He scowled out the window. “Why do you think something is wrong?”
She raised her eyebrows. “Forgive me, but you seem restless.”
He inhaled, watching a carriage rumble by below. “I don’t know. I have Emeline back, my family back, but something’s still missing.”
“Perhaps you need time to adjust,” she said quietly. “You’ve been seven years away, lived a very different lifestyle. Perhaps you simply need to settle.”
“What I need is my title,” he growled, turning to her.
She looked at him thoughtfully. “And when you have the title and all that goes with it, you’ll be content?”
“Are you suggesting otherwise?”
She glanced down at her teacup. “I’m suggesting that you might need more than a title and money to be happy.”
His head reared back as if struck. What was this? Why did she challenge him now? “You don’t know me,” he said as he strode to the door. “You don’t know what I need, so please refrain from speculating, madam.” And he left her there.
A WEEK LATER, Beatrice hid her trembling hands in the folds of her wedding dress. It was quite a smart frock. Lottie had said that just because she was having a hurried wedding didn’t mean she couldn’t have a new dress for it. So she wore a lovely shot silk that changed from green to blue as she moved. But despite the beauty of her new gown, she couldn’t control the trembling of her fingers.
Perhaps this was normal wedding-day nerves. She tried to pay attention to the bishop marrying her and Reynaud, but his words seemed to run together into a senseless stream of droning sound.
She very much hoped she wasn’t about to faint.
Was she doing the right thing? She still didn’t know even as she stood at the altar. Reynaud had promised to care for Uncle Reggie, had promised to let him live in Blanchard House no matter the outcome of the fight for the title. She’d made Uncle Reggie safe, and perhaps that was reason enough to marry this man, even if he didn’t love her.
He didn’t love her.
Beatrice frowned down at the posy of flowers in her hands. She’d wanted a man to love her for herself, but she was marrying a man out of cold calculation instead. Was that enough? She wasn’t sure. Reynaud might never soften his heart sufficiently to love her. In the last few weeks, he’d seemed harder than ever, more focused on his goal of attaining his title and the power that went with it. If he never came to love her, could she endure this marriage?
But then Reynaud turned to her and placed a simple gold ring on her finger and kissed her gently on the cheek. Suddenly the whole thing was over, and it was too late for second thoughts or regrets. Beatrice drew a deep breath and placed her hand on Reynaud’s elbow, holding more tightly than she normally might have.
He leaned his head closer to hers. “Are you all right?”
“Yes. Quite.” A wide smile seemed to be frozen on her face.
He glanced at her dubiously as he led her through the small crowd of well-wishers. “We’ll be home soon, and if you’d like, you can go lie down.”
“Oh, but we have the wedding breakfast!”
“And the wedding night,” he whispered in her ear. “I don’t want you too ill to enjoy that.”
She ducked her head at that to hide a pleased smile. The fact was, he hadn’t done more than kiss her chastely on the lips since their engagement, and a small part of her had begun to wonder if he’d already lost interest.
Evidently not.
He handed her into the carriage to the cheers of the crowds and then hastily entered. He smiled at her as the carriage pulled away. “Does it feel different, being married?”
“No.” She shook her head, then thought of something. “Although, I suppose I’ll have to get used to being Lady Hope, won’t I?”
He scowled. “It should be Lady Blanchard.” He looked out the window. “And it will be soon, too.”
There was nothing more to say to that, so they rode in silence until they came to the town house. Many of the guests had already arrived and were entering the town house as Beatrice descended the carriage. She mounted the steps of Blanchard House with Reynaud, feeling odd. This was still her uncle’s home, but very soon it would be hers and Reynaud’s only—if he won back his title. She would be reversing positions with Uncle Reggie, and the thought was not a comfortable one.
Inside, the dining room had been laid ready for a feast. Yards of frothy pink fabric lined the table, and for a moment Beatrice felt for how horrified Uncle Reggie would’ve been at the expense. He sat at the head of the table already, looking rather subdued and sad. He refused to meet her eyes.
Reynaud sat her next to Uncle Reggie as was proper and then was distracted by a guest. For a moment, Beatrice was quiet.
“It’s done, then,” Uncle Reggie said.