She had not thought ofthis.
She had not thought ofhim.
Obviously, she’d known who she would be marrying. But this morning, he’d been nothing more than a name and title and handsome figure at the front of the church.
Tristan tilted his head, and she had the distinct, infuriating sense that he was reading every one of these realizations as they crossed her face.
“You have gone very pale,” he observed. “Shall I ring for the carriage to stop?”
“No.”
“Are you quite certain? You may take a moment, if you require one.”
“I require nothing from you, Your Grace.”
“Tristan.”
“Tristan.” She set her jaw. “I require nothing.”
“As you wish.” He inclined his head, and the small, infuriating smile returned to the corner of his mouth. “ThoughI should mention, for the sake of complete candor, that it is not too late to revise your account of yourself. If there is anything further you would like to confess, anything I ought to know before we cross the threshold of Somerset together, I would suggest you make use of the remaining mile.”
“There is nothing further.”
“Mm.” He regarded her for a long moment. Then, with the air of a man closing a small but satisfying ledger, he settled more comfortably against the squabs and turned his gaze toward the window. “Very well. We shall consider the formal interview adjourned.”
She permitted herself, at last, to breathe.
The breath shook on the way out, leaving no doubt to either of them that her nerves weren’t settled in the least.
Chapter Five
The carriage slowed.
Imogen became aware of it gradually—the slight change in the rhythm of the wheels, the horses’ canter easing into a walk—and with it came the sickening recognition that they were nearly there. The gravel drive of Somerset House would be coming into view around the next bend, and with it, every guest,every well-wisher, every sharp-eyed relation who had sat in that church and now expected to be charmed.
She straightened her spine and reached up to smooth the veil, which was still pinned back over the comb in her hair. Her fingers found it trembling. She pressed them still.
“We shall need a story.”
She had not meant to be the one to say it. She had rather hoped he would raise the matter. This was, after all, his household, his guests, his breakfast, and she could simply nod along and acquiesce. Acquiescence, she was beginning to understand, was not a skill she possessed in any reliable quantity.
Tristan turned from the window. His expression did not shift, but something in his eyes sharpened with what she was coming to recognize as his particular variety of attention—the kind that made one feel examined rather than observed.
“Go on,” he said.
“The guests will expect to be introduced to Eliza. When they are not—whenIam the woman on your arm instead—they will notice. They will ask questions.” She kept her voice measured. Practical. “We need an answer prepared before we step out of this carriage.”
“Yes,” he agreed, with the irritating ease of a man who had already thought of this and was merely curious how long it would take her to catch up. “We do.”
She pressed her lips together. “I have been thinking?—”
“Have you.” It was not quite a question.
“—that the simplest explanation is the most credible one.” She drew a breath. “We tell them that it was love.”
A silence.
It was not a long silence. It lasted perhaps three seconds. But those three seconds contained within them something she could not quite name—a quality of stillness that was distinct fromhis previous stillness, heavier, as though the word had struck a surface he had not expected to encounter.