worse, but there was no doubt weddings made him edgy. They were reminders of the passage of time and the pressing need to do his duty for the Viscountcy; a duty he could not afford without a wealthy bride, which placed him in a rather contradictory position. To marry money, one needed to have money. Unless one wanted to marry a wealthy Cit. No woman of good birth wanted to marry an impoverished title. Olivia de Pugh had reminded him quite coldly of that axiom when she’d broken off their pending betrothal right after his father’s death when Conall had gone to her in good faith with the financial details his death had revealed. She had not been impressed with his honesty.
Weddings were also reminders that marriage was the greatest business risk of all, one that came with no safety net, as his mother had discovered. Her lifetime of security had been an illusion maintained only as long as his father had lived. Even his death proved that forever was for ever—the choices made in that marriage would follow his mother always. When it came to matrimony, there was no getting out of it, there was only tolerating it.
Conall took his seat five rows back from the Cowden family pew and looked around St George’s. There were plenty of people here who were doing just that—tolerating it. Behind him sat Lord and Lady Fairchild, who both gambled copiously, but never together, perhaps to recoup the excitement their marriage lacked; to his left was Lord Duchaine, who had come alone as he usually did. Lady Duchaine was in Paris, staying longer with each annual trip to the Continent. There were rumours she kept a lover in a grand apartment in the Faubourg, a lover ardent enough to override the pleasures of the London Season.
There were others, too. All decked out in high fashion, all with false smiles and similar stories. Duchaine and the Fairchilds were by no means anomalies. How ironic they’d all come to celebrate another couple being consigned to their ranks. Conall thought it more appropriate if they’d come to mourn or at least warn the couple. It seemed hypocritical for the noble masses that filled St. George’s to smile and shed a ‘happy tear’ when they knew from experience just how elusive marital happiness was.
Across the aisle, Olivia de Pugh, golden and lovely in a pale-yellow gown specked with tiny primrose flowers, entered with her family and the very wealthy Baron Crossfield. She spied Conall and gave the slightest of nods and an I-told-you-so smile. Another time, he might have felt the intended sting of her gesture, but today, Olivia’s traditional English beauty left him empty. Perhaps he’d had a narrow escape, after all. What man wanted to be loved for his income or title alone? Wasn’t this room full of people who were testament to how unsatisfying that premise ultimately was? And yet the practice of matching title to fortune persisted as if by doing it over and over again, it would suddenly come out aright.
Or maybe the room was full of people, like him, who’d once hoped they’d be different, that for them, marriage might work out. After all, it had worked out for the Treshams. That family was renowned for their love matches. Conall focused his gaze on the Cowden pew, where there sat two generations of exceptions. The Duke and Duchess of Cowden were already in place, hands linked, heads bent towards one another. Beside them sat their two daughters-in-law—Helena valiantly hiding a six-month pregnancy beneath crinolines to avoid censure and Fortis’s wife, Avaline, her blonde head held high against gossip about her absent husband. Conall made a note to speak with her at the wedding breakfast, to offer her the consolation of his presence. At the front of the church, Ferris Tresham waited for his bride, his older brother at his shoulder in fraternal solidarity. Ferris’s eyes were riveted on the back doors, but Frederick’s gaze was for Helena. Anyone could see that after seven years of marriage, he was still mad for his wife.
Once upon a time, that had been Conall’s dream, too—a love match with a woman who inspired such loyalty and affection in him. His father’s death had changed all that. His hopes for a marriage were different now. These days, a good marriage was defined for him as one that would secure his mother’s future, his sister’s dowry and his younger brother’s education, along with the upkeep of the estate. He would gladly set aside his personal affections to achieve those things which his father had failed to guarantee. That failure tainted his grief, mixing anger with an overwhelming sense of loss when he thought of his father.
Around Conall, people began to shift in their seats, heads craning to the back doors. Murmurs escalated to barely suppressed whispers. Time to start? Conall turned in his seat to catch sight of the bride and the signal to stand, but there was no one. ‘False alarm, eh?’ He elbowed his friend, Lord Hargreaves, good-naturedly.
Hargreaves, blond and young, with a nose for gossip, arched his eyebrow. ‘Hardly a false alarm, old chap.’ He lifted his chin with a discreet jerk to indicate the back rows of the church where a woman sat, square-shouldered, and dressed in lavender. Conall chuckled at that—lavender was a colour for half-mourning. Perhaps someone else understood weddings as he did. The woman’s face was veiled by a fetching lavender creation atop spun-gold hair, but it could not entirely obscure her identity.
She was not the sort of woman a man forgot.
Even veiled, there was an allure to her. She could not hide in a crowd even if she wanted to and apparently today she wanted to. The veil was doing La Marchesa di Cremona no favours. If anything, the mystery it created made her even more conspicuous. Some people were just made to stand out.
‘I wouldn’t have thought she’d dare it,’ Hargreaves went on. ‘Then again, she’s dared so much already, one wonders if another dare matters.’ Hargreaves narrowed his gaze in mild disgust. ‘Lady Brixton’s affections tolerate much. Although I wonder if Lady Brixton actually thought she would come?’
La Marchesa chose that moment to lift her veil and settle it atop her hat, revealing the refined alabaster features of her face. In her eyes was a quiet fire that challenged the guests to look their fill. She sat still, the very rigidity of her posture a defence against the murmurs flying behind fans. Hargreaves leaned close with a whisper. ‘It was all around White’s yesterday that she refused Wenderly’s offer of carte blanche. Slapped him for it, in fact.’
Conall stiffened at the callous treatment of her reputation, not caring for the way Hargreaves dissected her, although he’d be hard pressed to explain why. ‘Is there a reason she should have accepted? Wenderly’s over fifty, nearly old enough to be her father.’ It wasn’t just the age. Wenderly had peculiar tastes. The thought of her with such a man put a cold pit in Conall’s stomach. He told himself the compulsion to defend La Marchesa was for Helena’s sake.
Hargreaves raised an eyebrow. ‘One wonders what she has to live on if she refuses men like Wenderly out of hand.’ The implication was crassly clear. A woman alone required a protector. ‘Her refusal cost Wenderly the loss of several hundred pounds and his pride at the betting book. Everyone is speculating about who she’s angling for if she feels she can disregard such a generous offer. Wenderly’s pockets are deep. He’d have kept her in jewels and gowns. She’d be striking on his arm, with her height and her hair colouring,’ Hargreaves hypothesised with shrewd calculation. ‘She could have been set for some time.’
Ah, so that was the root of Cowden’s remark about honourable recourse for supporting herself. Cowden feared without the outlet for business investments, La Marchesa might be ‘inclined’ to take a less honourable offer of support. What else remained for an Englishwoman who’d been away so long she’d become something of a foreigner to her own people?
The realisation that other men coveted her, that they reacted to her in the most carnal of ways, sat poorly with Conall. He told himself it was for business reasons. If she chose to invest with him, his family would be linked with her. Perhaps he should consider if there was truth to the rumours before rushing to champion her simply on Cowden’s hesitant word. He’d spent less than an hour in her company. What did he know of her tastes and associations? Perhaps she was deserving of the speculations being whispered around him. And yet his conscience whispered another message: perhaps she was
