Lord Weston opened his mouth to reply, but Alex spoke first. “Oh,” he said softly from behind her. “Do be careful with him, Gwen. He’s a bit more fragile than he looks. And not all these titled sorts are rotters.”
The earl’s glare transferred over her shoulder.
She crossed her arms. An apology was called for.
Lord Weston’s lips remained sealed.
“I do not think the earl so fragile as that,” she said grimly. Perhaps his siblings’ cosseting was all that ailed him. “By my calculation, sir, you owe Alex your thanks.”
“My . . . thanks.” He spoke as though the words were some foreign language, meaningless syllables on the tongue.
“Yes. He has done you a great favor. You were conned by a criminal. Alex has brought you the proof to see this man jailed, and your land returned to you.”
Lord Weston’s eyes were nearly the same shade as Alex’s, but did not have nearly the same effect. When they opened wide and his lips parted in surprise, he looked like a glassy-eyed fish, appalled to find himself on the butcher’s slab.
“Mm,” said Alex, taking her arm and shoving his free hand into his pocket. “Hadn’t gotten around to telling him that bit, Gwen.”
“Oh.” She felt her cheeks warm. “Dreadfully sorry.”
“No harm done,” Alex said. “What say, Gerry? Proof of Barrington’s unlawful ways in exchange for one small favor in the form of a quiet marriage license.”
Lord Weston assented, of course. But, so Gwen noted, he did not bother to thank his brother for saving him from the hands of a conman. Family, it seemed, was not always the idyll she had imagined.
Four days it took to procure the license, once Lord Weston turned his mind to it. As she stood now at the edge of the Cornelyses’ ballroom, safely anonymous behind her mask, with less than twelve hours until the appointed time of her marriage, she wondered again what she was doing here. She felt distant, curiously apart from the scene. She and Alex had come on the twins’ insistence, for no newlyweds, if not bound for their honeymoon, would hide from the London season. People might expect odd behavior of Alex, but not of Gwen. And so they would go, Alex had told her.
But why? Why were they bothering with these people?
The mask probably did not help her sense of detachment. She lifted it away as she searched the crowd for the Ramseys. Stares began to find her immediately. A balcony ran along one side of the ballroom, and an entire group of women craned over the rail to peer at her. These looks were not wholly malicious, but they were curious, prying; it would take only one misstep, in the days to come, to sway public opinion against her. Then what seemed, right now, like a romantic spectacle would become a sordid scandal of the kind that deserved condemnation, cold cuts, turned shoulders.
A month ago, she might have crumpled beneath the weight of such censure. Now it felt no more than annoying.
She did not want to live amongst these people.
Why were they here?
By noon tomorrow, she would be married to Alex Ramsey.
She spotted him, finally. He had removed his own mask and was walking straight toward her, but he had not spotted her yet. The sight of his profile as he looked over the crowd, his hawkish nose, the firm straightness of his body, filled her with something hot and covetous.
I want this.
Oh, yes, she did. She had never wished for anything more in her life than to be married to him—to make his laughter, his wit, his slyness, his ferocity, his protectiveness, his encouragement, his courage and determination, hers by right and by law.
But she did not believe for a moment that he loved her.
Oh, he told her so. His sisters told her so. Elma claimed she had known it all along, had seen it in how he’d looked at her when she’d not been paying attention. Balderdash. She wanted to believe it—she would even pretend to believe it tomorrow. But she knew him too well. She knew his secret: for all his wandering, his independence and his unorthodox ways, he took his responsibilities very seriously. He even borrowed others’ responsibilities, making them his own simply because he thought this sort of service was owed to those whom he loved. From the moment Lady Milton had spotted them together, there had been no question that he would offer for her. He had promised Richard to look after her. Marriage was the only option the situation had offered.
His eyes fixed on her. His expression changed. He sent her a smile so slow and tender that her lungs squeezed.
Maybe he loved her.
He started across the floor toward her. She held still, watching him approach. It was possible he loved her. He did not require her money. He’d had her virginity with no promises made or asked for.
He did not stop at a polite distance. He came directly into her, his hands closing on her waist. She resisted the urge to look up toward the balcony. Everyone thought them married, and these touches were permissible among married couples. That did not change the effect it would have: in a minute, if he did not release her, they’d make a spectacle so powerful that the balcony would probably collapse beneath the weight of the crowd craning over.