The Present Day…
"You may kiss the bride…"
St. George's Church in Hanover Square smelled of expensive perfume and white lilies. To the three hundred guests sitting in the wooden pews, it smelled like romance. To Delaney Kingsley, it smelled like a paycheck.
Delaney stood in the back of the church. She was hiding in the shadows of the vestibule, tucked behind a thick stone pillar. She wore her "invisible dress." It was a gown made of dull, gray wool. It was perfectly tailored, but it was the color of a rainy Tuesday. It was designed to make people look right past her.
And it was working.
Inside the church, the organ music swelled. It was loud and triumphant. At the altar, the groom, Baron Ellingwood, leaned down to kiss his new bride. The bride, a lovely young debutante named Miss Mary, looked up at him with shining eyes.
Delaney allowed herself a very small, very cynical smile.
They have no idea, she thought.
The guests wiped tears from their eyes. They whispered about destiny. They whispered about how the stars must have aligned to bring the Baron and Miss Mary together.
They did not know that the "stars" had nothing to do with it. Delaney had done it all.
She had spent three months arranging this "destiny." She was the one who bribed the Baron's valet to make sure he wore the blue coat, because blue made his eyes look trustworthy.
She was the one who "accidentally" spilled a glass of red punch on Miss Mary's rival at a garden party, forcing the other girl to go home early.
She was the one who wrote a list of conversation topics for Miss Mary to memorize, so the Baron would think she was a genius.
Delaney checked the small silver watch pinned to the front of her gray dress.
"I now pronounce you man and wife," the vicar announced loudly.
The church erupted in applause. The happy couple turned around. They began to march down the aisle, hand in hand. They were beaming with a love that Delaney had manufactured, brick by brick.
Delaney snapped her watch closed. Her work here was done. The final payment from the bride's mother was due at her office in exactly one hour.
"Love is a business," she whispered to the empty stone wall. "And business is good."
She adjusted her gloves. She smoothed down her gray skirts. Then, she slipped out of the side door of the church. She stepped out into the cool, bright sunlight of the London afternoon, leaving the fairy tale behind.
Meanwhile, on the front steps of the church, Duke Rowan Hamilton was trying very hard not to scream.
He was the Duke of Hamilton. He was wealthy, he was powerful, and he had a face that made young ladies forget their own names. The newspapers called him the "Golden Duke." His family called him "Responsible."
Right now, Rowan just felt trapped.
He had come to the church to support his friend, Viscount Weston, who was getting married next week and wanted to see the venue. But as soon as the service ended, Rowan had been surrounded.
"Oh, Your Grace!" a woman in a large purple hat squealed. She shoved a terrified young girl forward. "Have you met my daughter, Lavinia? She loves poetry. Don't you, Lavinia?"
Rowan looked at the girl. Lavinia's face turned bright red. She looked at her shoes. "I… I like rhymes," she stammered.
Rowan forced a smile onto his face. It was his "Duke Smile." It was perfect. It was polite. It did not reach his eyes.
"That is wonderful, Miss Lavinia," Rowan said gently. He did not mock her. He was never cruel. "Poetry is a noble pursuit."
The mother in the purple hat beamed. She took a step closer. Rowan saw the trap closing. If he stayed here for one more minute, he would be invited to tea. Then he would be invited to dinner. Then he would be expected to propose.
He needed to escape.
"Please excuse me," Rowan said. He executed a flawless bow. "I see… ah, the groom's grandmother. I must pay my respects."
He did not wait for an answer. He turned and walked away. He moved quickly, using his long legs to put distance between himself and the purple hat.
He bypassed the main crowd. He aimed for the small iron gate on the side of the church. His carriage was waiting around the corner.
He walked fast. His shoulders were tight. He was so tired. He was tired of smiling when he didn't mean it. He was tired of being polite. He felt like a prize horse at an auction, constantly being judged on his teeth and his coat.
He turned the corner of the church building sharply. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his pocket watch to check the time. He looked down at the gold face of the watch.
He did not look up.
Wham!
He walked straight into something solid.
"Oh!" a female voice gasped.
It was a hard collision. A full-body crash.
Rowan's reflexes kicked in. He fenced every Tuesday and rode horses every morning. He didn't fall. He planted his feet firmly on the cobblestones. Instinctively, his hands shot out. He grabbed the person he had hit by the arms to keep them from falling backward into the mud.
"Steady," Rowan said. His voice was deep and calm. "I have you."
A stack of papers flew into the air. They fluttered like white birds for a second, then landed with a wet splat in a dirty puddle near the drainpipe.
Rowan looked down.
The woman in his arms was not swooning.
Usually, when Rowan touched a woman, she melted. She would lean into him. She would bat her eyelashes and sigh.
This woman did not melt. She stiffened.
She looked up at him. She had sharp hazel eyes, and right now, they were narrowed in pure annoyance. She looked like a cat that had just been sprayed with water.
She pulled her arms out of his grip. She did it with a sharp, quick movement. She took a distinct step back, creating space between them. She smoothed the front of her gray dress with aggressive dignity.
"You have very poor spatial awareness for such a large man," she snapped.