Chapter Two
‘What do you mean you’re married?!’ the less than affable Mr Quincy shouted, his voice booming against the walls to a rather surprising degree.
Surprising, given his small stature, which looked incapable of producing such powerful noise, and also his heretofore, if not warm manner, then warily and somewhat obsequiously welcoming manner.
But then, Thorn supposed whatever Mr Quincy had expected from seeing an earl appear with his daughter, it wasn’t this, and therefore the man could be given some leniency.
Especially considering the fact that Thorn was experiencing rather a strange and surprising day himself.
In fact, when Thorn had been told of his astronomical rise in the ranks of Society, of his new, blessed future as Earl of Gadmin, he’d been certain that was to go down in personal history as the oddest day of his life.
However, he was finding that this one was rapidly giving him cause to rethink that determination.
Truth be told, the past few days—ever since that night with Hypatia in the garden—had quite the air of an incongruous nursery rhyme about them.
Met on a Wednesday,
Affianced on said Wednesday,
Obtained a licence on the Saturday,
Secured the church and witnesses on the Monday,
Advised the bride on the Tuesday,
Received confirmation from her on a Wednesday,
Married on a Friday.
It was amazing, he’d found, how much could be achieved with a title—no matter the infamy or unworthiness of the holder, nor even the lack of fortune to complement said title.
Perhaps it was that, if not surprise, then true realisation, and a need to simply get things done, which had made it possible to get through the days without thinking too much. Doubting it all too much.
Whether it was the right choice; whether Hypatia would hold to their agreement.
What life would be like once they were married; if there would be more brain-numbing kisses to be shared.
If he could save the estate. If he could be a good earl. Become all he needed to be once—if—he did save the estate. Sitting in the House. Making decisions that would affect the whole of the country.
If he would have to become part of Society. Who he would be if he did. If he would lose himself. What would become of Hypatia with all this.
If one day he would wake up, to find it had all been a cruel joke; if he would be returned from whence he’d come once they all realised he had no business even masquerading as an earl.
If he was doing the right thing, in any aspect; what the Hell would become of them all.
Generally, he wasn’t much of a doubter, or ponderer—only as much as most everyone else he supposed—and so he’d reminded himself that gaining a title, and living through such strange circumstances as he was, was no reason to become one.
He needed money. Hypatia needed escape.
She was clever, and capable, and one mightily nice kisser.
Life would be what it would be, they would figure it out as it came along.
Once we leave this place.
Which he—and undoubtedly Hypatia—was looking forward to doing imminently.
‘I am not entirely certain how one can fail to comprehend the meaning of such a simple statement, Father,’ Hypatia said, not ungently, but so simply it might’ve felt thus, before Thorn could say what he’d been about to, which was tantamount the same.
‘We were married this morning at St Bart’s in Smithfield, I am now Countess of Gadmin, and I shall be leaving this house forever once I’ve collected what I must, and you’ve made all the proper arrangements with my husband.
Congratulate me or don’t, either way the deed is done, and cannot be undone. ’
Mr Quincy, along with his wife—whose hair colour Hypatia had inherited, though luckily not her bitter, displeased doltish fish qualities—and her sister—a blonder creature, who Thorn could see some would call pretty, but whom he found as sickeningly and artificially sweet and spoiled as a rotten pile of icing—all gaped at her disbelievingly.
They made quite a picture there—Quincy framed by the women as he stood before where they sat on the settee, the mother rapidly progressing into potential faint territory—the bright Junspring sun streaming in from the windows decorated with too much lace, and walls covered in too many pastels.
Thorn had a fleeting thought about knowing precisely where much of Quincy’s fortune—earned by fabricating essential components for industrial mills and mining machines—went.
Walls with too many pastels, and garments with too many frills as demonstrated by the ladies before me, though luckily not the one beside me.
Indeed, though it was her wedding day, and some might argue the occasion if any there were to dress more coquettishly than habitually, Hypatia had opted for a plain, serviceable and far from delicate gown, in worn navy cotton.
Though perhaps the circumstances surrounding their secretive wedding—she pretending to attend to chores—had been the reason for the lack of ceremonial dress.
Thorn himself had made an effort—though admittedly he’d not gone for full ceremony, merely paid more attention to his grooming, and worn his best suit—and he didn’t begrudge her in any way the choice of a worn gown.
Merely, admittedly, when he’d spotted it, he’d felt an urge to offer her all the best gowns in the land; before he’d remembered he had not the coin, and she seemed not the type to desire such extravagance.
Though perhaps, in time, I might buy her new clothes to her own liking, or make enough so as to spare her coin to do so herself.
‘Like Hell it cannot be undone,’ her father spluttered, and though Thorn hadn’t expected jolly celebration to meet their news—particularly after Hypatia’s predictions—he had expected slightly more restraint from a man who, for all intents and purposes, was attempting to do as many feared, and infiltrate the highest rungs of Society, with money, and an advantageous marriage for his youngest. ‘Why, I should hail a Peeler right now, and have this one taken in for fraud, and theft, money-grabbing opportunist—’
‘Do calm yourself, and desist, Father,’ Hypatia ordered, in such a tone which could not be disobeyed, resting her hand on Thorn’s forearm, to stop his intervention, undeniably obvious for the step he’d taken towards Quincy.
Thorn obeyed, as her father did, knowing this was her battle.
‘You shall not call the Peelers. We shall settle this like the civilised people we purport to be. You will take Thorn to your study. You will make the arrangements pertaining to my marriage. I will pack my things. And then I will bid you all farewell, wish you well, and leave this house.’
‘Actually, if I may, I’d like to make one small amendment to that plan,’ Thorn said.
Hypatia turned back to him, and he met her eyes briefly, offering a small reassuring smile.
She nodded. ‘We shall all meet in the study together. Then I shall help my wife pack her things, and we shall bid you farewell, wish you well, and leave this house.’
He felt an odd jolt at saying the word wife so casually—he supposed it was just a lack of habit, as was hearing the words husband and Thorn leave Hypatia’s mouth.
Somehow, none of those words, nor even the promises and vows they’d spoken to each other in the brightly simple, yet solemn church this morning, had given him any manner of jolt.
Any manner of doubt, or fear. The circumstances of his previous life and prior relationship had meant he’d always wondered rather a lot about marriage.
Felt, if not fear, then slight trepidation at the thought of it; pondered the finality and seriousness of it.
Normal, he supposed, when one was so close as he’d been then, to the possibility becoming reality.
He’d wondered, if he was a man up to the task.
The duty, the commitment. A man to be a good husband.
And he’d had his doubts, and felt that trepidation, and honestly thought, particularly these past months when marriage had become necessity rather than possibility, that when and if the day came, he’d feel some manner of nerves. Some manner of that same trepidation.
However, this morning, he’d felt supremely calm, and, well, certain.
Likely because this was all just business, a contract, and he was marrying a woman who, by all accounts, was like-minded and level-headed.
Or perhaps it just all happened so bloody fast I haven’t had time to be nervous.
‘Do we mean so little then to you?’ Mrs Quincy finally chimed in, and Thorn blinked, focusing on her.
She looked less as if she were about to faint over the arm of the settee, and more like she might succumb to insincere tears—as did the daughter currently clutching her hand.
‘That you would throw your lot in with such a man, and abandon us so callously? Abandon your father and I? Abandon dear Epi, to traverse the rest of the season, and her eventual marriage, all by herself? Abandon us all to face the consequences and talk of this most inadvisable match you have made? Did you even think of how this might affect her chances? Ours?’