Mad for the Marquess by Jess Russell

Author:Jess Russell [Russell, Jess]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: romance, historical, Scotland, Victorian
Publisher: The Wild Rose Press
Published: 2017-01-15T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty-One

London

The Scottish crags and moors turned into verdant hills, which then ran to flatlands dotted with more and more villages. After nearly ten hours of travel, they must be nearing London.

Anne turned from the window to study the sleeping Lord Devlin. Her husband.

Surely she must be the one dreaming. Soon she would awaken to find herself back in her tiny room, her life restored to normal. To the life that should be her fate.

But the Flying Scotsman’s opulent, private compartment and the extreme ache in her bottom, no matter how plush the velvet cushion beneath, told her all this was impossibly real.

And the man next to her, his hand so casually lying not three inches from her hip, was no dream. But he was no longer her James. In reality he never had been.

He must have been given something to sleep, or simply be too exhausted from the last few days. Try as she might, she had not a prayer of sleeping.

Could she touch him? Would doing so make this stranger real? She dared not. After all theirs was not a mutually-agreed upon union. She had thrust herself upon him out of desperation. Saved him, and he was likely grateful, but he did not want her. Would never have chosen her. That was the difference. Just a means to an end. She mustn’t forget that.

Poor besotted wretch, she would choose him in a heartbeat. She had. Stepping up in front of everyone and declaring herself with child. How utterly brazen of her.

How could she possibly wear the mantle of Marchioness? To navigate this strange, new world? If the old duke’s behavior were any indication of how society would treat her, she was in for a rough ride.

Shifting her aching bum, careful not to brush his hand, she smoothed her gray skirts over her crinoline. Her wedding dress.

Mrs. Nester had offered a gown for the nuptials, but when Anne tried it on, she looked like a child playing at dress-up. The hem would have had to have been hacked off nearly a foot before hemming it another five or so inches. And that would only solve the length issue.

Lady Tippit had dragged out her old court dress from the dusty trunks that stood packed against the walls in a tiny room. She’d insisted Anne wear it. The jewel encrusted gown must have weighed as much as Anne herself. But again, she could not condone it being butchered for the cause.

So, in the end, she had worn the gray, the best of the two gowns she possessed. The one Mrs. Harlow had given her when she had healed young Earnest Harlow of the croup.

Phoebe Nester had trimmed it out with some silver-gray velvet ribbon and a bit of ivory lace. Like making a silk purse out of a sow’s ear. Another bit of lace had been unearthed for a veil, and Mrs. Coates had sacrificed some of her precious orange blossoms for a nosegay.

She had not looked in the mirror—not really.

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