A Marriage Deal With The Viscount. Bronwyn Scott
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chin with a discreet jerk to indicate the back rows of the church where a woman sat, square-shouldered, and dressed in lavender. Conall chuckled at that—lavender was a colour for half-mourning. Perhaps someone else understood weddings as he did. The woman’s face was veiled by a fetching lavender creation atop spun-gold hair, but it could not entirely obscure her identity.
She was not the sort of woman a man forgot.
Even veiled, there was an allure to her. She could not hide in a crowd even if she wanted to and apparently today she wanted to. The veil was doing La Marchesa di Cremona no favours. If anything, the mystery it created made her even more conspicuous. Some people were just made to stand out.
‘I wouldn’t have thought she’d dare it,’ Hargreaves went on. ‘Then again, she’s dared so much already, one wonders if another dare matters.’ Hargreaves narrowed his gaze in mild disgust. ‘Lady Brixton’s affections tolerate much. Although I wonder if Lady Brixton actually thought she would come?’
La Marchesa chose that moment to lift her veil and settle it atop her hat, revealing the refined alabaster features of her face. In her eyes was a quiet fire that challenged the guests to look their fill. She sat still, the very rigidity of her posture a defence against the murmurs flying behind fans. Hargreaves leaned close with a whisper. ‘It was all around White’s yesterday that she refused Wenderly’s offer of carte blanche. Slapped him for it, in fact.’
Conall stiffened at the callous treatment of her reputation, not caring for the way Hargreaves dissected her, although he’d be hard pressed to explain why. ‘Is there a reason she should have accepted? Wenderly’s over fifty, nearly old enough to be her father.’ It wasn’t just the age. Wenderly had peculiar tastes. The thought of her with such a man put a cold pit in Conall’s stomach. He told himself the compulsion to defend La Marchesa was for Helena’s sake.
Hargreaves raised an eyebrow. ‘One wonders what she has to live on if she refuses men like Wenderly out of hand.’ The implication was crassly clear. A woman alone required a protector. ‘Her refusal cost Wenderly the loss of several hundred pounds and his pride at the betting book. Everyone is speculating about who she’s angling for if she feels she can disregard such a generous offer. Wenderly’s pockets are deep. He’d have kept her in jewels and gowns. She’d be striking on his arm, with her height and her hair colouring,’ Hargreaves hypothesised with shrewd calculation. ‘She could have been set for some time.’
Ah, so that was the root of Cowden’s remark about honourable recourse for supporting herself. Cowden feared without the outlet for business investments, La Marchesa might be ‘inclined’ to take a less honourable offer of support. What else remained for an Englishwoman who’d been away so long she’d become something of a foreigner to her own people?
The realisation that other men coveted her, that they reacted to her in the most carnal of ways, sat poorly with Conall. He told himself it was for business reasons. If she chose to invest with him, his family would be linked with her. Perhaps he should consider if there was truth to the rumours before rushing to champion her simply on Cowden’s hesitant word. He’d spent less than an hour in her company. What did he know of her tastes and associations? Perhaps she was deserving of the speculations being whispered around him. And yet his conscience whispered another message: perhaps she was not. Simply because her husband was not with her shouldn’t make her a target of vicious gossip. But he knew better. A woman alone who also had the audacity to be beautiful could not escape notice or censure. She was a creature who defied the natural laws of society.
He’d been out in society long enough to know he shouldn’t be surprised by the stir she caused. La Marchesa had an incomparable elegance and maintained a freshness about her that made a man want to stare, want to imagine tracing his finger along the delicate line of her jaw, across the pink of those lips, down the slim column of her neck to the discreet décolletage of her lavender gown. She certainly didn’t dress like the demi-monde. Her gown today was all that was proper, as was everything about her: her posture, her tasteful, quiet jewellery. Without the whispers, she might have been any gentleman’s wife.
How many other gentlemen were sitting here nursing the same idea? Could she be theirs? Conall’s own speculations stirred to life. He gave a deprecating chuckle at the direction of his thoughts. He was lowering himself to society’s level with such base thoughts. Why did the presence or absence of a man at a woman’s side define her? It was a thought worthy of his sister, Cecilia, who believed herself to be a grand proponent of liberated womanhood.
La Marchesa lifted a hand to play with the pearl necklace that lay at the base of her throat, the only sign that she was uncomfortable in her surroundings, or that she might possibly be privy to the things whispered about her.
Hargreaves tilted his head in frank appraisal. ‘She’s a beauty and now, with her European seasoning, she’ll bring a delicious je ne sais quoi to a sophisticated man’s bed.’ The last did it. Conall rose. He would not sit there and be party to sordid gossip about a woman who had no opportunity to defend herself against rumours, deserved or not. A woman, without a man to defend her, had no recourse and this was the result. She made herself an easy target for society’s sharp arrows.
‘Where are you going, Taunton?’ Hargreaves looked aggrieved at his departure, then caught the trajectory of his gaze. ‘Oh, you think to try your luck?’ He chuckled knowingly. ‘Be careful. Wenderly isn’t the first to fail. I hear she’s a man-eater, like one of those flowers that lure insects and then shuts its petals around its victim. Not that I’d mind having those petals wrapped around me and squeezing hard, if you know what I mean.’
Conall swallowed, his words terse. ‘I do know exactly what you mean. If you’ll excuse me?’ He made his way back up the aisle and slid into the empty space beside her, just as the doors of St George’s opened and the bride sailed forth on her father’s arm, white, pure and unsullied, drawing attention away from the Marchesa.
‘What are you doing?’ La Marchesa whispered as the crowd surged to their feet in a loud rustle of clothing.
Conall smiled. ‘Weddings are best enjoyed with a friend and you seemed in need of one.’
‘Thank you, but for the record, I was perfectly fine on my own.’ She smiled back, the briefest of expressions. ‘I hope you don’t regret it. Rumour has it I’m a dangerous woman to know.’ Then in quiet undertones, she added, ‘Don’t think for a moment this will help you get your money. You can’t flatter or flirt your way into my finances.’
Conall kept his gaze straight ahead, politely fixed on the bride’s progression. ‘It never crossed my mind.’ It truly hadn’t. He’d looked to the back and seen the determined expression in her eyes. That had been enough. She was a warrior among foes here. For reasons he couldn’t fathom, and didn’t want to fathom, he hadn’t wanted her to be alone. For all the strength and sharpness she’d exhibited, there was vulnerability in her, too.
Perhaps it was his fascination with that vulnerability, with her mystery, that had prodded him to the back. Perhaps it was sheer chivalry that demanded he stand up for the Treshams, who’d taken her in, or maybe it was simply because he knew what it was like to be alone in a room full of people. There’d been numerous occasions after his father had died when people hadn’t known what to say, or how to say it, so they’d said nothing, but gone about their conversations with others, talking about him, not to him, just as they were doing to her today. No one acknowledged the Marchesa directly. Even in the crowded church, the spot beside her had remained pointedly empty. But everyone knew she was here and everyone had decided it was best to treat her as if she were invisible or inanimate, a thing that couldn’t be hurt by their darts. All except for him.
Sofia worried the hem of her handkerchief with fingers hidden in the folds of her skirts. She’d be damned if she’d let anyone see how the wedding discomfited her. She’d provided them enough sport for the day simply by being there—something she was regretting in hindsight. It was true: weddings always made you remember your own. Her own was something Sofia would rather forget. As a result, she did not enjoy the marital