Page 27 of Atone, Adonis

She looked down at the band of gold on her finger. It felt more like a shackle than a wedding ring.

“There,” Fred said, his voice strained. “It’s done.”

He turned at once to stride down the aisle, his long legs keeping a brisk pace that forced her to all but jog after him.

“Will you slow down?” she hissed.

He halted at once. “As you wish, Countess.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“It is your title now. Come, the carriage awaits.”

He was first out of the chapel doors but it was the coachman who helped her into the carriage. And, she noticed, her husband only deigned to seat himself next to her once she’d pushed herself as far against the opposite side of the squabs as she could get.

All for the best. She didn’t particularly care to touch him either.

“And Thomas?” she asked, when the carriage began to move without her brother or Mrs. Sykes inside.

“I’ve sent a second carriage for him and the nurse. I thought he would be more comfortable that way.”

“Hmmmm. And to keep up appearances, I imagine. The Darling of Dorset cannot be so obviously hated by his bride.” He stiffened but she went on. “You don’t like that name? How about the Local Adonis? They still call you that, do they not?”

She was needling him and she probably ought to stop. This marriage would be hell if they couldn’t even be civil to one another on this of all days.

He turned his blue eyes on her, startling in their intensity and framed by thick lashes. His skin was still inexplicably sun-kissed despite the long English winter. “I don’t know which ‘they’ you mean, Countess,” he said curtly.

She let it drop. She didn’t have any desire to discuss the scandal sheets any more than he did. They both knew well enough how their wedding would be treated in the papers.

So she said nothing until she realized they weren’t headed to Sedgewick Manor. The carriage was turning down the familiar lane to Farrow Cottage instead. She wasn’t sorry—she had no desire to be ensconced in that dilapidated old house. And yet, a part of her balked.

“We’re to Farrow Cottage then?” she asked.

“You will be more comfortable there.”

That was true. Still, she could not help wondering whether, now that he had done his duty and married her, he meant to deposit her at the cottage without a second thought. As if he had paid his debt and was now filing the receipt away. She, naturally, being the unwanted slip of paper.

When the carriage stopped, and he again waited for the coachman to assist her instead of offering his own hand, she was certain that was correct. He wouldn’t even look at her. Fred was turned toward the drive, watching as Thomas’s conveyance approached.

She lifted her skirts and marched into the cottage alone. This must truly be the worst wedding day in history, she thought as she stepped over the threshold and stopped short.

The little table where they always took their meals, bare when they’d departed that morning, now stood laden with a full spread: cold roast beef, trout in aspic, spiced pears, game pie, buttered rolls, and a towering bride cake crowned with white sugar.

Julianna blinked though several very long moments of confusion. “What is all this?”

“I believe it is your wedding luncheon, sister.” Thomas entered the cottage behind her with the nurse’s support.

“Oh, how lovely,” Mrs. Sykes exclaimed. “It will do you good to eat, Mister Farrow.”

Julianna turned to Fred, now hovering in the doorway behind the entire wedding party, such as it was. He had one gloved hand braced against the doorframe, his jaw once again clenched tight enough that she could see the muscle jump beneath the skin. And his abominably attractive dimples.

“Eat. I brought my chef from London to prepare it.”

“Will you not stay?” Thomas asked.

Fred shook his head once. “No.”

“We are too lowly for you to break bread with?” Julianna asked, stiff with indignation and folded arms.