his grandson. Eye for
an eye… tooth for a tooth… life for a life…
Long-hidden memories of that horrible day
began to come to light despite Christian’s resistance. Even now he could still
see the throngs of mourners who had come all the way from London, huddling
together beneath the dripping branches of the great Westover elms to pay their
last respects. He would never forget the cold that had numbed him to his bones,
the wet dripping from the trees, the thick misty fog that had shrouded the
Wycliffe family cemetery. Nor would he ever escape the memory of the haunting
toll of the church bell that had rung out the traditional nine times and then
another nine-and-twenty for each year of Christopher Wycliffe’s short life.
An ague had taken him, the family had
said, and everyone had believed them. No one could ever have suspected the
truth as they looked at the newly titled nine-year-old marquess standing beside
his grandfather the duke, shivering in the rain.
Christian looked away from his grandfather
to where his mother and his sister sat on the bench across the aisle. Frances,
Lady Knighton, had been the celebrated beauty of her time, inspiring volumes of
poetry and setting a style that had been emulated throughout many a social
season. Once a brilliant sable brown, her hair had since grayed and the pale
skin of her face was not quite as smooth as it had once been. Still she
continued to attract notice whenever she went out as a figure of elegance and
grace and beauty.
Since the death of her husband, though,
most of her time was spent hidden away from society, reading her Bible or
passing her days in silent prayer. The past twenty years had done little to
remove the taint of sadness from her eyes and Christian often thought that that
day had not only seen his father killed, but his mother’s spirit destroyed as
well. For months afterward they’d worried she might do herself a harm. The only thing
that had kept her from it, Christian knew, had been the child she’d carried
within her—her daughter, his sister, Eleanor.
From the moment she was born, Eleanor was
everything that was gentle and good in the world. Christian had watched her
grow, blossoming from a silly little tomboy with ragged-hemmed skirts and dirt
beneath her fingernails to the refined, accomplished young woman she now was.
He had seen her through scraped shins, quinsy, and a rivalry with the
neighboring earl’s daughter, Lady Amanda Barrington, that had ended with one
unruly tangle in the midst of a trout pond. And he would see her safely wed, he
said to himself, not in an arranged match like his, but with a man she both
loved and respected, one who would love and respect her in kind.
It was for those two women and none other
that Christian would see this day through; he would do anything—even marry a
stranger—to protect them.
Eleanor, ever the optimist, had tried to
ease what she perceived to be Christian’s premarital apprehension at their
arrival in the village early that morning.
“She will be lovely,” she’d
said, straightening his neckcloth and brushing a hand over his coat. “You
will see.”
Christian had simply nodded, but inwardly
he had wondered what it would matter whether his bride was or wasn’t lovely. He
would still have to wed her. He’d signed his name to the contracts. Even now he
couldn’t believe he’d done it, agreeing to wed a woman he had yet to set eyes
upon. But he had seen her name indelibly written on the contracts. Lady
Grace Ledys. A relation of some sort of the Marquess of Cholmeley, for he’d
also seen that name listed as the girl’s guardian. A lovely name, yes—but who
was she? And what sort of girl would agree to wed a man she, too, had never
seen?
There came a stirring at the back of the
church then. The time had come for him to face his bride. Christian turned. Now
to be done with it.
A slight figure gowned in pale blue stood
at the end of the aisle on the arm of an older man, no doubt
an eye… tooth for a tooth… life for a life…
Long-hidden memories of that horrible day
began to come to light despite Christian’s resistance. Even now he could still
see the throngs of mourners who had come all the way from London, huddling
together beneath the dripping branches of the great Westover elms to pay their
last respects. He would never forget the cold that had numbed him to his bones,
the wet dripping from the trees, the thick misty fog that had shrouded the
Wycliffe family cemetery. Nor would he ever escape the memory of the haunting
toll of the church bell that had rung out the traditional nine times and then
another nine-and-twenty for each year of Christopher Wycliffe’s short life.
An ague had taken him, the family had
said, and everyone had believed them. No one could ever have suspected the
truth as they looked at the newly titled nine-year-old marquess standing beside
his grandfather the duke, shivering in the rain.
Christian looked away from his grandfather
to where his mother and his sister sat on the bench across the aisle. Frances,
Lady Knighton, had been the celebrated beauty of her time, inspiring volumes of
poetry and setting a style that had been emulated throughout many a social
season. Once a brilliant sable brown, her hair had since grayed and the pale
skin of her face was not quite as smooth as it had once been. Still she
continued to attract notice whenever she went out as a figure of elegance and
grace and beauty.
Since the death of her husband, though,
most of her time was spent hidden away from society, reading her Bible or
passing her days in silent prayer. The past twenty years had done little to
remove the taint of sadness from her eyes and Christian often thought that that
day had not only seen his father killed, but his mother’s spirit destroyed as
well. For months afterward they’d worried she might do herself a harm. The only thing
that had kept her from it, Christian knew, had been the child she’d carried
within her—her daughter, his sister, Eleanor.
From the moment she was born, Eleanor was
everything that was gentle and good in the world. Christian had watched her
grow, blossoming from a silly little tomboy with ragged-hemmed skirts and dirt
beneath her fingernails to the refined, accomplished young woman she now was.
He had seen her through scraped shins, quinsy, and a rivalry with the
neighboring earl’s daughter, Lady Amanda Barrington, that had ended with one
unruly tangle in the midst of a trout pond. And he would see her safely wed, he
said to himself, not in an arranged match like his, but with a man she both
loved and respected, one who would love and respect her in kind.
It was for those two women and none other
that Christian would see this day through; he would do anything—even marry a
stranger—to protect them.
Eleanor, ever the optimist, had tried to
ease what she perceived to be Christian’s premarital apprehension at their
arrival in the village early that morning.
“She will be lovely,” she’d
said, straightening his neckcloth and brushing a hand over his coat. “You
will see.”
Christian had simply nodded, but inwardly
he had wondered what it would matter whether his bride was or wasn’t lovely. He
would still have to wed her. He’d signed his name to the contracts. Even now he
couldn’t believe he’d done it, agreeing to wed a woman he had yet to set eyes
upon. But he had seen her name indelibly written on the contracts. Lady
Grace Ledys. A relation of some sort of the Marquess of Cholmeley, for he’d
also seen that name listed as the girl’s guardian. A lovely name, yes—but who
was she? And what sort of girl would agree to wed a man she, too, had never
seen?
There came a stirring at the back of the
church then. The time had come for him to face his bride. Christian turned. Now
to be done with it.
A slight figure gowned in pale blue stood
at the end of the aisle on the arm of an older man, no doubt
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