Apart from Charles’s valet, the groom’s side remained empty. Embarrassingly so—or it would have been if Charles cared about such things.
On the bride’s side were all manner of folk, from the highest to the lowest, weaving among the pews before taking their seats. A handful of genteel creatures took the frontmost pews—Duchess Whitcombe accompanied an elderly matriarch, engulfed in a riot of black lace, whose cane tap-tapped across the flagstones on the aisle, pausing momentarily as she stepped onto a stone carved with a series of letters—a eulogy to one of the late dukes, perhaps? The second pew was occupied by a smattering of gentility that Charles recognized from London—the duchess’s sister Lady Staines and her husband, together with a lone young woman with soft chestnut curls and wide hazel eyes in her pale, sickly complexion. The remainder of the guests were of a different class altogether—men, women, and children bedecked in their shabby Sunday best.
Since when did a duke invite servants and tenants to his sister’s wedding? Of course, the girl was a natural child who perhaps had been brought up among these people, but any young women in her position, about to become a countess, would surely want to shun suchconnections.
Charles glanced at John, who grinned and gestured with his hands.
Anyone would think we’re attending a funeral.
A volley of whispers broke out, followed by silence. Then a louder whisper came from the back of the church, a soft voice filled with fear accompanied by a deeper one, and the skin on the back of Charles’s neck tightened.
The bride had arrived.
The vicar nodded to John, who rose to stand beside Charles. The moment of surrender had come.
Then a fanfare began as the organist gave vent to his joy—the kind of joy that made a rational man want to expel his breakfast—and the congregation stood in unison.
Firm, steady footsteps drew near, accompanied by a lighter, more hesitant tread. Unable to stop himself, Charles stole a glance over his shoulder.
Whitcombe bore his usual dominant, determined attitude, his expression as dark as his suit. The only light on his form was the reflection of the sunlight off his jacket buttons and the decorative stitching around the cuffs.
The young woman on his arm carried a simple posy of wildflowers and grasses, perhaps gleaned from a nearby hedgerow. She wore a plain white gown trimmed with the minimum amount of lace and a pale-green sash. Hardly the attire of a duke’s sister, but thrift in a wife was preferable to extravagance. Perhaps she’d manage Charles’s household with equal economy.
Assuming she knew how to manage a household. A village girl would know nothing of such things, and, by her own admission, she was more comfortable baking biscuits in the kitchen than directing a body of staff.
But she was not without wits. The spark of intelligence in her eyes when he’d taken her in his arms the night of the ball had told him that.And, of course, she was intelligent enough to fear him.
That fear shimmered in the air around her now, as she took each faltering step toward the altar. She wore no veil—evidence, if needed, of her lack of chasteness. Her hair was fashioned into a simple style, but wisps were already breaking free, forming a halo around her head, illuminated in the sunlight.
He might have mistaken her for an angel, graceful and divine in her serenity. But, with her mouth downturned, face flushed, eyes bright with moisture, and quivering lips, she looked as miserable a creature as Charles had ever seen.
Imagine what Father would have made of her! With his elevated opinion of himself and the Devereaux name that had driven Charles’s mother to despair, Father would have suffered a fit of apoplexy had Charles brought home a by-blow as a bride—but then, according to his father, Charles had always been “the very worst son a man could have.”
He lifted his eyes to the ceiling and sent up a prayer.
I hope you’re satisfied now, you old bastard.
At that moment, the bride, who had been studying the floor, lifted her gaze to his. She tensed, like a mouse before a predator, and her eyes widened. She glanced at her brother, but he continued along the aisle, and she almost tripped in an effort to keep up. Whitcombe glanced at her, frowning, and she tightened her grip on his sleeve until they reached the altar, where Whitcombe released her and stepped aside.
The vicar cleared his throat, opened the book in his hands, and began to speak.
Charles stole a glimpse at his bride. She stared straight ahead, clinging to the grasses, their fronds moving slightly as she trembled.
Devil’s breeches, he might as well have been standing before a gibbet awaiting execution.
Charles exhaled sharply and his bride stiffened and turned her gazeto him, before resuming her attention on the vicar.
Fuck.
He couldn’t let the poor girl suffer a lifetime with him. She was the least objectionable woman he’d encountered. By virtue of that, she deserved to be free.
The vicar droned on, his voice carrying an undertone of superciliousness and lacking any variation. It was a wonder the congregation remained awake, though Charles was sure he could discern a snore or two from the front pew.
He gestured to John, who shuffled closer. Ignoring the vicar’s raised eyebrow, he motioned with his hands.
For the love of the Almighty, tell the girl she’s at liberty to call a stop to the wedding.
John stared at Charles’s hands. His mouth formed a firm line, and he shook his head.
