It had been a hugely successful wedding, one of the social events of the Season. Of course, with the bride being the only daughter of the Marquis of Reddington everyone who was excited had accepted an invitation. If it had just been the groom marrying some squire’s daughter, no one would have come, but everyone wanted to see Serena Reddington being sold to Gregory, Lord Barclay, like a prize heifer being taken to market. Everyone knew to the penny just how much the groom, who was utter nobody, had paid for his aristocratic bride, whose papa had an unfortunate weakness where horses and cards were concerned. It was all so deliciously tragic. Besides, the food was incredible and the champagne free.
It had been a long day, but Gregory, Lord Barclay was whistling as he undressed, handing various items of clothing to his valet, Tim, a bandy-legged ex-jockey who looked at least as happy as his master.
“Tis going to be a fine evening, milord,” Tim said as he pulled a silken nightshirt from a drawer.
“That it is,” Gregory replied. He had waited for this day for a long time. His family had once been dirt-poor, and in England in the1800s, that was the worst “sin” anyone could commit. Along with his mother and father, Gregory had lived in a poverty-stricken village on the Reddington. His mother had washed for the Manor House, scrubbing baby shit and gravy and wine stains out of the family’s linen until she’d died of pneumonia when Gregory was only ten years old. His father had worked in a coal mine on the estate, and Gregory had joined him, doing backbreaking labor before he was even full-grown. They’d been nothing but drone, unworthy of notice even when the Marquis and his daughter had galloped through the village, their horses’ hooves flicking mud at anyone walking down the narrow street.
