Which suddenly made the words hilariously funny.
The image of a wooden woman lying beneath Lord Harold’s reluctant attentions took hold of her, the surreal nature of this moment notwithstanding.
A giggle escaped her.
The bishop looked at her in surprise, and then after a moment’s consideration, in admonishment.
Lord Harold glanced at her as well, but his reaction was quite the opposite of the holy man’s.
His lips twitched, and an unusual twinkle gleamed from behind his gaze.
The absurdity of this moment was not unnoticed by him.
When he compressed his own lips tightly together, it took all the focus Sophia could muster to keep her demeanor in check. She forced herself to stare solemnly at their hands together, repressing any further giggles.
Except…
The harder she dwelled on the inappropriateness of her hilarity, the greater the urge became.
Harold’s hand clasped hers lightly, as though he were giving her one last chance to break free and run away. She pictured this scenario in her mind as well.
How she would love to take that mad dash.
This moment was not of solemnity and love.
It was a farce.
More pressure built inside her.
Oh, God, please don’t let me laugh, please don’t let me laugh…She chanted the words in her mind over and over again.
The priest turned again toward Harold.
Lord St. John had handed a ring to his brother, and Harold nearly dropped it. Sophia noticed his shoulders begin to shake unmistakably until St. John elbowed him.
Appearing overly solemn and serious, he slid the ring upon her third finger, fumbling as he did so. His discomfort with her was obvious. Why had she not noticed this when he proposed?
Again, reciting after the priest, Harold began to speak, his voice shaking. Peeking up, he surprisingly met her gaze. The shimmer in his eyes confirmed that he was struggling as much as she.
None of this was remotely funny.
It was tragic, in fact.
And yet, here they stood.
Sophia had to cover her mouth and push down another most inappropriate giggle.
“With this ring, I thee wed, with my body—”
He whimpered a bit, but Sophia knew it had been going to come out as a chortle of laughter.
“—I thee worship, and with all, with all, with all of my wohor — whor — orldly goods, I thee endow…” Red-faced, Lord Harold finished reciting the vows more confidently. “…in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”
He appeared greatly relieved to have gotten all of that out.
Scowling, the bishop turned and ordered them both to kneel before the altar.
“Let us pray,” he ordered them austerely. And he went on and on and on.
