What a Duke Dares (Sons of Sin 3)

Good God, Marianne Seaton was tip-top quality from her smooth mink-brown hair to the soles of her yellow satin slippers. Cam was seriously impressed. He wondered why he wasn’t also eaten with regret that instead of claiming this magnificent creature, he married willful Penelope Thorne with her blemished reputation.

“You’re very kind.” He meant more than the social platitude. Again he tried to express how sorry he was. “You and I—”

Again she waved one graceful hand. “Nothing further need be said.”

Lady Marianne’s generosity left him very much on the wrong foot. He’d behaved badly toward this woman, but now he was committed to Pen. He’d been committed to Pen since he’d saved her from the bandits. He’d been a fool to imagine anything else.

He stood. Lady Marianne wouldn’t wish to extend this meeting.

“Is your father in London?” Cam doubted that the old man would take the news as well as his daughter had.

“No, he’s at the family seat. I came up to do some shopping and attend a former governess’s wedding. I’ll return to Dorset next week.”

“I wish you a pleasant stay, then,” he said calmly.

As he left the Seatons’ tall white town house, he exhaled with unworthy relief. Today proved that Lady Marianne was too perfect for him. Pen was woefully far from perfect, but she made his blood sing. That recommended her as a wife, if not a duchess. The promise of finally possessing her set an unaccustomed spring to his step on his stroll back to Rothermere House.

Chapter Seventeen

Fentonwyck, Derbyshire, late March 1828

The baroque glories of the Rothermere family chapel overwhelmed the small wedding party. On this rainy morning, the gilt and marble interior was icy and full of eerie reverberation. The housekeeper had done her best, lighting candles and arranging what flowers she could find. But even the famous Fentonwyck greenhouses had only produced a few straggly dahlias and half a dozen pots of hyacinths.

Before the altar, Pen shivered in the most suitable dress she’d discovered among the late duchess’s effects. The high-waisted style left her bosom looking as flat as Lincolnshire; the silk was too light for the nasty weather; the pink that had flattered the duchess’s Nordic fairness made Pen look pasty. Although perhaps she should blame her poor complexion on a run of sleepless nights and the elephants waltzing in her belly. The only good thing Pen could say about her dress was that it covered the bruises from drifting around the seabed.

The sound of Cam’s voice speaking a steady “I will” wrenched her back to the moment. She braced to make the vows that condemned her to a lifetime with a man who would never love her. Her gloved hand closed hard around the snowdrops she held, releasing a burst of sickly scent.

Her churning stomach revolted as the vicar addressed her. She swallowed, praying she wouldn’t be sick. Vomiting over one’s bridegroom wasn’t done, especially if one wished to avoid gossip. Losing the cup of tea which was all she’d managed to choke down this morning would stir speculation that the bride increased disgracefully early.

A charged silence extended and the elderly vicar regarded her with concern. She swallowed again. She could do this. She’d made the decision three days ago. The decision that had been inevitable from the moment Cam found her in Italy. She was as trapped now as she’d have been if she’d married him nine years ago.

The vicar coughed. Bile jammed Pen’s throat. She glanced wildly at Cam, who had barely looked her way since she’d walked up the aisle. Beside her, her brother Elias jabbed her with his elbow. With Peter so recently gone, it was difficult to think of him as Lord Wilmott.

“Pen,” he prompted.

Behind her, the sparse congregation of a few senior household staff and county gentry shuffled in their seats. The wind rattled the stained glass windows, demanding her response.

She clenched her bouquet so hard that she broke the stems. Then Cam’s hand bridged the small distance between them. His fingers curled around hers, grounding her.

She inhaled and realized that she hadn’t taken a breath in far too long. Cam’s grip firmed in silent encouragement.

As if fearing that the new duchess was slow of understanding, the vicar repeated his questions, his reedy tenor resounding around the stone chapel. “Wilt thou have this man to thy wedded husband, to live together after God’s ordinance in t

he holy estate of matrimony? Wilt thou obey him and serve him, love, honor, and keep him, in sickness and in health? And forsaking all others, keep thee only to him, so long as you both shall live?”

At last she found her voice. She was grimly aware that what she promised would drain her soul before she was done.

“I will.”

“Congratulations, sis.” Harry hugged Pen hard. “Although you could have chosen a more flattering gown.”

They were in the drawing room before sitting down for the wedding breakfast. After the meal, the staff would spend the rest of the day celebrating the duke’s nuptials. Pen was sure that the servants’ party would prove more festive than this subdued gathering.

“It’s lovely to see you too,” she said drily, hugging him back. “I wouldn’t have recognized you.”

Last time she’d seen Harry, he’d been a gangly adolescent inclined to communicate in grunts. He’d shown little sign of growing into this handsome giant. Of her three brothers, he was the one who looked most like her, with his black hair and eyes, and tall, lean build.

“Best wishes, Pen.” Elias turned from his conversation with Cam. “May I kiss the bride?”