Millie attempted to soothe her fast friend. “You may find some consolation in it being a wedding and not a funeral performed.”
Kilburn snorted. “For Argyll, it may as well be.”
That only made Lyon laugh harder, tears brimming in his eyes, shoulders shaking with mirth.
Argyll and everyone else present turned on the earl with sharp, chilling glares. Tension thickened the air.
Miss Delia Kearsley’s broke from her Shakespearean performance. “I don’t understand?” her voice crept up into a question.
Raina, looking daggers at her husband, who did a poor job of feigning contrition, stood. “Might I remind each of you marriage is a sacred affair. You scoundrelswillbe on your best behavior.” She landed her displeasure on Lyon.
Precisely where it belonged…
His eyebrows dipped. Wait one bloody moment.
“You are looking atme?” Argyll sputtered. “Why in hell are you not putting that anger where it belongs?” He slashed a hand at Lyon. “This one couldn’t even sober himself up—”
“I’m perfectly sober,” Lord Lyon said, but a slight slur made a liar of the bastard. “If you would, show me some grace as I was pulled from bed—”
“Where you were decidedlynotsleeping,” Millie unnecessarily reminded the room again.
“Enough! From all of you.” Raina pinned the latest mischief makers with a blistering stare. “Lord Lyon, resume the proceedings.”
The rumpled rogue clicked his boot heels together and nearly spilled over his own drunken feet.
For the love of God.
Argyll closed his eyes. This time, Lyon resumed officiating Argyll and Daria’s union with some semblance of solemnity.
“Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God…”
With his gaze, he found Daria; the lady remained as smooth as a perfectly poured brandy.
God, what an unshakeable creature. His stare sharpened, fixed on her proudly erect carriage. The steadiness of her palms she pressed together.
His body tightened. What would it take to rouse Miss Unflappable Daria Kearsley into abandoning her composure?
Only, as he consumed her with his gaze, he found the same uncertain glint she’d walked into the room wearing.
“…join together this Man and this Woman in holy Matrimony; which is an honourable estate…”
She wanted to run. The urge to bolt, even now bled from her eyes the way ink did a flimsy piece of parchment.
The question remained. Why didn’t she? With any other marriage-minded lady, there’d be no mystery. Wealth, power, and the title Duchess of Argyll had driven women to compete for that coveted role, women more beautiful than his soon to be wife.
For that matter, if either of their wedding pair were taking flight, Argyll was the candidate to do so.
Kilburn wasn’t wrong earlier.
“…signifying unto us the mystical union…”
Argyll, a confirmed rake with an abhorrence for attachments and a particularly strong loathing of the marital stateshouldbe riddled with horror and mourning his bachelorhood.
“…that is betwixt Christ and his Church…”
No person, neither man nor woman readily exposed themselves to shame. They just did not.
This one had almost done so, and for Argyll’s undeserving arse no less. The unknown fascinated him. She mystified him.
