Free The Prince's Bride by Victoria Alexander

attending many balls in the immediate future.”
    “Of course not. I’m being exiled. To someplace quite dreadful no doubt.” Jocelyn groaned and flung herself back on the bed. Marianne was right, of course. There would be no balls. No galas, no soirees, no routs. No fun of any kind. “Then just throw a few old dresses in there. It scarcely matters, I suppose. I don’t even know where he’s taking me but I daresay it won’t be the tiniest bit enjoyable. Probably some horrible little cottage in some nasty little village.”
    “He could take me to a horrible little cottage,” Becky said with a grin.
    “You’re welcome to him.” Jocelyn propped herself up on her elbows and considered her younger sister. “It’s a pity we don’t look more alike. Oh, we share a similar height but your hair is distinctly red. Of course, a wig would—”
    “Jocelyn,” Marianne snapped. “Don’t even think about it.”
    “It was just an idea.” Jocelyn grimaced. “I’m desperate. If I don’t think of something I’ll be the Viscountess Beaumont by this time tomorrow.”
    “There are worse fates,” Becky said pointedly. “Death for one.”
    “At the moment, death does not seem especially worse.”
    “Isn’t there anything about him that you like?” Marianne rose from the bed and moved to the wardrobe. She pulled open the doors and studied its contents.
    Becky crossed her arms and leaned against a bedpost. “I like him.”
    “You don’t have to marry him,” Jocelyn said.
    “He once told me he was a spy,” Marianne mused. “Of course, I didn’t believe him at the time. Now, I wonder...”
    “A spy.” Becky’s eyes sparkled at the thought. “How very exciting.”
    Jocelyn wasn’t sure if the idea of Beaumont as a spy made him more palatable or completely unacceptable.
    “You must like him a little,” Becky said. “You did kiss him, after all.”
    “Not exactly,” Jocelyn said quickly. “He kissed me.” And admittedly, it was a lovely kiss, the memory of which even now made her insides warm and her stomach flutter. A kiss that made her wonder, in spite of herself, what else this man could make her feel. Abruptly she sat upright. “I hadn’t considered that at all.”
    “Kissing him?” Becky smirked. “I have.”
    “No. At least not just kissing him.” Jocelyn’s eyes widened and her gaze met Marianne’s. “What shall I do if he ... that is, he’ll be my husband. Legally, and what if he ... well”—she swallowed hard—“demands his... rights?”
    “I doubt Beaumont is the kind of man who would force you to do anything against your will,” Marianne said firmly, pulling a gown from the wardrobe.
    “Except marry him,” Jocelyn said.
    “Jocelyn.” Marianne folded the dress and handed it to Becky, who tossed it into the bag. “I think you should keep in mind that Beaumont doesn’t especially want to marry you any more than you want to marry him. He’s only doing out of a sense of responsibility and honor. He’s doing it to save your life.”
    “What life I’ll have left won’t be worth saving.”
    Marianne heaved an exasperated sigh. “I do wish you’d stop being so selfish about this.”
    “Well, I wish I’d stop being so selfish about this too,” Jocelyn snapped. “I know how I sound and I hate myself for it. But I can’t seem to help it. It’s how I feel.”
    “I daresay most women would jump at the chance to marry a man like Beaumont. And he’s very mysterious, which just makes him all the more attractive,” Becky said. “You may not know Beaumont at all but I think he’s already figured out your nature. You sound like a spoiled, shallow, insufferable child.”
    “Becky!” Jocelyn stared in stunned disbelief. “How can you say such a thing?”
    “I am sorry. That was mean of me. I know you’re overset and therefore allowances should be made.” Becky moved around the bed, sat beside Jocelyn, and gazed into her eyes. “And I know, even if he doesn’t, that