going to be married in two hours. A quick look at the clock amended that thought. Only an hour.
Had his bride arrived?
He sat back against the chair. What the hell had he done?
The room in which he sat was directly off his bedroom, and was his sanctuary, his haven. This study was not used to transact business as much as it was a place to escape to his books or his thoughts. Of all the rooms at Ambrose, this was the one room he could call singularly his.
No one was allowed in here but his valet and the occasional maid. The other inhabitants of the room, real only to him, preferred to appear between midnight anddawn. Today, however, they’d made an appearance at dusk, as if to remind him of the stupidity of what he was about to do.
Marriage? What an imbecilic notion.
Poor Davina McLaren. Did she think herself fortunate to snare an earl? Poor stupid girl. Perhaps she was simply greedy, and the condition of her bridegroom made no difference.
The marriage must happen. His remaining life span might well be counted in weeks rather than decades. He didn’t like the idea of being the last Ross, especially when nothing but disgrace would be listed beside his name.
But when he’d sent his solicitor in search of a worthy bride, he’d never expected the man to return so quickly with a recommendation.
“She is a bookish girl, Your Lordship, and one with a good reputation until last year. Then she and a young man were caught together at a garden party. I understand that the scandal has dimmed her prospects somewhat.”
“So she might be amenable to marriage with me, is that it?”
His solicitor had hesitated. “I suggest her only because of the speed with which you wish to marry, Your Lordship.”
Normally, the process of obtaining a bride would have entailed endless balls, dinners, and masques, as well as tedious conversations, all of which would be intended to convince Edinburgh’s sweet young things that he wasn’t as evil as he was portrayed to be by rumor and innuendo. The rest of the time would bespent trying to assuage any maternal and paternal worries on that score, as well as ensuring the parents of a bride-to-be that enough money could make up for any of his eccentricities.
Being wealthy might solve a great many social ills, including the fact that he was rumored to be the devil. Or, closer to the mark, a madman. But did he really want to go through all that, simply to find a bride? Especially in his current state?
The question was moot. His demons would not allow him time to court a woman. They would snare him each night, and pull him close to the abyss.
Perhaps he’d simply grow tired of his madness and do himself in, thereby ridding himself of the problem of producing an heir entirely. Marshall had weighed that option for perhaps all of five minutes. Like it or not, the will to live was strong in him. Hadn’t he proven that in China?
So if he wasn’t to do himself in, and he couldn’t venture to Edinburgh, and he wouldn’t go to London, then what was he to do? Ignore the issue. Wish that it would go away. But he suspected that his condition was growing worse rather than better.
He might have only weeks left of sanity.
The solicitor had stood in front of him, patient. Enduringly patient, as Marshall had never been.
“Would her family agree to my suit?” he’d finally asked.
“She only has one aunt left in her family, Your Lordship. I do not see any reservations there.”
“Then suggest the marriage,” he’d said.
Had it been only weeks ago? In some respects, it seemed longer. In others, only hours. Insanity took away his concept of time.
Now he stood, grabbing for the edge of the chair. Something was wrong with his balance. Hell, something was wrong with his entire life. He strode through the connecting door and into his bedroom. His valet was already there, carefully laying out his wedding garments.
Jacobs had one of those round faces that appeared perennially cheerful; large, wide
Had his bride arrived?
He sat back against the chair. What the hell had he done?
The room in which he sat was directly off his bedroom, and was his sanctuary, his haven. This study was not used to transact business as much as it was a place to escape to his books or his thoughts. Of all the rooms at Ambrose, this was the one room he could call singularly his.
No one was allowed in here but his valet and the occasional maid. The other inhabitants of the room, real only to him, preferred to appear between midnight anddawn. Today, however, they’d made an appearance at dusk, as if to remind him of the stupidity of what he was about to do.
Marriage? What an imbecilic notion.
Poor Davina McLaren. Did she think herself fortunate to snare an earl? Poor stupid girl. Perhaps she was simply greedy, and the condition of her bridegroom made no difference.
The marriage must happen. His remaining life span might well be counted in weeks rather than decades. He didn’t like the idea of being the last Ross, especially when nothing but disgrace would be listed beside his name.
But when he’d sent his solicitor in search of a worthy bride, he’d never expected the man to return so quickly with a recommendation.
“She is a bookish girl, Your Lordship, and one with a good reputation until last year. Then she and a young man were caught together at a garden party. I understand that the scandal has dimmed her prospects somewhat.”
“So she might be amenable to marriage with me, is that it?”
His solicitor had hesitated. “I suggest her only because of the speed with which you wish to marry, Your Lordship.”
Normally, the process of obtaining a bride would have entailed endless balls, dinners, and masques, as well as tedious conversations, all of which would be intended to convince Edinburgh’s sweet young things that he wasn’t as evil as he was portrayed to be by rumor and innuendo. The rest of the time would bespent trying to assuage any maternal and paternal worries on that score, as well as ensuring the parents of a bride-to-be that enough money could make up for any of his eccentricities.
Being wealthy might solve a great many social ills, including the fact that he was rumored to be the devil. Or, closer to the mark, a madman. But did he really want to go through all that, simply to find a bride? Especially in his current state?
The question was moot. His demons would not allow him time to court a woman. They would snare him each night, and pull him close to the abyss.
Perhaps he’d simply grow tired of his madness and do himself in, thereby ridding himself of the problem of producing an heir entirely. Marshall had weighed that option for perhaps all of five minutes. Like it or not, the will to live was strong in him. Hadn’t he proven that in China?
So if he wasn’t to do himself in, and he couldn’t venture to Edinburgh, and he wouldn’t go to London, then what was he to do? Ignore the issue. Wish that it would go away. But he suspected that his condition was growing worse rather than better.
He might have only weeks left of sanity.
The solicitor had stood in front of him, patient. Enduringly patient, as Marshall had never been.
“Would her family agree to my suit?” he’d finally asked.
“She only has one aunt left in her family, Your Lordship. I do not see any reservations there.”
“Then suggest the marriage,” he’d said.
Had it been only weeks ago? In some respects, it seemed longer. In others, only hours. Insanity took away his concept of time.
Now he stood, grabbing for the edge of the chair. Something was wrong with his balance. Hell, something was wrong with his entire life. He strode through the connecting door and into his bedroom. His valet was already there, carefully laying out his wedding garments.
Jacobs had one of those round faces that appeared perennially cheerful; large, wide
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