But finally, Clio and Warson reached the pulpit—Warson only glared twice, which felt like progress—and Clio’s hand was there, where it belonged, wrapped in Hector’s protective hold.
It was something, even if she still wasn’t properly lookingathim.
He forced his fingers not to clench too tightly. He had to remember that he needed to let her go.
“Dearly beloved,” intoned the vicar, an ancient fellow with cloudy eyes who beamed at Hector and Clio like they were the most beautiful couple he’d ever seen, not a scarred duke leaning on a walking stick and a woman who had recently been weeping, “we are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of this congregation, to join together this man and this woman in holy matrimony …”
The vicar droned on, his slow method of speech making the sermon all the longer, and Hector was torn between longing for the shortened version he’d witnessed in the village chapel in the North and naked gratitude that he got to stand here with Clio for just a little bit longer, her fingers limp in his.
When Hector spoke his vows, he prayed that Clio could tell that he meant them … all except for the part aboutto have and to hold, he reminded himself sternly.
And when Clio offered her vows in return, he scoured her face for signs that she loathed him as much as she seemed to.
“I, Clio Warson, take thee, Hector Ferrars—” He couldn’t even take proper pleasure in her speaking his name. “—as my wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love, cherish, and to obey, till death us do part.”
They were lies, all lies—they would not cherish or care for one another, neither in sickness nor in health—and, yes, countless couples had told these same lies in this same manner because they’d been forced to wed, especially the aristocratic ones …
But suddenly, it felt profane to Hector, who had never been particularly religious in the first place.
He could not banish the bitter taste in his mouth, and the perfunctory kiss that they shared did nothing to soothe him. It was … cold. Nothing like their previous touches, even from the very beginning.
It was almost as though Clio wasn’t even here at all, as though her body was present, but her soul was absent.
The moment the ceremony was over, she let go of his hand. Somehow, he managed to release her fingers in turn.
She was his wife now. So why did she feel farther away than ever?
CHAPTER 16
“Ithink we can all admit that he’sveryhandsome,” Ariadne, one of Clio’s cousins, said quietly to the cluster of Lightholder women in which Clio had found herself ensconced during the wedding breakfast.
“Ariadne,” Phoebe said, kicking her friend’s ankle lightly. “I don’t think you’re supposed to say that someone’s new husband is handsome. Especially in front ofyourhusband.” She nodded to where David was lingering, evidently delighted by the ladies’ gossip.
“Oh, no,” he said mildly. “I quite agree. From an objective standpoint, of course, but with all the gruffness and the scars? He would not find himself a wallflower at one of our parties.”
He and Ariadne exchanged a knowing glance at this reference to the (famously scandalous) parties that the pair habitually threw. Clio had never been to one, obviously, but she’d heard the rumors that they were all-out bacchanals.
“Youdefinitelyaren’t supposed to saythat,” Phoebe said, darting a glance at Clio.
And, yes, Clio supposed sheshouldmind. But, strangely enough, she felt lighter than she had all week.
She couldn’t say for certain whether that was because of her family or because every time she looked over at Hector … he was already looking back at her.
It felt oddlysafe, that knowledge that he would be there. Was that what marriage was, then? The security that another person is always there?
Except, no. He wouldn’t always be there. He was going to leave her behind.
She turned back to her family.Theyweren’t leaving her, after all.
“I like his accent,” Helen said just as smugly as if she had invented a Northern accent herself. “I believe I’m setting a fashion.”
Catherine Egelton, Duchess of Seaton and Helen’s sister by marriage, pressed her lips together. “You believe that you set a fashion by … having the man grow up in the same region as you?”
“Please don’t use logic to dismantle my fantasies, Kitty,” Helen requested politely. “I am trying to be pleased with myself.”
“By all means,” Catherine said, clearly amused.
They were all in a fine fettle, these women whom Clio loved—and David, who had never found a crowd he couldn’t easily join. They were acting as though this was a normal wedding, as though no scandal had brought this to their doors.
