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The quiet was the most irritating thing of the whole affair, Evelyn thought, as she sat at the head of the wedding table, drumming her fingers against the fine silk tablecloth.

In fact, it was so quiet in the room—even though there had to be fifty people around her—that it felt more like a funeral than a wedding breakfast.

Beside her, her new husband, Bertram Sinclair, the Duke of Sinclair, slurped on his soup. Few noises annoyed Evelyn as much as the smacking and slurping of people who seemed incapable of chewing with their mouths shut. As she watched her new husband, she realized this was going to be her future.

She had known his age when she agreed to this. Well, she hadn’t exactly agreed to it. She had been volunteered—and then she had agreed to save her sisters from having to take the man off her hands. But oh, how she regretted it.

He was old and wrinkled, his skin dry and patchy, with deep lines carved like the cracked landscapes of a ravaged earth.

As he chewed a piece of bread, the skin underneath his jaw moved like old leather, and his hands—which had struggled to butter a piece of bread properly due to their shaking—were shriveled up.

The thought of him touching her as they set out on their quest to make an heir turned her stomach.

Oh, she knew it was unkind to judge someone by their appearance, and the truth was, if the Duke of Sinclair had been a kindly man—the sort of jolly old fellow she sometimes encountered during her walks in St. James’s Park—perhaps this would not have been as bad.

At least a man of character, a man who was interesting and gentlemanly, would have been bearable, even if he was ancient.

But no. The Duke of Sinclair was haughty, considered himself above everybody else, and he had made it clear he knew that he was doing her family a favor by marrying her.

No, there were not going to be cheerful evenings spent listening to entertaining stories of his youth while eating sweetmeats ahead of her.

A whimper came from beside her, and she turned to see Marianne sniffing into her handkerchief.

“Do pull yourself together,” she said. “It is not you who has to go home with him this night and share his bed.” She knew she was being unkind, but she had no kind, comforting words left. She had used them all up on herself.

“Oh, sister,” Marianne said, “this is dreadful. How is it that everybody is acting as if this were the most normal thing in the world?” she said, taking in their surroundings.

Indeed, all the finest lords and ladies of the ton were here at Sinclair Manor.

Even the Chancellor of the Exchequer was there.

The Lord Chancellor of the Court of Chancery was there—several members of the Prince Regent’s privy council and their wives. And none would look directly at them.

“By focusing on the white soup,” she said, a bit of acid to her tone, “they can ignore what’s right in front of them. They can pretend that he is two-and-twenty, not seventy. And I am not a young lady sold off to settle her father’s debts.”

“Father should be here,” Marianne said. “It is a disgrace that he is not.”

Charlotte snorted. “Of course, he is not here. This is what he does. He ruins everybody’s lives and then he runs away to hide for a ‘business opportunity,’” she said. “And… where is it this time? Bath? Bristol? Some other forsaken town that starts with B?”

“Girls,” their Aunt Eugenia hissed.

“Do not fret,” Evelyn said. “My husband is deaf as a doornail.”

Which, she realized, was at least somewhat of a consolation. At least he could not hear her sighing and groaning under her breath whenever he attempted to touch her. However, she would have to learn to control her face. It was sometimes difficult to keep the disdain from it.

Her attention was still focused on her sisters when her new husband placed a rubbery hand on hers, and she jerked. Turning back, he smiled at her with a set of Waterloo teeth that were too big for his mouth.

“I would like a few dates,” he said.

She nodded. “They are at the end of the table,” she said. “I can call a servant.”

“No,” he said, patting her hand. “I would like you to bring them to me. Will you?”

It was phrased as a question, but it was a demand. She knew this. She clenched her jaw and got up, walking to the end of the table, where she picked up two dates and placed them on a plate. Then she set them down in front of her husband before excusing herself and walking across the room.

Some lords and ladies looked up and congratulated her while she felt her sisters watching her, though she didn’t turn her head.

At least they were safe. Their father’s debts had been paid—or at least most of them. Of course, he was making new ones right now. She knew this. The business opportunity he had abandoned them for was no doubt another scheme.

She turned her back on her husband and looked out at her new estate. And it was beautiful. There were vast gardens, stables with magnificent horses—at least there. Her father hadn’t lied—two lakes, an apple orchard, and much more she had not yet seen. She would make a life for herself here somehow.

And besides, her husband was nearly seventy-three. How much longer, really, could he manage to cling on?

Just then, as if the universe had heard her dark thoughts, a cough came to her ears.

She spun around and saw her husband standing, his hands clutching at his neck as he choked and coughed.

His face slowly turned red, and panic spread across the room.

Those sitting nearest to him leaped up. Someone banged on his back while another person attempted to force water down his throat, which seemed an unadvisable activity.

Then something shot out of her husband’s throat and clanged against the table. She blinked. It was a pit of some sort—no doubt from the date. It came to a stop at the edge of the table before falling to the ground.

Before she could make up her mind whether she should be relieved or upset, her husband turned—and then, inexplicably, lost his footing. The next thing she heard was the crack of his head against the edge of the table.

And then he was gone from view.

A gasp went up. Marianne slipped backwards so fast her chair tumbled over with a loud bang, while Charlotte stared at the man on the ground. Their aunt attempted to usher them away, but pandemonium had been unleashed.

Evelyn, teacup in hand, bent down slightly so she could look underneath the table—and there he was—her husband. Eyes and mouth open, a pool of blood streaming from his head.

“Well,” she said to herself as she straightened and placed down her cup, “that was certainly unexpected.”

“I cannot believe you are a widow. You weren’t even married for two hours,” Charlotte said later that day. The empathy one might have expected to hear was absent; her words were tinged with relief for her sister, and Evelyn was grateful for it.

“I am aware,” she said, her legs pulled up on the chaise.

She had kicked off her uncomfortable bridal shoes and tucked her feet under herself, sitting in a most unladylike posture—but she was a widow now.

She could sit as she pleased. She had fulfilled her duty to society.

She had been married, and now, through divine providence, she was free.

She paused, chiding herself for being so wholly unfeeling.

He had been a person, after all. And that person had only ever looked at her and treated her as though she were a piece of furniture, but he had been a living, breathing person.

And now he was dead. Buried. Well, not yet buried.

Presently, he lay downstairs in what had been the parlor, and the undertaker represented him.

“Are they still there?” she asked.

“Is who still there?” Eugenia asked. Evelyn realized she had not been thinking—she had been talking out loud.

“The undertaker,” she said.

“Oh yes, they will be here sometime,” Eugenia said.

“They are preparing the parlor still. All the windows have already been hung with black, and the candles have been set up. We will have to receive visitors, although I am unsure how many will attend. Most of his family had already died, and he had no children. And his friends witnessed the entire event unfold. I doubt they want to relive it.”

“Who is the heir now?” Charlotte asked, practical as ever.

Evelyn shrugged. “I am uncertain. I think there was a cousin of some sort. Or maybe a nephew? He mentioned him once or twice. He was supposed to be at the wedding and didn’t come.”

“It is a nephew,” Aunt Eugenia said. “That is his name. He is the son of the late Duke’s younger brother, who passed away at a young age. It is rumored that he has been living in Edinburgh. And if what I heard about him is correct, he is somewhat of a magnet for scandal. Always in the broadsheets.”

“Is he?” Charlotte said. “What is his name? I read the broadsheets and I do not recall?—”

“Nathaniel Sinclair,” they chorused.

And Charlotte gasped. “I have heard about him! Goodness! He engages in all sorts of debauchery—gambling, women, drinking.”

“Oh, delightful. He’s like our father—aside from gathering up assorted women,” Evelyn muttered and rolled her eyes.

“Enough of him. What about you?” Marianne asked. “What will you do?”

Evelyn looked up. “Do? Nothing. I have given what was expected of me—my hand in marriage. Now I will do what all widows do: live without the burden of having to wed again. I should be entitled to the dower house and my jointure. I shall live perfectly well now, a just reward for my efforts.”

Charlotte tipped her head to one side. “You must be relieved. Eight months of fretting and worrying, and it was all over in two hours.”

Evelyn pressed her lips together. “Yes, indeed. I should feel worse,” she said, the guilty feelings from earlier resurfacing again. “But I do not.”

“I should write to your father,” Aunt Eugenia said. Evelyn looked up at once.