“For a walk…to ponder you ordering the death of Lady Charlotte.”
“Sebastian.” His voice was softer now, curious with a menacing spark in its depths. “Did you plant seeds in my head that deVille was disloyal so that I would have him killed and Charlotte would be saved?”
“Preston,” he said with the same patient smile he would offer a lackwit. “Are you that easy to play upon?”
Preston laughed, a choked-out sound. “Your wiles will not work on me, Surrey.”
Like magic.
He would never admit that Sebastian had compelled him to do anything. His pride couldn’t let him. He would drop the matter of deVille.
A shot rang out from outside. deVille was dead. Sebastian had to bite his lip not to smile. Charlotte was safe for now. None of the other men knew exactly where she was. It wouldn’t take the next one Preston sent long to find her.
“Pres,” he said as he walked to the door, “are you sure you want Charlotte killed? Who will be left to love you if she’s gone?”
“But I’m losing her now to him,” he cried. “She hasn’t come to visit me once!”
“Then he is the one who needs killing, Pres. Not Charlotte.”
Preston gathered himself together and ground out his words on a wrathful groan. “Then go kill him, Bastian.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Michael vowed tolove and honor and cherish Charlotte until death parted them. He didn’t mean it. Death wouldn’t part them. If he died first, his spirit would stay with her. If she died first, he would go to her. He heard the priest in the background reciting Scripture, asking Charlotte the same question.
They were in Croydon, at the manor house. He was marrying a woman he met a few days ago, who had lied to him and let a criminal, who later killed the husband of the woman who was more of a mother to her than her own, go free. Michael knew Charlotte suffered for it. Her heart was broken. She even wept when she apologized to Colin because he’d been hurt. What she had done was wrong, but she was sorry, and Michael understood why she did it.
Rosie and the others were with them while they spoke their vows. They were invited to stay in rooms throughout the large house until their homes were rebuilt. Rosie agreed, happy to be around Charlotte again. Her father had gone along with it, since Charlotte threatened to live in the woods with them if he didn’t. Charlotte didn’t give a damn what her mother thought of the arrangement. Neither, it seemed, did the duke, her father. He’d also gone along with their marriage, since Michael was better than Preston Bristol III, and he knew any protests he had would go unheard by his daughter.
The priest said he could kiss her. Did he dare do it with everyone standing around watching? He was afraid his legs would fail him, or he would throw up.
Had he gone mad somewhere along the way down this rabbit hole? What was he doing getting married? Especially to a troublesome woman?
But he couldn’t look at her without falling in love with her all over again, every time.
This was what he wanted. Her.
He reached for her and cupped her face in his hands then bent to kiss her. When her arms came up around him, he responded—
The priest cleared his throat. People laughed. Michael broke away and laughed with her.
“You are now husband and wife,” the priest informed them.
Michael couldn’t wait for tonight. To have her alone and just…get to know her in every single way possible.
But first would come the celebration. Allegedly, everything was planned out by John, the butler. Some of the women who lived here helped and according to all, her father helped as well and paid for everything.
Her mother stayed away.
“Well,” her father said, coming to stand with them when the ceremony ended, “my daughter is a Pendragon. Tell me,” he said, turning to Michael. “About your father.”
“Albert Davenport was a good man. He—”
“Davenport?” Her father paled. “But your name is Pendridge.”
“I was adopted when I was six months old. My name, I was told, was already given to me. Micajah Pendridge.”
“Micajah?” Charlotte asked, repeating it over. “’Tis very beautiful. Like you.”
