"Do you, Marquess Lucian Fairchild, take Clara Beaumont to be your lawfully wedded wife, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do you part?"
I stood at the altar, my face a perfect portrait of aristocratic solemnity. Hundreds of eyes watched us—the social elite witnessing what they believed to be a simple marriage of good breeding. How little they understood.
"I do," I said, allowing just the right amount of emotion to color my voice. Not too eager, not too detached. The perfect performance.
Clara beamed beside me, radiant in her expensive gown and veil. Her fingers tightened around mine, nails digging slightly into my skin in what I recognized as possessive excitement. Poor, simple Clara. So proud of her trap, believing herself the hunter when she was merely bait.
