Seven Wicked Nights (Turner #1.5)

Blair stared straight ahead, his eyes flat. “Yes.”


He glanced toward the approaching chaise as an awful thought struck him. Good Lord. There couldn’t be something about this marriage giving him pause, could there? Blair had conducted the marriage settlement negotiations on his behalf while estate business had kept Gareth in the country. Naturally, he must have seen Miss Grey and her family a fair amount. Alarm stirred in his chest. Perhaps Blair has seen something troubling but hesitated to bring it up now that the documents had been signed and the engagement announced. Blair would notice. Blair also would not want to embarrass him.

He cleared his throat. “You seem quiet. No reservations about the bride, I hope?”

At last Blair looked at him, albeit reluctantly. “No. Miss Grey is a very suitable choice.”

That seemed an evasive answer. “Were there any problems with Sir William?” he asked, lowering his voice even further. Blair shook his head. “Come, man, what is it?” he prodded. “You look positively grim.”

Blair’s chest filled as if he would speak, and then he sighed. “My apologies, Wessex,” he muttered. “It must be the storm.”

Gareth closed his eyes and mentally smacked himself on the forehead; he’d completely forgotten Blair had been frightened of storms as a boy. Perhaps he still was, and now Gareth had just gone and forced him to admit it aloud. “Of course,” he murmured quickly.

“I wish you and Miss Grey every happiness,” added his secretary with a forced smile.

Gareth nodded, happy to let the conversation lapse. The carriage was almost to the steps, and for a second he wondered what he might have done if Blair had confessed some wariness about Miss Grey or the marriage in general. He couldn’t very well just send her home, but it would have been gravely alarming had James found her wanting.

There was a rustle of silk behind him. “I hope I’m not late,” said his mother as she stepped up beside him.

“Your timing is perfect,” he said. “I presume Bridget had something to do with it.”

“As ever,” she replied under her breath.

Gareth shot his mother a quick glance. All three of his sisters were beside themselves with excitement over the impending celebrations and desperately eager to meet Miss Grey, the reigning toast of London. But while Serena and Alexandra were capable of proper, dignified behavior, the youngest had a true genius for trouble. If anything were to break, go missing, or inexplicably wind up on the roof, Bridget was sure to be found nearby, protesting—with a perfectly straight face—that the most incredible circumstances had caused it. Normally he took Bridget’s mishaps in stride, but he would be eternally grateful if she managed to behave properly for the next fortnight. Perhaps he ought to tell Withers, the butler, to post footmen outside the guest rooms to make certain Bridget didn’t accidentally inflict a broken leg or a black eye on the bride.

“She’ll be on her best behavior, won’t she?” he asked, praying that would be good enough.

“Yes.” The duchess gave him a confident smile. “I’ve told her she will be excluded from all the wedding festivities if she is not. For now, I’ve sent her to help Henrietta entertain Sophronia.”

His shoulders eased. “A masterstroke.” The only person more capable than Bridget of causing trouble was Sophronia, his great-great-aunt. Or was she a great-great-great-aunt? He tended to think of her in the same vein as the statues in the garden: ancient, crumbling, and utterly impervious to anything. Normally Sophronia kept to her own apartments with her companion, Henrietta Black. But if she and Bridget could occupy each other tonight, so much the better for everyone.

“Never let it be said I don’t know my children.” His mother turned to face him and her gaze sharpened. “Do you love this girl, Gareth?”

She only called him Gareth when she wanted to get his attention. His eyes narrowed, but he spoke calmly. “What has love got to do with marriage?” He knew it existed and that it was pleasant to find it in marriage, but he’d never met a woman who stirred him, even slightly, the way poets and romantics sighed about: the world upended, walking on air, being struck by lightning from a clear blue sky. Rubbish. Whatever else Gareth might have been amenable to, he preferred to keep his feet on the ground, and he most certainly didn’t want to be hit by lightning. If such a force even existed, he was just as happy not to know about it. His marriage to Miss Grey would be elegant, refined, and sensible: in a word, perfect.

“Don’t scoff,” said his parent. “You know I only ask out of concern. You’ve persuaded me the match is advantageous for both parties, but you’ve hardly said one word about your feelings for the lady herself.”

“She’s lovely. She’ll make a very suitable duchess and mother. You’ll adore her.”