Compromised Miss by Anne O'Brien Page B

irritation. No, he was not completely altruistic in his motives, and his forthright bride had unerringly homed in on it. Now was not the time to dwell on it. With solemn gallantry, he tucked her hand beneath his arm. ‘Whatever doubts you may have, you may be certain that I need to fulfil my promise to you!’
    Her smile lit her eyes, transforming her face with sudden beauty. ‘Good. Then let us do it before we both change our minds! Then we can escape Wallace’s prosing on the sad state of my reputation!’
    ‘Well, my lady, the deed is done.’
    ‘Yes.’
    Harriette was astonished. Her marriage to the Earl of Venmore was completed, over and done within the time it took to launch Lydyard’s Ghost , the gold ring with its circle of sapphires, a Hallaston heirloom, securely on her finger. Wallace had hidden his triumph. Augusta did not try. Alexander stood in dour but silent acceptance. Meggie looked apprehensive. As for the groom, he spoke the required words with solemn composure that soothed her nerves and allowed her breathing to settle. The only time she had felt any reaction from him was when her name was read by the Reverend Dance—Harriette Marie-Louise d’Aspre Lydyard. A sharp acknowledgment in the tautnessof his arm beneath her fingers. He had not known of her French blood, of course, and she had not thought to tell him. Would he object? But then why should he? Though he might, of course, consider a smuggler with French blood too much for a man to accept in the present political climate.
    Otherwise Harriette could not fault him, the epitome of fashion and elegance, as far from the dishevelled spy as she could imagine, his good looks enhanced by the understated quality of the striped silk waistcoat, deep blue coat, the impeccably ruffled shirt and the exact arrangement of his cravat. And to his credit the Earl had not decided to overawe them with a fashionable entourage, nor had he brought any members of his family with him. A relief, yet Harriette struggled with the conflict it set up within her own mind. Perhaps he was ashamed of her after all; perhaps he appreciated the value of a wedding far from critical eyes even more than she.
    Would anything ever be straightforward again?
    This was no good! Harriette had made her vows clearly, with no maidenly modesty, almost in a challenge. All she could do was to be herself. The Earl had agreed to wed her and must take her on trust. They must both make the best of a dubious bargain.
    Yet for her it was not a bad bargain at all. At his side in the cool gloom of the little church, she had risked a glance. Sensing it, Luke had turned his head, held her gaze, and smiled. Within the shadows of the church his eyes were dark and fathomless, impossible to read. Dignity made her return the contact despite the flush it brought to her cheeks, but beneath the calm exterior, desire made her heart tremble. How splendid he was. He moved with far more ease now, as his torn muscles healed. The bruisingon his temple had almost vanished, a mere shadow, whilst the scar on his cheek was healing fast. Perhaps it would not even leave a mark to mar his striking looks. For now it made him attractively rakish, and formidably handsome. During his absence she had forgotten a little and had managed to control her fluttering nerves, but now they reappeared, a cloud of butterflies, just when she needed all her confidence for what she must ask him as soon as they were wed.
    ‘I didn’t know of your French connections,’ Luke commented as they stepped from the church porch out into the sunshine.
    So he had reacted. Harriette’s regard was firm, steady. ‘My mother was French. Does it matter?’
    ‘No. Just that you had never mentioned it.’
    ‘Not everyone is so tolerant since we are at war. My father preferred to forget her when she died. My brother prefers to forget my connection with the enemy.’
    ‘I’m sorry.’ A little silence that Harriette could not interpret. Then, when it almost