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A gift he would invariably squander, as he did everything.

He hated himself in that instant. He despised his future self who’d one day break her heart, which her father had rightly predicted.

“Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?” the vicar asked, his focus sliding from his Bible over to Lord Wessex standing just beyond Marcia’s shoulder.

Grief rippled the viscount’s features, and for the grim expression he wore, the other man might as well have been attending a funeral.

Which, if Andrew were wedding any daughter of his own to a bounder like him, he could well commiserate with.

“I do,” Lord Wessex spoke quietly and twined his hand with Marcia’s, passing it over to the vicar.

Without hesitation, Andrew covered her right hand with his, and as he did so, and Marcia’s father reclaimed his seat, the minister continued.

“Say after me.”

“I, Andrew Barrett, take thee, Marcia Gray, to be my wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part…”

Andrew pledged his troth, with Marcia following.

“Those whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder…”

With that, it was done.

Chapter 17

Marcia’s wedding had not begun as she’d expected.

She’d never imagined the sad-eyed stares and furious ones, just as she’d never imagined the person with whom she’d be standing at the altar would be Andrew Barrett, Viscount Waters.

And yet, after the ceremony, while she and Andrew signed the documents that made their marriage official, guests mingled, and a lightness fell over the room, with guests laughing and smiling, and she could almost believe this day was real.

Her own signatures complete, Marcia stood off to the side, unable to take her gaze from her husband.

My husband.

She played that phrase over several times in her mind, testing the feel of it.

“My husband,” she mouthed.

She was married.

To Andrew.

And something in this moment and in the start of a new future with him feltright.

Perhaps because he was her friend, and she could trust him not to hurt her. Mayhap that friendship was why they’d always gotten on.

“Many congratulations, Marcia.”

The grave felicitations brought her jolting to the moment, and she looked at Benedict Adamson, the Earl of Wakefield.

“Benedict!” she exclaimed happily, taking his hands in hers and giving them a squeeze.

Only, he didn’t wear his usual smile, the one he’d always had since their first meeting. He looked as grim as everyone else had during the ceremony.

“Are you happy?” he asked.

“I am,” she said automatically, and strangely, she was. Even as this was a marriage of convenience and not born of the romantic love she’d dreamed of, she found herself light inside.