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the pit of her stomach.
    â€œYou look beautiful, Violet. Your father would be very happy tonight.”
    Guilt trickled through her. Griff had wanted her to marry Rule. It meant a great deal to him to believe he had secured her future. But her happiness was the thing he wanted most.
    She wasn’t about to throw that happiness away on Rule Dewar.

Five
    T he birthday ball, given by the Marquess and Marchioness of Wyhurst, was an extravagant affair unmatched by any of the events Violet had attended in Boston.
    The mansion itself was palatial—three stories high, built in a U shape, the exterior faced with gleaming white marble. Torches lined the drive up to the house, which was entirely enclosed by ornate wrought-iron fencing.
    Inside, the magnificent entry was the full three stories tall and capped by an amber glass ceiling. Columns and reflecting pools had been painted on the walls, making it look like the entrance to a villa in Rome.
    The marquess, an older man with snow-white hair, stood in the receiving line next to his petite, dark-haired wife and beautiful, willowy blonde daughter, Sabrina.
    Rule made the introductions. “Good evening, Lord Wyhurst. My ladies. I would like to present my wife, Violet. She is just arrived from Boston.”
    The blonde’s gorgeous blue eyes widened. “Your wife?” she repeated as if she couldn’t quite believe her ears.
    Rule just smiled. “That is correct, my lady, and thisis her cousin, Miss Caroline Lockhart, also here from America.”
    â€œA pleasure to meet you both,” Lady Wyhurst said with a smile that looked a little forced. Violet wondered if the marchioness had designs on Rule as a son-in-law. Being the son of a duke, he was undoubtedly considered quite a catch.
    â€œCongratulations, my boy,” the marquess said with a smile that appeared sincere. He turned that warm smile on Violet. “Welcome to England, my lady.”
    She opened her mouth at the use of the title, then felt Rule’s gentle nudge in the ribs.
    â€œThank you,” she said sweetly.
    The marquess returned his attention to Rule. “About time you settled down, my boy.” A chuckle rumbled in his chest. “Even if it took an American girl to bring you to heel.” He winked at Violet and she managed to smile.
    Unfortunately, she’d had little to do with the marriage. It was her father’s money that had brought Rule Dewar to the altar.
    The formalities were finally at an end. The group moved on, the Dewar family surrounding her as they made their way up the stairs. Crossing a false-stone arched bridge, they walked into a ballroom that had been transformed into a magnificent villa complete with gardens and a beautiful ocean view.
    The conversation in the entry announcing Rule’s marriage must have been overheard because the room was buzzing by the time they walked in, the entire assembly of several hundred guests whispering and staring in their direction.
    For an instant, Violet’s feet refused to move. She felt Rule’s hand reach for hers. He laced their fingers together and gave them a gentle squeeze.
    â€œThey’re just curious,” he whispered. “Don’t pay them the least attention. You know how people love to gossip.”
    She knew, all right. She just wasn’t used to being the center of that gossip. Thank God, she would be on her way back to Boston by the time the marriage became known to be invalid.
    Rule rested her trembling hand on the sleeve of his coat and led her farther into the ballroom, winding his way among the guests.
    â€œCan you believe it?” one of the matrons whispered. “Rule Dewar. I can hardly credit that handsome scoundrel has finally been leg-shackled. And by an American, no less.”
    â€œProbably had no choice,” a second woman said tartly. “I’ll be counting the months. Won’t be long before the truth is known.”
    â€œDewar is an utter