Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Madness was not a fleeting state of mind.
Barely two hours after agreeing to Lord Rothley’s proposal, Olivia stood in the corridor outside the private chapel, preparing to marry the marquess.
Vases of roses and honeysuckle crowded the marble console tables, their sweetness almost suffocating.
Stone-faced ancestors watched from the canvases, their stares a silent rebuke.
She breathed to calm her pounding heart.
She should leave, gather her skirts, run until her lungs burned.
No good would come of this. One wrong move would invite ruin.
But her attacker had seen Lord Rothley. If she fled, he would be the target.
And against all reason, she believed he was the only man who could protect her from danger.
“You look quite the part,” Mrs Boswell said, pressing a small posy into her hand, pink roses and peonies woven with myrtle.
“The flowers bring a touch of colour.” Her gaze moved over Olivia in quiet appraisal.
“If you’d prefer, I could search the trunks in the attic.
Perhaps there’s a pastel gown that would suit the occasion. I’m sure his lordship will wait.”
“That won’t be necessary.” Though green or lilac might flatter her hair, nothing would make her feel like a bride. “This is to be a union of minds. I doubt his lordship cares what gown I wear.”
The words sounded braver than she felt. Her pulse quickened at the thought of standing beside him, bound by vows, not affection.
“Make no mistake, ma’am. His lordship sees more than most. Nothing escapes his notice.”
Yes. At times, he looked at her with such intensity it seemed the world had stilled.
Mrs Boswell cupped Olivia’s arms, her smile reassuring. “Passionate affairs dwindle like summer blooms, but a solid friendship brings comfort for a lifetime. Keep that in mind when you’re troubled with doubt.”
Yet as the words settled, another thought intruded, a need to know whether the recent gossip held weight.
“Is it true that Miss Bourne raced to the house when the vicar was summoned?”
A maid had let the secret slip while dressing her hair, warning that Miss Bourne’s aunt had eyes and ears in every corner of the parish.
Mrs Boswell’s lips thinned. “She begged for an audience, but his lordship refused and had Mr Kincaid see her back to Wynbury Hall.”
“Why did she come?” Olivia asked, unsettled by Miss Bourne’s sudden return and what it might signify.
The older woman arched a knowing brow. “Why does any woman chase what she can no longer have? Pride and vanity.” She paused, casting a quick glance towards the chapel door. “May I offer a word of advice, Miss Woolf? I speak for the good of all in this house.”
“By all means.” The housekeeper’s insight would prove invaluable in the trying days ahead. “If I’m to live here, I shall need your guidance and support.”
Mrs Boswell’s kind eyes brightened. “Today, you will become the Marchioness of Rothley, a position most ladies only dream of. You possess the quiet grace and dignity, ma’am, but to thrive you must learn to command.
” She lowered her voice. “Miss Bourne must come to know her place. And you must keep her there.”
Unease prickled at the mention of Miss Bourne, yet Olivia lifted her chin. “One step at a time, Mrs Boswell. Let me reach the altar first, but I’m grateful for your advice.”
A discreet cough drew their attention. An under-footman waited in the chapel doorway, pristine in his livery, a quiet emblem of the house’s order. “His lordship wonders if you’re ready, ma’am.”
She pictured him pacing, restless as a brewing storm, and gripped the pretty posy as if the fragile stems were an anchor. “I’m ready.” Her pulse quickened with dread and anticipation, but a marchioness did not falter under pressure. Not beneath Lord Rothley’s gaze.
Whispering a silent prayer to her mother for guidance, she stepped into the private chapel, braced for the chill of loneliness and the emptiness of vacant chairs. Instead, the man at the altar filled the space, leaving no corner untouched by his presence.
She scarcely registered the vicar in his black cassock and starched collar, gripping his worn Bible. He raised his hand for the congregation to stand, then faltered, remembering no one cared if their lives were ruined.
Oh, she’d be damned to the fiery pits of hell for this. And yet she moved towards the man who would be her husband, one measured step at a time.
He watched her with a gleam of satisfaction in his midnight eyes, his gaze roaming over every inch of her, as if friendship were the furthest thing from his mind. She would need her wits. A man like Rothley could conquer with a glance, yet would surrender to no one.
“Miss Woolf.” He bowed, then eased the posy from her hands and offered it to Mrs Boswell. With a light, unwavering touch to her elbow, he guided her towards the altar.
They had barely begun, and already she was forced to make a confession. “Miss Hawkins,” she corrected. “Miss Olivia Frances Hawkins.” One could not begin married life on a lie. “I adopted the name Woolf when needing courage to run from the pack.”
He didn’t mutter a curse or appear disappointed. “I appreciate the late vote of confidence. Not that it matters. From this day forward, you belong with me.”
With me. Not to me. An important distinction.
“Anything else you wish to confess before we begin?”
“Not presently.” Though she might have admitted to being breathless at the brush of his hand, reassured by the steadiness of his grasp, thrilled by the awareness that passed between them.
“And what of you, my lord? Do you have anything to confess before we begin?” He might start by explaining why he’d deliberately left her corset unpacked. Or why he seemed so determined to wed a commoner.
His gaze lingered on her, like a cardsharp weighing the odds. “Only that I’ve felt a strange restlessness since the day we met.”
The admission appeared to unsettle him as much as it did her. Was it akin to the same pull she had felt while watching him at the washstand?
She forced all romantic notions from her mind. “Then we must hope friendship proves a potent remedy.”
“Indeed.”
The vicar coughed discreetly, but Lord Rothley stilled him with a raised hand.
Drawing Olivia aside, he bent his head, his whisper grazing her ear and setting her pulse racing.
“Be assured, what happens here will be spoken of in every fine house from London to John o’ Groats.
We must give the gossips no reason to doubt our eagerness. ”
She turned to him, realising too late how shockingly close their mouths were. He had taken a nip of brandy before the ceremony, its earthy essence rich on his breath. That he had needed to steady his own nerves proved strangely empowering.
“You want us to lie? Pretend this is about desire, not necessity?”
His laugh said he recognised the hypocrisy. “Yes.”
“But you care nothing for people’s opinions.”
“I merely wish to shield you from malice.”
Yet she sensed his concern was not only for her but for himself. This marriage was his way of silencing Miss Bourne and breaking free of the past. Did she not owe him that much, at least?
Against all caution, she said, “Then I suggest you take my hand and kiss my palm as though you cannot help yourself. And be certain the vicar sees it.”
His mouth curved in the faintest hint of a smile.
She stilled as he took her hand and turned it, his gaze never leaving hers.
When his lips brushed her palm, heat surged through her.
The kiss lingered a fraction too long, a claim disguised as devotion.
The vicar might see reverence, but Olivia felt only the shocking intimacy of a man who could undo her with the press of his mouth.
Her life might be in danger, but so was her heart.
From nearby came Mrs Boswell’s soft sigh.
Deception was a fool’s game. Someone would suffer for it.
“That should appease the vicar,” he said. Yet something in his stare said it wasn’t enough. “Perhaps a chaste kiss once we’ve exchanged vows.”
A kiss with mouths?
The question rose to her lips, yet she only nodded.
He led her back to the altar, but one brief, intimate moment had shifted her world. His pull was magnetic, and she was helpless iron caught in its field.
Keen to hasten the proceedings, the vicar read from his open Bible. “Dearly beloved—”
She almost choked. No doubt the parrots in the basement would squawk what tripe before he reached his next breath.
The vicar spoke with the gravity of a man certain heaven was listening. “Forasmuch as marriage is a holy estate, ordained for the procreation of children …”
Children? Olivia’s mind betrayed her with a vivid image of the act itself, of the marquess dropping his towel, of what it would mean to lie with him. Heat rose in her cheeks, and she gave herself a stern reminder: friends did not share a bed.
She listened to the vicar’s exhortation on love and commitment, though the warning was plain enough. Marriage was ordained as a remedy against sin, and the Lord might punish those who sought to deceive Him.
“Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?”
The question stumped them both.
“Miss Hawkins is an independent woman,” Lord Rothley snapped, his jaw tight. “There’s no transfer of ownership here, Collard. She comes to me of her own free will.”
She brought no dowry, no bride price, no land or connections, only a pocket full of lies and the threat of the noose. Still, he took her hand in his as though daring the world to challenge his choice.
Mr Collard dabbed at the sweat on his brow and hurried on, addressing Lord Rothley. “Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honour and keep her in sickness and in health?”
He didn’t flinch or falter but spoke with confidence in his ability to provide. His coal-black eyes softened to a rich brown as he said, “I will.” Then, with quiet conviction, “You have my protection, for as long as I draw breath. You’ll want for nothing.”