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Christopher looked out the window at the darkening sky. He was now a married man, but he didn’t feel like it.

He sighed.

A marriage for social aspirations may never be more than pretense , he reminded himself.

As much as Lady Sarah fascinated him, she had married a stranger for a fancy house and an old estate.

He’d do well to remember that before laying not only his property and wealth at her feet but his heart as well.

He took another drink from his decanter before placing it on the table.

He picked up a candle, left the room, and was about to climb the stairs when he saw Mr. Wigan hanging lanterns by the windows that faced the forest.

Surely the butler was not involved in the smuggling of port and wine.

“Are we expecting anyone, Mr. Wigan?” Christopher asked, trying to keep his tone even to allay possible suspicion.

The swarthy butler did not look at all nonplussed. He bowed formally to Christopher. “No, sir.”

Christopher pointed at the lanterns. “What are those lights for?”

The butler raised his thick eyebrows. “I thought you knew, sir.”

“I do not.”

Mr. Wigan pointed at them. “We light lanterns every night for Lady Sarah’s mother, Lady Louisa Denham, so that she might find her way home.”

Christopher nodded, but he did not understand. “Why? I understood from my solicitor that the late countess is dead.”

“We do not know if Lady Manders is dead,” Mr. Wigan said in a tone of no emotion. “She disappeared one night seven years ago. The current earl has begun the process of having her declared dead.”

“Disappeared?”

The butler bowed his head. “I do not wish to gossip, sir. But the Earl of Manders and his lady got into a rather heated argument, and then she left the house near dark. She ordered her horse to be saddled and rode toward the forest without a groom. Her mount returned to the stables without her. By that time, it was pitch-black outside and had started to rain. We lit lanterns and searched for hours, but we never found her. The rain washed away any tracks we might have used to locate her in the daylight.”

“Were there no further efforts to find her?” Christopher pressed.

Mr. Wigan sighed heavily. “The earl hired Bow Street Runners and even an American Pinkerton detective, but there was no trace of Lady Manders anywhere. The earl rode up and down the forest for weeks. He finally gave up after six months and went to London. Lady Sarah stayed and waited for her mother to come back home. She had— has us light the lanterns every night so that if Lady Manders is out there, she can find her way back to Manderfield Hall.”

His first impression that she was a materialistic snob faded, and Christopher felt only sorrow for his new bride. It appeared that none of the servants believed the countess would ever return.

“Thank you for telling me, Mr. Wigan.”

The butler bowed, and Christopher carried his candle upstairs to his bedchamber.

His mind was reeling with new ideas. Perhaps Sarah had not married him for his money or for Manderfield Hall.

What if she had married him in hopes of finding her lost mother?

If so, she was not a beguiling and mercenary creature of the higher class but a heartbroken human being he could relate to. Someone he could sympathize with.

He’d never gotten to say goodbye to his own mother, nor his three little brothers.

Nor did they have proper graves with stones, because of the extent of the outbreak.

His beloved family members had been cast into a common grave, and Christopher did not wish to speak to bones.

He missed his mother. She had never been embarrassed by his scars or made him feel unworthy to be a part of the family.

He had loved his mother with all his heart.

How awful it must be for Sarah not to know whether her mother was alive or dead. With that sobering thought, he knocked gently and opened the door that led from his room to hers. He didn’t know what he expected to see, but it wasn’t what he found.

Sarah was sleeping, and her candle was still burning.

A dangerous thing. She must have been waiting for him.

He leaned forward to blow the candle out but was transfixed by the way the candlelight lit up her face.

Even sleeping, Sarah was a study of perfection.

Her hair parted into two loose braids that framed her face.

With her eyes closed, her long dark lashes rested against her cheeks.

And, for the first time, he saw freckles on her nose. He counted them. There were thirteen.

She murmured something unintelligible, and Christopher stepped back, embarrassed to be caught staring at his own wife.

But her eyes were still closed. She mumbled something about flounces and rolled over onto her side.

Christopher leaned down again and, this time, blew out the candle.

He walked back to the door that led to his own bedchamber, but before he closed it, he could not resist looking back at her one last time.

From the dim light of his own candle, he saw her outline and thought how little he truly knew about the woman he would spend the rest of his life with.

Then he smiled. He did know one thing—that she mumbled in her sleep.