Chapter 20

Something ailed Quinton. She met him at the front of St. George’s, and he stood still as stone, his shoulders a brick wall, his face hard. No smile for her. No teasing. No Noble Smirk wrapped around a suave, “Merriweather.” He never even acknowledged her. Unless commanded to do so.

She wanted to pinch him. Look at me, she needed to hiss. But they were a spectacle with too many eyes on them. No pinching or hissing. They were not Merriweather and Chance here but Viscount Noble and Lady Charlotte, and this marriage, at its heart, a means to fix her reputation, to ensure her sisters’ futures. So, she accepted the wall he’d erected between them, kept her distance from the thorns climbing, twining there, and waited. With perfect patience.

Because once they were alone, she’d force the answer from him one way or another.

What had happened in between the brilliant, soft hours they’d spent together last night and now?

She tried to focus on the clergyman, his words, Prudence dressed neatly beside her, slumped in boredom, Samuel standing beside Quinton, their families at their backs, but her heart would not stop sinking. Why? What had happened?

When they faced one another at the clergyman’s behest, she tried to catch his gaze, but his caught on their hands reaching for one another. He had a ring in one hand, a silver sliver of a thing, a shining circlet of ivy. She’d not seen it until now, had no clue what it would look like. It fit her perfectly, in every way. She wanted to know why he’d chosen this one, what, if anything, it meant to him.

“With this ring,” he said, “I thee wed. With my body, I thee worship.”

Funny. She did not feel worshipped. He squeezed her hands in his, almost painfully, his head hung long, his neck a snowy curve as if he bared it for his own execution. Had she done something wrong last night?

He finished the vows and turned away from her, and she caught a whiff of whisky. Her heart, which had been sinking steadily, plummeted through the floor. He’d arrived foxed. Had everything, every single thing between them the last few weeks, been lies? And now he’d tied them together body, soul, and future, he felt free to reveal his true feelings?

The buzzing started in her fingertips and spread up her arms, taking over her entire body like a swarm of bees.

Then, apparently, they were married, and he was escorting her down the aisle as if flames licked up the sides of the pulpit, stretching long, fiery arms after them.

She ran to keep up, her legs tangling in her skirts. “Quinton,” she breathed, “slow down!”

He finally did, outside the waiting carriage, open and decorated with garlands of white blooms she’d chosen herself. She let him deposit her there, too stunned to fight back.

“I must be gone for a few days, perhaps weeks.”

“What… what do you mean?”

He started backing down the street away from the carriage, away from her. “My horse is waiting on the side of the church. I’ll write to you when I’m able.”

“You’re leaving now!” She shot to her feet, rocking the carriage, flipping her belly, and startling the horses. Even she heard the shrill note in her voice.

“I’ve no choice. Disaster at Bluevale.”

She gasped. “What has happ—”

He disappeared around the side of St. George’s.

Impulse one: Run after him, jump up on the horse behind him, and demand more coherent and detailed information.

Impulse two: Smile at the people currently flooding out of the church and pretend nothing was wrong. Several of them already peered up at her quizzically.

Slowly, she sat, folding her hands neatly on her lap. “It appears,” she said loudly enough for everyone to hear, “that my new husband has an urgent and unavoidable emergency. He will not be joining us for the breakfast as he attends to his duties. I am sure it will prove nothing in his capable hands. Please do not worry yourselves and join me at my brother’s home to break my fast as a newly wedded wife.”

Whose husband had just fled around the corner.

She smiled, though, giving it as much glow as possible, and it seemed to appease the crowd.

Except for her sisters, who stood in the church entrance, all arms crossed, legs spread in stances that said they took this desertion seriously.

And except for her brother, whose brow could rival any thundercloud for dangerous electrical promise. His hand crept beneath his jacket, likely grabbing a knife hilt hidden somewhere there. Why did the man always inch toward poking implements? She wished she had one to hand currently, and that she could throw it with the same accuracy.

The carriage lurched into movement, and she made the short journey from St. George’s to home beneath the merry sun alone. By the time she stepped into the cool shadows of her home—her brother’s home now—she was panicking. Just a bit. Hated to admit it, but her shift, beneath her arms, had begun to feel wet. She poked her elbows out and fanned herself. What disaster had occurred to cause Quinton to run off like that? She felt livid. And confused. And worried. And beneath all those emotions some she could not quite discern. Too many. All at once. And none of them the one she should feel on her wedding day—joy. She kept a smile, but through it ran a brittle crack, innumerable hairline fractures impossible to repair.

In the entryway, she welcomed family and friends inside, searching for—ah, there.

“Lady Noble!” she cried out, pushing through the crowd. When close enough, she looped their arms together and pulled the older woman into a nearby antechamber, leaving the guests to Samuel and her sisters.

“What has happened at Bluevale?” she asked, smoothing her hands over and over again down her skirts.

“I can’t be certain. I had no idea he planned to rush off like that. He’s done little but grunt this morning.” Lady Noble wrapped her arm around Lottie’s shoulders, thank goodness, because Lottie’s legs gave out a little. “Sit, sit. What did he tell you?”

“Very little. He told me there was an emergency and… and then he left.” Stay strong, Charlotte. She would not cry. It was her wedding day, and she’d been abandoned immediately afterward, but she would not cry. Charlotte Merriweather did not cry over such trifles. “Did he not tell you?”

“Quinton left for the church before I did. We did not have an opportunity to talk. But Barnaby stomped into the house this morning, waking everyone, making a fuss. And then by the time Quinton left, he’d made preparations to go to Bluevale. I thought he’d be taking you after the breakfast, but…”

“As you see, I am here. And uninvited.”

“Lottie, my dear. I am deeply sorry. I’m not sure what to say. I’ve no clue what Quin is thinking. How can I help?”

Lottie swallowed a lump rising in her throat. They’d invited Mr. Barnaby, hadn’t they? Yes, of course Quinton had. But had he come?

“Lottie?”

She met Lady Noble’s gaze. “Bring me Barnaby.”

“Yes. Right away. I’ll have tea sent in as well.”

The tea arrived, and Lady Noble reappeared not more than ten minutes after that, pushing Barnaby through the door, though he dug his heels so well the carpet folded up beneath his feet.

Lottie abandoned her tea and stood, though how, she could not ascertain. Best not to question it. “Do you know what has happened at Bluevale?”

Barnaby flipped her a sneer like he’d toss a coin in the air. “You don’t know? He’s not told you? Hmph. He’s not in your pocket, then, madame, and I’ll not put him there.”

Lottie’s hands became fists. “Lord Noble is not, nor has he ever been, pocket sized. Now tell me, what has happened at Bluevale?”

“I can’t see as it’s your business. His choice to tell you or not. A man goes where a man goes and takes care of what is his responsibility to care for.”

Last night, Quinton had cared for her. Now…?

She marched toward Barnaby, forcing him to scuttle back until he hit a wall. “And you have chosen to come here. Into my brother, the Duke of Clearford’s home, and break your fast with my family.” Every word an icicle. “I may choose to toss you out.”

“You’re a cold one.”

“Barnaby!” Lady Noble cried. “What has gotten into you?”

“What I want to know, Lady Noble,” Lottie said, “is what possessed your husband to request your son rely on that man.”

“Hey now, girlie,” Barnaby growled. “You best not—”

“Tell me what happened!” She may have yelled it. Silence certainly rang after the words dissolved.

Barnaby blinked several times, then stammered, “There was a storm, many of the cottages collapsed. He needed to be there.”

Lady Noble gasped. “How horrid. But where’s Mr. Rilston, our estate manager? He should tend to that, especially on Quinton’s wedding day.”

Barnaby snorted. “A woman would think that. Your son has a duty, my lady, and he’s been ignoring it to trail after that bit of skirt like a lost puppy dog. He remembered his purpose today and did what a man in his position must do. You women would not understand.”

“Enough.” Lottie would hear no more. “Thank you, Mr. Barnaby, for the information. No thank you for the insults. And thank you very much for leaving my home now.”

His mouth dropped open. “I’ve not eaten yet.”

“Nor will you.” She raised a brow.

He scooted sideways for the door, grumbling. “Women.” He slammed the door closed behind him.

Lady Noble approached Lottie with careful, measured steps, as if to keep from scaring her. “He’s horrid, but my husband trusted him, and he did well with Quinton all those years ago, kept him focused on his duty instead of his loss.”

“Mr. Barnaby does not matter. Thank you for locating him for me. Now I know what has taken Quinton off so suddenly.” And she could not hate him for it. His people were suffering, and he’d known the cottages needed mending. No wonder he’d put up stone walls this morning. He likely blamed himself. She did not begrudge him running off to help his people as soon as he could.

But he’d gone about it the entirely wrong way, the nodcock. He should have told her, asked her to come with him, trusted her to help.

“What will you do, dear?” Lady Noble, the first mother Lottie had belonged to in six years, squeezed her hand, watched her with caring eyes so like in color to her son’s. Whisky eyes. Whisky on Quinton’s breath this morning. Come to think of it, Barnaby had smelled of whisky, too. She likely had him to thank for Quinton’s wedding-day cologne.

“I have no choice but to join the guests, break my fast, and make merry without my husband.”

“Oh, my dear.” Lady Noble folded Lottie into a hug. “I am so very sorry.”

So, too, was Lottie. For Quinton. Because after she smiled and acted as if nothing plagued her, she would find him.

She pushed out of her mother-in-law’s embrace, dry-eyed and ready. “All will be well.” She sailed out the door. She’d lied with that last bit. No way to know if all would be well.

If she’d said those words last night, lying in Quinton’s arms, she would have believed them in her bones. But that time seemed so long ago now, another continent separated from where she currently stood, with a sea of Quinton’s coldness between them. He clearly did not trust her enough to tell her about his woes, to share them with her. Or… he did not think her strong enough to share them. Hadn’t she asked time and again for details, to help, and hadn’t he denied her time and again, saying it was not her worry to fret over?

What then were her worries to be?

A cold husband. A marriage lacking trust. A husband who thought her his weakness.

Her feet brought her to the large drawing room where everyone waited, and she curved her best smile upon her lips before stepping over the threshold. But she put her heart to sleep. It was the only way to survive.