Confessions From an Arranged Marriage by Miranda Neville Page A

Vanderlin House. Neither party wished for a large affair. A handful of friends and relations on both sides witnessed the union of Arthur William Gerrit Vanderlin, Marquis of Blakeney, a bachelor, and Minerva Margaret Montrose, spinster daughter of William Montrose of Mandeville Wallop, Shropshire.
    All present agreed that they were an extraordinarily striking couple, matched in blue-eyed golden beauty that exemplified the best of English aristocratic looks. The bride wore a simple but elegant morning gown of yellow muslin with a gold cross and chain as her only adornment. Her demeanor spoke of a calm self-assurance, admirable in a girl of nineteen who had landed the decade’s greatest marital prize. Not one hint of unseemly triumph marred her porcelain prettiness.
    The bridegroom, if you knew him well and observed him closely, appeared to have drunk too much the previous night.
    T hey were getting ready to leave, so they could catch the Calais packet from Tower Pier. The just-minted Lady Blakeney was surrounded by females, hugging and weeping and no doubt plying her with advice about the wedded state. Her new husband stood a little apart with James Lambton, whom Blake had invited to stand as groomsman, despite the fact that he was, in a way, responsible for the whole hideous occasion.
    He envied Minerva the support of her brothers and sister. Maria was in attendance, with her husband Gideon Louther, but he’d never been close to his eldest sister. Amanda, the youngest of the family, was in Edinburgh, staying with the middle girl, Anne, and her Scottish earl husband. Among numerous letters of good wishes and felicitations, Amanda’s was the only one he read. Writing in neat capital letters and keeping her missive mercifully brief, she conveyed her best love and wished him every happiness.
    Just two people knew of his shame, and Amanda was the only one he trusted. Blake missed her very much, but it was better to have her absent. She’d be weaving tender fancies about his bride, even though she and Anne had certainly heard the truth from their mother. Utterly loyal in her discretion, she’d often urged him to reveal his secret to the family, and would certainly want his bride to know.
    Never. Minerva, Marchioness of Blakeney wanted him only for his position in life. If she knew the whole truth of his absolute inadequacy she’d despise him more than ever.
    â€œBlake, a word with you.” Gideon Louther approached, looking purposeful. But then he’d rarely seen his brother-in-law wear any other expression. “You’re off to Paris,” he said, drawing Blake aside. “What are you going to do there?”
    â€œSince I’ve never been there, I don’t know. I expect I’ll find out once I arrive.”
    â€œMaria always tells me the dressmakers there surpass any to be found in London. I suppose Lady Blakeney will enjoy the shops.”
    Lady Blakeney. The name sounded peculiar spoken aloud.
    It had been the duchess who suggested they take the wedding trip to Paris, and Blake agreed without resistance or resentment. The last thing he wanted was to be immured in the country with his bride and no other distractions. In this he felt certain she would be in entire agreement.
    â€œI know the duke has sent word to the ambassador, Sir Charles Stuart. Should you wish for company, you and Lady Blakeney will be received everywhere.”
    â€œOh, good.”
    â€œFrench society has regained all its brilliance since the end of the war.”
    â€œReally?” Blake was more interested in the brilliance of French horseflesh. Through friends in the Jockey Club he had introductions to a couple of breeders. And thanks to his marriage he had the funds to restock his stables with the best.
    â€œWhile you’re there you might keep your ears open. I’d like to hear your impressions.”
    Gideon’s casually delivered request caught his attention. Gideon had never shown the