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But he didn’t feel relief, either.

He felt… burdened.

After years of avoiding the man, it was now time to step into his shoes.

He loathed the idea. Rejected it with every fiber of his being.

But there was nothing he could do.

And to add insult to injury, he had to do it without a penny to his name.

He had just inherited an estate, a few dozen servants, and a few hundred farmers… And he was already failing them.

“I sent for you, hoping you’d see him before he passed,” the doctor said. “Too bad you didn’t receive the missive in time.”

“Right.” Thorn turned his gaze to the ‘grieving’ widow.

Rosemary blew into a handkerchief, then cleared her throat. “I’m just happy I got to see him one last time. So glad I arrived on time.”

Thorn wanted to blame his step-witch for not informing him of Wakefield’s rapidly failing health, but the truth was, even if he had known, he wouldn’t have come.

That wasn’t why Rosemary had withheld the truth, however.

No, she had only wanted to ensure he didn’t have time to obtain a special license and marry before Wakefield died.

“Has anyone informed Arabella of this?” Art enquired about his sister.

The doctor seemed surprised he had even asked. “No, sir. I did not. I didn’t think—”

“Thank you,” Thorn cut him off, then turned to Rosemary. “I suppose congratulations are in order,” he said dryly. “Seems like you’re getting all the inheritance—aside from the title.”

She flicked her hair over her shoulder, a smirk curling her lips, her theatrical grief vanishing in an instant. “Jealous?”

Lydia’s hand slipped into his, and Thorn squeezed her fingers.

His shoulders relaxed. He smiled down at her.

“No,” he said simply. “I have everything I need.”

* * *

Lydia stayed at the manor until the day of the funeral. She had moved into the viscountess’s chambers, rightfully taking her place by Art’s side. They would eventually move into the marquess’s chambers, Thorn had said, but Lydia dreaded that moment.

Luckily for her, Art’s dreadful stepmother still occupied them.

Lady Wakefield had dressed herself in all black that same evening and refused to help with the funeral arrangements, citing her grief.

She wasn’t grieving.

No one in the household was.

Granted, the servants had been loyal to the previous marquess, but it seemed to Lydia—though perhaps she was simply projecting—that the entire house had breathed a collective sigh of relief when he died.

Only Art was buried in correspondence and funeral arrangements. His sister sent her regrets, citing her complete indifference to their sire’s demise. She did offer to come, but only if Art wished it, but he had graciously allowed her to continue enjoying yet another one of her confinements. Apparently, she was expecting her fourth child. And although she wasn’t too far along for the confinement yet, Art didn’t think the journey was worth the trouble.

And Lydia got her first real glimpse of what life would be like with a marquess for a husband.

He was always busy. Always on the move. Always putting out one fire after another.