy as shame.

Then Lilias ran the tips of her fingers over Rowena’s cheek, kissed her forehead, and smiled. “All brides are nervous on their wedding night. Even I was, though I was head over heels for my Cowan. He’ll understand yer fear, but ye . . . ye must let him comfort you, lass. Let him love you.”

“Let him love you
.
”
But he wouldn’t. There would be no love tonight, not the true kind. Only bruising hands and insistent mouths and the stuff of which nightmares were made.

Lilias stepped away, still smiling as if this were a good day. “I’ll go and let Davis know ye’re ready.”

Unable to object, Rowena settled for squeezing shut her eyes and gripping the shawl tight. She could do this. She could. She must.

She couldn’t. She
couldn’t
. There’d be nothing left of her inside if she did. She couldn’t let him take what wisp remained, no more than she could lie to him. She couldn’t. Mustn’t. Wouldn’t.

The shivering intensified until the word no longer suited it, until it deserved to be called shakes, even convulsions. Perhaps she would quake to pieces before he could even come in.

A light rap on the door between their rooms, and it opened. Through the blur before her eyes she could only see the dark head. The pajama-clad legs. The height of him.

Rowena leapt to her foot, gripping the side of the sofa to keep her balance.

Through the blur she made out his smile, small and soft. He didn’t come any closer. “I know this is awkward. And we needn’t—we’re strangers still. I thought we could just talk. Get to know one another.”

Talk
. She’d thought Malcolm interested in talking, had been fooled by the months of conversation and longing looks. But the words had been deception. A mask over the monster. “Please go away.”