Rule's Bride. Kat Martin

drive up to the house, which was entirely enclosed by ornate wrought-iron fencing.

      Inside, the magnificent entry was the full three stories tall and capped by an amber glass ceiling. Columns and reflecting pools had been painted on the walls, making it look like the entrance to a villa in Rome.

      The marquess, an older man with snow-white hair, stood in the receiving line next to his petite, dark-haired wife and beautiful, willowy blonde daughter, Sabrina.

      Rule made the introductions. “Good evening, Lord Wyhurst. My ladies. I would like to present my wife, Violet. She is just arrived from Boston.”

      The blonde’s gorgeous blue eyes widened. “Your wife?” she repeated as if she couldn’t quite believe her ears.

      Rule just smiled. “That is correct, my lady, and this is her cousin, Miss Caroline Lockhart, also here from America.”

      “A pleasure to meet you both,” Lady Wyhurst said with a smile that looked a little forced. Violet wondered if the marchioness had designs on Rule as a son-in-law. Being the son of a duke, he was undoubtedly considered quite a catch.

      “Congratulations, my boy,” the marquess said with a smile that appeared sincere. He turned that warm smile on Violet. “Welcome to England, my lady.”

      She opened her mouth at the use of the title, then felt Rule’s gentle nudge in the ribs.

      “Thank you,” she said sweetly.

      The marquess returned his attention to Rule. “About time you settled down, my boy.” A chuckle rumbled in his chest. “Even if it took an American girl to bring you to heel.” He winked at Violet and she managed to smile.

      Unfortunately, she’d had little to do with the marriage. It was her father’s money that had brought Rule Dewar to the altar.

      The formalities were finally at an end. The group moved on, the Dewar family surrounding her as they made their way up the stairs. Crossing a false-stone arched bridge, they walked into a ballroom that had been transformed into a magnificent villa complete with gardens and a beautiful ocean view.

      The conversation in the entry announcing Rule’s marriage must have been overheard because the room was buzzing by the time they walked in, the entire assembly of several hundred guests whispering and staring in their direction.

      For an instant, Violet’s feet refused to move. She felt Rule’s hand reach for hers. He laced their fingers together and gave them a gentle squeeze.

      “They’re just curious,” he whispered. “Don’t pay them the least attention. You know how people love to gossip.”

      She knew, all right. She just wasn’t used to being the center of that gossip. Thank God, she would be on her way back to Boston by the time the marriage became known to be invalid.

      Rule rested her trembling hand on the sleeve of his coat and led her farther into the ballroom, winding his way among the guests.

      “Can you believe it?” one of the matrons whispered. “Rule Dewar. I can hardly credit that handsome scoundrel has finally been leg-shackled. And by an American, no less.”

      “Probably had no choice,” a second woman said tartly. “I’ll be counting the months. Won’t be long before the truth is known.”

      “Dewar is an utter rogue,” another woman said. “That isn’t going to change. If she is with child, it won’t be long before he’ll have the poor chit shipped off to the country.”

      Violet took a fortifying breath and fought to ignore the women’s words, but no matter which way she turned, the same conversation swirled around her. Rule and his libertine ways and the matter of his hasty marriage. None of them knew, of course, that he had been married for the past three years.

      A thought that galled her.

      And embarrassed her.

      She was his wife—at least in name. He should have had the decency to own up to the vows he had made. It took all of her will not to turn and march out of the ballroom.

      Ever supportive, Caroline hurried up beside her. “They’re all just jealous. Rule married you, not one of their prissy daughters.”

      “Your cousin is right.” Black-haired and beautiful, Elizabeth Dewar floated toward her. “They’ll have their fun for a bit, but in the end, you are Rule’s wife. That is all that matters.”

      “Both Beth and I faced the same sort of gossip when we were first married,” Lily added. “In time, your marriage will be old news, just as ours is.”

      Violet glanced to where her husband stood in conversation with a group of men and women. “Apparently Rule is quite popular with the ladies.”

      “Yes, well, that is all in the past,” Elizabeth said. “Your marriage was not yet official, not the way Rule saw it. Now that you are here, you won’t have to worry about that sort of thing again.”

      But Violet didn’t believe it. A leopard didn’t change its spots, and a scoundrel didn’t cleave to just one woman.

      It didn’t matter. In a month, he would be free to live as he chose, and she would be on her way back home.

      “I appreciate your kindness and support,” she said to the women. “Truly I do.”

      Lily smiled. “We’re sisters now. Sisters take care of each other.”

      Violet felt an unexpected thickness in her throat. She had never had siblings, though she had wanted a brother and sister very badly. “Thank you.” She felt a renewed shot of guilt. The Dewars were willing to accept her into their family, while she had no intention of living up to their expectations of her as Rule’s wife.

      A little shiver of awareness went through her as he returned to her side. The man fairly exuded confidence, power and virility. Violet did her best not to notice.

      “They are playing a waltz,” he said. “I have yet to dance with my wife. Would you do me the honor, my lady?”

      She started to remind him he had agreed to call her Violet, but somehow it no longer seemed important. Instead She took his arm, wishing far more that he would stop referring to her as his wife. She would never truly be his and she wasn’t the sort to pretend.

      Still, she let him lead her onto the dance floor and took her place in front of him. Since he stood nearly a foot taller than she, dancing with him should have been awkward, but from the moment he took her in his arms and the music started, from the instant he swept her into the rhythm of the dance, it was like floating on air.

      Round and round the parquet floor he whirled her, keeping perfect rhythm, holding her a little closer than proper, even for a husband. She tried to ignore the warmth of his palm at her waist, the way his long leg wedged between hers with each of his graceful turns. She tried to ignore the way he was looking at her, as if she belonged to him and he couldn’t wait to ravish her.

      Her breathing quickened. A tendril of heat curled softly in the bottom of her stomach. She forced herself to think of Jeffrey, handsome and fair, blond hair gleaming as he held her hand in the gardens at Griffin Heights and told her he had fallen in love with her.

      She tried to imagine she was waltzing with Jeffrey, but when she looked up, it wasn’t Jeffrey’s face she saw but the solid jaw and beautiful blue eyes of the man she had married.

      A man who wanted nothing but the use of her body and her father’s armaments factory.

      She steeled herself and eased a little away.

      “You’re a very good dancer,” Rule said as the waltz came to a close.

      “Am I? I thought it was you.”

      He smiled. “Perhaps it was the two of us dancing together.”

      “Perhaps.”

      “There is a theory that a man and woman who dance well together, make love