Iloria by Moira Rogers Page A

And yet, it was impossible to tell her no. “Of course.”
    “I accepted your offer of marriage with some...trepidation.”
    His chest ached. “I imagine so.”
    Her blush returned. “I admit now, though, I hold out hope that my first assumption was wrong, that perhaps you were motivated by something more than—than pity.”
    It was all too easy to recall the moment of his rash action. Ciar had chosen another, and Iloria stood alone, young and beautiful and lost, a woman whose reputation would forever be tarnished through no fault of her own. How well he understood living in the shadow of someone else’s mistake.
    “Not pity,” he agreed carefully, unwilling to give away too much. “You’d be a prize for any man, Iloria.”
    She nodded and dipped her head. “I’ve always known this was my lot in life, Farran. Marriage to a man I did not choose, not because I wouldn’t have but because I did not possess the liberty to do so.” She seemed to be struggling for words. “I will be a good wife.”
    Kind words that deserved kindness in return, but if he offered the truth, it would be anything but kind. I will be a wretched husband. Not through choice, but some things were beyond his control. They always had been.
    And now he’d cursed her to live out the nightmare of his legacy with him.

    Her new husband did not want her here.
    Iloria blinked back tears and rubbed her arms as she surveyed her sitting room. Farran had escorted her here—and then he’d run like the hounds of hell were chasing him. A polite man would have at least attempted a lie, smiled and told her how happy he was to have her at the castle.
    It seemed instead that Farran’s reputation for being gruff and aloof had been well-earned.
    She pushed through the antechamber door and into her bedroom. A huge four-poster bed dominated one side of the room, and Iloria sank to it wearily.
    The last thing she’d wanted was to wed a man who didn’t want her. She would have preferred solitude, even if it came with the scandal of having been jilted by the prince. She was of noble blood, from one of the oldest wolf lines in the land. She would have survived.
    Now, instead, she’d have to smile through her misery and pretend happiness. She was willing and ready to work hard to ensure the success of her marriage, but there was nothing she could do with a husband who resented her presence.
    An unmitigated disaster, truly.
    A knock sounded on the door. “My lady? Lord Farran bid me introduce myself. May I come in?”
    Iloria hurriedly wiped her eyes and rose. “Yes, enter.”
    The woman who stepped in was tall and sturdy, a strong woman who looked old enough to be Iloria’s mother. Her expression was firm but kind, and she dropped only the briefest curtsy before straightening. “I’m Magda. My husband and I have managed this castle for twenty years now.”
    “Pleased to meet you.” The first order of business was to establish that she was no danger to Magda’s position or authority. “I’m told there are traditions here, ways my husband wishes things to be done. I was hoping I could trespass on your kindness, and perhaps you’d explain them to me.”
    The older woman nodded. “One is of utmost importance. You may do with the decorations what you will, but you must not touch the tapestries.”
    Iloria had noticed them, heavy and sturdily woven. “Not even the ones covering the windows?”
    Was it her imagination, or did the woman flinch? “Not even those.”
    “As my Lord desires.” Iloria shivered. “I wish to give my husband a wedding gift, but I had no time to procure one before leaving the capital. Have you any idea what he might enjoy?”
    The woman hesitated for a moment too long. “My lord has always been partial to his privacy, but it is my instinct... That is, I believe he would be grateful if you invited him to dine with you tonight.”
    Prior to their arrival, it had not occurred to Iloria to do anything but dine with her husband every