“Miss?” the maid prompted gently. “Are you ready?”
Joan took a deep breath and stood, smoothing her skirts with hands that no longer trembled.
“Yes,” she said, still looking at her reflection. “I am ready.”
Joan walked down the aisle on Damian’s arm, her feet moving automatically despite the terror freezing her insides. The church was packed with guests, London’s elite, all dressed in their finest, all watching her with expressions ranging from curiosity to barely concealed schadenfreude.
She saw Julian waiting at the altar, that self-satisfied smirk on his handsome face. He was laughing with the vicar, utterly confident that everything was proceeding according to his plan.
The whispers started immediately.
“…can’t believe she’s actually marrying him…”
“…after everything with that woman…”
“…desperate, I suppose…”
“…the Sinclairs must be in dire straits indeed…”
Joan’s hands began to shake. She gripped Damian’s arm tighter, her nails digging into the fabric of his coat.
“Joan?” Damian’s voice was concerned.
“I’m scared,” she whispered.
It was the first time she had admitted fear aloud in over a decade. The first time she had allowed herself to feel it, truly feel it, rather than pushing it down and soldiering forward.
I can’t do this, she realized with sudden clarity. I don’t want Victoria to do this, but I don’t want to do it either. I cannot marry this man. I cannot.
“Then let’s run,” Damian said immediately, his voice urgent. “Right now. We’ll leave through the side door.”
Joan stopped walking.
Her feet refused to move forward. She looked at Julian, still smirking at the altar. Then at Damian, whose eyes blazed with desperate hope. Her heart pounded so hard she could hear it inher ears, feel it in her throat. The entire church seemed to hold its breath.
What do I do? What do I do?
Julian’s smirk faded as the whispers grew louder. People were staring openly now, confused by her frozen stance halfway down the aisle.
Julian began walking toward them, his expression shifting from confidence to irritation.
“Joan,” Damian whispered urgently, tugging at her arm. “Come on. We have to go now.”
But Joan couldn’t move. Her feet might as well have been nailed to the floor.
Julian reached them and grabbed her other arm, his fingers digging in painfully. He leaned close, his breath hot against her ear.
“Are you trying to humiliate me?” he hissed. “Because I assure you, this will not end well for you or your family.”
Damian wrenched Joan away from Julian’s grip and, without warning, drove his fist into the Earl’s face.
The entire church gasped in unison.
Julian staggered backward, blood spurting from his nose. Rage contorted his handsome features into something ugly and vicious. He lunged at Damian, his fist raised,
“Stop!” Joan threw herself between them, her arms spread wide. “Stop this immediately!”
Julian’s fist hung in the air, trembling with barely restrained fury. For a terrible moment, Joan thought he might strike her anyway. His eyes were wild, his face twisted with rage.
