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“Is that so?” West felt another surge of fury at how close Townley had come to harming Pomona. “Well, Townley is not a man whose good opinion I care to have. I shall write to my steward before I leave, and I shall look forward to meeting with you again when I return.”

Sir Anthony took the hint. He bowed. “Of course, your grace. I shall look forward to it too. And thank you for”—

Another burst of furious hammering drowned out the rest of his polite goodbyes. The footman showed him out.

Chapter Six

Charles offered his elbow. “Well? You look as though you are about to be marched to the guillotine.”

“Wonderful.” She tried to swallow.

She regretted, now, telling West that she could do without seeing him until the wedding. Perhaps one… or even two… visits would have helped her overcome this feeling that she was marrying a near-stranger. But she’d been angry, and overwhelmed, and trying to cling to any semblance of normalcy as long as she could.

Her knees were shaking so badly that for a moment she wasn’t sure that even Charles’ arm would hold her up as they paced down the staircase to the drawing room. She stared down into the nosegay of creamy hothouse roses, jasmine and ivy that she carried—a thoughtful addition from Lady Theodosia, who’d also decorated the drawing room with more jasmine and roses, along with hyacinths and violets.

In the room were her mother, Lady Theodosia, Charles’ wife Celia, the clergyman, and… West. Her eyes went straight to his face. His dark eyes were serious—although his expression seemed to relax a little when he saw her in the doorway with Charles. He was a little pale. His jaw was set and his lips made a thin, tense line. He looked tall and intimidating in his dark tailcoat. Under it he wore a cream and gold damask waistcoat that unexpectedly matched her gown.

Her thoughts were a jumble as the clergyman began to talk. “Who giveth this woman?” he asked, and Charles said that he did. She found herself repeating the words that she was supposed to repeat in what sounded to her like her normal voice—or at least something close to it.

What seemed only a moment later West was slipping the ring onto her shaking finger. The clergyman said a blessing, and then there was silence.

She blinked. Was it over? Did this mean that she was married? She glanced at Charles. He nodded, smiling faintly.

She looked at West. The grim line of his mouth had relaxed. He seemed to smile at her too… although perhaps it was only in his eyes.

“My dear!” Her mother hurried up and gripped her hands—which was painful, as she was wearing a number of large rings. She whispered audibly, “Your gown, at least, is nothing to apologize for.”

What was that supposed to mean? In only a moment she was bound to say something rude to West, too…

“Lady Alford.” West bowed.

“Your grace!” Her mother curtseyed, dimpled, and… was she actually batting her lashes at West? Involuntarily Pomona glanced at West again. He stared at his new mother-in-law in shock, until he recollected himself and nodded politely.

Lady Theodosia had arranged a small wedding breakfast, and Pomona drank some Champagne and madeira and managed to eat an almond cake. Celia offered warm congratulations. They talked a little. But Pomona felt as though she was moving about and mouthing words without knowing how or what she said. And then it was already time to depart, and she had to try not to cry as she said goodbye to Lady Theodosia. Everything had changed. She had not been ready for it to change.

Outside snowflakes caught on her lips. The cold air was momentarily pleasant on her hot face. “I have ordered carriages, but they will not be delivered for at least a month or two,” said West, as Lady Theodosia’s footman shut the door behind them.

She stared across at him. Carriages? Why on earth should she care about his carriages? He leaned forward, studying her face, his browns drawn together in concern. “Are you feeling well? You have been very… quiet.”

“Yes, I… I… It is only that there have been so many things to…” She broke off and gave her head a shake. “My goodness. It does snow.”

“Yes.” He stared out the window. “It does.”

The carriage crossed Oxford Street, turned down Bond Street, and thence onto Piccadilly, past Lady Beaufort’s house—site of the disaster that had led to this very moment—and then into St. James’ Square. Grey tree trunks and black iron railings were stark against the white drifts. “This, er… is it.”

It was difficult to see what the house looked like, because its front was obscured by wooden scaffolding, which was also being covered in snow. A footman rushed out to open the carriage door. They hurried inside. The servants had assembled in the entrance hall, although the sound of hammering from down a corridor made it difficult to hear all the introductions.

They toured several of the reception rooms—which were, as her mother had said, falling apart. Finally West showed her into a room upstairs, at the back of the house. She looked around, confused. “What is this? The billiard room?”

“Yes. It, er… is free of leaks, and the fireplace is in good repair, and—well, it is clean.”

“I see.” That seemed to be all that she was capable of saying.

“The bulk of the repair work to the house should be complete in the next month or two.”

“Oh.” It was only two hours past noon but already the light outside was failing. She wanted only to sit down.

He touched her elbow. “Have you eaten anything?”