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which she denies. She is a plain, quiet, moral little mouse. And she
bargained
with me, Perry, and squeezed more money out of me than I had offered. She will do admirably. March’s chit has put on weight since the start of the Season. Whoever takes her will find himself with a decidedly plump wife within five years. But then some men like plump wives.”
    “Tony!” his friend said, exasperated. “Your cynicism outdoes anyone else’s I know. But this marriage scheme goes beyond the bounds of reason.”
    “Why?” the marquess asked. “If I were to address myself to the papa of any young lady here present, Perry, he would snap me up in an instant, my reputation as an incurable rake not withstanding. And so would she. I am a matrimonial prize. She would know nothing of me apart from superficial details, and I would know nothing of her. We would be strangers. Is there any real difference between marrying one of these females and marrying a little mouse of a governess who almost salivated at the prospect of coming within sniffing distance of my fortune? There is only one significant difference. The mouse will be easier to shed when she has served her purpose.”
    Lord Rowling took his snuffbox from a pocket, but he held it unopened in one hand while he stared at his companion.“You are making a mistake, Tony,” he said. “A ghastly and an irrevocable one. What if the woman refuses to be shed?”
    The Marquess of Staunton merely raised one haughty and eloquent eyebrow. “Like all brides, Perry,” he said, “she will promise obedience tomorrow morning. I believe I will dance with Miss Henshaw. She has been warned of my reputation and blushes most prettily and looks away in sweet confusion every time she accidentally catches my eye—which she is at pains to do quite frequently.”
    He strolled off to pursue his mission, but the main task of the evening had been accomplished. Rowling had agreed to attend his wedding as a witness. Staunton did not often frequent Almack’s or any other fashionable ballroom for that matter. He set about amusing himself for the evening. His last evening as a single man. He examined the thought as he danced with the blushing Miss Henshaw and concentrated upon deepening her blushes. But he did not find the thought in any way alarming.
    Tomorrow was his wedding day. Merely another day in his life.

3
    T RUE TO HIS PROMISE, LORD ROWLING ARRIVED IN Upper Grosvenor Street in good time the following morning to accompany the groom to the church, where the marquess’s man of business, as the other witness, awaited them. The Marquess of Staunton, to his friend’s fascination, appeared as coolly composed—and as immaculately tailored—as if he were planning a morning stroll along Bond Street.
    “You are quite sure about this?” Lord Rowling asked as they prepared to leave the house. “There is nothing I can say to persuade you to change your mind, Tony?”
    “Good Lord, no,” the marquess said, placing his hat just so on his head and raising his eyebrows to his servant to indicate that he was ready to proceed out of doors.
    The church was not one of London’s most fashionable. It looked gloomy enough to Lord Rowling, as did the street on which it was situated and as did the heavy gray sky overhead. The groom appeared quite unaffected by gloom—or by elation either. He nodded to his man of business and strode without further ado toward the church door. His two companions exchanged glances and followed him.
    Inside the church, seated quietly in a shadowed pew at the back, the bride waited. She was dressed as she had been the day before, her bridegroom noticed immediately.She had made no attempt to get herself up in a bride’s frippery. He had not thought to give her money to buy herself new clothes, the marquess thought belatedly—a new dress for today, bride clothes to take with her into her more affluent future. And they were to leave for the country soon after the wedding. There would be