Page 12 of His Unwanted Duchess

“I want to hear what he has to say.”

That was Beatrice, her voice thin and a little shaky in the heavy silence of the church.

For the first time, Stephen noticed just how pale and ill she looked. Her skin, which had been such a lovely, luminous white when he met her before, had an unhealthy shade. And had she lost weight? Not that the hideous wedding dress would implythat she had. It was truly one of the most awful dresses he had ever seen.

Concentrate, Stephen. The battle is not quite over. Delay too long, and the Marquess might actually succeed in having you thrown out of the church, and the wedding will continue.

He met Beatrice’s eyes, just for a moment. It wouldn’t do to imply that there was anything between them, of course, not even a prior acquaintance. He imagined that Theo was sitting in the crowd right now, wondering what on earth his wretched friend was doing.

You’ll see, Theodore. Just a moment, eh?

“I daresay,” Stephen continued, deliberately meeting the eyes of the Viscount. The man’s face was ashen, and he was leaning forward in his seat. “That you imagined this Marquess here was a virtuous man, suitable as a husband for a most precious daughter. Yes?”

“Yes,” Lord Stanley stuttered. “I… I would not have wanted my daughter to marry a… a rake, or aseducer, not for all the tea in China.”

“What a noble gentleman,” Stephen remarked.

Not noble enough not to marry his daughter off to a man she despises. I mean, really. What father would nothave known hisdaughter’s mind at a time like this? Miss Haversham does not strike me as a particularly subtle woman.

“What do you have to say, Sir? Out with it, please!” Lady Stanley spoke up, rising to her feet. Her husband held her hand, seemingly for his sake rather than hers.

Stephen gave the older woman a neat bow. Grief was written on every line of her face. Stephen heard about everything, eventually, including the tragic demise of the Duchess of Thornbridge, the oldest Haversham child.

He had investigated the Marquess rather thoroughly in anticipation of today, but he had made it a point to investigate the Havershams, too. Miss Haversham in particular.

“I hate to speak so bluntly in polite company,” he continued, meeting Lady Stanley’s eyes, “but I cannot remain silent. This gentleman here…” He pointed at the Marquess. “He is a scoundrel of the worst order. He has conducted an affair with an innocent maid, gotten her with child, and subsequently abandoned her.”

Each statement was met with a louder and more shocked gasp. The Marquess’s face progressively turned a more vibrant shade of red.

He took a step forward, his fists clenched threateningly at his sides. Stephen was fairly sure that the man would try to strike him, sooner or later. With the (admittedly true) accusations that he was about to make, even the mildest man would be enraged.

“That is a filthy lie,” the Marquess spat, his eyes narrowed. “How dare you, Sir? What is your goal here, by the way? What do you hope to achieve? You don’t know me, nor my bride. Why make up such lies?”

“They are not lies, good sir,” Stephen responded smoothly. “And she is not your bride.”

The vicar stepped forward, standing warily between the two men. He cast a quick, assessing glance at the bride-to-be, who was standing at the altar and slightly swaying on her feet. With shock, most people would assume, but Stephen was fairly sure that it was with relief.

“Miss Haversham,” the vicar said gently, “perhaps you should sit down. Here, next to your parents, while we work out this matter. We shall dismiss the congregation, and?—”

“Oh, good luck with that,” Stephen snorted, jerking his head towards the crowd. To a man, they were all on the edges of their seats. “They are not goinganywhere.”

The vicar conceded this point with a sigh and a nod. “Very well. Your Grace, you cannot simply make such accusations. Proof is needed.”

“He has no proof,” the Marquess snarled. “I’ll have you locked up for slander!”

Stephen pursed his lips. “Oh, I think not. Fear not, I have my proof. As my first witness, I present Mary Greenfield.”

He was perfectly placed to see the color drain from the Marquess’s face. With a flourish, Stephen gestured towards the door. The entire congregation—and the vicar—turned to look.

Mary Greenfield was a remarkably small woman, Northern, tentative, but forthright and tough underneath it all. Many women in her position—possessed of a child but no wedding ring—would have given up a long time ago. Not Mary.

It had not been easy to persuade her to come here, but Stephen had managed it. And now, the hate-filled glare that she shot the Marquess made it all worth it.

Mary was clutching the hand of a three-year-old boy at her side, who stared up at the Marquess with interest.

Really, the resemblance was damning.

“Mary, would you be so good as to tell the kind people here exactly what you told me?” Stephen said, raising his voice so that everybody could hear. “Nice and loud, mind you. Tell them what your relationship to the Marquess of Hampton became.”

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