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* * *
Philip watched his betrothed and her former betrothed flinging words back and forth. A tense atmosphere thickened the air, the passionate exchange prickling something that could have been jealousy in his chest. A surge of impatience pushed him forward; Annabel was his bride, and there would be no further entanglement with Richard Balfour. Not today. Not ever.
“Enough!” His voice cut through the tension like a blade. Startled, both Annabel and Richard turned to him, where he leaned against the elaborately carved stone fireplace, his stance commanding the room.
“Richard, why are you so adamant about marrying Annabel?” Philip asked. He was about to seize an opportunity for honesty that bordered on cruelty, but he told himself it was necessary. The sooner Annabel realized love was an illusion, the easier it would be to build a foundation of partnership and understanding with her—one based on practicality, not romantic idealism.
Richard crossed his arms and gave his cousin a long, calculating look. “I like Annabel. And if I am to be leg-shackled to a woman for the rest of my life, it would be nice if we got along.”
Philip’s heart clenched at Annabel’s audible gasp. Her soft features contorted with disbelief and hurt, and it took every ounce of his willpower not to cross the room and tug her into his arms. She deserved better. He would give her better. “That is an inadequate answer,” Philip said coolly. “Annabel has chosen me—” He thumped his chest with a clenched fist, the gesture forceful. “—in your stead.”
Richard’s expression darkened, his green eyes flaring with anger. “You’re doing this to seek vengeance against me for Jane. How many times must I tell you? Nothing happened between us!”
Philip’s gray gaze narrowed. “This is about Annabel, not Jane. That my involvement irks you is merely a delightful bonus.”
Annabel’s brows furrowed, and she looked back and forth between the men, confusion flickering across her face. Philip cursed himself for letting their sordid history surface. Quickly, he veered the conversation back on track.
“Miss Ridley deserves better than coercion and betrayal,” Philip said firmly. “As an act of honor, I offered her my name and protection. Annabel will be mistress of Avonmead. You would do well to respect that.”
Richard let out a short, derisive laugh. “What right do you have to interfere?”
“The right Annabel granted me when you proved yourself unworthy. Shall I recount the details of your disgrace in the stables, or will you concede this outcome is your doing?”
Annabel stiffened at the mention of the stables, her gaze dropping momentarily to her gloved hands. Richard stepped closer to her, his voice low but desperate. “Is this what you want, Annabel? To marry Philip?”
She hesitated, but when her brandy eyes lifted to meet Philip’s steady gaze, her resolve solidified. “Yes,” she said softly but firmly. “This is what I want.”
Richard’s face twisted with frustration. “Annabel, you’re making a mistake. My dear cousin has secrets. He’s not telling you the full truth about why he is marrying you.”
Philip stepped forward, his presence imposing. “Enough, Richard,” he warned, his tone as sharp as the crack of a whip. “This matter is settled. If you value what little dignity you have left, I suggest you leave before you make an even greater fool of yourself.”
Richard ran a hand through his dark curls, visibly shaken. For a long moment, he looked at Annabel with a mix of longing and regret. Then, finally, he exhaled a shaky breath. “I wish you all the best, Annabel. I did plan to treat you well, and I hope you find happiness.”
He took her hand, his lips brushing her fingers in a lingering kiss. Philip’s jaw tightened, a low growl of displeasure rumbling in his throat. Richard straightened, snorting disgust as he turned to his cousin. “Enjoy your victory, Halmesbury. But mark my words—you will regret this.”
“You had your chance, Saunton,” Philip said coldly. “And you ruined it.”
With that, Richard turned and stormed out, the heavy door slamming shut behind him.
Philip exhaled slowly, his shoulders relaxing as the tension dissipated. When he looked back at Annabel, he noted the dazed expression on her face. He crossed the room, taking her hands in his. “Do not let this unpleasantness ruin our day,” he said gently. “What say you to getting married and beginning our new life at Avonmead?”
Her lips curved into a small, tentative smile. The first since the confrontation began. “I think I would like that very much,” she replied.
Philip bent to press a soft kiss to her forehead, a wave of protectiveness surging within him. “I have been looking forward to this moment since we parted,” he said, his voice low and earnest. “I cannot wait to call you my wife.”
As they left the drawing room together, Philip vowed to himself that he would give Annabel a life of security and care. Whatever ghosts lingered from his past would not touch her. She deserved happiness, and he intended to see that she found it. They made their way to the library where her father, Stedman, and Mrs. Harris were waiting for them with the vicar, but Philip remained worried, hoping Annabel would not pay heed to the hints regarding Jane’s betrayal.
The betrayal you drove her to, whispered his treacherous conscience.
* * *
The ceremony passed by Annabel in a haze. Her mind raced with the strange comments Richard had made about Jane Markham. Why had Richard and Philip not spoken in three years? Had the late duchess’s passing, which she recalled was about three years ago, played a role? Were the two events connected? A sense of unease gnawed at her. Was there some hidden reason behind the duke’s resolve to marry her?
The vicar’s steady voice broke through her thoughts.
“Wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honor, and keep her, in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?”
Annabel’s eyes lifted to meet Philip’s gaze. His gray eyes, full of sincerity, held hers with unwavering intensity.
