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She remembered all her dreams about him crawling back to her on his hands and knees, and she couldn’t remember why. Perhaps it was her pride, certainly not her heart.

“Of course, I think about you—” in revulsion, she was about to add, but at this moment, a shadow appeared behind Stanhope, and a huge hand landed on his shoulder.

“Your tryst is over,” boomed Vane’s voice. “Now, get the hell out of this house.”

Stanhope turned to face him and visibly shrunk. He was about a foot shorter than the marquess—which wasn’t difficult since Vane was the tallest man Isabel ever knew—but Stanhope seemed feeble now, almost childlike. Nevertheless, he didn’t scurry away.

“I believe this is not your home. And you cannot turn me out,” he said somewhat calmly. Isabel gave him credit for not quivering out of his boots. Vane’s presence was rather intimidating. “I shall see you at the table.” Stanhope addressed the last to Isabel and walked away.

Isabel was left staring at Vane’s chest.

“If you must cuckold me, couldn’t you at least wait until after the wedding breakfast?” Vane’s tone was as dry as a desert. He asked it as though he didn’t doubt what he’d witnessed, more so, as if he’d expected it to happen.

“I did not cuckold you,” Isabel said between her teeth.

“I do not expect you to be faithful, but the least you can do is be honest… And for the sake of both of us, circumspect.”

“I did not—” Isabel started, her nostrils flaring. She took a deep breath to calm herself. “That was not what you think it was. He accosted me.”

Vane just looked at her, boredom evident in his eyes. He did not believe her. Not only did he think her an adulteress, but also a liar. And he was not even angry about it. What kind of marriage did he expect them to have?

“Come,” he said curtly. “Guests will start wondering where you disappeared to.”

Isabel did not have the will or strength to argue just then. She’d address all her issues with him after they got back home.

Home.

Only her home would be a foreign place with strange people and huge, unmannered dogs…

She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and placed her hand on her husband’s sleeve.

Chapter 7

They returned to the table just in time for the toasts to start. Isabel sat grinding her teeth, listening to the insincere wishes of good health, grand love, and a brood of children.

After every mention of children, old matrons and young ladies alike gave the customary once over along Isabel’s length. They were clearly thinking that at her age, she’d be lucky to bear one child, let alone an entire brood.

Isabel kept her back straight and her smile wide. She pretended that those scathing looks didn’t hurt; she pretended that the whispers didn’t sting while she had all those doubts herself.

She knew there would be no grand love between her and her new husband. But what she did not know was whether she’d be able to perform her wifely duties.

She had been a hostess in Gage’s house since she was three and twenty. She knew how to run that house, how to arrange balls and soirees. But she’d always had the supportive hands of her family at her back. Now, she’d be living with complete strangers and the husband who loathed her.

Still, she was determined to carve out a piece of heaven at his remote estate. But first, she’d need to give him an heir. And just like most of the guests present at her wedding breakfast table, she doubted very much she’d be able to perform this duty.

As the last toast rang, Isabel sagged against her chair, glad that this part was finally over. But her relief was short-lived. At that moment, a frail old lady—the same lady who was responsible for drawing too much attention to Isabel and Vane’s plight in the corridor—the woman responsible for gossip that pushed the two to marry—stood from her chair.

Isabel hoped she’d thank the hosts and say it was time to leave. Instead, Lady Crosby looked from bride to groom a few times before saying, “We’ve spent the entire morning at your wedding breakfast, and yet, we’re still to hear this grand love story of yours!”

Isabel blinked. What?

“I beg your pardon?” her husband asked in a low voice from the other side of the table.

“The invitation,” the woman said loudly, waving said invitation in her hand. “It stated that we were invited to witness a celebration of true love. Yet nobody told us the story. I, for one, am dying to hear it.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Isabel ground out between her teeth.

“Did you say something, dear?” Lady Crosby turned toward Isabel.