She made a smothered sound of frustration. “I have told you, I have no desire to marry anyone, let alone a gentleman who holds me in such obvious contempt.”
A muscle in his jaw knotted. “Do you blame me?”
Guilt pierced her at his reminder that he was as much a victim to this hideous fate as she.
Perhaps even more so.
What had he done beyond attempting to protect his family? Now he was trapped with a woman whom he would never, ever have chosen as his bride.
“No,” she breathed. “No, I do not hold you to blame.”
He appeared caught off guard by her soft agreement, then his face tightened with annoyance.
“You will see that your father receives the papers?”
“Not until I finish reading the terms of my imprisonment,” she muttered with a grimace.
He frowned. “What did you say?”
“I think I should at least comprehend what is expected of me as a wife,” she said with a shrug. “Otherwise I am likely to be even more of a disappointment.”
The silver eyes narrowed. “You will not be a disappointment, my dear.”
“No?” A humorless smile curved her lips. “How can you be so certain?”
“Quite simply because I will not allow it.”
With his arrogant threat delivered, Lord Ashcombe performed a graceful bow and turned to leave Talia standing alone in the parlor, the hateful papers still clutched in her hand.
LORD ASHCOMBE’S townhouse was as oppressively elegant as Talia had feared.#p#分页标题#e#
Built along grand lines in the midst of Grosvenor Square, it was constructed of pale stone and had seven bays with brick archways that led into an alcove hiding the double oak doors. Banks of imposing windows overlooked the street, and alighting from her carriage, Talia had the unnerving sensation that there were dozens of hidden eyes trained upon her.
Her unease was not lessened as she was led through a white tiled foyer and up a sweeping marble staircase to the back of the house where the gothic chapel was located. She might not have been raised as an aristocrat, but she had spent enough hours in the library to recognize the stunning masterpieces that lined the paneled walls of the long gallery and the impressive Italianate ceiling in the formal salon that was painted with miniature scenes from Greek mythology. Certainly she had no difficulty in recognizing the priceless Venetian chandelier that hung just outside the chapel.
It all served to remind her that Lord Ashcombe’s title was not simply a mark of his social standing. It was more important an inheritance that came with overwhelming responsibility. Not only to his vast number of tenants and servants who depended upon him for employment, but to his family and the dignity of his position as the current earl.
For all her father’s wealth, she was unprepared to enter a world where a person was judged on their ancestry and the purity of their bloodlines. Even if she weren’t an awkward wallflower, she would never be capable of bringing pride to her role as Countess of Ashcombe.
These dark thoughts might have made Talia crumble into a ball of terror if she had not still been protected by the numbing sense of shock that had managed to survive their last humiliating encounter.
Certainly she would never have been able to walk down the short aisle to stand beside Lord Ashcombe waiting at the scrolled wooden altar.
As it was she stiffly marched past the worn pews, only briefly glancing at the vaulted ceiling and the exquisite stained-glass window before shifting her attention toward the man who was to become her husband.
Her breath caught in her throat at the sight of his golden hair shimmering in the light from the silver candelabrum and the arrogant features that were so perfectly carved they did not seem quite real. His lean body was attired in a black jacket that clung with loving care to his broad shoulders and black breeches that seemed more appropriate for a funeral than a wedding. And his silver eyes—
They held the ruthless power of a predator.
He had never appeared more godlike, and despite her layers of protection she shivered in fear.
Gabriel made no move to touch her as she halted at his side. In fact, he did not glance in her direction during the brief ceremony. Not even at its close when they signed the marriage certificate and shared a glass of sherry with the visibly curious rector and the rigidly composed butler, as well as a woman who Talia assumed must be the housekeeper.
Then, with an imperious nod of his head, Ashcombe gestured her to leave the chapel, following behind her with obvious impatience.
Distantly Talia was aware that her entire life had just been irrevocably altered. She was no longer Dowdy Dobson, the painfully shy daughter of a mere merchant. She was the Countess of Ashcombe.