She used far too many adverbs. And exclamation points.

Plus, she despised him. This was not conjecture on his part. He had heard her utter the words. Not that this bothered him; he didn’t much care for her, either. He just wished she’d learn to be quiet.

Like right now. She was going to die if she did not get married this year. Really.

Hugh gave his head a little shake. At least he would not have to attend that wedding.

He’d almost got out of this one, too. But Daniel Smythe-Smith had insisted, and when Hugh had pointed out that this wasn’t even his wedding, Daniel had leaned back in his chair and said that this was his sister’s wedding, and if they were to convince the rest of society that they had put their differences behind them, Hugh had better bloody well show up with a smile on his face.

It hadn’t been the most gracious of invitations, but Hugh didn’t care. He much preferred when people said what they meant and left it at that. But Daniel was right about one thing. In this case, appearances were important.

It had been a scandal of unimaginable proportions when the two men had dueled three and a half years earlier. Daniel had been forced to flee the country, and Hugh had spent a full year learning to walk again. Then there was another year of Hugh’s trying to convince his father to leave Daniel alone, and then another of trying to actually find Daniel once Hugh had finally figured out how to get his father to call off his spies and assassins and leave bloody well alone.

Spies and assassins. Had his existence truly descended that far into melodrama? That he could ponder the words spies and assassins and actually find them relevant?

Hugh let out a long sigh. He had subdued his father, and he had located Daniel Smythe-Smith and brought him back to Britain. Now Daniel was getting married and would live happily ever after, and all would be just as it should have been.

For everyone except Hugh.

He looked down at his leg. It was only fair. He’d been the one to start it all. He should be the one with the permanent repercussions.

But damn, it hurt today. He’d spent eleven hours in a coach the day prior, and he was still feeling the aftereffects.

He really did not understand why he needed to put in an appearance at this wedding. Surely his attendance at Daniel’s nuptials later in the month would be enough to convince society that the battle between Hugh and Daniel was old news.

Hugh was not too proud to admit that in this case, at least, he cared what society thought. It had not bothered him when people labeled him an eccentric, with more aptitude at cards than he had with people. Nor had he minded when he’d overheard one society matron say to another that she found him very strange, and she would not allow her daughter to consider him as a potential suitor—if her daughter were to become interested, which, the matron said emphatically, she never would.

Hugh had not minded that, but he did remember it. Word for word.

What did bother him, however, was being thought a villain. That someone might think he’d wanted to kill Daniel Smythe-Smith, or that he’d rejoiced when he’d been forced to leave the country . . . This, Hugh could not bear. And if the only way to redeem his reputation was to make sure that society knew that Daniel had forgiven him, then Hugh would attend this wedding, and whatever else Daniel deemed appropriate.

“Oh, Lord Hugh!”

Hugh paused at the sound of a familiar feminine voice. It was the bride herself, Lady Honoria Smythe-Smith, soon to be Lady Chatteris. In twenty-three hours, actually, if the ceremony began on time, which Hugh had little confidence it would. He was surprised she was out and about. Weren’t brides meant to be surrounded by their female friends and relatives, fussing about last-minute details?

“Lady Honoria,” he said, shifting his grip on his cane so that he could offer her a bow of greeting.

“I am so glad you are able to attend the wedding,” she said.

Hugh stared into her light blue eyes for a moment longer than other people might have thought necessary. He was fairly certain she was being truthful.

“Thank you,” he said. Then he lied. “I am delighted to be here.”

She smiled broadly, and it lit up her face in the way only true happiness could. Hugh did not delude himself that he was responsible for her joy. All he had done was utter a nicety and thus avoid doing anything to take away from her current wedding-induced bliss.

Simple maths.

“Did you enjoy your breakfast?” she asked.

He had a feeling she had not flagged him down to inquire about his morning meal, but as it must have been obvious that he had just partaken, he replied, “Very much so. I commend Lord Chatteris on his kitchens.”

“Thank you very much. This is quite the largest event to be held at Fensmore for decades; the servants are quite frantic with apprehension. And delight.” Honoria pressed her lips together sheepishly. “But mostly apprehension.”

He did not have anything to add to that, so he waited for her to continue.

She did not disappoint. “I was hoping I might ask you a favor.”

Hugh could not imagine what, but she was the bride, and if she wanted to ask him to stand on his head, it was his understanding that he was obligated to try.

“My cousin Arthur has taken ill,” she said, “and he was to sit at the head table at the wedding breakfast.”

Oh, no. No, she wasn’t asking—

“We need another gentleman, and—”

Apparently she was.

“—I was hoping it could be you. It would go a long way toward making everything, well . . .” She swallowed and her eyes flicked toward the ceiling for a moment as she tried to find the correct words. “Toward making everything right. Or at least appear to be right.”