As her gaze adjusted to the room about her, melancholy descended on her. She was in his house. Unfortunately, nothing had changed overnight, and therefore, she would demand he return her to America. His incentive, as if he needed one, would be her bloody dowry and the satisfaction of her father’s debts. He could keep it and she would never darken his door again—no, his name would never so much as pass her lips. The vicar could certainly be persuaded to forget what had passed for a ceremony last night had ever happened. Reluctantly she rose and fished through her things for a plain gown. She was startled a moment later when a young woman with blond hair peeking from beneath her maid’s cap entered. The maid seemed just as surprised, and she hastily curtsied. “Morning, mum. I didn’t expect you about quite so early. My name is Sarah. Lord Darfield has instructed me to tend to you,” she said nervously. Abbey had never had anyone tend her and felt very self-conscious. “Good morning, Sarah.
