Lord Monweithe, however, had no thought of punishment or reward for the lad. Stunned, he walked into the narthex, wishing to see for himself if St. Ryne approached. Uncertainty kept him staring at the closed doors.
Sir James Branstoke approached the fidgety and frightened boy, quietly placed a coin in his palm, and pushed him toward a side entrance. Clenching the coin tightly in his fist, the lad muttered his thanks and ducked out the door.
Suddenly the great carved doors burst open, letting in a whoosh of air and bright light, silhouetting the Viscount against the sky.
St. Ryne was indeed in riding attire, and as he stepped into the church, it became obvious to all that the Viscount had come to his wedding in all his dirt. An uproar rippled through the church. His top boots were thick with dust, and his buckskin breeches sported a dark stain on one thigh. His jacket, while admirably fitting his form, showed signs of sweat and dust, while his Inexpressibles bore a distinct gray cast. About his neck, in a very casual manner, was knotted a kerchief.
Elizabeth felt sure she would faint from mortification. She forced herself to stand calm, as if it were no concern of hers.
St. Ryne glanced about the church, a bland smile on his face, before focusing on those guests standing by the entrance. He raised an eyebrow.
“Have you all not found seats yet? Freddy, be a good chap and assist them, please.”
Freddy, who stood transfixed and gawking at St. Ryne’s appearance, roused himself. “Certainly—ah, right you are. This way.”
With a soft murmur of voices, guests scurried to resume their seats. One affronted gentleman moved to leave altogether, only to be stopped and remonstrated by his lively mate that they would do no such thing, for she vowed this was better than a play. Hearing the woman’s comment, Elizabeth ground her teeth in vexation.
“You should have trod the boards. Beware. The lady is of uncertain temper,” Sir James Branstoke advised St. Ryne. “Moreover, sheisa lady,” he warned.
St. Ryne smiled. “Rest easy,” he said, clapping Branstoke on the shoulder good-naturedly, though a quizzical light shone in his eyes.
Branstoke turned to look past him, and St. Ryne followed his gaze to where Elizabeth stood in the shadows. His smile faded as he bowed slightly in her direction. He turned back to Branstoke.
“All will be well. I do not strive to hurt, only to tame.”
“And can you do one without the other?” Branstoke asked in flat tones.
“Why not?”
“I wonder—But here is Freddy, his chore completed.”
“Ah, yes indeed. Now I shall assume my place and await my gentle bride.” So saying, St. Ryne walked up the side aisle, followed by Freddy, and took his place before the altar. Once there, he turned to look back in expectation of seeing his bride approach, a set smile upon his face.
It was the smile that set the cap upon her rage. Staring steadily at St. Ryne, she threw down her bouquet in unspoken challenge, then turned to march out of the church.
She had reckoned without her father. Though the Viscount had made them the butt of jokes, he was here, and apparently still of a mind to marry his daughter. Perhaps they were suited to one another. Regardless, he’d had enough skiff-skaff for one day and would see the two of them wed. He grabbed Elizabeth’s arm, jerking her off balance so she fell heavily against him.
“I told you, will ye, nil ye, I would see you wed,” he growled in her ear.
Elizabeth looked up at him in surprise. “I refuse to believe you’re serious. That man has just humiliated us in front of allof London, and you would still countenance this wedding—this farce?”
“Countenance it? It is an event to be desired. Has it not occurred to you that what is sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander?”
“You’re mad!”
“Perhaps. I am your father, however, and as you so crudely stated earlier, you have been signed and sealed for. What remains is the delivery. Come.”
Panicked, Elizabeth started to pull away. Her eyes looked out into the church as she did so, and what she saw caused her to freeze. Every head was turned her way. Bitterly she realized this weddingwasbetter than a play, affording society with a scandal that would provide grist for the gossip mill until the next season. She glared at her father. Well, she would not make her father an object of sympathy and pity—she would not give him that luxury. She would be the martyr, and let her father and the Viscount take the hisses. She threw up her head and casually smoothed the creases in her gown.
“Bravo!” whispered Sir James Branstoke, as he handed her the discarded bouquet.
Elizabeth looked at him in surprise. He was the oddest creature. There seemed to be a depth in him that was lacking in her sister’s other suitors. She bowed her head in silent thanks, then resolutely turned toward the altar and walked steadily down the long aisle. She felt all eyes following her progress. Let them stare. Though the marriage mart was full of simpering beauties, only she would be the Viscountess St. Ryne, and albeit thrust upon her, she intended to make the most of the position.
She repeated her vows in a clear but clipped voice, bringing a genuine smile to St. Ryne’s face. When the priest declared them man and wife, Elizabeth’s new husband gently lifted her veil.
“Isn’t it better, my lady,” he murmured softly, “to be angry for legitimate slights than merely perceived slights?” Astonished, Elizabeth opened her mouth to protest, only to have the Viscount swoop down to capture her lips in a kiss. Pulling her tightly to him, his kiss caressed and teased, bringing an unfamiliar tingling up through her body, making her feel weak and giddy. She grasped his shoulders for strength. Then as suddenly as it had begun, the kiss ended and he put her away from him. Dimly Elizabeth was aware of a few titters of laughter. Color rushed to her cheek. Angry with the Viscount and herself, she stepped hastily backward, catching the heel of her shoe on the altar step. Suddenly she was slipping backward. Her arms went out in a crude attempt to balance herself but to no avail. She continued to fall backward, landing smartly on her posterior.
Hearty laughter erupted from the wedding guests, and tears burst into Elizabeth’s eyes. St. Ryne bent down to help her rise and he felt a twinge of remorse for his behavior.
