The Bride Wore Scandal. Helen Dickson

early as it was, that the event would be a success. In the days of Christina’s grandfather, whose wealth had surpassed most of his contemporaries and the estate had exuded good, well-funded stewardship, from its carefully landscaped grounds to the house itself, grand, memorable events had been held at Oakbridge, balls and parties that were still talked about today. Her father had carried on the tradition and it had been expected that William, now Lord Atherton, would do the same. The tradition was about to be continued, but sadly, it was not William who called the tune or funded the entertainment, but Mark Bucklow.

      Christina was breathtakingly beautiful, standing beside William to receive their guests in the doorway of the large drawing-room on the first floor, from which one of several doors led into the long gallery where the dancing was to be held. The ice blue of her dress blended perfectly with her eyes of a slightly darker shade, as did the setting of the diamonds and sapphires that adorned her throat. They had belonged to Christina’s mother, and Christina had steadfastly refused to part with them to pay off William’s debts. The diamonds flashed in the bright light, rousing an answering flash of envy in the eyes of every woman present, and of their male escorts, although their desires were attracted more to the wearer than the jewels.

      Christina could see and feel the admiration directed at her, but how they would sneer, she thought bitterly, if they knew how miserable she was, how heavy her heart, which lay in her breast like a stone. She could not understand how she managed to function at these events. She hated them, but she managed to collect her thoughts sufficiently to respond with grace to the comments of their guests. Her smile was charming, but like the sun, it was more brilliant than warm.

      A man, a stranger to those present, entered and detached himself from the receiving line. His figure was distinctive, his shoulders broad and his walk combined gracefulness with strength. He coolly and carefully examined the faces that made up the assembly, of ladies in ball gowns and men in elaborate wigs and evening dress moving about to the strains of violins.

      Then he turned his eyes on his host. The same procedure was repeated. William Atherton was a slender, fair-haired young man with an open, boyish face. His gaze moved on to the lady by his side. From his enquiries he knew Atherton to be unwed, so he surmised the lady to be his sister Christina. Much had been talked about her beauty, but, not given to listening to idle gossip, he had thought little of it. Now, as he inspected her with the interested look of an entomologist discovering some rare insect, he was all attention.

      Tall and lithe and looking like some fantastic Grecian statue, Christina Atherton was exquisitely lovely, ruling her domain like a young queen. She wore her golden tresses piled and curled in glorious chaos atop her head, with tendrils wafting against the curve of her neck. But he could be forgiven for thinking that he preferred her as he had last seen her the day before, with her hair in a delightful disarray of golden lights, her feet bare and splashing in the brook.

      There was a fragile, waif-like quality about her that appealed to him, a naïve freshness in her eyes that stemmed from innocence. It was a trait absent in the women of his acquaintance, but beneath it all, Christina Atherton reminded him of a fine silver rapier blade, made of steel. He could not keep his eyes off her as she spoke to the guests, her gloved hand resting lightly on her brother’s arm. Her gems caught his eye. They were beautiful and fine cut and matched the deep, uncommon colouring of her eyes, eyes lit by no inner warmth.

      Any woman would have worn such exquisite gems with pride, but Christina Atherton wore them with an indifference that was almost melancholy. People spoke to her, but it was as if she neither saw nor heard. Her smile was pinned to her face like a mask. He would not have dared give open expression to the feelings she aroused and this was because of something at once remote and detached in the attitude and icy façade of the dazzling beauty.

      Lord Rockley was intrigued.

      As the festivities got under way and proceeded in grand style, sensing she was being watched, Christina turned her head slightly, her eyes lighting on a man who had made no effort to present himself. He stood several yards away from her by one of the windows. With hands clasped behind his back, legs a little apart, he seemed to carry about him a kind of lethal charge—the air immediately about him held an indefinably vibrant quality that kept one at bay—like the bars around a panther’s cage. The comparison was apt, for there was something very panther-like about him.

      He had an air of careless unconcern as he studied her with unswerving regard. It was as if he had just landed there by chance. With his skin bronzed from seeing active service in foreign parts, he looked completely at odds when compared with the pink-faced, well-fed local gentry.

      He was a man with thick, dark brown hair, which he wore drawn back, and was very tall with a lean, rangy look that gave an impression of dangerous vitality. He had the bold profile of a predatory hawk in the midst of a gathering of tame peacocks, which gave him a somewhat proud and insolent appearance. Even the slender brown hands emerging from the broad, embroidered cuffs of his frock-coat recalled the talons of the bird of prey, while the look in his silver-grey eyes was unnervingly intent.

      He smiled a thin, crooked smile, revealing a lightning glimpse of very white teeth when he found her watching him warily, from her great, luminous, shadowed eyes. His own, boldly mocking and amused, did not waver. She gave him stare for stare, with a coquettishly raised brow of question.

      Christina felt a vague sense of recognition and finally realised it was the same man she had met yesterday in the woods, the man who had called himself Simon. Her face turned crimson with remembrance and shock—and more than a little embarrassment when she recalled their kiss and the intimate content of their conversation—bringing a smile to his lips, which closed like a fist about her heart and a leap of gladness almost bowled her over. Voices around her drifted away into the depths of her mind, hidden where no sound could reach it, muffled noises and feelings that drove all feelings from her.

      This man was a guest at Oakbridge and, despite his attraction, she had to mentally revile the air of authority he conveyed, which no doubt stemmed from a haughty attitude or perhaps a military rank. His imposing presence seemed highly inappropriate here at this time. She actually shivered as she saw him abandon his idle stance and come towards her.

      Much as she wanted to take to her heels and run, good manners and the need to look into his eyes once more obliged her not to turn away. With sudden realisation, she knew this must be Lord Rockley, and as she watched him come closer she knew by his look that he was thinking of their encounter in the woods. What had he been doing there? she wondered. He had told her he was a stranger to these parts and finding his way about. How long had he been there, how much did he know?

      Fear was heavy in her breast. Of what was he thinking when he looked at her? What was there in his eyes that made her feel afraid? His slow, appreciative smile made her feel somehow ashamed and alarmed, as though he were able to pierce through the bones of her skull and ferret out the secrets of her mind. She was uneasy—but why should she be? To his enemies … he is … more evil than the Devil himself … Her brother’s words came back to her and her legs trembled. Outwardly everything appeared normal. There was no reason for him to suspect anything untoward. He wasn’t remotely what she had expected. This man who had come here to seek out the highwaymen and destroy them was younger than she had thought, and unexpectedly handsome.

      ‘So, Miss Atherton—for it is Miss Christina Atherton, is it not? We meet again—under different circumstances,’ he said when he stood in front of her, politely inclining his head slightly without taking his eyes off hers. ‘I hardly hoped you would recall me.’

      At the sound of his deep, soft and mellifluous voice, Christina was transported and, for a moment, completely speechless. Try as she might, she could find no flaw in those wide shoulders, lean waist and long limbs. The impeccably tailored clothes were to be admired as much as the man who wore them. Yet on someone of less impressive stature, the froth of lace at throat and wrists, the waistcoat of ivory hue that matched his breeches beneath a midnight-blue coat might have lost much of their flair.

      Her confidence was slowly returning. Something in his look challenged her spirit and brought her strength back in a surge of excitement. Far from being overawed by this man’s presence and by the danger that lay in wait for