The four of them exited and were met by the vicar, who walked her through the next few steps. Since she was already here, he would simply inform Lucien that she was prepared, and then the ceremony would begin. They were using an abridged ceremony,not the standard hours-long one—something she and Lucien had agreed on quickly. There would be a wedding breakfast, and after that she would take up her rooms at Wexford. And then the countdown to freedom would begin. But first, she had to get through these next few hours.
Lucien stood by the altar, candles flickering in a way that should be soothing but which was actually strangely disconcerting.
He was in his finest attire, an outfit selected for him by Mrs. Greaves. He glanced back and saw her sitting in the second row. She beamed at him, and he forced himself to curl his lips into a smile of his own.
At least somebody was happy about this wedding. Mrs. Greaves had not been best pleased about his declaration that this was not a love match, but she had eventually reconciled herself to the idea.
Still, he knew her hope—her vision that their arrangement would blossom into love—would not come true. Marianne was lovely. Beautiful, intelligent, and witty. But he was not interested in her beyond the role that she would fill. The practical wife, the wife he could show off so that all the other mothers and daughters of the ton who wanted to make a match with him would finally understand he was not available. Mrs. Greaves would have to let go of her foolish dream of seeing him in love again.
He would be wed on paper. He glanced back over his shoulder, and for a moment, he remembered his first wedding. Six years ago, he had stood here ready to make the same vows to another woman. And he had loved her. Or he thought he had. He had loved the woman he thought she was. He had loved the future he thought they were going to live. His father had just died, and he had become Earl. The mourning period had been long and difficult—not longer than was usual, but it had felt that way, for he had loved his father dearly.
Courting Arabella and marrying her had been the highlight of his life until that moment. It had been like stepping out of the darkness into a ray of sunshine. Only that sunshine had soon clouded, and night had enveloped him. He would have been entirely in darkness if not for Henry. Henry was like the stars in a dark sky that lit the way. Without him... He shook his head and looked away.
What would Marianne say if she saw that Mrs. Greaves, his housekeeper, was sitting amongst the invited guests? In the second row, no less. The front row was made up of assorted aunts and uncles, none of whom he was terribly close to. Mrs. Greaves sat beside Rhys and his wife. She was family, not by blood, but in every other way. She had always been there. And he knew she would not always be—she was growing older—but he hoped she would remain for a very long time. She had always been more of a mother to him than his own.
The music swelled then, ripping him from his thoughts. The little chapel’s door opened, and Marianne materialized a second later, a vision in... well, he could not say she was a vision in white, for the gown she had chosen was not exactly white, butmore like the color of a breakfast egg—ivory, perhaps, or cream? He was no expert on whatever colors were fashionable these days.
Yet the sight made him smile. He had expected no less. Arabella had been clad in an impressive, over-the-top gown that had challenged fashion sensibilities at the time and had been written about more than their actual wedding.
He would have lied if he had not confessed that he had worried every now and again that perhaps Marianne was not quite as sensible as he thought. That maybe there was a streak in her that desired all the things she claimed not to want. But seeing her now, walking down the aisle as though she were walking to a regular Sunday service rather than her own wedding, reassured him once more.
Marianne was exactly what he thought she was. Practical, pragmatic, genuine.
She walked toward him, and when their eyes met, an unusual feeling stirred within him. It was a prickling that started in his stomach and wanted to spread. He had heard romance authors speak of butterflies in the stomach— something he had always imagined had to feel unpleasant, but that was not what he was feeling now. It was positive. It was good. It was like a promise. And he smiled, and for a moment, so did she. However, when she stepped beside him at the altar, he saw her cheek twitch under her eye with anxiety.
“You look as though you were dragged here by a cart of oxen.”
She looked at him. “I sincerely hope I do not look as though I have been dragged through the streets. My aunt made quite certain to inspect the dress for any possible stains.” He had to suppress a chuckle.
“I meant you look as though you would rather not be here. Are you thinking of escaping?”
“It is quite too late for that, is it not?” she whispered back. “To escape, I mean.”
He shrugged, knowing that she was not actually planning to escape. “One can never say it is too late for anything,” he said.
“If I escaped,” she asked, “would you chase me?”
“I am not in the habit of chasing ladies, although in this case I might have to make an exception. I must say, I am growing quite fond of your wit. It would be a shame to lose that.”
They smiled at one another once more, and then the vicar began the ceremony. It was quick, as they had expected, and just like that, the two of them were wed.
The carriage ride back to Wexford Hall for the wedding breakfast was a short one. Lucien spent the time watching Marianne stare curiously at the estate as it passed them by.
“I did not know it was such a large estate,” she said. “As we drove here, I could scarcely believe it.”
“It is large. I shall give you a tour one of these days. There is a lake and?—”
“A maze that is impossible to get out of, at least if my sisters are to be believed.”
Lucien chuckled. “I do recall your sister getting lost in the maze with Henry. I shall tell you a secret if you promise not to share it.”
“Of course,” she said. “Do not forget I lived in a convent. I know how to keep confidence.”
“Very well. He knew all along how to get out of the maze. He was simply toying with your sister. He likes to do that.”
“A mischievous little boy,” she said and laughed. “I must say, Charlotte was like that when she was young. She would do things of that nature all the time, especially to my aunt and uncle.”
They stopped outside the grand house, and Lucien exited the carriage. Behind them, the carriages containing their guests were making the drive from the chapel to the main house.
