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Chapter Ten

W yatt felt as though he were trapped in a dream he could not wake up from.

A dream? No, nightmare was more appropriate. Wasn't it?

Which was worse? Marrying Miss Henford, or marrying Lady Gemma? Some treacherous voice at the back of his mind whispered to him that it was the former—that his meddling old grandmother had done him a favor by forcing him to marry Lady Gemma.

Not that it felt that way. At all.

The guests at the wedding had been abuzz with gossip as they had filed into the pews—Wyatt was fairly sure they had never experienced something as scandalous and gossip-worthy as this.

Everything felt surreal. Impossible. And yet here he was at the altar…

marrying a completely different lady to the one he had been betrothed to when he woke up this morning.

Wyatt could feel his mother's eyes burning into the back of him.

“You do not have to do this,” she had whispered to him at the back of the church, while his grandmother had announced to the entire congregation that he had ruined Gemma Caster.

“She is nothing. Her family is nothing. Walk away. That drunkard, the Earl of Volk, will not raise a finger in objection.”

Wyatt knew she was right. He could have walked away. Married Henrietta and left Lady Gemma in ruin. But how could he have lived with himself afterwards? For all his philandering and drunken antics, Wyatt had no intention of being that kind of man.

“I am sorry, Mother,” he had said. “But you know this is the way it must be.”

“Dearly beloved,” began the priest, “we are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of this congregation, to join together this man and this woman in holy matrimony…” To the priest's credit, his face was blank and expressionless, doing a fine job of hiding the bewilderment and judgment that no doubt was roiling inside him.

Wyatt was sure this was not the first wedding the father had presided over in which the couple had been forced to the altar after some ill-judged indiscretion.

But he was fairly certain such indiscretions rarely happened minutes before the groom's planned marriage to another lady.

Wyatt blinked hard, forcing himself to remain upright. His thoughts were crashing wildly into one another, and it felt as though at any moment, his legs might give way beneath him.

He had not had a chance to explain himself to Miss Henford—not, he was sure, that it would have made any difference.

Accident or not, Miss Henford's plans of becoming a duchess, and taking ownership of Larsen Manor were now in tatters.

But beneath the shame and the regret, was a feeling Wyatt distantly recognized as relief.

For all her grace and beauty, he now knew Miss Henford to be scheming and untrustworthy.

And there was a part of him that was more than grateful she would no longer have the chance to cast his mother and grandmother out of his family home.

But. And this was no small but .

In her place, standing at the altar with a look of pure hatred in her eyes, was the coldest lady in the ton .

A lady who had refused to look at him from the moment his grandmother had declared they were to be married, to the moment her bewildered, liquor-scented father had delivered her to the altar.

Only then had she finally dared to meet his eyes.

Though hers were red and swollen with tears, there was a fierceness in them that said he would pay for this.

That she would never forgive him. That whatever fleeting affection they had shared in the Henfords' music room had been relegated to the darkest recesses of her mind.

And at that moment, all of Wyatt's dreams of having an obedient, compliant wife evaporated.

Gemma had never been one to dream of her perfect wedding day. Had never fantasized about lace-trimmed gowns, lavish banquets, and a heroic war-weary husband waiting for her at the altar with an ocean of love in his eyes.

But for all her apathy, Gemma knew that her wedding day was never supposed to go like this .

The rose-colored dress her grandmother had wrangled her into was Gemma's least favorite gown.

She had had no inkling that it might end up being the garment she would be married in.

Nor that it would be damp with sweat—produced by both the unbearable heat of the day, and the blatant horror of all that had unfolded—and that her hair would end up so frizzed and unruly she looked like she had been dragged through a hedge backward.

She had not even managed to put her pearl necklace back on.

Perfect duchess material.

A duchess . The thought made her ill. And not just any duchess. Wife of the most infuriating, cocky man in the ton .

Because now the deed was done. She had stuttered out her vows, and she was wearing the Duke's ring on her finger—the ring intended for Henrietta Henford. The priest had pronounced them man and wife, and now her husband was offering her his arm to walk her back down the aisle and out of the chapel.

There was little to do but accept. Accept his arm, and accept this new life that had suddenly been thrust upon her. Fighting it would do nothing but shame her family further—and Gemma was well aware she had done quite enough of that today already.

So for now, all she would do was hold her head high and walk beside her husband back through the murmurs of the congregation.

She kept her eyes down as she walked. She could not bring herself to look at her grandmother or her sisters.

Doing so would just bring her to tears again.

And she had done quite enough that today as well.

They stepped out of the church to find a crowd of well-wishers waiting.

And at once, Gemma was aware of their confused murmurs, their whispered questions.

No doubt they were wondering where on earth Miss Henford was—and why the Duke of Larsen was dragging this tatty pink creature on his arm.

To her relief, the Duke marched her hurriedly through the crowd with little more for the well-wishers than a curt nod and smile.

He made a beeline toward the waiting coach, emblazoned with the Larsen coat of arms, and waited for the coachman to open the door.

Without speaking, he offered Gemma his hand to help her board.

In one swift movement, he climbed into the coach and sat opposite her on the bench seat, pulling the door closed behind him.

The excited hum of the crowd faded and he knocked brusquely on the roof of the carriage to signal to the coachman to depart.

The moment the coach began to pull away from the chapel, the Duke let out an enormous breath. His shoulders slumped forward, and a look of weary defeat fell over his face.

Gemma pressed her lips together and speared him with cold blue eyes.

Somewhere in the back of her mind, she knew this was not his fault.

Not really. After all, he had acted on impulse when he had sought to stop her from falling.

But surely, surely , he could have tried harder to prevent this…

debacle …from occurring. Surely he could see the way the Dowager Duchess had interfered in their lives.

And now what? Now we have the whole rest of our lives to regret one sorry moment?

As if reading her thoughts, he said, “I am sorry.”

Gemma let out a cold laugh. Was there any more fitting phrase he might have uttered as their first words as a married couple?

She nodded tautly.

“Is that it then?” he asked after a moment. “You are not even going to speak to me?”

“And say what?” Gemma demanded.

He laughed humorlessly. “You are right. There is nothing to say.” He turned to look out the window, rubbing a hand across his creased forehead. After a few moments, of silence, he turned back to her. “I imagine you do not wish to partake in the wedding breakfast?”

The suggestion was so ridiculous that Gemma almost laughed again. Instead, she shook her head brusquely. “Of course, I do not wish to partake in the wedding breakfast arranged to celebrate your marriage to Miss Henford.”

The Duke nodded wordlessly, then turned to look back out the window. His jaw was clenched tightly and his blue eyes were hard, his knuckles white as they curled around his knee.

Gemma looked away from him, watching as the gray streets of London rolled past the window. “I shall need all my belongings brought to Larsen Manor,” she said finally. “At once. And my lady's maid, Ivy. I have no intention of letting her go.”

The Duke nodded brusquely, not looking at her. “I shall see to it as soon as possible.”

Gemma clenched her hands together and they fell back into wordlessness. She realized she was bouncing her feet up and down beneath her skirts. This stilted silence was almost unbearable.

“Your Grace,” she said after a moment. He turned to look at her.

But with her husband's eyes on her, Gemma fell silent again.

She had no idea what she had intended to say anyway.

After all, the Duke was right. There really was nothing to speak about.

Nothing that could undo this. Nothing that could make this anything beyond a nightmare.