lord.”
“Yes, it has been a whirlwind. As I am standing in place of your father, I want to ask if you are quite certain of this? It’s not too late to change your mind until the vicar pronounces you man and wife.”
Drusilla found the energy for a smile somewhere. “I do not wish to change my mind, my lord.” No, what she wished to do was change who she was—or her appearance, to be more precise. The shallow, vapid desire shamed her. Although she had occasionally wished she were prettier, it had been years ago, when she was a young girl. But tonight, Gabriel Marlington would come to her and—
“I’m pleased to hear you wish to go through with the ceremony, Miss Clare,” the marquess said, his cool tone mingled with amusement. “I’m afraid my wife would beat me black-and-blue if I walked down that aisle without you.”
Drusilla laughed at the image of the tiny marchioness beating her terrifying husband. The marquess stared down at her, his strange crystalline eyes seeming less cold, but his expression as unreadable as ever. “That’s better, my dear; you no longer look as though you might faint.”
“My lord?”
“Yes?
She hesitated. “Do you know if... well, the duel . . . Is it still—”
“Nothing has changed.”
She swallowed. “I’m sorry this happened.”
“I know you are. I’m sorry you had to endure such treatment at the hands of a man who is supposed to be a gentleman. But I’m proud Gabriel was there to assist you.” His message was clear: Lord Exley would do nothing to stop the impending meeting, nor did he wish to discuss its particulars with a mere female.
Music flooded the tiny building, and the marquess held out his arm. “Are you ready?”
Drusilla was as ready as she would ever be. She took his arm, and they entered the church.
* * *
The wedding breakfast was almost at an end and Gabriel felt his stomach clench—a sensation that was not so dissimilar to going into battle. Except the thing that was causing him anxiety was not potential harm to his person, but the unavoidable knowledge that he was now a married man.
He looked at his wife, who was seated between his stepfather and Byer. The marquess had finished eating and was dangling a glass between his fingers, his eyes—where else?—on Gabriel’s mother at the far end of the table.
Byer was saying something to Drusilla that was making her frown. Gabriel caught the word—Wollstonecraft—and gritted his teeth. Good God. Byer would be baiting her. Wouldn’t that be bloody helpful! Byer could get her all worked up, and Gabriel would have to deal with the results. He would throttle the man.
Yesterday, after speaking to Drusilla, he’d spent some time with Eva, who had told him a bit more about his wife. He’d already known about her obsession with Wollstonecraft and her “improving” societies, but he’d not known the true extent of her donations to charities and worthy causes.
Gabriel had also learned she was alone but for her ailing aunt. This year marked her third Season, and she’d received only one offer in spite of her enormous dowry. Well, he’d experienced firsthand her methods of driving off suitors, hadn’t he? He’d always assumed—it now seemed wrongly—that social awkwardness accounted for her behavior. Now he knew she deliberately repelled men in order to avoid offers of matrimony. And Gabriel had forced her into marriage.
Her charitable work was impressive—she was no dabbler doling out moralizing tracts, but a woman who poured thousands of pounds into housing, medical care, and apprenticeship programs.
One thing that should make her happy was that marriage to him meant the entirety of her fortune was now at her disposal and she could pursue all the causes she chose.
Gabriel could only hope she did not view him as yet another project awaiting her improving efforts—however unworthy he might be. Something poked him hard in the side, pulling his thoughts away from his wife, and he turned.
He smiled at his sister. “I hope you don’t poke all your dining companions in the ribs, Evil.”
She gave him a stony look, refusing to be charmed. “I want to know about this duel.”
Gabriel groaned. What a bloody nuisance it was that Visel hadn’t kept his mouth shut with females present and delivered the challenge later, as a normal, intelligent man would have done.
“Eva, you know I will not speak of this so do not tax me. This is nothing that—” A snatch of conversation—the words spoken in a tone of asperity—drifted across