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comments with a speedy wedding at his estate away from the ton. But he'd not expected taunts in his own house toward his bride from a supposed friend of the family.
    "Yes, a miracle,” Agatha said, her voice a bit tight. “And who knows, you might just be as lucky yourself one day, Eunice."
    The edge of his mouth twitched at his wife's returned slight. The woman he'd met in Crittenden's portrait gallery, a night that seemed so long ago, indeed, sat beside him at the table.
    She glanced at him, catching him looking at her with what he knew had to be pride in his eyes. For that is what he felt.
    "Well met,” he said lowly.
    She smiled, a blush stealing over her cheeks.
    "To the happy couple,” someone called out.
    "Let's hope this one proves better than the last,” a familiar voice said amid the cheers of agreement.
    Magnus pulled his gaze from his wife to find Beatrice Hayden lifting a glass to her lips, an unnerving glimmer in her eye.
    Why was she here, what interest in his life could she possibly have? And how the devil had she managed to get on the guest list? If she even had. Likely, she strolled through the doors of her own accord, his staff not thinking her presence odd since she'd visited his late wife many times.
    Heat burned beneath his collar, but he would hold his tongue. The entire event was awkward, he need not add to it and embarrass his new wife by losing his accursed temper.
    A hand, soft and tentative, stole over his clenched fist atop his leg. His gaze snapped to Agatha and her sweet smile, dissipating his anger. He slowly turned his hand over and her fingers entwined with his. For a moment he knew peace and comfort as his blood slowed its maddening rush through his body. She believed he loved his dead wife, and although it wasn't true, he could not ignore her sincere compassion. Compassion for him.
    "I think it's time to retire, my lord,” she said.
    "Yes, I believe you are correct.” He stood, his new wife's hand still linked with his. “Ladies and gentleman, we thank you for your well wishes. Now, if you will excuse us, we take our leave of you."
    With a few chortles, a bawdy comment here and there, and more good tidings cast their way, Magnus pulled Agatha alongside him toward the stairs. She paused for a moment by her father and pecked him on the cheek. The old man's eyes grew damp, and Magnus knew a moment of jealousy.
    While he'd known no affection from either his father or his mother at anytime, it was apparent the old man loved her as she loved him.
    He reconsidered his theory of why she'd accepted his proposal. Her father didn't appear to be the badgering type, but the love and devotion in her eyes as she hugged the old gentleman could easily be the reason she'd agreed. She wanted to please her father, she cared for him that much.
    The bitter taste of dying hope lingered on his tongue as he escorted her up the stairs to what their guests would assume was a honeymoon of a sort. He had no plans for a trip abroad or otherwise, and had made that quite clear in his missive to her father when he'd offered for her hand. He had an estate to run, and no desire to go gallivanting across the countryside to be ogled at.
    He dropped his hold on her once they were out of sight of their guests. Although she'd placed her hand in his, it was out of compassion, and he doubted she would wish to do so on regular occasions for any other reason.
    They stopped before her door. “I hope your rooms are agreeable,” he said.
    "Yes, they're exquisite. Thank you."
    "Well, then. I bid you good day, madam.” He gave a small bow then strode down the hall to his rooms, pushing the fact that they joined hers from his mind.
    "My lord, I—"
    He stopped and looked over his shoulder, surprised one again at how lovely she looked in her wedding dress. One he ached to divest her of. How had anyone not seen her simple beauty, her quiet elegance? How had she blended into the woodwork without any acknowledgement of her existence