The Blackmailed Bride

Both men barely noticed her presence once the minister began his sermon, but every other eye in the building was firmly fixed on the back of their heads. The congregants were, of course, used to seeing the earl and his sister, but this new visitor was something altogether different. Olivia didn’t have to turn around to know nearly every woman eyed the marquess speculatively. It didn’t help that Lord Huntsford walked in the chapel as though it were something he had been doing every Sunday of his life. His self-confidence and total lack of discomfort were aggravating.

Almost as aggravating as his cheery facade first thing in the morning.

“I trust you rested well,” he had greeted her with a beaming smile once she descended the stairs.

She had inclined her head, but nothing more.

And now, nearly two hours later, she was irrevocably stuck with him. Lord Huntsford was planted firmly on her right, Marcus on her left. Olivia wished she had sat on the aisle, so she wouldn’t feel so confined by the two large men. Not that either of them was aware of her distress.

The congregation stood, singing one last hymn, and Olivia, as usual, only mouthed the words. The marquess’s voice, however, sang loud and true—his clear baritone rising high into the chapel. She tried not to listen to him, tried not to think about how inevitably soon her voice would fill this very space as she pledged herself to Baron Finley as his wife.

It had been years since church had symbolized any sort of refuge for her, but now it seemed to represent the trap she’d fallen into that would bind her for the rest of her life. The very idea made her feel truly ill. So instead of dwelling on the horrible future that awaited her, Olivia devoted her attention to the meticulous counting of panes in the glass windows.

By the twelfth pane, she could barely hear the singers through the suddenly shrill ringing in her ears. The noise was so deafening she almost clapped her hands over her ears to stifle it. Olivia stopped herself when she realized that probably wouldn’t help at all.

At twenty-eight, her stomach roiled, and she forced herself to resist the urge to sit back on the pew.

At fifty-seven, she swayed, luckily catching herself in time before she pitched forward into the people in front of her.

Something was sitting on her chest, cutting off her air sup ply. The pressure was a vise. Her heart beat an irregular rhythm, and Olivia tried to ignore the thump, thump, pound sensation. Her lips were still moving, still attempting to appear as though she were singing, but Olivia doubted anyone, if he were to look closely, would be fooled.

“Are you feeling unwell?” Lord Huntsford leaned over and whispered in her ear.

She shook her head.

He grunted in disbelief, and while she didn’t dare venture a look at his face, she knew he’d look skeptical.

Olivia hardly cared to try and convince him. She was still trying to hold the impending feeling of panic at bay—and was failing miserably.

Lord Huntsford might have still been singing, but Olivia could feel his eyes firmly on her. And when she swayed—just the smallest bit of unnatural movement—his hand reached out to steady her.

“Come with me” was his whispered order. He set down his hymnal and took her by the elbow.

Her protests were irrelevant, and Marcus, so engrossed in his singing, didn’t notice the two of them leaving.

Olivia held her head high as they exited toward the rear of the sanctuary. Her eyes were trained ahead, avoiding meeting anyone’s gaze. She could hear the whispers as she walked by, but the man at her side didn’t seem to mind them, so she supposed she could stand the scrutiny for a few seconds.

Lord Huntsford led her outside, guiding her to a stone bench nestled in the church’s garden.

She resisted the urge to take large, gulping breaths once outside in the fresh air. The gasping would only confirm Lord Huntsford’s suspicions. She couldn’t even thank him for his help without admitting that she’d needed the escape he’d offered.

“Are you unwell?” he asked gently, kneeling beside her.

“I’ll be fine,” she said, but her voice was breathy.

She sank back farther into the bench. Outside the walls of the church, the ache inside began to abate. And now, inhaling deeply the scent of roses and gardenias, her heart wasn’t pounding so fiercely.

“You looked quite ill in there,” he persisted. “Are you certain you’re feeling better?”

“The closed space made it hard to breathe,” she said, hoping he would let the matter rest. Olivia concentrated on the pace of her breathing, trying to steady the gasps so he’d not have any further reason to be suspicious.

“Sometimes I feel that way when I’m hiding, too.” His voice was barely a whisper, and he could easily have been speaking solely to himself.

“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.” But she tried to offer a smile in gratitude so the words didn’t sound harsh. He was being very conciliatory, after all. And she had the oddest feeling that he did understand. That he sympathized with her struggle and disillusionment. But surely that was just a cruel trick of her imagination, fooling her into believing she wasn’t quite so desperately alone. “Feel free to return inside—I just need a moment.”

“I’ll sit here with you…if you don’t mind,” he added as an afterthought.

But Lord Huntsford gave her no chance to answer. She stilled as he took up the remaining space on the bench, afraid if she moved the slightest fraction of an inch, she might brush against him.

“I really think some time alone would help me feel better,” she ventured. Regaining her composure was impossible with him sitting in such close proximity.

“I have no intention of leaving you out here alone.” His crossed arms declared he would brook no argument.

Fine.

She would simply pretend he wasn’t there. Something that, in theory, seemed relatively easy. But as he sat beside her, also in silence, Olivia found her eyes involuntarily moving to watch him. Each time, she would wrest her gaze away. Not that it did any good, of course; she was certain the marquess realized each time she did so.

“Did you see the two of them?”

The whispered question floated on the wind to Olivia and Nick, and both immediately straightened.

“How could you not see them? Shameful. And in church, no less.”

“Now, Josephine,” came a third voice, “they were hardly doing anything shameful. They were sitting in front of God and the whole congregation.”

“Well, where are they now?” one of the other women— Olivia assumed it was Josephine—shot back.

Silence followed. Apparently this question stymied the other two ladies.

Olivia started to rise, prepared to step from behind the shelter of the towering rosebushes and into the women’s path, but Nick laid a hand on her arm, stilling her. His touch scorched her skin. But she didn’t recoil from it.

“Well,” the third woman, who Olivia was beginning to think of as her champion, began, “I’m sure they both have a perfectly innocent explanation. Perhaps Lady Olivia had a headache,” she offered.

One of the other women made a ribald joke, and Olivia cringed. Humiliation alone was bad enough, but humiliation in front of the marquess was unbearable.

“Well, I’m not surprised,” another voice returned. “The marquess has quite a way with women, at least that’s what I heard from Eleanor at the dressmaker’s.”

Their advocate scoffed. “The man was in church.”

The cynical woman laughed. “Probably looking for an innocent woman to corrupt.” She made the statement as calmly as one might if she were suggesting he’d gone to the market to select produce.

Judging from the fact that the voices had stopped wafting to her from different points down the path, Olivia knew the women were standing not too far from where she and Nick were sitting.

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” one returned. Olivia was beginning to lose track of who was speaking. “Alfred was telling me all sorts of lurid tales of the marquess’s exploits in France. Shocking,” she added unnecessarily.

“Well, he won’t be able to parade about in polite society for long. He’s no better than his parents. And his bad blood will out eventually.”

Lord Huntsford’s grip on her arm tightened, and she looked at him in surprise. His jaw was clenched, and while Olivia didn’t know him well enough to be able to decipher his moods with any accuracy, he looked furious.