Bride For A Night. Rosemary Rogers

wrapped her arms around her waist, as if they could protect her.

      “A pleasant change not to be the source of amusement when I enter a ballroom,” she forced herself to continue.

      He studied her broodingly. “Is that why you insist on becoming my bride?” he demanded. “Do you believe your position as the Countess of Ashcombe will offer you approval among society?”

      She made a smothered sound of frustration. “I have told you, I have no desire to marry anyone, let alone a gentleman who holds me in such obvious contempt.”

      A muscle in his jaw knotted. “Do you blame me?”

      Guilt pierced her at his reminder that he was as much a victim to this hideous fate as she.

      Perhaps even more so.

      What had he done beyond attempting to protect his family? Now he was trapped with a woman whom he would never, ever have chosen as his bride.

      “No,” she breathed. “No, I do not hold you to blame.”

      He appeared caught off guard by her soft agreement, then his face tightened with annoyance.

      “You will see that your father receives the papers?”

      “Not until I finish reading the terms of my imprisonment,” she muttered with a grimace.

      He frowned. “What did you say?”

      “I think I should at least comprehend what is expected of me as a wife,” she said with a shrug. “Otherwise I am likely to be even more of a disappointment.”

      The silver eyes narrowed. “You will not be a disappointment, my dear.”

      “No?” A humorless smile curved her lips. “How can you be so certain?”

      “Quite simply because I will not allow it.”

      With his arrogant threat delivered, Lord Ashcombe performed a graceful bow and turned to leave Talia standing alone in the parlor, the hateful papers still clutched in her hand.

      LORD ASHCOMBE’S townhouse was as oppressively elegant as Talia had feared.

      Built along grand lines in the midst of Grosvenor Square, it was constructed of pale stone and had seven bays with brick archways that led into an alcove hiding the double oak doors. Banks of imposing windows overlooked the street, and alighting from her carriage, Talia had the unnerving sensation that there were dozens of hidden eyes trained upon her.

      Her unease was not lessened as she was led through a white tiled foyer and up a sweeping marble staircase to the back of the house where the gothic chapel was located. She might not have been raised as an aristocrat, but she had spent enough hours in the library to recognize the stunning masterpieces that lined the paneled walls of the long gallery and the impressive Italianate ceiling in the formal salon that was painted with miniature scenes from Greek mythology. Certainly she had no difficulty in recognizing the priceless Venetian chandelier that hung just outside the chapel.

      It all served to remind her that Lord Ashcombe’s title was not simply a mark of his social standing. It was more important an inheritance that came with overwhelming responsibility. Not only to his vast number of tenants and servants who depended upon him for employment, but to his family and the dignity of his position as the current earl.

      For all her father’s wealth, she was unprepared to enter a world where a person was judged on their ancestry and the purity of their bloodlines. Even if she weren’t an awkward wallflower, she would never be capable of bringing pride to her role as Countess of Ashcombe.

      These dark thoughts might have made Talia crumble into a ball of terror if she had not still been protected by the numbing sense of shock that had managed to survive their last humiliating encounter.

      Certainly she would never have been able to walk down the short aisle to stand beside Lord Ashcombe waiting at the scrolled wooden altar.

      As it was she stiffly marched past the worn pews, only briefly glancing at the vaulted ceiling and the exquisite stained-glass window before shifting her attention toward the man who was to become her husband.

      Her breath caught in her throat at the sight of his golden hair shimmering in the light from the silver candelabrum and the arrogant features that were so perfectly carved they did not seem quite real. His lean body was attired in a black jacket that clung with loving care to his broad shoulders and black breeches that seemed more appropriate for a funeral than a wedding. And his silver eyes—

      They held the ruthless power of a predator.

      He had never appeared more godlike, and despite her layers of protection she shivered in fear.

      Gabriel made no move to touch her as she halted at his side. In fact, he did not glance in her direction during the brief ceremony. Not even at its close when they signed the marriage certificate and shared a glass of sherry with the visibly curious rector and the rigidly composed butler, as well as a woman who Talia assumed must be the housekeeper.

      Then, with an imperious nod of his head, Ashcombe gestured her to leave the chapel, following behind her with obvious impatience.

      Distantly Talia was aware that her entire life had just been irrevocably altered. She was no longer Dowdy Dobson, the painfully shy daughter of a mere merchant. She was the Countess of Ashcombe.

      Not that her elevated status offered her any comfort, she ruefully accepted.

      How many years had she longed to be rid of her father’s oppressive rule? Even after it had become obvious that she was never going to attract a bevy of eager suitors, she had continued to dream that a kind, decent gentleman would appear to whisk her away. A man who would treat her with dignity and respect.

      But now her hopes were forever crushed.

      She had just traded one tyrant for another.

      As if to ensure she understood her submissive role as his bride, Gabriel cast a dismissive gaze over her demure attire. Her rose gown was threaded with silk ribbons around the high waist, and a single strand of pearls circled her neck.

      “Mrs. Manning will show you to your chambers,” he informed her icily, a gesture of his hand bringing forward the plump woman with gray hair tidily knotted at the back of her head. Her black gown was as spotless as the townhouse, and her movements brisk. The housekeeper, just as Talia had suspected. “Let her know if you prefer a dinner tray in your private salon or if you desire to eat in the dining room.”

      “You will not be joining me?” The question tumbled from her lips before she could check them.

      “I have business I must attend to.”

      Acutely aware of the housekeeper’s presence, Talia felt her face flame with color. Was it necessary to shame her by abandoning her before the ink had dried upon their license?

      “What of your mother?”

      “Her ladyship is visiting her sister in Kent.”

      Safely tucked away from her ill-bred daughter-in-law. “I…see.”

      The silver eyes briefly darkened as he gazed down at her, but his expression remained aloof.

      “You are welcome to explore the house and gardens, but you will not leave the grounds.”

      “Am I to be a prisoner here?”

      “Only until tomorrow.” A humorless smile curved his lips. “Do not bother to unpack, my dear. You leave for Devonshire at first light.”

      Without bothering to wait for her reaction, Gabriel brushed past her and disappeared down a long corridor.

      An unexpected stab of misery managed to pierce the protective fog.

      She felt…lost in the vast, imposing house. As if she was an imposter who was bound to be humiliated when she was at last exposed.

      Which was, no doubt, exactly what her husband desired.