My Honourable Viscount - Lords of Reluctance Book 2

Chapter Seven

“I am sorry, son, but Lord Grenville has just confirmed Miss Fulham’s identity.”

As Lord Markham stood before the altar of St George’s Chapel, Hanover Square, his father’s mournful declaration echoed through his mind with ominous finality. He doubted he would ever forget the exact moment when his world suddenly came to an abrupt halt. With those softly uttered words, he could almost hear the prison door slam shut, signalling the beginning of the life sentence he must serve for the crime he did not commit.

Up until the point Lord Ashington had spoken with him, he had been complacently certain that Miss Fulham would prove to be an imposter and he could cry off this farce of a marriage with both his pride and his honour still relatively intact. Furthermore, his father could sue Sir George for fraud, hopefully regaining most, if not all, the monies he had lost to the man. However, a visit from Lord Grenville the previous afternoon had put an end to all of his air dreams. He was foolish to believe a loophole large enough to ride a horse through had miraculously unravelled, when Sir George had systematically sewn closed every other avenue of escape. Optimism was only a delusion invented in the minds of desperate men.

Lord Grenville was unequivocally convinced that Miss Fulham was who Sir George said she was and even more so when she began conversing in Russian. He had then waxed eloquent about all of the virtues the chit possessed. Really, how could the man even consider Miss Fulham had not changed in the five-and-ten years since he last saw her? How could she not have changed? Sir George was an overbearing toad; his son was a coxcomb of the first water who religiously aped the dandy set, although not with the same panache that Beau Brummel was capable of producing. And according to Lady Rutherford, Lady Fulham was a harridan of epic proportions, and not just in temperament. Exposed to characters such as these any impressionable young female would and not for the better.

Closing his eyes, he willed the incessant ringing in ears to cease, as well as the soft murmurs and impatient movements of the several hundred guests sitting in the pews behind him. It seemed the entire fashionable world had roused themselves from their bedchambers to witness the nine of the clock nuptials, and also catch their first glimpse of the lady that had snared the tons most eligible bachelor. Most of which had probably never even heard of Miss Sophie Fulham. Hopeful mamas with marriageable age daughters would be gnashing their teeth at allowing him to slip through their fingers.

“If I might suggest, Markham, attempt to look a trifle happier. You are supposedly besotted with the chit. You will never convince anyone of that fact if you persist in looking so Friday-faced,” said the voice of reason beside him.

Peter gave his groomsman a sidelong glance. “I cannot help it, Rutherford. I am hoping it appears as though I am suffering a bout of nerves.” He shifted uncomfortably.

Lord Rutherford grinned. “I assure you, it is not working,” he replied, attempting not to chuckle. “You look as though you have lost your best friend.”

At the sound of a carriage rattling to a halt outside of the chapel, Peter reluctantly turned, his eyes locking with those of his mother. She sat rigidly but expressionless in the front pew, drawing on her many years of training in order to get through what must be for her a terrible trial. Beside her sat his father, appearing calm and composed, but Peter could see the strain around his eyes and the corners of his mouth. Lord Ashington had appeared to age decades, and all in the space of a few days. On his mother’s other side sat Emily. Completing his family row were his sister Charlotte and her husband, Lord Aylesbury, who appeared entirely uninterested with the whole proceedings.

His gaze swung back to Emily. Dear, sweet little Emily, practically bouncing up and down in her excitement of finally meeting the sister-in-law she had always wanted. Ultimately, he was doing this for her, he must always remember. For her, his family and, he supposed, for himself as well. He knew well his duty to his name and the title he would inherit upon his father’s demise. So what did it matter who the lady he married happened to be? It was past time he relinquished his unattainable desire of marrying for love.