Taciturn in the Ton (Misfits of the Ton #9)

Chapter One

Rosecombe Chapel

“Are you ready?

Olivia winced at the sharpness in her brother’s tone and tightened her grip on his sleeve. Though she focused her attention on the stitching in gold thread around the cuff and the perfectly formed buttons that had been polished until they shone, she could still feel his gaze upon her.

He was not a man to be denied.

In fact, he’d never been a man to be denied. He commanded the admiration and respect of hundreds of souls whose lives depended on him, who spoke his name in hushed tones.

His Grace, the Duke of Whitcombe.

Aristocrat, landlord, master. Husband, father…

And brother.

Or half-brother, though he threatened to destroy anyone who dared make the slightest reference to Olivia’s birth.

“Sister?”

She winced and lifted her gaze.

Though he was silhouetted against the morning light, she could see the intelligence gleaming in his deep-set eyes. Their expression spoke of a strength of will that could never be matched, let alone conquered.

In short, he was the most imposing, terrifying man she had ever encountered. Save one.

The man waiting at the end of the aisle who, with his bare hands, could crush whole armies.

The man she was soon to call husband.

Olivia’s brother lifted his hand to her face and frowned as she flinched. He cupped her cheek and his lips curled into a smile as he spoke, his tone softening.

“Olivia, are you ready?”

She nodded.

“He’s an honorable man. He’ll treat you as you deserve to be treated.”

“As a bas—” she began, but he took her wrist.

“As the sister of the Duke of Whitcombe,” he said, the hardness returning to his voice. “How can you expect the world to respect your position if you cannot respect it yourself?”

Moisture stung her eyes, and she blinked. A tear spilled onto her cheek, and he brushed it away with his thumb.

“He’s a fortunate man to have you,” he said. “He’ll come to realize that. If not, I’ll—”

“Yes, brother,” she said, wincing at the bitterness in her tone. “I know what you’ll do. I’ve seen the marriage contract.”

He sighed. “The stipulations in the contract are there to protect you.”

“Do I need protection?”

He glanced toward the altar. “No more than any woman.”

She turned and followed his gaze. On one side of the chapel sat her sister-in-law, Eleanor.

Her bonnet was trimmed with the pale-green ribbon to match the sash around Olivia’s waistline.

The two of them had chosen it the day the modiste fitted Olivia with her hurriedly made wedding gown, and Olivia’s cheeks warmed at the memory of the pointed glances Madame Dupont had made toward her belly.

Did the rest of the meager congregation—the dowager duchess sitting next to Eleanor, smothered in black-lace-trimmed silk, a handful of friends in the pew behind, the housekeeper and butler, the steward, and a smattering of tenants—share the modiste’s suspicions?

The vicar stood at the end of the aisle, a Bible open in his hands, his expression impassive.

As a child living on the estate, Olivia, like the rest of the village children, had been a little afraid of Reverend Ouston.

But from the moment her brother had recognized her as a member of the Whitcombe family, the vicar showed her nothing but kindness and deference as the duke’s sister.

But did he now suspect her to be a fallen woman?

Would he look upon her with the kind of disdain that the majority of the world turned upon her merely due to her birth?

Her gaze slipped sideways to the groom’s side of the chapel—empty, save a solitary guest at the front. The sunlight formed a halo around his hair, bathing him in light. And standing within a few feet of him at the front of the aisle…

Oh, heavens!

Her stomach fluttered as her gaze settled on the one thing she dared not look at…

The bridegroom.

His tall, powerful frame dwarfed that of every other soul in the chapel.

Dressed in a dark-blue jacket, with a thick head of dark hair curling about his shoulders, he seemed to absorb the light.

He stood, his back to her, body tense, as if ready to engage in a fight to the death.

His jacket seemed to stretch in protest across his shoulders.

His hands hung at his sides, curled into fists.

Then he moved his left hand, and Olivia caught a flash of light reflecting off the signet ring on his fourth finger—a dark-red ruby to match that on the ring on the third finger of her left hand, the large red stone that seemed to wink malevolently at her like a silent, watchful eye.

Stop being such a fool!

Silently, she cursed her imagination.

He was not the devil, nor even a demon. He was a living, breathing man. One who deserved compassion, for he did not fit into the mold of the Society gentleman.

He was, perhaps, as much of a misfit as Olivia herself. And he wanted this marriage as much—or rather, as little—as she.

Eleanor said that two hearts could unite when they were compelled to face adversity together. What better way to describe the situation Olivia found herself in now, standing at one end of the aisle, on the brink of cleaving herself to the man awaiting her at the other?

“Come, Livvie,” her brother whispered. “Show the world, and the groom, that today he is to become the most fortunate of men.”

She nodded and forced a smile. Her brother returned it, then he raised his hand and gave a sharp nod.

Almost at once, the music stopped. Then the organist filled the chapel with a fanfare to the tempo of a march, as if announcing the arrival of royalty—the princesses that Olivia used to read about in storybooks.

Only she wasn’t a princess. She was the bastard child of the late duke who, having compromised herself, was being hastily married to save her reputation and that of the present duke.

No. That was unfair. Her brother loved her and believed he was doing what was best to make her happy.

She was like any other Society bride, embarking on a journey with a stranger.

The bridegroom was an honorable man—his coming here today was evidence of that.

And honor was as good a reason as any to marry.

From honor came respect. And from respect, perhaps love might blossom.

“I’m ready,” she said, curling her fingers around her brother’s arm. “I’ll make you proud of me.”

“I already am,” he replied, smiling. “Shall we?”

She nodded and, head held high, let him guide her along the aisle. Buoyed by the music, Olivia felt her hope soar as they passed Eleanor, who smiled encouragement, her eyes shining with tears of happiness.

Then the groom turned.

Olivia’s stomach clenched in fear as he fixed his gaze on her. Eyes so dark they were almost black, mouth set in a hard line, he showed no sign of honor, hope, or joy. Instead, his very soul seemed to vibrate with anger—directed at her, the bride he never wanted.

And, in a matter of moments, she would become his, in the eyes of the law and the church, to do with as he pleased.