Chapter 7 #2
Except love. Children. A heart filled with joy.
Olivia felt the vicar’s beady eyes settle on her, the silence stretching until he spoke. “Wilt thou take this man to be thy husband, to love, honour, and keep him in sickness and in health, so long as ye both shall live?”
The words echoed through the chapel, a vow meant to last a lifetime. But lifetimes were for other people. They would be lucky to survive the month.
She lied, mouthing oaths that sounded like impossible dreams. “I will.”
Lord Rothley’s broad shoulders eased, as if he had been holding his breath for a decade. The mood shifted when it came to reciting his personal vow. His voice deepened, warm with promise, as he spoke the words, “to have and to hold from this day forward.”
The phrase brushed over her like a caress, a whisper meant for her alone, too intimate for ceremony, too real to be mere pretence.
Then it was her turn to repeat the vicar’s words. She looked up at Gabriel, into dark, unyielding eyes that glinted like burnished amber with each vow she spoke, as though her promise had kindled something in him.
They bowed their heads in prayer. Olivia lowered her gaze, her own thought rising in silence.
Lord, grant me but one sign this was your plan.
Let it not be a mistake.
The vicar cleared his throat and opened the prayer book. Lord Rothley placed a plain gold band upon the page, and the blessing was spoken so softly Olivia hardly heard.
Then the marquess took the ring and slid it slowly onto her finger, his hushed hum of approval drawing her deeper under his spell.
She stared at the simple band. No jewel sparkled, no crest proclaimed ownership. It was unadorned, a token of trust rather than possession. In a world steeped in deceit, its simplicity felt almost sacred.
Perhaps this was the sign she had prayed for.
And in the next breath, they were pronounced man and wife. “Those whom God hath joined together, let no man put asunder.”
Mrs Boswell clapped in delight, then drew in a sharp breath as Lord Rothley caught Olivia’s chin between his fingers and tilted her face to his.
“A seal upon our vows,” he murmured.
The world stilled. His mouth met hers in a kiss innocent enough for the vicar’s eyes, yet warmth coursed through her until her knees weakened.
His breath mingled with hers, the kiss a contradiction, innocent in appearance, yet the slow, intoxicating slide of his mouth spoke of desire simmering beneath the surface.
The air between them vanished. A low sound escaped him, half sigh, half growl, before he drew back sharply and mastered himself once more.
Olivia dragged her gaze aside and found Mrs Boswell staring, wide-eyed, her expression caught somewhere between surprise and confusion.
The vicar produced the parish register, and they sat at the table to sign their names. Her hand wavered only once before she wrote, the black ink binding her to him more surely than words ever could. Lord Rothley added his name with firm, decisive strokes, and the witnesses followed in turn.
When the book was closed, he straightened and addressed Mrs Boswell. “See that the vicar is served tea. I wish to spend a private moment with my wife.”
Despite the heat of their kiss, Olivia knew the private moment amounted to opening the valise and examining its contents.
When at last they were alone, she drew a breath and said, “Now that we’ve dispensed with formalities, I suppose we should retire to your study and get to work.”
His mouth curved. “You mean to test your husband’s abilities so soon?”
“Is that not the role of a wife, my lord?”
His gaze sharpened. “Gabriel. You will call me Gabriel.”
The name caught in her throat. She was not sure she could, not when she remembered the way it had fallen so easily from Miss Bourne’s lips.
He studied her hesitation, astute enough to know the cause. “Do not let another woman’s ghost keep you from what is rightfully yours.”
He spoke as if he belonged to her, not she to him.
Mrs Boswell’s words echoed in her mind: to thrive she must learn to command. Olivia lifted her chin. “I’d like to show you what’s in the valise, Gabriel. It makes no sense to me, and by your own admission, you enjoy a puzzle.”
“No puzzle unsettles me more than you, my lady.”
She met his gaze without wavering, though the weight of her new role pressed upon her shoulders. “Puzzles have a way of consuming a man.”
“Perhaps being consumed by you is no bad fate.”
She gave no answer, only a measured glance as they walked on. But the question pressing in her mind refused to wait.
“I’m told the main study is vast enough to impress visiting dignitaries, with a desk fit for a king and shelves that reach the cornice. Why keep to a few rooms when the house holds two hundred?”
He stiffened beside her, a shadow passing over his features. “For some, home is nothing more than walls to contain one’s sorrow. Do you recall saying that?”
“Yes. It’s been a long time since anywhere felt like home.”
“I hate this house.” The words fell between them, hard and echoing like footsteps on marble. “The past haunts these corridors like a malevolent spirit.”
It seemed they were speaking of Miss Bourne and Justin Lovelace again. She might have quipped that anything was preferable to peacocks, but the sadness in his tone stilled her tongue.
“And now you have a new houseguest to contend with,” she said gently.
His mouth curved, though without humour. “I want you to feel at home, though this is the last place a person might find peace.”
“Which is why you keep to a select few rooms?”
He surprised her with his answer. “Yes. Rooms my parents seldom entered.”
She knew not to press him. That truth had not come easily.
They reached the east wing at last. He unlocked the door and held it for her. She moved past, close enough to feel the warmth of him, and the air seemed to tighten in the space between them.
The valise sat on the desk beside a dark glass bottle and two delicate stemmed glasses, yet it was not the promise of answers that drew her.
The room itself held her gaze: dark wood panelling, gold damask curtains, shelves heavy with books, and above the mantel a vast painting of the Scottish Highlands, its sweeping landscape oddly peaceful.
His familiar scent lingered in the room, and hope rose in her chest, for she felt instantly at home.
He closed the door, locked it behind them, then shrugged out of his coat and draped it over the leather wing chair. “I took the liberty of opening a bottle of Madeira. A gift from the King. I’ve been waiting for a memorable time to uncork it.”
“What’s more memorable than one’s wedding day?”
“Indeed.”
She watched his hands as he poured, strong and elegant, the gold seal ring bearing the family crest: a dragon soaring above crossed swords, a fitting emblem for a man who lived in constant battle with his past. Her eyes traced the fine lawn of his shirt, pulled tight over powerful biceps.
It was hard to believe this man was her husband.
“To answers,” he said, handing her a drink.
“To fate and solving confounding puzzles.” She raised hers and sipped. The taste was dark and mellow, as though summer fruit had been steeped in fire and sealed in glass. “Is there anything you want to ask me before we look inside the valise?”
He studied her over the rim of the glass. “What makes you think your father was a spy? To dare even mention it, you must have proof.”
She took a fortifying sip of Madeira and set her glass on the desk.
“My mother was killed in an arson attack on our home when I was fourteen.” She spoke as if telling someone else’s story, not as the daughter who had wept until no tears remained.
“I remember my father sobbing, saying it was his fault, that he should never have joined the wretched fraternity.”
His expression softened. “I’m sorry. No child should carry such a memory.” He tossed back the Madeira in one swallow. “What fraternity?”
“I don’t know. But we were given a house near Cambridge. Men visited often and spent hours in the study with my father.”
“Do you know their names?”
“No. When the countess hosted her balls, I made a point of studying every guest, measuring their faces against my memory. Not one seemed familiar.”
“Did they speak French?”
“No. Always English.” Keen to prove her point, she added, “I peered through the keyhole once and saw maps spread across my father’s desk. One man said they risked the noose if caught with them.”
“What about accents?”
She shrugged. “It was years ago. My father spent more and more time away from home.” One lie had followed another until she scarcely knew what was true.
“He behaved like a man with secrets. Burning his clothes in the garden, saying he had spilt lamp oil on them. The cuts and bruises on his hands, he claimed, came from chopping wood.”
He gave a cynical snort. “Better than being caught rutting the maid and claiming he tripped. But yes, it’s often the ordinary things that rouse suspicion.”
“He’d leave the house at odd hours, insisting it was parish business that couldn’t wait, and stayed away for days.”
He shifted his attention to the valise. “And you think the answer to the mystery lies in there?”
“I believe the answer to why he was killed lies inside the bag.”
But there was something hidden within she hadn’t understood before. Something that could shatter the fragile trust between her and her husband.
“Might I have another glass of Madeira before we begin?”
He determined why in two simple words. “You’re afraid.”
“My heart is beating so hard, it might burst from my chest.”
He smiled, as though he found her weakness oddly charming. “Let it race. A quickened pulse means you’re alive, and I intend to keep you that way.”
He poured them each another measure. They drank in silence, eyes meeting over their glasses, tension humming between them.