World War I was the downfall of the aristocracy,” Colin contradicted sardonically.
“You can’t possibly have turned up uninvited to the Wentworth nuptials,” his mother repeated.
“Of course not.”
His mother relaxed.
“When Belinda Wentworth’s nuptials actually took place two years ago, I was very much invited—as her groom.”
His mother stiffened.
“My station as a marquess, attributable to centuries of proper inbreeding,” he continued wryly, “forced me to prevent a crime from being committed when it was within my means to do so once word reached me of Belinda’s intention to marry again.”
His mother sucked in a sharp breath. “Are you saying that I have been succeeded as the Marchioness of Easterbridge by a Wentworth?”
“It is precisely what I’m saying.”
His mother looked as if she were experiencing vertigo. The news seemed to hit her with the force of a stockmarket crash. Naturally, Colin had been counting on it; otherwise she would have been distinctly not amused by his insouciance.
“I don’t suppose she changed her name to Granville in that chapel in Las Vegas?”
Colin shook his head.
His mother shuddered. “Belinda Wentworth, Marchioness of Easterbridge? The mind revolts at the thought.”
“Don’t worry,” he offered, “I don’t believe Belinda has used the title or has any intention of doing so.”
If Belinda did use the title, his mother would be forced to style herself as the Dowager Marchioness of Easterbridge in order to avoid confusion. It would be viewed as adding insult to injury, Colin was sure.
His mother looked exasperated. “What on earth possessed you to marry a Wentworth in the first place?”
Colin shrugged. “I imagine you could find the answer among the multitude of reasons that other people get married.” He was unwilling to divulge too much of his private life to his mother. Like hell was he going to talk about passion. “Why did you and Father marry?”
His mother pressed her lips together.
He’d known his question would end her query. His parents had married at least partly because they were social equals breathing the same rarefied air. As far as he could tell, it hadn’t been a bad marriage until his father’s death five years ago from a stroke, but it had been a proper and suitable one.
“Surely you can’t mean to stay married.”
“Never fear. I wouldn’t be surprised if Belinda was consulting her lawyer as we speak.”
Colin wondered what his mother would say if she knew that Belinda wanted out of their marriage but he didn’t.
At least, not yet—not until his goal was reached.
In fact, he thought, he needed to call his lawyer and find out how the negotiations for his purchase of the property in question were going.
When the deal went through, Belinda would have no choice but to engage him—face matters without running or dodging.
Two
She’d made all the right moves in life…until a night in Las Vegas with Colin Granville.
Belinda tossed a sweater into the suitcase on her bed with more force than necessary.
She’d read history of art at Oxford and then worked at a series of auction houses before landing her current gig as a specialist in impressionist and modern art for posh auction house Lansing’s.
She was usually punctual, quietly ambitious and tastefully dressed. She considered herself to be responsible and levelheaded.
In the process, she’d made her family happy. She’d been the dutiful child—if not always doing what they dictated, then at least not rebelling.
She was never the subject of gossip…until this past weekend. One glaring misstep was now the subject of breathless coverage in Mrs. Hollings’ Pink Pages column in The New York Intelligencer:
It was to be the society wedding of the year.
Except—oh, my!
In case word hasn’t reached your tender ears yet, dear reader, this town is abuzz with the news that the Wentworth-Dillingham wedding was crashed by none other than the Marquess of Easterbridge, who proceeded to make the astonishing claim that his short-lived marriage to the lovely Ms. Wentworth two years ago in Las Vegas—of all places!—had never been legally annulled.
Belinda winced as the words from Mrs. Hollings’ column reverberated through her mind.
Mrs. Hollings had simply fired the first salvo. Damn the social-networking sites. The fiasco at St. Bart’s Church had gone viral in the past three days.
She didn’t even want to think about her family’s continued reaction. She’d avoided calls from her mother and Uncle Hugh in the past few days. She knew she’d have to deal with them eventually, but she wasn’t prepared to yet.
Instead, yesterday she’d commiserated over the phone with her closest girlfriends, Tamara and Pia. They’d both been full of sympathy for Belinda’s situation, and they’d admitted that the would-be wedding had brought them troubles of their own. Tamara had confessed that she avoided one of the groomsmen at the wedding, Sawyer Langsford, Earl of Melton, because their families had long cherished the idea that the two would wed. Meanwhile, Pia had admitted that she’d discovered one of the wedding guests was her former lover, James “Hawk” Carsdale, Duke of Hawkshire, who had left her without so much as a goodbye after one night three years ago, when he’d presented himself as merely Mr. James Fielding.
In short, the aborted wedding had been a disastrous day for her and her two girlfriends.
Fortunately, Belinda thought, she had a ticket out of town. Tomorrow morning, she would be leaving her tidy little Upper West Side one bedroom for a business trip to England. Even before the wedding that wasn’t, she and Tod had decided to postpone a honeymoon for a later date—one that was more convenient for their mutual work schedules. And now she was glad she already had a business trip planned. She couldn’t outrun her problems, but some space and distance from the scene of the crime—namely, New York—would help clear her mind so she could come up with a plan.
Ironically, while her wedding date to Tod was supposed to seal her image as the perfect and dutiful society bride, it had done the exact opposite, thanks to Colin’s appearance. Her wedding was to have been her apogee, but instead it had been her downfall.
Still, an annulment or divorce should be easy enough to obtain. People got them every day, didn’t they? She herself had thought she’d received one.
She paused in the process of packing, sweater in hand, and gazed sightlessly at the clutter on top of her dresser.
She recalled
