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stole another look at the man who had put it on her finger. He was tall and handsome, nobly connected—for now—and even thoughtful. Perhaps they would come to know each other well enough to share affection, even love. Perhaps in time theirs would blossom from a marriage of convenience, forged out of mutual need for what the other had, to something better. Perhaps . . .

The vicar escorted them to the vestry to sign the register. The captain signed his name with a flourish and handed her the pen. Katherine peeked at his name—Gerard Philip Francis de Lacey—before signing her own. Next to his vibrant scrawl, hers looked small and insignificant. Just like everything else about the pair of us, she thought with a sigh.

He was watching her, and when she laid down the pen, he pulled her a little apart from the others. Birdie started to follow, but he gave her such a look, she stopped in her tracks. Birdie glanced to Katherine in appeal, but she shook her head. He was her husband now, and he had the right to talk to her. And she had better get used to it just as much as Birdie.

“We’ll go to Portman Square next,” he told her. “You need to pack your things and make arrangements for what cannot be taken with us. It will have to be sent along later. However, we don’t have much time. I had intended to be gone already.”

She nodded. “I understand. It won’t take long to pack.”

“Do you expect Lord Howe to cause a scene?”

She swallowed hard. “I don’t know. He may. If my mother is there, you may depend on her causing one.” She glanced up at him. “I am sorry—”

He laughed. “Don’t worry, love. I have no objection to scenes—I’m perfectly capable of causing one myself. I just wanted to know what to expect. We’ll be all right, hmm?” Still smiling, he tipped up her chin and kissed her on the mouth. The kiss was soft and light, but bowled her over just as much as the one last night had done. When he lifted his head a moment later, she almost toppled right into him. He caught her against him very naturally, but Katherine wiggled away, flustered by her uncharacteristic lack of composure.

“Your marriage lines, my lord, my lady,” said the vicar behind her. She turned and managed a smile for him. The man beamed back at her, as he had done all morning. The captain must have told him some nonsense about their marriage, or else the man was a grinning fool.

Her husband reached out and took the two pieces of paper from the vicar, handing one to Katherine. “Should Lord Howe require proof,” he murmured as he stuffed his copy, unread, into his coat.

Katherine scanned the marriage certificate. Katherine Howe, widow, aged 30 . . . Gerard de Lacey, bachelor, aged 28 . . . Oh heavens. Her face heated as she quickly folded the paper and slipped it into her cloak pocket. She was two years older than he!

“Are you ready, Lady Gerard?” her husband asked. He extended his hand and winked at her.

She was Lady Gerard de Lacey now, no longer Viscountess Howe. Her first husband never winked at her, and even though Katherine reminded herself this marriage was no more founded on love than her first had been, a hesitant smile crept over her face all the same. He looked just as boyish as she remembered him when he winked. She put her hand in his. “Yes, Captain.”

He pulled her close again and leaned down. “Gerard,” he breathed in her ear. “Unless you plan to follow my every order, like a cavalryman.”

“That’s really not necessary,” she whispered back.

His fingers tightened on hers. “Today it is.”

She took a deep breath. It seemed he was determined to continue this farce of intimacy. “Very well. Gerard.” Just his name tasted sweet and dangerous on her tongue, much like his kiss. She looked up into his laughing blue eyes and wondered if she hadn’t made a terrible mistake after all.

Chapter 8

Gerard thought his bride was tensed up so tightly she might snap under the strain as the carriage rolled toward Portman Square. Her fingers were knotted in her lap, her mouth was one thin line, and he didn’t think she’d moved except to breathe since they left the church. Her maid had assumed the air of a warrior girding for battle, which sat rather oddly on her plump, dowdy form. He