“… you don’t want to waste a moment of it.”
She tilted her head. “Are—John, are you saying we should—”
“Call this off? Yes, with certainty.”
How could he be so cavalier? She gestured towards the sacristy doors and the increasing rumble of the congregation beyond. “But what about the preparations? All of your guests?”
He shrugged. “I’ll still have the party. And perhaps I’ll get another chance at a wedding in the future.”
“But what if I’m wrong? What if I don’t want to take the chance that he might love me back?”
“Then we go out there and finish our vows. The choice is yours. Whether you’re my wife or my friend, I expect you to keep writing. You could act as my political advisor, although you’d have to do so in secret.”
Her fingertips tingled with the possibility. But what if Will didn’t want her in return? Could she take that risk?
John tipped up her chin and met her eyes. “So, Adelaide Kimball, what do you want to do?”
After a warm embrace, more tears from both of them, they exited the sacristy hand in hand. John nodded towards the vicar, who turned to face Adelaide. “Miss Kimball, are you ready?”
She glanced at John once more as he squeezed her hand, then released it.
Thank you, she mouthed, and he grinned.
Adelaide grabbed the skirts of her wedding dress and ran out of the church as quickly as her legs would carry her.
Chapter 16
“Another.” His empty glassrattled as he put it down, ungodly loud in the empty bar.
The barkeep gave Will a pitying look as he refilled the whisky. “A bit early for customers. I thought everyone was at the church for the wedding.”
The knife that had been stuck in his gut since he’d left Adelaide twisted and pushed deeper. “Not everyone,” he grumbled as he threw back the liquor and relished the burn that clawed down his throat, around the blade in his belly.
He’d taken the cart and Phyllis with him on his slow trek through town, the clatter of wheels over cobblestones making his insides churn. Paper banners and flags hung between the buildings on the narrow streets, and vendors sold flowers to the well-dressed villagers. He watched a girl tie a handkerchief over her hair like a veil, then chase a boy down the street, begging for a kiss. When the donkey slowed, finally digging in her hoovesand refusing to take another step, he relented and found the deserted bar at the end of the high street.
As the only one not celebrating the new countess, he would wallow in that feeling for a few hours at least, keep the bartender company before his long, lonely journey to Saltford.
He thought he knew jealousy before, when he heard of other boys matriculating at Cambridge, when his friends married and started families, but nothing could compare to this. Handing this rare gem of a woman to a man who didn’t even know the legions she contained, the passion she was capable of, was torture beyond anything he’d thought possible. This jealousy had thorns, and it sliced his flesh as it twisted and swelled, pushed his lungs and ribs aside so all he could feel, seeping from his bones, wasjealousy.
Loving her without having her must be the worst pain imaginable. Surely there was worse pain, ones he prayed he’d never experience, because this left his insides raw, made him want to lie down in the streets and scream to the heavens for mercy.
Because Adelaide Kimball wasn’t his. A woman he hadn’t known existed a mere week before.
The trivet in his bag seemed to take on additional weight as he slung it off his shoulder and onto the wooden floor, and he considered the labor he’d put into crafting it, in extracting every ounce of beauty he could, the life he poured into its creation. But it was still cold, unmoving. Where had that fire gone, the sweat and passion pulled from his soul? Had it simply disappeared into the ether? Or was it contained somewhere within, encased in hard, unfeeling iron?
Perhaps the fire that burned between Adelaide and himself remained somewhere in the universe. Love like that didn’t turn to cold, lifeless stone.
Ah, Christ. He never told her he loved her. He hoped that, as she walked down the aisle to have another man put a ring on her finger, she knew.
“If you’re not here for the wedding,” the barkeep said, interrupting his maudlin thoughts, “what brings you to Barrington?”
“The bride.”
He hummed knowingly, as though he could understand the turmoil Will was experiencing. “You’re a friend of hers?”
“No, I’m in love with her.”
The man froze and stared at Will for a long moment before pouring him another whisky, then one for himself. They lifted their glasses together, tossing the contents back and hissing in unison before he fixed Will with a narrowed stare. “Does she know that?”
