There came another, prolonged snort that ended in a muffled curse.
‘Dear Lord, Weston. Of all times.’ Perhaps the Countess had intended her remonstrance to be a whisper, but in the cavernous interior of the church it carried like a shout.
‘It is damned early to be up and about,’ the Earl said in his defence. ‘Since he wasted the money on a special licence, we could have done this in the afternoon, when we were all awake.’
‘If you had not got so drunk last night, a morning wedding would be no problem.’
Beside them, the Earl’s heir tapped once on the floor with his gold-handled walking stick as if the sound of ebony striking the marble floor was in any way a discreet warning. In trying to silence him, his wife let out a hissing noise that rebounded off the vaulted ceiling.
From the next pew, Mr Challenger’s younger brother let out an embarrassed sigh and the younger sisters began to giggle, unable to help themselves.
The man beside her took a deep breath, swelling to become even more fearsome and impressive than she’d first imagined. Then he turned with military precision to glare at his family. ‘Silence!’ He delivered the command in his best battlefield roar.
It was as if the entire congregation had turned to stone. His friends were gaping, open-mouthed. When the effects of the shout wore off, the Earl winced at the pain in his brandy-soaked skull. The Countess looked as if she had just bitten down on a lemon. The rest of the family had fallen into white-faced, wide-eyed, terrified silence.
From beside Mr Challenger, his dark-skinned friend Mr Gregory let out a low chuckle. It was cut short by a sudden elbow to the ribs from the Duke of Westmoor.
Mr Challenger gave them one last glare foul enough to make sure they all remained still. Then he turned back to the bishop and said, in what he probably thought was a calming tone, ‘Please proceed.’
The bishop hesitated for a moment more, as if he were standing out in a storm, waiting to see if lightning would strike again. Then the ceremony continued. He was prattling on about love and obedience and several other virtues that George was sure did not pertain to the arrangement that she had negotiated with Mr Challenger.
But for today, she would smile and nod along. She would agree to each question put to her and focus on the only vows that truly mattered. Once they were married, they would leave each other alone.
The plan was simplicity itself and infinitely preferable to being trapped cheek by jowl with a man she did not like. Why, then, did it make her feel so empty to contemplate it? Before she had come to the church, she’d calmed her nerves by remembering that she had no real expectations of what marriage was supposed to be like.
Her parents had been happy, of course. Then, Mother had died. Her father and Marietta were happy, at first. And then, they were not. It was quite possible that true happiness was a fragile thing, not meant to last the lifetime of the union.
But to begin and end a marriage in antipathy seemed so wrong. Perhaps it would be possible for some little bit of affection to grow between them. If she made an effort not to annoy him and he did not speak too often, or cause aggravation to her, they might learn to be comfortable in each other’s presence. It would be nice if he accompanied her when she received an invitation to a ball. Even better if he was willing to partner with her in a dance or two. If she tried it, she might like walking at his side as well as she had several other less handsome but more personable men she’d met this Season.
But there would be no children.
The realisation brought with it a strange emptiness. She had always assumed that, some day, she would have them. What better way was there to know that one was truly grown up? When she became a mother, people would stop treating her as a child. But Mr Challenger had stressed that he did not need an heir. That meant that they would not be performing whatever mysterious acts resulted in children. And he would never think of her as anything more than a useless child.
‘You may kiss the bride.’
Her cogitation came to an abrupt halt. The ceremony was over. At the encouraging of the bishop, he was about to do something that she had not allowed any man to do in her life. He had touched her shoulder and was turning her to him. Now he touched her chin so she had no choice but to look up at his face.
His eyes truly were amazing, so dark and deep that she could stare into them for ever and never grow tired of the view. And for a moment, she was sure that her fears were baseless. Everything would work out between them. At least for a single moment, she would hold the full, romantic attention of a gallant soldier, a worldly and not too gentlemanly gentleman, a near perfect specimen of masculinity.
She closed her eyes and waited for something that was guaranteed to be a primer-perfect first kiss.
Then, as usual, Frederick Challenger ruined everything.
It was the sort of kiss one gave one’s worst aunt when forced to make nice. Or perhaps a sister, when one was still in the schoolroom and hated all females, especially ones in the family. He kissed her as if he had wanted to be anywhere but at the altar with her. He all but proclaimed his unhappiness with the union in front of both his family and hers.
She was sure her cheeks were burning red with embarrassment and not the just-kissed flush she’d been hoping for. Now she had to walk down the aisle with him and pretend that everything was fine. She would have to sit beside him at breakfast, eat cake, and drink champagne, and act as though she had not just made the worst mistake in her life by marrying him.
She should have thrown this first precious kiss away on a flirtation, months ago, instead of saving it for a husband who would never feel anything for her but contempt. At least, then she’d have had a pleasant memory to sustain her through a lifetime of misery.
She must not let this moment become even worse than it already was. She would not let Frederick Challenger or anyone else see how much he had hurt her. As they walked to the registry to sign their names in the book, she raised her chin and willed the burning shame into cold, hard anger. Today, she would accept the felicitations on her marriage with a smile. She would eat her wedding breakfast with relish, even if it choked her.
But when they got home, wherever that place turned out to be, she would make it clear that, no matter what she had said at the altar, hell would freeze before she offered the odious man at her side love, honour, or obedience.
CHAPTER SIX
George toyed with the wilting bouquet in her hands, watching the cascade of flower petals falling on a low table in Mr Challenger’s town house. It would be sensible to begin thinking of this as her home as well. After all, her clothing and material possessions were currently being unpacked by servants in the rooms around her. But such an easy adjustment was probably impossible. After less than a day as a wife, she’d had enough of marriage to last her a lifetime.
The wedding breakfast had been as awful as she’d expected it would be. Mr Challenger had been polite enough to the servants at the hotel where the meal was held. But he had not said two words together to his parents or older brother and offered nothing but sharp admonitions to his younger siblings that they mind their manners and not annoy the other guests. And though she had come to them offering warm smiles and congratulations, he had stared through his sister-in-law as if she was not even there.
