With his avenue for more sinful delights thus eliminated, Stephen thought it best not to further torture himself by seeing Abby anymore.

            Therefore, Abby found herself facing a wedding day to a man who had bothered to call on her only once during the entirety of their engagement. Abby was furious with him. The guards had been steadfast outside her window. Abby had written faithfully to Stephen of her frustrations in trying to see him. She had requested, over and over, that he pay a call on her. He had never written her back, and he had never come to see her, and she was furious with him. She had begun to be hopeful for her marriage, built as it was on its solid foundation of passion. But she could not think that a marriage would be successful if it was built on nothing but passion. Once she had had to admit that she could not be available for Stephen's improper whims, Stephen had lost all interest in her.

            "I wish I could think of some way to get out of this," Abby remarked, standing by the window and looking outside it longingly, as if she wished she could clamber out and run away.

            "Nonsense," said Meg, sensibly. "There is nothing you can do. You must make the best of it."

            Abby looked at her balefully.

            "Here," she said. "Take your bouquet."

            The door opened and closed. Her mother walked in, dabbing delicately at her eyes. She was not actually crying but she was going a fairly good job of pretending that she was. "Oh!" she exclaimed. "Darling! Look at you! You make such a beautiful bride! You will be such a beautiful countess! The Queen will be in attendance today, did I tell you?"

            "Yes, Mama. You did. Several times."

            "Meg. Could I have a moment alone with Abby, please?"

            Meg nodded obediently, walked out of the room.

            Abby looked at her mother, who smiled at her winningly. "Now, Abby. You have chosen yourself a very good husband."

            "But I have not chosen him at all. And how can you say he will be a very good husband? He has not even bothered to call on me in the past fortnight. He does not care for me at all."

            "A husband is not about caring, Abby. He is an earl. He will someday be a duke. He does not seem inclined to be ungentlemanly toward you, which you must appreciate. I have had your father look into the matter for you, and he reports that Chesham is known for choosing his mistresses carefully. Only the best quality for him. And he is faithful to them. That is good news for you, my dear."

            Abby regarded her, wide-eyed. "Good news? In what way?"

            "He will not be carrying any . . . diseases back to you, darling. That can happen, you know. With men who are less . . . careful of where they . . . than your husband seems to be. And, of course, it indicates that he knows well enough where to seek his pleasure, so he will not be bothering you with it."

            Abby continued to stare at her mother. But she rather wanted Stephen to bother her with it. She did not want him to keep a mistress.

            "You know that you have a duty to provide him with an heir. It is the price you pay for marrying a peer. But hopefully you will be able to conceive quickly, and give birth to a boy, of course, because otherwise he will be obliged to keep trying with you."

            Abby, gaping, could not bring herself to talk.

            "It is an unpleasant experience," her mother continued. "I will not bring myself to share the . . . details of it with you." She shuddered in horror at the thought. "It is vile, and degrading, and the best thing to do is to lay there, close your eyes, and allow him to do it. It will be over quickly that way, I assure you. And he will be well-pleased with you."

            "He will be?" managed Abby, finally. She was having difficulty believing that to be true. But, then again, she was wicked enough to have enjoyed every minute of Stephen's indecent behavior with her.

            "Yes. It is nothing, darling. You will be fine. Just don't be shocked by anything he may do tonight. It can be quite shocking."

            "Yes, Mama," Abby said, mechanically, trying to wrap her mind around what was happening.

            There was a knock on the door.

            "Come in," her mother called, gaily.

            Lucy appeared in the doorway. "May I have a moment with the bride?" she asked, smiling broadly.

            "Lucy!" exclaimed Abby, pleased to see her. "Please come in."

            "Only a moment," her mother said. "I will check to make sure Meg is already settled in the carriage." She departed, closing the door behind her.

            Abby hugged Lucy warmly. "I'm glad you came. I am so unhappy you cannot come to the church."

            "The same goes for me," Lucy assured her, returning the hug. "But Derrick assures me that the ton will drop dead, aghast, at being reminded how babies are made."

            Abby chuckled.

            "Speaking of which," Lucy continued, sobering, "I assume your mother was just in here telling you exactly how it is babies are made?"

            Abby hesitated. "In a manner of speaking."

            "It is nothing, Abby. Do not worry yourself about it."

            "Lucy." Abby paused, took a deep breath. "Do you . . . enjoy it?"

            Lucy regarded her seriously. "With Derrick, very, very much. With Sylvester, I despised it. I think it depends on the man that you have. And you will not know which sort of man you have until tonight."

            Abby thought she knew fairly well that she had the sort of man she would enjoy it with.

            Her mother poked her head around the door and dabbed dramatically at her eyes again. "Are you ready?"

            "Good luck," said Lucy, giving her one last hug.

            Abby smiled, hoping she looked happier than she felt. She headed into her carriage, where her father was waiting for her.

            He beamed happily at her. "You have made a brilliant match, my dear. I am very proud of you."

            Abby pulled her veil over her face, hoping it would obscure how disappointed she was in her marriage.

            St. Paul's was full of luminaries. Her father walked her slowly down the excruciatingly long aisle. Stephen, waiting at the end of it, looked as devastatingly handsome as he always did, proper in his morning coat, his golden hair gleaming at her. She hated him, she thought. She hated him, and she could not bear the thought of marrying him, and yet she was going to do it. And he would pay little to no attention to her, except when he beckoned her into his bed, which she knew he would do with arrogance because she had given him every indication that she would welcome being so beckoned.

            She must have been frowning when her father handed her off to Stephen, because Stephen looked at her and frowned in return. His sleepy gray eyes, she had decided, were his best feature, but they were sharp on her now. And they looked plainly displeased to not find her a beaming bride.

            She refused to back down. He said "I will" in a clear, ringing voice. She matched it, managing to make it sound like an act of defiance. By the time he was told he could kiss his bride, Stephen was well aware that he was in the middle of a ragingly silent fight with her. He leaned down, barely brushed his lips over hers, and then murmured, "Cheer up. It could be worse. I could be merely a second son."

            She glared at him, took his arm as slightly as possible so as not to give the impression that she was relying upon him in any way. He walked her swiftly back down the aisle she'd just progressed up and handed her up into the ducal Camberley carriage. He then followed her in, sat opposite her, and regarded his new wife grimly. She sat with the lace of her veil and the silk of her train frothing about her, a great sea for him to swim over in order to reach her. And she looked fixedly out the window.

            "I have an idea that you wish you were dead," he remarked.

            She looked at him then, her expression deep in her dark blue eyes dry and sardonic. "What, pray tell, would give you that idea?" she asked, sweetly.

            "The fact that you looked as if you'd rather be led to a firing squad than an altar where I was waiting."

            You should have called on me. She did not tell him this. As if the begging in her letters to him had not been enough indication of that. She did not bother to deny his statement and looked back out the window. "When do we leave for the Continent?" she asked, lightly.

            "We are not going to the Continent."

            She looked at him in surprise. "Not going to the Continent? Where are we going?"

            "Camberley."

            "Camberley?"

            "Yes. It is my ancestral family home. I though that you would like to meet my mother and sisters."

            "Oh," she said, after a moment. "Yes. Of course. And how long will we stay there before going to the Continent?"

            He had not thought this would be so awkward. "We are not going to the Continent."

            She regarded him with surprise. "Ever?"

            "Well, not in the near future."

            "Then where are we spending our honeymoon?"

            "At Camberley," he answered, simply.

            "Camberley?" she exclaimed.

            He ignored the exclamation. "It is quite pleasant there. You will enjoy it."

            "When were you going to tell me about this?"

            "Now," he retorted, shortly. "Obviously."

            She blinked at him in shock. She was thoroughly disappointed. She had never been to the Continent. Her father had not considered traveling to be suitable for a girl. She had thought that would change now she was married. She had intended on asking Stephen if he liked traveling, if he would be amenable to doing a great deal of it before they had children. And instead, he could not even see fit to take her somewhere for a honeymoon. His ancestral family home! To meet his parents! He had clearly concluded that he did not need to take any time romancing her. She had proven herself eager enough to come to him without romancing.

            She turned from him deliberately, looked back out the window.

            Silence stretched between them.

            Stephen felt ashamed. She had clearly expected a trip to the Continent. And she had clearly been looking forward to that trip. She had married the wrong man, though. He was not going to drive himself deeper into debt to give his wife a nice trip. Camberley would do as well as anything else.

            He wanted to seduce her. He had intended to seduce her in the carriage after they were married. He had not thought he would be capable of waiting any longer. But she looked so cool and aloof, so very far away from him, so different from the woman he had been dreaming of. And she looked so achingly beautiful. She had looked achingly beautiful walking down the aisle to him, like a dream. And then she had gotten close enough for him to see beneath her veil, and she had looked unhappy. No, she had looked furious. He was not a bad catch, he thought, irritated. Really, what was wrong with her?

            The carriage drew to a stop at an inn at midday.

            "Are we going straight through to Camberley?" she inquired, politely.

            "We will be there tonight," he replied. "We have time to go in and lunch." The footman opened the carriage door. He stepped out, turned back to reach for her hand.

            "Wait." She removed her veil. "I am not dressed for this."

            "I have reserved a private room for us."

            "A private room." She smiled dryly as she allowed him to help her out of the carriage. "I do hope you intend to behave yourself, my lord husband." She swept past him, into the inn, leaving him a trifle tongue-tied in her wake.

            He followed after her, saw to securing the room. Abby sat at the table, accepting the service in a queenly manner that annoyed him. He stood and watched her eating.

            "Are you not eating, my lord husband?" she asked him.

            "Don't call me that," he said.

            "Are you not eating, Stephen?"

            She did not make "Stephen" sound any better. He watched her with a sinking sensation in his stomach. He did not know how to make this tension between them dissipate. He would have gone over to kiss her, but he was frightened of her reaction to him. He could not have her go limp and passionless in his arms. "I find I have no appetite."

            "I do hope you are not getting sick . . . Stephen." She ate mechanically, not tasting the food in front of her.

            He could not bear the stifling atmosphere in the room any longer. "I will wait for you in the carriage," he said.

            Abby looked after her fleeing husband, and then looked down at the simple gold band he had slid on her finger. Damnation, she thought, with a sigh. But she hated being married.

Silence. She remembered nothing of the ride but the awful silence. Neither one of them broke it. They did not stop for dinner. She supposed Stephen was still not feeling well, and he apparently no longer cared whether or not she was hungry.

            It was late when the carriage rocked up the drive to Camberley and drew to a stop in front of the house. She could barely make out its shape in the darkness. Not a single lamp was burning in the windows.

            "Are they expecting us?" she asked. It was the first thing she had said since the stilted conversation in the inn at lunch.

            "Yes," he answered. "It is late. They are abed." The footman opened the carriage door and Stephen stepped out and then handed her out of the carriage. He then walked forward. She followed him.

            The butler, at least, had waited up. He opened the door and bowed them through it. "Good evening, my lord. Lady Chesham."'

            It was the first time she had been called that, in something other than jest. As her title. She could not react to it. She could not see herself as belonging to that title.

            "Good evening, Hassleford," he replied, and then turned to her. "We skipped dinner," he remarked. "You must be famished. I will have the cook set us something in the dining room."

            Abby pulled herself from her contemplation of the front hall. It was an enormous, cavernous room. The ceiling soared high above her. A huge staircase rose up to meet it. The décor was medieval, suits of armor and sconces on the wall. But the candles were not burning. She did not know what to make of the fact that no one had come to meet the future duchess. "Uh, no," she answered. "No, that's fine. I am really just tired."

            Stephen tried to read her mood. She had done nothing to indicate that she was anxious for their wedding night. Then again, she had always previously seemed eager for their wedding night. "Of course," he said, and turned to Hassleford. "Please show her ladyship to her chambers, will you?" He turned back to Abby. "I will be up shortly."

            She was suddenly annoyed with him for saying that in front of Hassleford. It was embarrassing. "As you wish, my lord," she said, stiffly, turning to follow Hassleford up the grand staircase.

            "Your room, m'lady," he drawled, opening the door.

            The chamber was small and drafty. Unimpressive. "Thank you," she said, politely. "Which room is Lord Chesham's?"

"The one adjoining, m'lady. Through that door." He pointed.

Abby glanced over her shoulder, spotted the door. "Thank you," she said again. "Please tell my maid I will not be needing her."

            "Yes, m'lady."

"And where are my trunks?"

"Here, m'lady." The butler stepped aside, and a pair of footmen carried her trunks into the bedroom.

"Oh. Thank you," she said, and the butler bowed his way out of the room.

            Equally strange to be called m'lady that way, she thought, closing her bedroom door. She walked over to the door that led to Stephen's bedchamber and opened it. It was a sparse room. She closed the door again. The lock was on her side, and, grateful, she turned the key in it. She also turned the key in the lock in the door leading to the hallway.

            Then she pulled herself out of her wedding dress. She left it on the floor, regarded it sadly. Then, for good measure, she kicked it. She pulled herself out of her undergarments, and, deciding to be wicked, to torture Stephen with it in the morning, she slipped naked into bed and waited.

            Momentarily, she heard the doorknob on the door between their rooms rattle. He knocked.

            "What is it?" she called, sweetly.

            "Abby. The door is locked. Unlock it."

            "The door is locked because I locked it," she replied, casually.

            There was a moment of shocked silence. "You locked it?" He sounded furious, but he was keeping his voice down. Clearly out of deference to the rest of his family, sleeping somewhere in this house.

            "I did."

            "Why? Unlock it at once, Abby."

            "I'm tired. I am going to sleep now. Good night, my lord husband." She was enjoying this. She smiled up at the ceiling.

            There was silence. Then the doorknob on the door leading to the hallway rattled. More silence. Then he again rattled the doorknob on the door between their rooms. "Open the door, Abby. Either or both of them, but do it now," he bit out.

            She lost her amusement. "I think not. Did you really think it would be this easy?"

            "Exercising my husbandly right? Yes, I did. You are my wife. You will not lock me out."

            She sat up in bed. "I will lock you out whenever I please," she shouted at him.

            "And keep your voice down!" he shouted back.

            "You should have come to call on me! You express no interest in me whatsoever. Except as a potential carrier of your children. I am good for more than that. I would make you a better countess than that. You have no interest in seeing that."

            "You promised me two weeks. If I came to call on you. Two uninterrupted weeks in bed."

            "So I did, my lord. But I did not specify when I would provide you with the two weeks."

            Stephen leaned his forehead against his side of the door and rattled the doorknob again, knowing it was futile but doing it anyway. He suppressed his groan of frustration. He took a deep breath and clamped down his temper. "Lock me out whenever you please, Abby," he said to the door. "But do not lock me out on our wedding night. On your wedding night, my love."

            She stared at the door, heard him say my love and felt as if she could have throttled him. She said nothing. She flopped back onto the bed, fluffed her pillow, pulled the blanket over her, and tried to sleep.

            Stephen listened to the silence from her room. He slid to the floor and rested his back against the door and looked around him at the impersonal guest room he'd been given. Damnation, he thought, with a sigh. But he hated being married.