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would ignore that. He was a man, after all, despite his past or his tormented present.
    A footman stopped before him, bowed low, and proffered a salver on which a wineglass and carafe rested. He shook his head to the footman’s obvious surprise. The man hesitated, and then finally moved away.
    “Thank you,” he said, “for agreeing to be married at Ambrose.”
    She put down her fork and glanced at him. “I do not believe that I was given much choice in the matter, Your Lordship,” she said.
    “My name is Marshall,” he said.
    She didn’t respond.
    “Ambrose is a beautiful place,” she said. “From the number of guests, however, you must have a great many friends. I’d heard that you were a recluse.”
    He smiled. What other rumors had she heard? Perhaps a wiser man would ask her, but he wasn’t all that eager to hear her answer.
    “I think there are fewer friends here than relatives. That is Lady Ethel,” he said, nodding toward an aging matron dressed in ivory. “She is a second cousin and was once a maid of honor to Her Majesty. Unfortunately, she never lets anyone forget it. I don’t recognize most of the guests myself. Probably some of them are related to my mother. She came from a family of six brothers and four sisters. Some of the guests are no doubt cousins or second cousins.
    “As for the rest,” he added, “I suspect that they are neighbors, people who live near Ambrose. Once we were known for our hospitality.”
    “Not anymore?”
    “I crave my privacy more than a reputation for hospitality,” he said. There was more he could tell her, but perhaps any further revelations should wait until they were married a few weeks. He would feed her the truth a sentence at a time. What would she do once shelearned the whole of it? No doubt run screaming from Ambrose.
    “You appear perfectly healthy, Your Lordship. Surely you were physically able to travel to Edinburgh.”
    Her comment was more a question than a statement, but he chose to discuss neither the reason for the change of location nor his physical condition. Instead Marshall only smiled in response and waved away the next footman with another decanter of wine. Had his servants become used to repeatedly filling his glass?
    Poor Davina McLaren Ross. Wed to a sotted lunatic.
    “You’re remarkably lovely,” he said. “Why have you never married?”
    She looked surprised at the compliment. Or perhaps it was the question.
    “My father died.”
    “My condolences.”
    She accepted his comment with a nod. “I was in mourning.”
    “But before that?” he asked.
    “Is it necessary that you know? Is it not enough that we are married now?”
    He allowed himself to smile at the edge in her voice. He’d evidently irritated his bride. Good. Perhaps if he annoyed her sufficiently, there would be a valid reason for him to remain in his own suite of rooms tonight. He wouldn’t inflict himself on an innocent woman whose only sin had been to marry him. He clenched his hand, and then forced himself to relax.
    “Why did you marry now? Why me?”
    This time there was no doubt that it was the question that discomfited her. Was she going to speak of the scandal that made her willing to wed a stranger? Or was she simply greedy for his wealth?
    “I didn’t want to remain alone for the whole of my life. I want a family. Children,” she said, her cheeks turning crimson. He’d never before seen anyone who blushed so unbecomingly.
    He decided that he wouldn’t continue with the questions. Not when it was only too obvious that his bride had her secrets, just as he had his.
    The rest of their dinner passed quickly enough. Too quickly for his peace of mind. All too soon her aunt was there, with assorted women he thought he recognized. One of them, a young female with a particularly odd walk, led his bride away amid the chattering and giggling women.
     
    “It’s a custom, Davina,” Theresa said. “Think of it as a good omen, a bit of luck for your bridal