The Luck of the Bride (The Cavensham Heiresses #3)(75)

She shook her head.

One corner of his mouth curved upward, the expression so mischievous and endearing, she was lost for a brief moment.

He laced his fingers with hers. His thumb rubbed her wrist as if trying to offer comfort. He stood and tugged her hand, signaling her to join him. Reluctantly, she followed. Without allowing her to retreat, he pulled her toward the vestibule.

Instinctively, she pulled back, unwilling to leave the cold sanctuary.

“What is it?” He halted his charge to the exit.

She swallowed the words that couldn’t possibly explain her new existence. How do you share that, in a short period of time, your whole life or what you thought was your life had completely turned on its head? She took a final glance at the sanctuary before allowing her gaze to rest on the altar. A flash of color caught her eye, and she tilted her head to stare at the vibrant stained glass window above the simple altar. A shepherd tended his flock.

Truly, this proved God possessed a wicked and wry sense of humor since she was a shepherdess—at least, had been. Perhaps the glass shepherd represented the promise that some divine entity would protect her family.

She dismissed the thought with a smirk. Only she was capable of such a feat. With a final glance, she left the safety of the chapel and the peacefulness of the vestibule behind her. With a defiant demeanor, she took her first step into the frigid evening air.

The wind bludgeoned her face and body, and the biting cold stole her breath. The tree limbs waved in a twiggy sendoff, almost as if clapping for her stricken state. Tears stung her eyes, but she refused to allow such a weakness. This was her new identity, and the quicker she accepted that fact, the less she’d suffer.

“Come, March.” Michael took her arm and situated his body to take the majority of the wind’s blast. “Let me get you out of the cold.”

She nodded and allowed him to lead her to the carriage.

He held out his hand to assist her. “After you, Miss Lawson.”

The wind snapped her cloak about her legs as she stood there and just stared at him. The sound of her former name was once something familiar, particularly when Michael said it. Now, it was achingly caustic to her ears.

“My name is not March Lawson.” Her throat closed around the words, but through sheer determination she uttered, “What Rupert said about my birth is true.”

He tilted his head and regarded her as if she were an oddity. “We’ll see how long that lasts,” he muttered.

“Pardon me? The wind must have stolen your words.” She threw out the challenge as she narrowed her eyes. Before her stood a typical male, one who thought that all he had to do was wave his hand. The effort automatically setting everything to rights.

Even he couldn’t fix this scandal.

“We’re not going to stand in the cold and argue.” He tipped his head and stared at the sky as if running out of patience. “We have a two-hour ride ahead of us. Get in, March.” The growl in his voice was unmistakable.

Without a look back, she climbed into the carriage. Her name on his lips had always caused such a sweet shiver to pass through every inch of her.

Now, his words sounded like a foreign language. One she’d never learn.

*

The coach rumbled to a halt outside McCalpin Manor. The jangle of the horses’ bridles broke the ear-shattering silence within the carriage. For the last two hours, McCalpin had struggled to engage March in any conversation. It had become apparent within minutes that she refused to discuss anything relating to her visit.

With a sigh, he knocked on the roof and immediately one of the footmen opened the door. Anxious to stretch his legs, McCalpin leapt from the coach and held out his hand to assist March. When there was no movement from her, he leaned into the carriage. “Come.”

With her own sigh matching his, she followed his command. He made quick work of escorting her inside.

“My lord, welcome home again,” greeted Arnsdale, the under-butler who saw to matters at McCalpin Manor when Buxton wasn’t available.

“Thank you.” McCalpin answered. He handed his coat and hat to the under-butler. “This is Miss March Lawson. We’ll stay this evening and leave for town tomorrow.”

“A pleasure, madam. I’m Arnsdale. If there’s anything you need, please ring.” He waited for March to hand him her pelisse.

“It’s Miss March Featherston,” she murmured.

McCalpin took a deep breath, hoping it would keep his anger from exploding. He didn’t want to consider whether the cause was his inability to defuse the situation or because she was so miserable. With a glance around the entry, he thanked his lucky stars the rest of the staff had settled for the evening or were dining downstairs. “We’ll dine in my study. Take Miss Lawson’s bag to the marchioness’s suite.”

“Very well, my lord.” Arnsdale bowed and took his leave with March’s valise in his hands.

McCalpin took her arm in his and proceeded down the hall. The marble floor and thick rugs welcomed him home. Immediately, the tension he’d fought the entire way started to dissipate. In its place, the overwhelming need to change her mood crept over him.

The entire carriage ride to McCalpin Manor had been an icy hell. The miles drifted by like slow meandering storm clouds while March’s retreat into silence grew stronger than the north wind. Nothing he’d tried could break her steely recalcitrant mood.