The Star-Crossed Bride by Kelly McClymer

twinge of jealousy she even tried to seem to welcome the marriage itself?
    To his great frustration, he was not privy to much of their direct conversation. During the day he was rarely even in the same room as Emily. Dinners were, to the casual eye, uneventful evenings full of polite conversation about when the guests would begin arriving and what the arrangements were for the wedding trip. They were often sparked by Emily — long monologues on the marquess's travels and his unique and essentially tedious opinions on the morals and customs of those inhabitants he had come across.
    Still, there was no doubt that the days were taking their toll on Emily, no matter how prettily she smiled, or how often she drew the marquess into one-sided conversation.
    Dark circles had begun to appear under her eyes, and he suspected she was not sleeping well. He had not dared to ask Nan to sneak him back into Emily's room again, and the tension was becoming unbearable.
    Though the maid would reassure him that Emily was bearing up under the strain of her pretense, he could see Nan's worry for her mistress. He both admired and found frustrating the maid's loyalty, however, which led her to say little of Emily's true state. Not that he would have taken Nan's word on the matter. He wanted to hear from Emily's own lips that she could bear this masquerade for at least a little while longer. He wanted to see the truth reflected in her eyes when she answered.
    His dreams were haunted by visions of Emily escaping Granbury and Eddingley Castle only to be taken up by brigands on the road. She had managed to slip him one note, but the marquess had paid such close attention to her that they had otherwise remained steadfastly in their roles as mistress and servant, with Nan giving them both highly abbreviated assurances that the other was not in dire need of rescue.
    At last, he knew that he must do something. It had been over a week and the duke had still not appeared, nor sent a note to the countess's household to announce his imminent arrival. He and Miranda had, of course, been invited to Emily's wedding ceremony. They were, however, not expected to arrive until the day before the ceremony. That was cutting the timing too fine for Valentine's comfort. He did not think that Emily's reputation would survive her actually jilting her bridegroom at the altar, with all the guests as witnesses.
    After a great deal of thought, Valentine decided to force matters to a head. He would send the countess the damning letter anonymously. Most likely she wouldn't believe it. Still, there was a possibility — as long as she didn't realize the letter was from him — that she would recognize the authenticity and realize, at last, the danger her daughter was in.
    He approached the countess's small parlor, the room she preferred for her moments of solitude, and wondered if he was making a mistake. He imagined her there, plotting some new way to move the wedding forward and hesitated at the door. Just as he began to turn the handle, he stilled. There was someone inside the parlor. Was it a parlor maid? His hand poised upon the doorknob, he debated whether he should give up before he was discovered, or wait until whoever was inside departed. He leaned his ear against the door. He heard the countess's voice and froze in confusion. Hadn't he just seen her walk off with the marquess for a stroll around the garden? How could she be inside?
    A moment's thought made him realize that the countess's parlor had doors which led out to the garden. Thank goodness he had not been any quicker, or he'd have been in the room when she entered from outside. He would have backed away then, except there came the sound of a second voice, that of the marquess, which said quite clearly, "Have you heard any more of Fenster?"
    The countess answered with a sneer. "No, he seems to have come to his senses and returned to London without contacting Emily."
    "Is that confirmed by your acquaintances