Page 50 of A Wife for the Beast (Scandals and Second Chances #6)

The morning of her wedding dawned grey and grim; the sky draped in low-hanging clouds that pressed down with silent insistence. It seemed to have been raining for days, and the sombre weather was doing little to lift Vera’s grave mood.

She wondered if she’d feel any less wretched if the sun was shining, or her own people could have been with her to try to instil a modicum of joy, but she doubted either of those things would have eased her anxieties.

She was about to embark on a lifetime of unwanted duty, and despite her penchant for practicality, she was finding it difficult to maintain her usual positivity.

A steady drizzle tapped against the panes of Vera’s bedchamber, each droplet marking time toward inevitability.

She stood still as Imogen adjusted the bodice of her gown, a simple creation of cream muslin edged with fine lace.

It was not bridal, not truly—but then, neither was this the way she had ever envisaged her wedding.

In the mirror, Vera saw her own reflection. She looked pale, composed, unreadable. Only her eyes betrayed the quiet storm within.

Perhaps I can still fool people into thinking I want to do this.

She was determined to keep her chin up and play the part of the dedicated bride even though she couldn’t feel any more subdued if she tried.

Remember who you are doing this for. She pictured the wide-eyed faces of Robert and Olivia and took a deep breath. This was the right thing to do—the only thing to do. All will be well.

“Well,” Imogen said gently, fastening the final clasp, “you look... rather tragic and quite beautiful. In the grand tradition of noble martyrs —Joan of Arc, Lady Jane Grey, or perhaps Marie Antoinette just before the tumbril rolled away.”

“Is that meant to make me feel better?” Vera offered a wan smile. “From today forward, I belong to a complete stranger.”

“Not just any stranger,” Imogen said dryly, stepping back. “Your stranger comes with a title, an abbey full of secrets, and an aunt who could frost a hearth with one glance. I would not trust that woman any further than I could see her. You want to keep your eye on that one.”

Vera turned toward her, grateful. “You are not making this any easier, you know.”

“Would you prefer I weep? We could both weep together, though I assure you, I have a very ugly cry, and it wouldn’t do for you to wander down the aisle with a blotchy face.”

There was a light knock at the door, but it was opened without invitation.

Perhaps privacy is going to be an issue here as well.

Agatha entered with the elegance of someone accustomed to command.

Her eyes swept the room before settling on Vera.

“You’re ready then. Good. Simplicity suits you, my dear.

So few women can manage it without looking horribly plain.

Though I suppose expectations adjust themselves when one marries for obligation rather than affection. ”

“Thank you,” Vera said, unsure if it was meant as praise or rebuke, though the latter seemed far more likely.

This woman disliked me on sight. Or perhaps before she even knew of my existence.

Agatha stepped closer, inspecting Vera as though assessing a purchase. “Marriage to a man like Phineas is no light Gothic tale, Miss Huxford. You may find it less a happy ending, and more... survival of the fittest.”

Vera met her gaze evenly. “I assure you, Lady Renwick, I do not expect Gothic tales.”

“Good. Then you will not be disappointed when reality proves rather more... thorn than blossom,” Agatha said, her eyes narrowing slightly.

Vera nodded attentively, allowing her to speak unhindered.

“Before we proceed with your nuptials, I wanted to give you a few words of advice, my dear. Phineas is... particular in his habits, and it would benefit you to recognise these from the outset so we can avoid any teary scenes in the future.”

“Well, thank you, Lady Renwick. I would hate to cause any unnecessary upset,” Vera said candidly, though she couldn’t help wondering why Agatha felt the morning of her wedding was the most appropriate time to inject a further layer of anxiety into the proceedings—nor could she ascertain to whose tears she was referring.

Presumably mine. Did she think her so meek and mild that the slightest thing would tip her over the edge?

“He values his solitude more than most men value their wives and estates. And he does not take kindly to interruption… so it is best not to disturb him unnecessarily,” Agatha continued, as if she were the earl’s mother rather than his aunt.

“Naturally,” Vera replied, steadying her voice.

She adjusted a lace on Vera’s sleeve unnecessarily with slow, deliberate precision.

“And there are parts of the abbey you must refrain from entering. His private study, for instance, and the east wing. It is old, drafty, and... delicate. Some doors, my dear, are better left closed. That is not a suggestion, but a matter of prudence. There are also areas of the grounds which it is best to avoid, but we’ll cover those in time. No need to overwhelm you all at once.”

Vera’s heart beat faster, though her expression remained composed.

“Curiosity, in this house, tends to be... poorly rewarded.” She paused, then tilted her head. “You understand me, I trust? It would be unfortunate if you were to lose your footing before you’ve even found it. Thornborough can be... unforgiving to the unwary.”

“Yes,” Vera said. “You are warning me.”

Agatha’s eyes glittered. “I am helping you. In this household, those who understand the rules tend to remain comfortable. Those who do not, do not last.”

Imogen stepped forward, her voice cool. “How fortunate, then, that Vera excels at learning new rules.”

Agatha’s expression did not flicker, but her gaze lingered on Imogen a moment longer before she turned away. “The ceremony will begin presently. Do not dawdle.”

As the door clicked softly shut behind her, Vera felt the weight of her situation pressing further upon her.

Those who do not, do not last. She shivered involuntarily.

Imogen stepped forward, her voice a soothing presence in the midst of her internal panic. “She does rather have a gift for poisoning the air with every syllable, doesn’t she?”

Vera let out a slow breath. “I feel as though I’ve stepped into a tale where the beast is only half the danger.”

A twisted sort of fairy tale, where the abbey looms ahead—vast, silent, and full of secrets she had yet to uncover. Vera almost laughed, darkly amused. Perhaps somewhere in the east wing, a secret lay hidden—one that could unmake the monster and reveal the man, if only one dared to find it.

Imogen took her hand and squeezed it once, giving her a conspiratorial wink. “Then we’d better ensure this bride has claws of her own.”

Vera took a couple more deep breaths to steady herself.

Imogen pinned a small posy to her gown. “Come, let us see you married.”

***

The chapel at Thornborough Abbey was small and ancient, its vaulted ceiling blackened with age and candle smoke. Stone saints lined the alcoves, their features worn smooth by time and devotion. The air was heavy with incense to alleviate the strong mineral scent of damp stone.

Vera stood at the threshold, her heart thudding so rapidly, she feared it would burst out of her chest. As she began her slow walk down the aisle, she caught Agatha’s eye.

The older woman smiled at her—a polite, decorous smile of ceremony.

Yet a moment later, when Vera’s gaze drifted back in her direction, she caught the expression behind the mask.

Not approval, and certainly not pride, but something far colder.

A thin scowl that quickly shifted into bland indifference the moment she realised she was being watched.

Did I imagine it? Perhaps.

But the twist in Vera’s stomach persisted.

What had she done to displease his aunt already?

She resolved to try harder, to maintain harmony for the sake of her new household.

It was clear that Agatha had taken on the role of Phineas’s mother in her absence.

Maybe she was simply being overprotective.

This union was hardly the usual course of things—an arranged marriage, concluded in haste, with no opportunity to become acquainted with her new family.

Building such relationships would take time, but the realisation that she was not entirely welcome did nothing to appease her current sense of feeling unwanted and unloved.

Not a single familiar face. No family save for Imogen. No friends. No mother to steady her with quiet resolve. No father to offer pride and good wishes for this... occasion.

Do not think about that now. This is your wedding day, and you must make the best of it. It is all you can do. Focus on Imogen—and do not forget to breathe.

At the altar, the local vicar cleared his throat nervously. Walter stood beside Phineas, his posture impeccable, as ever.

Nathaniel lounged to one side, his expression inscrutable, and his deportment almost too relaxed to be fitting in a chapel.

If Vera hadn’t known better, she would have thought he had taken a drink or two beforehand, or maybe he simply didn’t care.

Agatha sat alone near the front, her gloved hands folded like a judge awaiting the jury’s verdict.

Phineas stood motionless at the altar, his dark coat sharply tailored, his countenance severe. He did not turn as Vera approached. His gaze remained fixed ahead, the scarred side of his face still turned slightly away.

As Vera reached him, she saw how tightly his hands were clenched. When he took hers to place the ring, she couldn’t help but feel a tremor.

Is he as anxious as me?

Outwardly, he was the picture of calm, but she felt the nervousness radiating from the touch of his hand.

The realisation struck her like a stone tossed into still water. For all his severity, his cold silence, there was vulnerability beneath the surface. A flicker of humanity in the Beast of Thornborough.