It had been seven years since she’d spoken to anybody of horses, and she’d chosen to start with her papa—which only made it harder today, of all days, to give her away.

* * *

No thunderbolt had stopped the ceremony at the last minute; no messenger of God had spoken up to state a reason why the union should not go forward. Eve Windham had been pronounced a wife, though the bishop’s voice had sounded as distant to her as the hunting horn blowing “gone away” on a far, windy hill.

“Eat something, Evie.”

Deene bent close to her, his smile doting though concern lurked in his blue eyes.

“I couldn’t possibly.”

His smile slipped, and Eve wondered if they were to have another bad moment. They’d already avoided one when Deene had realized Mr. Dolan had been present at the wedding, little Georgina dutifully turned out in her finest, the governess looking a good deal more spruce at her side than when Eve had met them in the park.

“Perhaps you’d like to leave?” Deene made the offer quietly.

“May we?”

“At some point it’s obligatory, if these good people are to truly indulge in the excesses of a ducal wedding breakfast.”

“How do we do this?”

She did not want to leave with him, did not want to take any single step closer to the ordeal facing her at the end of the day, but neither could she abide the noise, the good wishes, the concerned looks from her family, and the increasing ribaldry from the guests.

And her wishes became moot, for Deene had apparently colluded with her brothers to choreograph the moment. At some subtle signal, Westhaven stood up and tapped his spoon against a delicate crystal glass.

“Friends, esteemed guests, beloved family—if I might have your attention?”

The long tables filled with guests grew silent as Westhaven went on speaking. “For reasons understandable to any who beholds my baby sister and her adoring groom, we must now bid Deene and his bride farewell. A round of applause to speed them on their way!” Westhaven lifted his glass, and Eve was scooped into her intend—her husband’s arms. Deene had her out the door and bundled into a waiting carriage before the last guest stumbled onto the terrace, and then she was on her way to Surrey… and God knew what kind of confrontation with her intend—her husband.

“You had the grays put to. Papa likes to save them for special occasions because they look so smart with the black coach and red trim.”

Deene gave her an odd smile, and it occurred to Eve that small talk wasn’t going to get them very far. Not at this moment, not in this marriage.

“Eve?” He turned on the seat beside her and undid the veil and headpiece she’d worn all day. “This is a very special occasion.”

“Oh. Of course.”

He withdrew pins from her hair, making Eve realize how uncomfortable that part of her wedding ensemble had been. He had kissed her once outside the church as the reception line was forming, just a little buss to the cheek she’d found both fortifying and alarming.

“Come here, Wife.”

Merciful heavens. To have a husband was one thing, to be a wife quite another. Deene’s deft hands had undone even her bun, so her hair hung down her back in a braid.

“Husband.”

“That would be me.” His arm settled around her shoulders.

“I’m practicing. I have neither had a husband before nor been a wife. This will take some adjustment.”

Now she was babbling. Deene shifted beside her, so his fingers closed on her nape and gently kneaded her neck. “We will adjust together. So far, I regard my station as an improvement over the unwed state.”

He wasn’t teasing. “In what regard?”

“It’s more peaceful, for one thing. I’m not prey to the matchmakers, the rumors have lost a great deal of their interest for everybody, and I can look forward to spending much of the Season in our honey month rather than being stalked like a sacrificial goat.”

Not very romantic of him, but honest. “Did those rumors trouble you?”

“A bit.”

Maybe a decade from now she’d be able to fathom exactly how much “a bit” was when uttered in just that tone while Deene glanced out the window with just that grim expression. Or maybe by then they’d be entirely estranged.

“You were troubled when you saw Mr. Dolan and Georgina at the wedding.”

He scowled at the lovely spring day, probably the first nasty expression Eve had seen on her… husband’s face.

“He had no business attending.”

Did she pry, or did she back away and start mentally listing the things they would tacitly agree not to discuss? “I don’t think Her Grace gave it a thought when she made up the guest list, Deene. He’s raising your niece and thus he’s a part of your family. I gather you and he are not cordial?”

Eve would not pry, but she would invite.

“He all but killed my sister after making her endlessly miserable and ashamed. If I hold my father accountable for one thing, it’s selling Marie into that grasping, ungrateful, ignorant vulgarian’s arms.”

The very lack of inflection in Deene’s tone was chilling, particularly when Eve herself might be the object of her husband’s ire before a few more hours had elapsed.

“He seems a devoted father for all that.”

Deene was silent, while the countryside rolled along outside their window for a good portion of a mile. “Anthony had been courting Marie, a match she apparently welcomed. It made sense, they were enamored, and between themselves, I believe they had an understanding.”

Eve took Deene’s hand in hers. “And then?”

“And then Dolan came strutting along, all trussed up in purchased finery, and offered for her on terms my father didn’t even attempt to refuse. Marie was wed to a stranger, one with no family to speak of, no gentility, nothing to recommend him except a growing fortune and a reputation for grasping at any opportunity for financial or social gain.”

Something wasn’t adding up, though Eve found it difficult to put her finger on the discrepancy. “If Marie was integral to Dolan’s plans for betterment, he’d hardly treat her ill.”

“She was seventeen years old, Eve. She’d been sheltered all of her life and fully expected to marry into the world she’d been raised in. She tried to talk me into getting her a horse so she could run off the day before the wedding, as if that option were any safer for her.”

“How old were you?”

“Nearly thirteen.”

What a burden to put on a boy, particularly a boy being raised to fill his papa’s titled shoes. “How did she die, Lucas?”

He was silent for so long this time Eve thought he might not answer, and part of her didn’t want him to. The tale had to be painful for him, and there would be enough to cope with on their wedding day without adding this recitation to it.

“She lost a child, and they could not stop the bleeding. She faded, and her last request to me was to make sure I took care of Georgie. Dolan will call the child only Georgina—he must ape his betters even in speech—but to Marie, she was Georgie.”

Eve let her head rest against her husband’s shoulder. “You fault him for getting her with child.”

“Georgie’s birth was not easy. I have no doubt the accoucheur had cautioned them against having more children, but to Dolan he’d bought and paid for a broodmare, and a broodmare he would make of her.”

Many men regarded their wives in this light—many titled men, who would set the broodmare aside if she failed to produce. They’d find a way to nullify the union, strip their wives of any social standing or decent company, and set about procreating merrily with the next candidate, all with the complicity of both church and courts.

“You should know the skeletons in the Deene family closet, Eve, though I’m sorry to bring this up today of all days.”

Were she any other bride, she’d like that he felt that way, like that he was confiding in her. “Windhams have their share of skeletons.”

This earned her another curious smile, but rather than permit Deene to interrogate her, Eve closed her eyes and leaned her head back. “Weddings are tiring, don’t you think?”

Her… husband did not reply.

Seven

Deene’s wife was not asleep on his shoulder as she’d have him believe, and she was nervous.

Like a procession of sensory still lifes, his memories of the day told him as much:

Eve’s hand, slender and cold in his when he’d put the wedding ring on her finger.

Eve’s cheek, equally cool when he’d been unable to deny himself the smallest display of dominion outside the church—and she had not kissed him in return.

Eve, clinging in her oldest brother’s embrace for a desperately long moment, until St. Just’s countess had touched her husband’s arm and embraced Eve herself.

A whiff of mock orange coming to Deene’s nose and bringing with it a sense of calm until he saw the way Eve gripped her wine glass so tightly he thought the delicate stem might break.

He’d been prepared for bridal nerves. He’d even been prepared for his own nerves—this was the only wedding night he ever intended to have, after all—but he had not been prepared for his wife to be on the verge of strong hysterics.

A change of plans was called for, or neither one of them would be sane by bedtime.

“Evie.” He brushed her hair back from her temple. “Time to wake up, love. We must greet our staff.”

She straightened and peered out the window. “So many of them, and this is not even your family seat.”

Our family seat. He did not emphasize the point.