Improperly Wed. Anna DePalo
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element of surprise to his advantage by crashing Belinda’s wedding. He’d only recently discovered that she was to be wed. He’d also guessed that nothing short of a public spectacle would have caused Belinda’s wedding plans to fall apart. If he’d given her advance warning, she might have attempted to persuade him to finalize an annulment with no one being the wiser.
Tod Dillingham, who was concerned with status and appearances, would not know how to forgive a public transgression like yesterday. At least, Colin was banking on it.
At the chime of the apartment door, he turned away from the view. Just in time.
“Colin,” his mother announced as she sailed in, “an incredible rumor has reached me. You must deny it immediately.”
Colin stepped aside to let her in. “If it is incredible, why are you here seeking a denial?”
His mother’s flair for drama never ceased to amaze him. Fortunately, these days he was usually at a safe remove, since she considered her London flat to be home base. On the other hand, it was his bad luck that a trip of hers to New York in order to visit friends and attend a party or two happened to coincide with Belinda’s wedding date. He wondered idly if his younger sister, Sophie, was enjoying a London temporarily free of their mother’s presence.
His mother tossed a glance back at him, a sour expression on her face. “Now is no time for you to be jesting.”
“Was I?” he mused as he shut the door.
“Tosh! The family name is being besmirched.” His mother put down her Chanel bag and settled herself in a chair in the living room, after giving her coat to the housekeeper who magically materialized for a moment. “I demand answers.”
“Of course,” Colin responded, remaining standing but folding his arms. He acknowledged the housekeeper with a grateful nod.
His mother looked incongruous in the contemporary setting. He was much more used to her in a traditional English sitting room, surrounded by chintz prints and stripes, with old and faded family photos adorning the console table and piano. Certainly she was used to a complete staff of servants.
He and his mother both waited, until his mother raised her eyebrows.
Colin cleared his throat. “What is the rumor precisely?”
“As if you didn’t know!”
When he continued to remain silent, his mother sighed with resignation.
“I’ve heard the most horrible gossip that you disrupted the nuptials of the Wentworth chit. What’s more, you apparently announced you were married to her.” His mother held up her hand. “Naturally, I cut off the horrible harridan who was repeating the vicious rumor. I informed her that you would never have put in an appearance at a Wentworth wedding. Ergo, you could not have stated that—”
“Who was this teller of tall tales?”
His mother stopped, frowned and then waved a hand dismissively. “A reader of Mrs. Jane Hollings, who writes a column for some paper.”
“The New York Intelligencer.”
His mother looked at him in distracted surprise. “Yes, I believe that’s it. She works for the Earl of Melton. Whatever could Melton be thinking to own that rag of a paper?”
“I believe that tabloid turns a healthy profit, particularly online.”
His mother sniffed. “It was the downfall of the aristocracy when even an earl went into trade.”
“No, World War I was the downfall of the aristocracy,” Colin contradicted sardonically.
“You can’t possibly have turned up uninvited to the Wentworth nuptials,” his mother repeated.
“Of course not.”
His mother relaxed.
“When Belinda Wentworth’s nuptials actually took place two years ago, I was very much invited—as her groom.”
His mother stiffened.
“My station as a marquess, attributable to centuries of proper inbreeding,” he continued wryly, “forced me to prevent a crime from being committed when it was within my means to do so once word reached me of Belinda’s intention to marry again.”
His mother sucked in a sharp breath. “Are you saying that I have been succeeded as the Marchioness of Easterbridge by a Wentworth?”
“It is precisely what I’m saying.”
His mother looked as if she were experiencing vertigo. The news seemed to hit her with the force of a stockmarket crash. Naturally, Colin had been counting on it; otherwise she would have been distinctly not amused by his insouciance.
“I don’t suppose she changed her name to Granville in that chapel in Las Vegas?”
Colin shook his head.
His mother shuddered. “Belinda Wentworth, Marchioness of Easterbridge? The mind revolts at the thought.”
“Don’t worry,” he offered, “I don’t believe Belinda has used the title or has any intention of doing so.”
If Belinda did use the title, his mother would be forced to style herself as the Dowager Marchioness of Easterbridge in order to avoid confusion. It would be viewed as adding insult to injury, Colin was sure.
His mother looked exasperated. “What on earth possessed you to marry a Wentworth in the first place?”
Colin shrugged. “I imagine you could find the answer among the multitude of reasons that other people get married.” He was unwilling to divulge too much of his private life to his mother. Like hell was he going to talk about passion. “Why did you and Father marry?”
His mother pressed her lips together.
He’d known his question would end her query. His parents had married at least partly because they were social equals breathing the same rarefied air. As far as he could tell, it hadn’t been a bad marriage until his father’s death five years ago from a stroke, but it had been a proper and suitable one.
“Surely you can’t mean to stay married.”
“Never fear. I wouldn’t be surprised if Belinda was consulting her lawyer as we speak.”
Colin wondered what his mother would say if she knew that Belinda wanted out of their marriage but he didn’t.
At least, not yet—not until his goal was reached.
In fact, he thought, he needed to call his lawyer and find out how the negotiations for his purchase of the property in question were going.
When the deal went through, Belinda would have no choice but to engage him—face matters without running or dodging.
Two
She’d made all the right moves in life…until a night in Las Vegas with Colin Granville.
Belinda tossed a sweater into the suitcase on her bed with more force than necessary.
She’d read history of art at Oxford and then worked at a series of auction houses before landing her current gig as a specialist in impressionist and modern art for posh auction house Lansing’s.
She was usually punctual, quietly ambitious and tastefully dressed. She considered herself to be responsible and levelheaded.
In the process, she’d made her family happy. She’d been the dutiful child—if not always doing what they dictated, then at least not rebelling.
She was never the subject of gossip…until this past weekend. One glaring misstep was now the subject of breathless coverage in Mrs. Hollings’ Pink Pages column in The New York Intelligencer:
It was to be the society wedding of the year.