A knock on the library door caused Aubrey Halpern, the seventh Marquess of Buxton, to run his hand through his bushy thatch of coarse iron gray hair. He’d have thought that Andrew, now eight and twenty, would’ve had sense enough not to get entangled in such an imbroglio. By Jove, he did not look forward to the upcoming interview. Yet he owed it to a long line of illustrious ancestors to rescue his son and heir from the brink of disaster.

With a martyred sigh, the Marquess returned the miniature of Andrew as a child to its accustomed place on his desk. Disgruntled though he was, there was no question in his mind that he loved his son fiercely.

“Come,” he called in a gruff voice.

Andrew Halpern, Viscount Temple, strode into the room. In his left hand, he held a riding crop, which he tapped intermittently against his thigh. The air crackled with vibrant intensity. “Excuse me, Pater, for appearing before you in all my dirt but you did say it was urgent, did you not?”

The Marquess discerned the subtle edge underlying his son’s baritone drawl that made a mockery of the foppish turn of phrase Andrew had assumed—no doubt in the hope that it would ignite his father’s lamentable hair-trigger temper.

However, Andrew would catch cold at that this time since Buxton had himself well in hand. Indeed, after a moment’s reflection, he decided the edge in his offspring’s voice could be attributed to Andrew’s resentment at being summoned to Devon just as the London Season was getting underway.

Awake to his son’s monkey tricks, the Marquess embarked on a leisurely inspection of the younger man’s attire—an exercise that in the past had caused him to gnash his teeth in impotent fury. Today, however, his eyes twinkled at the lengths his son was willing to go to irritate him. Indeed, his offspring was the epitome of sartorial distinction in a brown corduroy riding coat, tailored to set off broad shoulders to a nicety, tan breeches and dusty cordovan boots, each sporting a braided gold tassel.

“Rubbish! I’ve never been one to stand on ceremony here at Halpern Abbey.”

Andrew’s lips twitched. “In that case, sir, perhaps you won’t object if I pour myself a drop of brandy to clear the road dust from my throat?”

“By all means, help yourself.”

Watching his son pour the amber potation into a glass, the Marquess wished they understood each other better. But not only didn’t they think alike, their temperaments were as different as chalk and cheese. By George, they didn’t even look like each other.

Short and stocky best described the Marquess whereas Andrew possessed a wiry frame and topped his father’s height by several inches. Furthermore, while the Marquess had a tendency to plod, his son moved with the fluid grace of a sleek tomcat.

Buxton held no illusions in regard to his own appearance. His was a homely, rubicund phiz, faintly reminiscent of a pugnacious pug. Not that he envied born beauties. To depend upon physical beauty alone was tantamount to standing on quicksand and expecting the ground beneath you not to give way.

Indeed, the Marquess almost wished Andrew had inherited his homeliness. If he had, he was convinced his son wouldn’t be presently involved in a wretched scandal that threatened to end his career. But Andrew took after his mother in looks. And perhaps in moral laxity as well.

Buxton clenched his hands into fists. Of course, Andrew could not help it, that Michelangelo might have carved his handsome features from marble. But by God, no son of his would become a hardened profligate so long as he had anything to say about it. And he had plenty to say, as Andrew would soon learn to his sorrow.

On the other hand, he didn’t want to be too hard on him either. Frowning, the Marquess opened his fists and shook his hands to alleviate the cramps caused by clenching them so tightly. While curbing his son’s amorous adventures was important, he had no desire to turn Andrew into a lap dog.

Buxton’s brow cleared. Lap dog, indeed. The very notion was so ridiculous it prompted a bark of laughter.

“Something amuses you, Pater? Perhaps you’d care to share it?”

“Nothing of the moment,” he said gruffly.

Andrew’s handsome back was turned as he strode to the sideboard. The Marquess preferred to wait until his son faced him before they got into it.

Ridding himself of his empty glass, Andrew sketched a mock bow. “Sir, I await your pleasure.”

The Marquess stared straight into the Viscount’s dark blue eyes. “I’m disappointed in you, son. To be branded an adulterer once this divorce case reaches Parliament is infamous. Tell me, are Quinlan’s accusations justified?”

The younger man ran a finger beneath a suddenly too tight neckcloth. “I fear so.”

“Crazy young jackanapes! How dare you drag the family name through the mud?”

Andrew took a vicious swipe at his thigh with his riding crop. “Go ahead and vent your spleen, sir, if it makes you feel any better. Silly of me to expect my own father might be more understanding.”

The Marquess struggled to contain his irritation. “Spare me your sarcasm, if you please. What did Castlereagh have to say?”

“Plenty. After singeing my ears, he informed me he’d conferred with Wellesley who’d placed me on indefinite leave. Then hinted after a lengthy repairing lease, I might be reinstated.”

“Well, there you are!” Buxton wagged his index finger at his son. “If you don’t have a care, you’ll scuttle a brilliant career in the Foreign Service.”

“No need to fly into the boughs, sir. I promise to be more circumspect in the future. It’s just that Lady Sara was such a tempting morsel. Still, who’d suspect Quinlan would cut up so stiff?”

Up to now, the Marquess had managed to keep a lid on his temper but Andrew’s eagerness to shift responsibility blew it sky high. “By damn, it’s time you stop letting your passions rule you. It’s time you took a wife and settled down.”

The hand that held the riding crop froze in midair. “A wife, sir? I’m only eight and twenty. Plenty of time for that later on.”

“Not later on. Now. I wish you to be wed immediately.”

“Impossible! With all due respect, until the unsavory details of the Quinlan divorce case die down, I’m persona non grata in the eyes of Society. Next season will be soon enough to look the field over and select a bride.”

The Marquess spoke through gritted teeth. “There will be no year’s grace. You have one week to procure a special license and marry the young woman I’ve chosen for you.”

“See here, sir. I won’t be forced to wed against my wishes.”

“Confound it! You will do as you’re told,” roared the Marquess, then added in a more reasonable tone, “Marriage and temporary retirement in the country is the only way to salvage your career. I don’t mean to brag but I’m not without influence. While you rusticate, I shall exert myself to hush up the more unsavory aspects of this unfortunate divorce case.”

“Sir, I don’t wish you to think I don’t appreciate your efforts on my behalf. But marriage is so…permanent.”

“Exactly so! To be plain, it’s time you stopped flitting from flower to flower and took a wife. Mark my words, it’ll be the making of you.”

The Marquess ventured a sly peek at his son. Andrew looked decidedly glum.

“This bride you’ve handpicked, do I know her?”

“I doubt it. You’re here at the Abbey so seldom. She’s lived all her life in Sticklepath. Kept house for her father who died last year leaving her virtually penniless.”

Andrew gave a scornful laugh. “This is rich. You, sir, who are forever prosing about what’s due the family name, wish me to marry a nobody, a penniless waif?”

The Marquess bristled. “Jenny may be an orphan but her family tree is unexceptional. Her mother was the daughter of a baron. She married Curtis Shaw, youngest son of the Earl of Leeds.”

Andrew, the Marquess reflected, seemed to need an inordinate amount of time to digest his future wife’s lineage. Oh well. Let him search high and low. He’d find nothing in her pedigree to take exception to.

“How old is she?”

“Seventeen.”

“Seventeen? Really, Pater, must you pair me up with some chit fresh from the schoolroom?”

The expression in the Marquess’ eyes hardened. “Better a naïve, unsophisticated wife than a worldly wanton.”

Andrew responded with a harsh laugh. “Point taken, sir. But I’m a career diplomat. I need a wife whose social skills will help me advance—not some green country miss.”

“I beg to differ. A green country miss is exactly what you need to establish roots. Any social skills she lacks can be taught. But I have not finished cataloging my list of demands.”

Andrew sketched a mock bow. “By all means continue. I’m all ears.”

“Very well. Not only will you marry Jenny, you will reside with her in the country until she delivers your heir.”

“Ho! I begin to understand. You don’t care a fig for my career. You don’t care if both this waif you’ve chosen and I are miserable together so long as we produce an heir.”

“Precisely. In exchange for your compliance, I’ll do my utmost to scotch the scandal that threatens to put a period to your usefulness in the diplomatic service. This may well be your last chance to put things right. So tell me, sir, do you accept my proposal or not?”

Andrew released a tortured sigh. “It appears I’ve no other choice.”

* * * * *

Inside a small, nondescript bungalow situated on the outskirts of Sticklepath, the pungent odor of singed hair wafted up Jenny Shaw’s small, straight nose.

“Ouch!” she cried, glaring at the abigail. “Have a care with that curling iron, Nell.”

“I be ever so sorry, miss. Did I burn your scalp?”

“No, just my hair.”

Jenny gazed into the mirror at her now hopelessly frizzed bangs. Why must she be plagued with flyaway tresses that had no body? Indeed, both her hair’s white-blond color and its fluffy texture put her in mind of a newborn duckling. And now the maid had managed to singe her hair.

A deep sigh escaped. She wished Nell could wave a magic wand to make her look pretty. Not very realistic she supposed but after all it was her wedding day.

She wished she didn’t feel so on edge. Still, who wouldn’t be nervous? In less than an hour she would wed a man she’d never laid eyes on before. Could she actually go through with this?

Jenny rose with difficulty when informed by Nell that the conveyance sent by Lord Buxton stood at the front door. Indeed, her knees wobbled so badly, she wasn’t sure her nether limbs were capable of supporting her as far as the waiting coach, let alone down the aisle.

Sad-eyed, she darted glances about the bedchamber she’d occupied as far back as she could remember. A year ago, she’d said goodbye to Papa. Now she took a moment to say goodbye to familiar objects she suspected she’d never see again. True, the wallpaper was peeling, the curtains threadbare and the carpet faded. Yet it was her home and she hated to leave.

Not that she had any other choice, she acknowledged as a liveried footman assisted her into the coach. Indeed, she felt like a pawn subject to the whim of her fatherly benefactor. Jenny continued to brood as the coachman gave the horses the office to start. To think of it, up until a few days past, her heart had swelled with gratitude whenever she recalled how Lord Buxton had insisted she stay on in the bungalow rent-free during her year of mourning.

She let out a great sigh. How naïve could she get? She should have known there’d be a price exacted in exchange for the Marquess’ many kindnesses.

Her understandable pique at his lordship’s recent highhandedness notwithstanding, Jenny was relieved to spot Lord Buxton’s homely face when the conveyance rolled to stop at the church entrance. As he helped her alight, he brusquely swept aside her thanks for sending his coach to collect her. As always, she found the Marquess’ manner bracing. Not that she minded. Given a choice, she preferred gruff honesty to reticence and if his son were anything like him, Jenny was persuaded they’d rub along well together as a married couple.

Nonetheless all manner of questions plagued her. For example, why did the Marquess think it necessary to choose a bride for his only son? No one had asked her opinion, of course, but Jenny felt that it would have made better sense to leave the choice of a wife up to Viscount Temple. After all, he was the person who’d have to live with the consequences.

“My dear, Andrew wishes a private word with you.”

“Before the ceremony?” she squeaked.

Merciful heavens! Suppose the Viscount took one look at her and refused to marry someone so homely? Should he reject her, her pride would no longer permit her to stay on in the bungalow. But where would she go?

Papa had barely eked out a living as a translator. His death had rendered her a pauper. Indeed, her situation was worse than it seemed at first glance. True, her grandfather was the Earl of Leeds but unfortunately, when Curtis Shaw had wed penniless Minnie Potter instead of the heiress he’d picked out for his youngest son, the earl had been so infuriated he’d disinherited him. Thus, not only was Jenny destitute with no trade or marketable skills, she had no family to turn to.

Jenny experienced a rush of pure terror at the magnitude of the step she was about to take. The Marquess must have noticed the slight tremor of her hand rested upon his sleeve for he squeezed it gently.

“Ah, here’s the curate to escort you to the vestry where you two lovebirds may converse in private.”

Lovebirds? No description was less apt. If only she weren’t so…so plain.

The Marquess issued her a reassuring smile. “Run along, my dear. Andrew promises to keep you only a moment. I’ll be here when you return. I have the honor of escorting you down the aisle.”

Jenny trudged after the clergyman as if approaching her doom. Presently the hinges squealed as the door to the vestry swung open and the curate led her inside. She peered curiously into the murkiness but failed to catch so much as a glimpse of the bridegroom.

“My lord, I’ll be back in ten minutes to collect Miss Shaw. Mind, the vicar’s a high stickler for punctuality.”

As the door squealed closed behind her, Jenny drifted toward the soft glow of candlelight emanating from a candelabra resting upon a lacquered table. But before she reached her destination, a tall gentleman with a lanky physique stepped out of the shadows. Jenny froze, awestruck.

If she were limited to a single word to describe her future husband, she’d choose elegant. Indeed, his pinstriped trousers and dark blue serge coat were so fine, they put her own attire to shame.

The Viscount acknowledged her with a cool nod, then stood motionless as if he sensed she needed time to adjust to his presence. His face and figure were so perfectly wrought, Jenny wished she’d brought her sketchpad. Even more compelling was a wanton impulse to run her hands through the raven ringlets that softened the chiseled contours of his countenance. Never had she seen such a beautiful specimen of manly grace. Adonis come to life!

Still in all, there was something beyond physical beauty that captured her fancy. Something…indefinable about this man drew her with a magnetic power she found almost impossible to resist. At first, this unknown quality proved elusive. However, once Jenny redoubled her efforts, she realized that he was the exact opposite of her reclusive, scholarly father. Of course she’d loved Papa but there was no denying she’d resented his ability to lapse into a brown study whenever some household crisis loomed, leaving Jenny to resolve it as best she could. Thus it was her prospective bridegroom’s vitality, his joie de vivre, which tugged at her heartstrings.

A tender smile spread across her face only to be swiftly superseded by a vaguely troubled expression. Most emphatically, she did not believe in love at first sight. She tried to tell herself there was no such thing. Her heart paid no heed. It skipped, then pulsed faster.

“You’re hugging the shadows. Step into the light.”

Jenny took a deep breath and stepped forward. “Good lord, ma’am, you can’t mean to be wed wearing black. Father gave me to understand you were out of mourning.”

Jenny chewed on her lower lip. While dark colors helped slenderize her plump figure, black was by no means her best color. Standing alongside him at the altar, she’d look like the veritable dowdy. “The year is up but I wasn’t given enough time to order a more suitable gown.”

She hadn’t had the funds either but she was too proud to admit it. Her heart quaked when he ogled her through his quizzing glass. She was almost certain he despised what he saw but couldn’t be absolutely sure since his partially lowered eyelids made it difficult to read his expression. When he dropped his quizzing glass, she saw that his eyes were dark blue and fringed with thick, spiky black lashes. Too bad his physical attributes afforded no clue as to his character.

Jenny squared her shoulders. “So I donned my black silk. It’s my best.”

“I see,” he drawled, a hint of boredom marring the rich timbre of his baritone voice. “I assume Father informed you I wished a word with you before the ceremony.”

Her chin came up. She would not be intimidated. “As a matter of fact, there are certain matters I wish to discuss as well.”

Though he took pains to mask it, the rigid set of his shoulders indicated that the Viscount had mistakenly assumed that, because she was plain, she’d allow him to ride roughshod over her. Well, the sooner she disabused him of such a bacon-brained notion the better!

He gave a mock bow. “You have the floor.”

She countered with a mock curtsy. “Indeed, my lord, you are all consideration. I merely wish to explain my reasons for going along with your father’s scheme.”

Quite by chance, she caught a clear glimpse into his eyes. The animosity she saw there chilled her to the marrow.

“Madam, I neither know nor care why you’ve consented to wed a perfect stranger. For my part, I have no choice but to marry at once.”

What a facer! The Viscount was even more reluctant than she to go through with the ceremony. If those were his sentiments, she couldn’t help but wonder why he’d agreed to the proposed loveless union.

“But before we take that irrevocable step,” Andrew Halpern continued, “I wish to be sure you understand the terms. Did my father explain that I only agree to cohabit with you until you produce an heir?”

How unkind of him to remind her that her part in this unfolding drama was tantamount to that of a broodmare. Whether it was his intention or not, the reminder cast a pall on her wedding day. The last of Jenny’s girlish dreams crumbled in the face of his callow disregard for her feelings. The blood in her veins ice-cold, her teeth began to chatter. Not only did the bridegroom look like a Greek god chipped from marble, his nature was equally chilly.

Jenny stiffened her spine. She refused to be crushed by his cynicism. “Yes, he did.”

“Splendid. Kindly oblige me by repeating what he said.”

“He explained ours was to be a marriage of convenience and that once I’ve borne you a son, we’re both free to pursue separate lives.”

“And you agreed to this?”

“Indeed, my lord, in common with you, I have no other choice.”

Unnerved by his supercilious stare, Jenny lowered her gaze and commenced drawing circles with the toe of one satin slipper. The fact that Andrew Halpern was cleverly disguised as a handsome prince didn’t fool her for a minute. Beneath the pleasing facade lurked a cold-hearted reptile.

The curate’s reappearance broke the unbearable tension. As Jenny fell in behind him, it galled her to think that she must marry such a toad.

Nonetheless she forced herself to return the smile the Marquess awarded her once she rejoined him in the foyer. Though, thanks to the bridegroom, her wedding day was ruined, there was no point in making her future father-in-law unhappy.

Jenny kept in step with the organ music as she glided down the aisle on the Marquess’ arm. She spoke her vows in a clear, sweet voice, scarcely aware of what she said or did. Indeed, her spirits were so overset that ever afterwards, her memory of the actual ceremony remained hazy.