It frustrated him that, despite his dislike for her, Thomas still found himself drawn to her. The moment he saw Lisbeth, he wanted to kiss her. Even with all the fury bubbling in him, he’d wanted to taste her lips one more time before all was revealed. Christ, he’d almost taken her against the wall. A chaste kiss had never been enough with her.
Lisbeth would hate him for a long time. Thomas told himself it didn’t matter. This marriage wasn’t about them but about his daughter.
Chapter Seventeen
Lisbeth entered thetiny church hidden by larger buildings in the London area of Piccadilly. She’d been quite surprised to see the older structure in an area where so much new development was occurring. The walls were made of ancient stone. She ran her hands along one side of it, suspecting this place dated back to the Roman period.
“It is a beautiful space, Your Grace,” the bishop said, entering from a side door.
She smiled. “It’s lovely. I was wondering if it dates back to Roman times.”
The older man nodded. “It does. Dozens of buildings have been built around the church, but luckily, no one has tried to remove it.”
“I’m glad,” she said. The uniqueness of this building had taken away the melancholy of her impending wedding.
The bishop frowned at her. “Are you sure you wish to wed, Your Grace?”
Her eyes flew to his face, and he added, “My leadership indicated this was a rushed request, and your future husband had asked for a discreet location.”
She wanted to confess that she didn’t want to marry, but didn’t think it mattered. The determination and anger in Thomas’s eyes yesterday left no room for debate. She swallowed the lump forming in her throat, wishing that all of this couldhave happened differently. Lisbeth should have told Thomas about Alice in Syria.
Yesterday, she sat down with Alice and Jeremy, telling them that she was to be married. Jeremy had been intrigued, and her daughter furious. Her chest ached because Alice had always been close to Nicholas. Her revelation about her imminent marriage to Thomas hadn’t gone over well. Lisbeth suspected that more difficult roads lay ahead in establishing a relationship between Thomas and Alice.
“My betrothed likes ancient things. That is why I picked this church,” Thomas said from the entryway of the building.
Her stomach dipped because even though he looked messy and disreputable, the man was still breathtaking. She wondered if he’d slept at all last night. Another man bumped into him. He laughed. Stepping aside, the other man, also looking rumpled, stepped in, followed by a more studious-looking person.
“Here are my two witnesses, Father. Mr. Matthison and my solicitor, Mr. Green.”
The bishop’s lips pinched in disapproval. Lisbeth suspected they were thinking the same thing. These men had spent the evening enjoying vice a little too much. Her heart clenched, wondering if women were involved. She pushed the thoughts from her mind. It didn’t matter. They weren’t marrying because they cared about each other.He’d loved you once, her heart whispered to her.
Still, that wasn’t why they were here. Lisbeth was marrying Thomas because of his threat. Anger coursed through her that it had all come to this. The man who was in London wasn’t the boy she left in Tuscany all those years ago, nor the man she said goodbye to in Syria. He was angry and hurt, and Lisbeth didn’t know how to fix it, but doubted their wedding would improve anything.
Thomas and Matthison laughed about something, and the bishop skewered them with a glare. They immediately quieted. The bishop leaned closer to Lisbeth. “Are you sure, Your Grace?”
She glanced at Thomas, who watched her intently. Even after she’d married Nicholas, she’d fantasized about being his wife and raising their children together. None of those fantasies had ever come close to this debacle, but she didn’t have a choice. Maybe they would find a way to be happy again. Skepticism filled her. Yet, she suspected without this marriage, there was no healing. Still, it pained her that this wasn’t one forged on love but hatred. It would be the second marriage foisted upon her.
She forced herself to smile. “Yes, Father, it is my choice.”
Thomas made his way to the front of the church. He smelled of smoke and liquor. Her soon-to-be husband had been out getting foxed while she laid in bed a bundle of nerves. Frustration flared in Lisbeth, but she kept it tamped down.
“Shall we begin, or do we want to have you leave and come back in?” the bishop asked Lisbeth.
She shook her head. “I think we can simply start.”
The bishop began the farce of a ceremony that Lisbeth was still struggling to believe was hers. In all honesty and fortunately, it passed in a blur until the bishop said, “You may bestow a kiss on your bride.”
Lisbeth’s gaze flicked to his. A coldness emanated from him, and she suspected he would hate her forever. Thomas’s friend, Matthison, whistled, “Kiss her, Easton.”
The bishop cringed at his obnoxiousness. Thomas quickly brushed his lips across hers. It was the briefest of touches, and it broke Lisbeth’s heart. Any fantasy she’d had about marrying Thomas had always ended in a spectacular kiss. This is reality, she reminded herself,not a dream.
Thomas turned to his friend and solicitor. “Thank you for your assistance today. We will be on our way.”
He held his hand out to her, and she took it, but no warmth existed between them. They both thanked the bishop and walked out of the church directly to a carriage. Once inside, Lisbeth asked, “Where shall we go now?”
“Home.”
He meant her townhouse. Nerves filled her. “I told the children yesterday that we were getting married. Alice didn’t take it well. Perhaps you could gradually move in.”
