This knot.
As in the parson’s mousetrap.
Argyll’s stomach churned.
Lyon spoke in a ludicrously loud whisper. “The vows, Argyll.”
The vows.
Two words.
Two syllables.
Seven letters.
Argyll stared over the top of Daria’s dark hair.
Sweat dampened his palms as the primal flight of bachelorhood at last reared. His feet twitched. His mouth went drier than the cheapest gin in London making a recitation of vows impossible.
Soft fingers found their way into his right palm.
Argyll stiffened.
Daria stared up with luminous eyes, no words spoken. No words required.
It is all right.
She nodded.
Argyll flinched. Bloody hell. Overnight he’d become one of those fellows who lost track of his tongue.
Not even married, chap, and your wits are failing you.
Daria’s lips eased into a gentle smile. “Do not worry, Gregory. It will not be a long—”
His teeth hit hard. Grabbing her by the wrists, he whipped her around so the breadth of his body shielded her. “By God, Daria,” he whispered, “if you mention dying one more time, I swear I’m going to kiss you until you don’t have a breath in your body, and then you’ll really be dead.” Anything to get herto stop with all that ominous prescience his bride insisted she possessed.
She met him with wide-eyed silence.
He shook her lightly. “Have I made myself clear?”
Daria nodded slowly.
Argyll released her fast.
He took a controlled breath. “Unless you have any objections, bride, it is time to recite our vows.”
The tiniest smile, elusive like the sun attempting to peak through storm clouds, wavered on her lips.
The rest of their ceremony continued without another hiccough. He and Daria completed their vows without faltering or interruption, and then Lyon finished the remainder of the ceremony.
It is done.
“Lord, have mercy upon us,” Lyon concluded.
Chapter 10
In a day’s time, Daria had cornered Gregory, the Duke of Argyll.
