Chapter Twenty-six
Heathcliff didn’t wish to have a grand wedding. Hell, he hadn’t even been planning on marrying ever again. Yet, as he listened to the women discussing his upcoming nuptials, he wondered if perhaps Samantha had other wishes, bigger dreams, and maybe he was falling terribly short.
Didn’t most women dream about their wedding? And women of the ton dreamed about fashionable weddings at St. George’s, with all the frills and decadence London had to offer. They would include a wedding breakfast that was a generous sampling of the deep pockets of the parents, along with a heavily attended wedding, where everyone of note appeared. Not to mention banns being read weeks before, along with an announcement inThe Times, leading to the gossip surrounding whether it was a good or poor alliance. In short, it was all about the attention.
And here in Scotland, Samantha would get none of that.
Hell, in Scotland, you could get married over any blacksmith’s anvil.
It was why scandalous marriages were all known to take place in Gretna Green. No marriage license, no approval, just a willing man and woman and some smithy wanting to make a few extra pounds. While it wasn’t socially acceptable, it was still a binding marriage.
And, he supposed, that was the important bit, but he still felt a slight uneasiness.
Samantha was a lady, a proper and gently bred lady—and he felt as if he was behaving like a villain in a gothic novel.
Damn, he hated that feeling.
Not that it wasn’t true. It was closer to the truth than he was willing to admit. But that didn’t mean he had to like it.
“You’re oddly silent,” Lucas said softly to him while the ladies continued discussing their plans.
Heathcliff turned to him. “It seems quite anticlimactic.”
“That’s for you to remedy later.” Lucas arched a wicked brow.
“You’re such an arrogant pain in the arse,” Heathcliff bit out.
“Yes. I’ve learned from the best. Now, what’s got you acting like a caged tiger? You’re marrying the woman you’re quite besotted with; don’t tell me you’re angry about marrying. You’re the one who bloody suggested it. Honestly, I’m almost proud you succeeded in pulling your head from your arse in time.”
Heathcliff gave him a frustrated look. “Oddly, I’m not resentful about entering into marriage. It doesn’t make a pint of sense, but I’m not going to worry over much. I’m just feeling like an ass because she is getting a rather ramshackle wedding.”
Lucas blinked, then tilted his head slightly. He breathed in, paused, then glanced away. “Is that so? You’re worried she’s unhappy with the lack of pomp?”
Heathcliff gave a curt nod.
Lucas looked back to him. “Does she bloody well look upset?”
Heathcliff turned to watch Samantha’s expression. She was speaking with Mrs. Keyes, her movements wide and enthusiastic, a sharp contrast to the way she was normally, so self-aware and controlled. She appeared . . . happy, excited even. It didn’t make sense.
“You’re confused,” Lucas stated.
Heathcliff turned to him, his mind offering several remarks of the more vulgar nature.
“Welcome to the club, my friend.”
“That doesn’t sound encouraging.”
“My wife confounds me on a regular basis. You remember, do you not? When we were first . . .” He paused.
Heathcliff grinned. Because what Lady Liliah and Lucas’s beginning of the relationship entailed wasn’t exactly proper behavior, nor was it something that should be mentioned out loud.
“I was going to say courting—”
Heathcliff snickered.
Lucas glared. ”Getting to know each other.”
“Is that what we’re calling it now?” Heathcliff asked with an air of superiority.
