He could do whatever he wanted. She would be at his mercy.
And he’d want to kiss her with that mouth—that disgusting, foul-smelling, and crusted mouth. The thought roused vomit to the back of her throat for the second time.
How had she allowed matters to come to this?
“And you, Lady Gardenia. Do you take this man…” The priest’s voice barely penetrated her suddenly racing thoughts, bringing her back to the present.
“My lady?” The priest addressed her more forcibly.
Nia opened her mouth, but nothing came out.
She glanced to where her mother and father sat in the nearest pew of this grand cathedral, a cathedral filled to overflowing with the crème de la crème of the ton.
Every one of them watched her, waiting for her to answer.
At the end of this ceremony, she was going to be the Duchess of Dewberry, not something she’d ever aspired to herself, but it was what her parents expected.
She’d been raised to be the wife of nobility.
With the death of her former fiancé, her mother considered it a blessing that she’d been given a second opportunity to land a duke for a husband. Lord Rupert had been heir to a lowly earldom. Dewberry possessed the highest title in the land—aside from the king, of course.
This moment was to be the pinnacle of her achievements.
A series of murmurs rippled through the guests. Nia was supposed to respond to the priest. She realized this. She opened her mouth a second time and still no sound emerged.
“My lady?” This time, Dewberry himself prompted her, squeezing her hands even more tightly than he had before. She turned back to face her groom.
“I… do…” She slowly began moving her head from side to side. And then she added, “Not.”
His hands slackened, in shock likely, and without making a conscious decision to do so, she tore her hands out of his and…
Sprinted back down the aisle. She needed air. She needed to be as far away from Dewberry as possible. And her mother. And her father.
Her flight was instinctual, much as if she was being chased by a vicious animal. A sixth sense screamed inside that if she were to marry that man, she’d die young.
She was running for her life.
It didn’t matter that she would suffer dearly when they caught up with her.
Because they’d have to catch her first.
Her feet flew down the carpeted runner, and she dared not look to one side or the other, only forward—toward the doors she’d entered through earlier.
They represented escape. Freedom. Safety.
But she needed to run faster. Already, she sensed she was being chased. Her father’s servants? The duke’s nephews? She dared not look back for fear that doing so would slow her progress. She didn’t even stop at the door but put her arms out and, with a jolt she felt through her entire body, threw them open.
The rain fell in sheets now. Lightning flashed, thunder rumbled, and big, cold drops whipped into her face and exposed arms and chest.
Earlier, her mother had mentioned rain was lucky on one’s wedding day. For now, it simply made escape all the more difficult.
The pavement was slick beneath her slippered feet, and after just a few seconds, the water streaming down her face caught on her lashes, clouding her vision.
But now that she’d escaped the most prestigious St. George’s Cathedral, escaped her groom and all those onlookers, where could she go?
Still running, but with no particular destination, she knew she could not go home. Furthermore, every person she might consider a friend had been invited to the wedding and had watched her mad dash from those gleaming pews—wondering, perhaps, if she would return?
Most likely, they were judging her for disgracing her father—dishonoring her groom—two of the most powerful men in all of England.
