Alastair threw himself against it in time to catch the flat of Johnny Crocker’s hand. Crocker’s howl of pain was not loud enough to mask the sound of crunching bone. Mrs. Christie screamed. Sir Hadrien shouted something unintelligible. Alastair opened the door a fraction, shoved Crocker’s broken hand inside, and slammed it closed again. The cacophony continued, but the volume of it was lessened considerably.
Griffin set the bar back in place, pried the pistol out of Olivia’s cold grip, and leveled it at Burton. The villain was curled on the floor, knees drawn up like an infant, cradling his injured wrist. His eyes were closed against the intense pain. Tears squeezed through his lashes. Unsympathetic, Griffin simply shook his head.
Alastair made a dignified surge forward, picked up both of the fallen pistols, and with one in each hand, found his balance again.
Olivia touched Griffin’s sleeve lightly, exerting just enough pressure to encourage him to lower his arm. “You don’t want to kill him.”
“I do,” he said. “I really do.”
“Then I don’t want you to.”
Griffin weighed her wishes against his own, considered what it would cost them both to satisfy her honor and indulge his pride, and knew there was only one course of action. He lowered the pistol to his side, and with his free arm, started to draw Olivia close.
Watching them, Alastair Cole was contentedly aware that matters of honor and pride had been left to him.
He raised both pistols and fired.
Chapter Seventeen
June 1823
Alastair Cole offered his arm to his sister. “It’s time,” he whispered, nudging her gently with his elbow. “I made a promise, and I intend to see it through.”
Olivia took up his arm but held it as one desperate to be pulled from the drink, not into it. “There is something to be said for going back on one’s word. I don’t think I fully appreciated that until now.”
He chuckled softly, adjusted her grip on his arm, and bent his head to her ear. “You are simply making noises, Livvy. Your argument has neither passion nor reason. Chin up. Eyes front. Smile. There you go. You look lovely.” He kissed her cheek. “He’s waiting for you.”
Olivia nodded, swallowed, and made to fall in step beside her brother. There was a moment’s hesitation just as they would have started out. Faltering slightly, she disobeyed Alastair’s eyes-front order and gave him her full attention. “I’m glad you proved to be such a poor shot. Twice.”
He pretended to take umbrage. “I was drunk, remember.” He patted her hand. “But I am glad of it, too. Now, shall we?”
Olivia squeezed his arm slightly, her grasp no longer as fierce as it had been. “Very well.” She took a calming breath, then set her eyes in the direction she meant to go. “This is not so different from the first time.”
Beside her, she sensed Alastair’s confusion, but also his relief that she intended to go forward. She did not try to explain herself. The memory that came to her was one that she embraced alone, and it remained more dear because of it. The same emotions surfaced: uncertainty, excitement, wariness. She’d stood in the entrance hall of Breckenridge’s hell and accepted his challenge, in spite of everything she felt in that moment, to come to him.
No, it was not so very different now.
He was there once again, waiting for her, perhaps only marginally more confident that she would arrive to take her place beside him. Olivia suspected she was the only one who glimpsed relief in his eyes when she appeared framed in the alcove. She knew he didn’t doubt she loved him, only that she loved him enough to run the gauntlet that was the center aisle of St. Michael’s church.
It was not the march to the altar that was intimidating. It was the sea of faces on either side of it that gave her pause, and in this regard her imagination hardly stood up to the reality of the thing. She was aware of the gazes turned in her direction, of the assessments they made, of the encouragement that so many pairs of eyes offered.
His sisters were there, all three, husbands and children flanking them. Dr. Pettibone had a seat on the aisle. Lady Rivendale was among the attendees, and she looked on approvingly, supporting the rumor by her condescension that she’d been instrumental in bringing them all to this very place. Mr. Restell Gardner and his wife had come as well. They shared their pew with four gentlemen—four strangers who had once come forward to protect her. Guardian angels, really, whom Olivia would always think of as whiskey, gin, and two pints of ale. Mr. Gardner had brought them forward, had the story from them, and like everyone else, they were here now to wish her happy.
The faces gradually faded into Olivia’s peripheral vision as Griffin filled the whole of it. He stood just to the right of the minister, strikingly handsome in his double-breasted black frock coat with the claw-hammer tails. Mr. Mason had done right by him, turning him out with nary a wrinkle in his trousers and waistcoat and having the good sense to insist on a pristine white neckcloth tied in the intricate Oriental.
His eyes were all for her, and she did not shy away from his glance. Mrs. McCutcheon and her entourage of seamstresses and dressers had done right by her as well. Olivia imagined they would be moved to more teary emotion if they were witness to Griffin’s appreciation of their handiwork. That had been their response when they’d first stepped back to gauge the success of their efforts, and Griffin’s approbation could not help but bring about a similar response.
The gentle, draping folds of her white satin gown brushed together as she walked, then rustled like whispers all around her. A band of pale pink silk edged the bodice, and wide ribbon bands encrusted with seed pearls bordered the hem and cuffed the short sleeves. Her hair, herownhair, was arranged off her neck in a knot every bit as intricate as the Oriental with the added touches of seed pearls and delicate white rose buds.
When she first saw her reflection in the cheval glass she’d wondered at the weeping response of Mrs. McCutcheon and her helpers, but now, seeing herself reflected in Griffin’s dark eyes, she knew an urge to indulge in some teary emotion herself.
“Who gives this woman…”
Olivia heard the words, understood their import, and knew a certain peace in her heart that it was Alastair who stood by her. The irony that he should be the one to give her over to Breckenridge’s care was not lost on any of them, but there was no desperation in the act this time, no avoiding responsibility to have it taken up by another. Alastair spoke his part with clear deliberation, honoring them all with his words.
“I do.”
Olivia’s hand was placed in the one that Griffin held out to her, and she knew the very rightness of it as Alastair backed away and she came to stand at Griffin’s side. This man, this man who would be her husband, held her hand and all of her heart.
