“But you care nothing for people’s opinions.”
“I merely wish to shield you from malice.”
Yet she sensed his concern was not only for her but for himself. This marriage was his way of silencing Miss Bourne and breaking free of the past. Did she not owe him that much, at least?
Against all caution, she said, “Then I suggest you take my hand and kiss my palm as though you cannot help yourself. And be certain the vicar sees it.”
His mouth curved in the faintest hint of a smile. She stilled as he took her hand and turned it, his gaze never leaving hers. When his lips brushed her palm, heat surged through her. The kiss lingered a fraction too long, a claimdisguised as devotion. The vicar might see reverence, but Olivia felt only the shocking intimacy of a man who could undo her with the press of his mouth.
Her life might be in danger, but so was her heart.
From nearby came Mrs Boswell’s soft sigh.
Deception was a fool’s game. Someone would suffer for it.
“That should appease the vicar,” he said. Yet something in his stare said it wasn’t enough. “Perhaps a chaste kiss once we’ve exchanged vows.”
A kiss with mouths?
The question rose to her lips, yet she only nodded.
He led her back to the altar, but one brief, intimate moment had shifted her world. His pull was magnetic, and she was helpless iron caught in its field.
Keen to hasten the proceedings, the vicar read from his open Bible. “Dearly beloved?—”
She almost choked. No doubt the parrots in the basement would squawkwhat tripebefore he reached his next breath.
The vicar spoke with the gravity of a man certain heaven was listening. “Forasmuch as marriage is a holy estate, ordained for the procreation of children …”
Children? Olivia’s mind betrayed her with a vivid image of the act itself, of the marquess dropping his towel, of what it would mean to lie with him. Heat rose in her cheeks, and she gave herself a stern reminder: friends did not share a bed.
She listened to the vicar’s exhortation on love and commitment, though the warning was plain enough. Marriage was ordained as a remedy against sin, and the Lord might punish those who sought to deceive Him.
“Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?”
The question stumped them both.
“MissHawkinsis an independent woman,” Lord Rothley snapped, his jaw tight. “There’s no transfer of ownership here, Collard. She comes to me of her own free will.”
She brought no dowry, no bride price, no land or connections, only a pocket full of lies and the threat of the noose. Still, he took her hand in his as though daring the world to challenge his choice.
Mr Collard dabbed at the sweat on his brow and hurried on, addressing Lord Rothley. “Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honour and keep her in sickness and in health?”
He didn’t flinch or falter but spoke with confidence in his ability to provide. His coal-black eyes softened to a rich brown as he said, “I will.” Then, with quiet conviction, “You have my protection, for as long as I draw breath. You’ll want for nothing.”
Except love. Children. A heart filled with joy.
Olivia felt the vicar’s beady eyes settle on her, the silence stretching until he spoke. “Wilt thou take this man to be thy husband, to love, honour, and keep him in sickness and in health, so long as ye both shall live?”
The words echoed through the chapel, a vow meant to last a lifetime. But lifetimes were for other people. They would be lucky to survive the month.
She lied, mouthing oaths that sounded like impossible dreams. “I will.”
Lord Rothley’s broad shoulders eased, as if he had been holding his breath for a decade. The mood shifted when it came to reciting his personal vow. His voice deepened, warm with promise, as he spoke the words, “to have and to hold from this day forward.”
The phrase brushed over her like a caress, a whispermeant for her alone, too intimate for ceremony, too real to be mere pretence.
Then it was her turn to repeat the vicar’s words. She looked up at Gabriel, into dark, unyielding eyes that glinted like burnished amber with each vow she spoke, as though her promise had kindled something in him.
