Page 1 of An Earl’s Sacrifice (The Clandestine Sapphire Society #3)

London, St George’s Cathedral

L ucius Oshea never cared much for his father, the current Earl of Pender.

Now, he outright hated him. Enough to kill him.

St. George’s was packed to standing room only.

His bride at one and twenty to his one and thirty was obscene.

And the Duke of Rathbourne was behind this entire farce.

There were so many candles burning, Lucius was tempted to knock over one or two and set the place ablaze.

His bride—he couldn’t recall her name and couldn’t force himself to care—was wearing ice blue.

Fitting, as it went with the blood congealing in his veins.

A veil of stark white lace covered her face.

Clearly, Brussels. He’d once lauded a piece for Docia upon his return from his Grand Tour.

This trend of the Queen’s in covering the bride’s face was one of which he gladly approved at the moment.

It saved him from having to see her. He envisioned terrified, tear-filled eyes. Why, they’d never even met!

The bishop’s deep resonance jarred Lucius from his dark and seething resentments. “Wilt thou have this Woman to thy wedded wife, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou love her—”

And that was just about enough of that. He would not love her.

He would not comfort her. He absolutely would not keep her in sickness, nor health.

The minute he could escape this catastrophe and ditch his bride to Cornwall, Lucius Oshea, Viscount Perlsea, future Earl of Pender, was finished.

His father and the duke could hang. There would be no heirs, not from his seed, by God, he promised himself.

“Lord Perlsea?”

Lucius flinched.

“Your vow, sir.” The bishop’s low timbre grated through him.

“I will,” he gritted out. Thank God Docia had stayed in Northumberland.

The tedium continued with Lucius dutifully reciting the ring vow in a flat tone devoid of inflection. His soon-to-be-wife’s fingers shook with a violence he had to steady in order to slide the gold band into place.

“You may lift the veil, sir.”

It was a wonder no one called Lucius out on the grinding of his teeth. He gripped the softness of her veil with whitened knuckles. He forced himself to unbend and loosened his hold, then lifted.

Light brown streaks within the blondish, goldish hair swept from her face in a bun set at the crown of her head, encircled with a diamond-studded tiara.

Widened eyes of moss green stared up at him.

God, she was so young. For a long moment, he was caught in that unblinking stare.

Rather than frightened, she appeared stunned at the inevitability of this lifelong prison sentence of which they were now destined and unable to curtail for the remainder of their lives.

Her plump, pink lips firmed, revealing she had no desire for this match any more than he.

Excellent. That should alleviate his cause when he abandoned her in the wilds of Cornwall without a problem.

But she was so, so young. He hardened his stance. The duke was likely counting on her innocence swaying him to her favor, and Lucius would allow that to never happen.

Never. He was in love with Docia Hale. It was she to whom his heart belonged.

Regardless, Lucius took his new wife’s arm and faced the standing congregation.

Together, they took the long walk to the open doors at the back of St. George’s.

Upon reaching the stone steps just outside, a chaotic crowd of onlookers let out a roar of huzzahs .

The entire scene reminded him of some outrageous farcical he’d witnessed at a production of The Vampire he’d seen at the Theater Royale some years past.

Quickly, however, Lucius felt the weight of the spectacle shift as a knot of commoners gathered near the base of the church steps, pressed together like eager spectators at a boxing match.

Their faces, flushed and animated, betrayed a range of emotions—from open delight at witnessing a noble wedding to sharp-eyed curiosity, trying to catch any hint of discord between a reluctant bride and groom.

Some of the younger men stood with arms crossed and sly grins slashing their faces.

Instinct had him tugging his bride tightly to his side.

The most worrisome members of the throng were the gossip-hungry wolves that lingered just beyond the boundaries of propriety.

Ink-stained fingers clutched their notebooks and pencils, poised to capture his expression and hoping for any awkward exchanges between the wedding party.

Men in flat caps and threadbare coats lurked beyond the church gate, pretending to be loiterers, but quietly jotted down details that would soon appear in the pages of the London Times and the Intelligencer .

Some whispered to their compatriots of what Lucius could only imagine.

The significance of his marriage did not escape him.

A caricaturist, seated on a wooden crate nearby, scratched away on a pad in his lap. In a matter of seconds, he held up an exaggerated portrait of Lucius that showed him with drooping shoulders and wearing a scowl.

The air hummed with murmurs and snickers, punctuated by the sharp clatter of horse hooves as carriages began to pull away from the church.

An underlying tension vibrated through the crowd with a mix of curiosity, envy, and joy at another’s misfortune.

Everyone seemed to be waiting for something to go wrong, hoping for some misstep or a statement ready to be taken out of context.

Raindrops splattered on the cobblestones, and the onlookers shuffled, pulling collars higher, adjusting shawls, though none looked eager to leave. A low rumble spread through the horde, like ripples on a pond.

“He didn’t even look at her, did you see?”

“Poor girl. She looks ready to faint.”

“Two years? I wager not even one before it’s a tell-all scandal.”

Every word was like the nick of a dirk, pricking his skin.

The clanging bell of a passing hansom cab briefly drowned out the whispers, but only for a moment.

The scent of wet stone and fresh flowers mingled with the damp air, creating a heavy oppressiveness.

With most of the aristocracy crowded at his and his viscountess’s backs, there was no barrier to keep the onlookers from pressing forward like waves lapping at the shore, craning necks to catch every detail.

The thought jarred Lucius from a dark vortex threatening to pull him under.

He glanced at his bride. Her face was pale but composed, but then, she was a duke’s daughter, so of course she remained composed.

He gripped her arm with a tension born of both duty and frustration, then ushered her quickly down the stone steps, sweeping her toward his waiting carriage.

The gaze of the crowd pressed in on him, judging, dissecting, waiting for cracks to appear.

These people weren’t here to celebrate; they were here to witness his downfall.

He caught the eye of one man, who quickly pulled down his low-crowned hat.

With a snarky grin, the man signaled the caricaturist, then handed him a coin.

With a shake of his head, Lucius gave a curt nod to his driver, then fought his way through the cluster even as the crowd squeezed tighter, murmuring louder and louder.

Cheers and jeers filled the air with deafening zeal.

Bartlett swung the door open just as someone in the back shouted, “Here’s to your first fight!

” drawing another wave of laughter from the throng.

His shoulders stiffened, his grip on his bride tightening for a heartbeat before he assisted her into the carriage. The door slammed shut behind them, muffling the sound of the crowd’s amusement.

Outside, the noise of whispers and laughter continued, carried on the wind like a curse, as the carriage wheels turned.

“Welcome to the life of a duke’s daughter,” she said lightly. Her gaze was on the crowd beyond the window.

He wished he could smile, but the bitterness was too ingrained. “And the son of a notorious earl,” he rejoined with a bark of bitter laughter.

*

Friday, 1 June 1844

Cornwall, Perlsea Keep

Meredith Jephson-Oshea, Lady Perlsea to Lucius Oshea’s Viscount Perlsea, found herself stunned that her new husband hadn’t bothered to just run her over with the carriage in his haste to depart Cornwall. Bridal night?

No, thank heavens.

She glanced down at the gold band weighing down the fourth finger of her left hand.

How tempting to rip it off and toss it over the cliffs and into the sea below.

It appeared, unfortunately, to be the only protection afforded her, watching the dust stir beneath the flying hooves of her new husband’s destrier.

She hadn’t even had time to find a new maid, having left her other one behind. The cheeky girl seemed more loyal to the duke than to Meredith.

This was her third day at Perlsea Keep. A monstrously unkept castle that hadn’t seen a mistress in some twenty years, she’d venture.

Disrepair was evident everywhere. From the crumbling stone stairs that led below, of which she had no desire to see, to rotted planks in the sitting room, parlor, morning room, and dining hall.

She’d ventured into the unused portion of the castle and nearly ran screaming, but for one interesting chamber that kept drawing her back—three times already.

An ancient library that seemed to hold heavy, untold secrets that sent delicious shivers over her skin.

Such fanciful notions would run amok given half the chance.

But even a ghostly atmosphere was more entertaining than sitting about moping over missing her friends.

For the life of her, Meredith couldn’t fathom why she just didn’t take the carriage and rush back to London. But, oddly, she found the gusting winds and wilds of Cornwall embracing.