Chapter Five
Five days passed before her wedding day.
Alyssia had begun to suspect the entire affair a dream.
She neither saw nor heard from Giles until the fourth day, when word came at last of his living arrangements, and that he’d procured a special license, making it possible for them to marry at once.
She returned word that the wedding would be held on the fifth, which found her in the drawing room of her temporary new home, Annabelle at her side declaring the room “perfectly solemn.”
Alyssia almost laughed again. She didn’t much care for such matters. When it came to aims, she could become rather single-minded. And her aim to marry had ruled her mind for weeks.
“We could still run, you know,” Annabelle murmured. “A bit of brisk exercise does one a great deal of good.”
“No running.”
“I’ll have to give chase if you do,” a voice breathed into her ear, scattering shivers across her skin.
Her head whipped around. “Giles. You’re here.”
“Where else would I be? This is my wedding day, after all.”
Hah. Where was the rugged man from the Lyon’s Den? Shaved now, he might have passed for a younger, and less dangerous, man. A little pale, but he seemed steady on his feet. Absurd, wasn’t it? More absurdly, she missed the rasp of stubble.
Stop it, Alyssia.
“Well, you certainly look better than the last time I saw you. I hope you don’t faint at my feet again before the nuptials are done.”
His eyes narrowed a fraction before stepping around her, grinning. “Can we not forget that little incident?”
Annabelle snorted. “You two may, I shall never forget the tale Alyssia told me about your little incident.”
His eyes flicked to her friend before coming back to her. “Are you as heartless as your friend?”
“Naturally, or else I wouldn’t have told her.”
The Marquess of Knoxley entered the drawing room with a clergyman at his side. He bowed to her and Annabelle. “Are we ready?”
Alyssia nodded. “Ready.” Just a small lie. A lie of reassurance.
“Speak for yourself,” Annabelle muttered.
“I’m ready, too, if you were wondering,” Giles said to his friend, amused.
How very good for you!
Honestly, until this very moment, she had been as ready as any lady escaping scandal could be.
Once married, Rafferty could not bother her anymore.
Not with his exaggerated stories, not with his filthy slurs, not with his coarse threats.
To a man like Cecil Rafferty, Earl of Bonville, marriage was iron.
The door she’d bolted would become a wall.
Giles offered his arm and Alyssia accepted. The clergyman took a spot before the mantel, prayer book in hand, while Knox and Annabelle stood witness a few paces back. The vows passed more quickly than she expected, and when she repeated I take thee, a wild, foolish heat unfurled through her chest.
She snuck a glance at the man.
Lawd. How solemn. The man did nothing by half measures, did he? When he disappeared, he disappeared. When he returned, he returned. When he made a vow, he vowed.
Her gaze dropped to his jaw.
Do not think of his stubble.
Think of the plan. Marry, put Rafferty behind bars of propriety, scrape the whispers from her name, remake what could be remade. All the while not exposing her “husband” too soon.
“Wilt thou have this man—”
“Yes,” she said, before her better sense could arrange itself. Her cheeks warmed, and she cleared her throat. “I will.”
Giles turned his head, their eyes locking.
Her heart did a little somersault before he glanced back to the clergyman. She hardly heard the clergyman’s voice. However, when his turn came, Giles’s voice was hoarse as he vowed, “I will.”
Shivers erupted across her skin.
“The ring, if you please.”
Giles reached into his coat and drew out a small gold band.
Taking her hand, he slid it carefully onto her finger.
It fit perfectly. Neither of them wore gloves, she disliked the feel of them, but at that moment, she rather wished for the barrier.
The heat of his skin sent a ripple of gooseflesh up her arms.
“. . . I pronounce that they be . . .”
There. There it came at last. The words that snapped the last anxious thread that had been strangling her ever since Rafferty tried to force himself on her. A simple I pronounce that they be and the storm in her chest lifted, opened, and dispersed.
The ceremony concluded around her, but it wasn’t until they signed the register, and the book shut, that one word flashed through her head.
Safe.
“Congratulations,” the clergyman said, retrieving the book.
“Thank you,” Alyssia murmured in a daze.
I am safe.
Her gaze met Giles’s before Annabelle stepped up and embraced her. “I am so proud of you,” she whispered fiercely into Alyssia’s ear. “And not merely because you managed to get here without having to throttle someone.”
Alyssia smiled.
She had throttled people on numerous occasions. Only in her head, however.
The marquess clapped her husband on his back. “My compliments to you both.” He inclined his head at her. “Duchess,” he said lazily before nodding to the clergyman and leading him from the room.
The title rattled through her bones.
She had the urge to look at Giles again, to take measure of his response, but Alyssia resisted. She couldn’t bear that just yet, whatever that might turn out to be. Her gaze dropped to the gold band on her finger.
I’m married.
“Sherry,” Annabelle declared, looking straight at Giles. “This calls for some sherry. I certainly can use a glass. I know Alyssia could, too.”
Yes, please.
“I shall pour us all some,” he offered, striding to the sideboard set with various drinks and glasses.
“Heaven preserve me,” Annabelle exclaimed in a hushed whisper at his back. “You didn’t tell me the man was an adonis.”
“He could have been a toad,” Alyssia remarked. “It would not have mattered.”
“But he is not,” Annabelle said. “And I can’t believe his friend. I’m in the presence of the Marquess of Knoxley. You do know he is a rake, don’t you?”
She didn’t. In fact, even though Giles and the marquess had been friends for a long time, she’d never had much to do with him. She cast a worried glance at her friend. “This won’t cause you any trouble?”
“Me?” She waved a hand. “Oh, pish. What can a minor rake do?”
A throat cleared. “Minor?”
Annabelle’s face flamed as she turned to face Knox, quietly returned from seeing the clergyman out.
Alyssia turned, holding back a laugh, and found Giles approaching a glass in each hand, his eyes on her instead of the exchange between their friends. The faintest curve touched his mouth, almost a smile, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. But it also didn’t quite not.
How does that make any sense, Alyssia?
His fingers brushed hers for the briefest instant when he handed her the glass. Far too brief, and yet her pulse still leaped.
Heaven help her.
If this was how a simple exchange of sherry felt, what would happen when there were no friends left to serve as a polite barrier?
Duchess.
Could one word sound so damn sweet? Almost as perilous as wife. He could not do it. That one thought must have repeated a hundred times in his mind. He simply could not do it.
A marriage of convenience.
With anyone else perhaps.
Not with her.
He could no more do it than deny her existence.
The very idea mocked him. However, he understood her reasoning.
In theory, her decision was sound. In practice?
Impossible. He could barely keep from touching her now.
He’d thought himself prepared. He’d spent five long days recovering from The Widow’s Poison, had Knox obtain a special license as discreetly as possible, convincing himself he’d submit to all Alyssia’s wishes.
However, the moment he slipped the ring on her finger, proclaiming her his, something inside him broke loose from its chains.
He watched as Alyssia’s friend dragged her to a corner and plunged into a flurry of whispers, balling his fists to keep from drawing her back.
Knox chuckled and retrieved them each a glass of cognac. “How will you proceed next?”
“I’m not sure. Pour some ants down my uncle’s pants.”
“Vivid picture,” Knox muttered. “Last night I heard chatter that he’s been making inquiries about the Den this past month.”
Month? That was about the time Crane barged into the Lyon’s Den. Could that be why the widow had revealed her knowledge of his identity? “What else did you hear?”
“That’s about it. You think he caught your scent?”
“It’s possible.” Liquid burned down his throat. “Given how he took the title, the man’s bound to live a life haunted by complete suspicion.”
“Ripe for the teasing.”
Bishop took another slow sip. “Extremely ripe. And dangerous.”
“Yes,” Knox agreed, swirling his drink. “Whatever you’re planning next, Bishop, you’ve a new bride, which means the moment your uncle moves against you, she’ll be in his line of cannon blast, too.”
“I know.” Which was why he couldn’t give his uncle a reason to look at her. “I’ve been searching for my uncle’s cutthroats of that day with no luck.”
“Probably dead already.” Bishop nodded, and Knox continued, “You have a lot of people who could vouch for your identity as the missing heir.”
“I don’t just want my title back, I want him to retire for his health.” Perhaps the Furys could help him in this regard. Just like they’d retired Crane’s rival.
“And here I was thinking you’d push for the noose.”
Giles’s gaze found Alyssia. He would have killed his uncle himself had he not found her again. He could even watch them hang the man publicly with a smile. However, the aristocracy thrived upon appearances, and the only one who would suffer for his actions would be his wife.
His wife.
The word still felt foreign.
She was his now, at least on paper, but the notion only settled half of the roaring in his blood.
Her laughter filled the room, the sound light and utterly at odds with the dark pulse that ran beneath his skin. Four days without seeing her and he’d nearly convinced himself he’d imagined her. Hell, he was still half convinced this was a deuced dream.
“I need to pay my uncle a private visit.”
“Private visits tend to end with pistols drawn,” Knox murmured. “Want me to join you?”
Bishop shook his head. “I’d rather not have him suspect I’m with you.”
“Dove-Lyon knew to connect us, so he might, too.”
True enough. “Does he know about this townhouse?”
“I cannot say. Should we move you to one of Dare’s holdings?”
“No,” Bishop said. “Even if he suspects you, he might not believe we’d make it this obvious and live plainly in one of your properties. I’ll discuss the matter with Alyssia.”
Knox chuckled. “Handing your bride a say in the matter. You must be in love.”
Bishop scowled at his friend. “She deserves a say.”
“Very forward thinking of you. You mean to call in Crane?” Knox asked. “I imagine he’d come if you whistled.”
Bishop scoffed. He’d get a beating if he whistled at that man. “I’ll inform him, but I can’t ask him to come to London and support me.”
Knox arched a brow. “Why not?”
“Because he’s just married and he hates London. He deserves peace.”
“You also just married,” Knox said mildly, “and you’re knee-deep in trouble.”
Bishop’s mouth curved. “That’s different.”
“How so?”
“It just is.”
It had taken Crane’s first love to draw the hermit duke from his castle, much the same as what was escalating Bishop’s exposure of his uncle. Crane deserved the truth, but he’d never expect him to stand by his side.
Knox gave a low laugh. “That’s the kind of answer men give when they can’t win the argument.”
“Then call it practice,” Bishop returned, finishing his drink.
“Very well,” Knox said after a moment. “Then you shall have to do with me, Dare, and hopefully your father-in-law. A stellar trio.”
“You forget the law.”
“Ah, the law. Has that not always been a matter of might making right?”
Bishop shrugged. “Without his title, my uncle is nothing. With his cutthroats, he is not someone to trifle with. To deal with him, I’ll have to sweep them away in one go.”
“Very good,” Knox said, a hint of a smile tugging at his mouth, “shall we prepare the brooms?”
Bishop let out a rough laugh despite himself. “Do you even know how to wield one?”
“Perhaps it is good to keep your wife informed,” Knox said, ignoring the question and tipping his glass toward Alyssia. “She looks as if she expects you to bolt.”
Bishop caught her sneaking a glance at them and winked at her, at which she promptly whipped her head around again. “That’s the one thing I’ll never do.”
“Yes, well, try not to bleed on my carpets in the meantime.”
Bishop’s mouth twitched. “I’ll do my best.” He glanced toward Alyssia again. Would any of this have happened had he only returned sooner? He had no choice but to shut down that line of thought. It would drive him crazy. Whatever came next—uncle, title, vengeance—he must face it with a level head.
But this . . . this wanting her to touch Alyssia when he damn well knew he shouldn’t?
That, he suspected, would be the harder war to win.
One he would eventually lose.