He nodded. This was the reason for everything they’d done so far. “The journey, the wedding.” He wished he’d been able to court her—even for a few days.
“That damn pig.” She muttered, as though reading his mind.
“My sentiments exactly.” Because that damn pig had caused Christian to retreat from her. It had reminded him that his time was limited. That the curse might catch up with him any day.
“Even so…” She shrugged, drawing his attention to the delicate curve where her neck sloped to her shoulders. How many times had he wanted to touch his lips to it. How many times had he wondered if her skin was as soft as it looked?
“We won’t wait then.”
“This afternoon?”
They were going to do this. They were going to have, for a while anyhow, a real marriage. “How much time would you like before I come to you?”
“Half an hour. If I give you much longer, I’ll only grow more anxious.” The look in her eyes nearly cracked his heart in two.
His mouth had suddenly gone dry. He nodded at the moment the carriage drew to a halt. Christian climbed out before her and then assisted her onto the ground. Beneath her gloves, the bones in her hand felt fragile and small. When he released it, the firescale from the smithery left a dark smudge.
Much, he thought ironically, like he was going to do to the woman herself.
Chapter 8
The Waning Swan
Christian sat stiffly on the cushioned chair in his chamber and glanced at his timepiece for the hundredth time.
She deserved so much more than this. By God, she deserved more than what he could ever offer her.
Simmons moved back and forth from the open trunk to the bed, doing whatever it was he did, having already dispatched of Christian’s traveling clothes, and assisted him into a silk banyan.
She was waiting for him.
Christian touched the edge of his jaw. He had only endured yet another shave because his valet had pointed out that even the shortest of whiskers would leave abrasions on his bride’s fair skin.
Guilt had flickered in his mind while he’d participated in the crude ceremony, if it could even be called that. By the time he’d bowed over her hand in the corridor, promising he would come to her shortly, it had transformed into a raging inferno.
A white glove with a black smudge. A broken piece of iron.
He should have met with her mother. He should have given her time to accustom herself to the idea of marriage to him. He should have courted her properly, despite his own worries, so that she could get to know Bernadette.
She was a lady, aduke’s daughter.
And yet his time could run out long before he might have accomplished any of this.
She hadn’t even met Bernadette yet.
His blood ran cold and a roaring sound filled his ears. The young woman awaiting him next door had willingly taken on all of his troubles, displaying either astonishing courage or extraordinary foolishness.
Lillian.
His wife!
He’d remembered thinking she was pretty when he’d met her on the street. He’d been attracted to her at the time but had known his limitations.
Since then, her beauty had become more and more apparent—on the outside as well as in her character.
She’d dressed up today, for their wedding.
Over an anvil.
