Chapter Fifteen
“You may kissthe bride.”
Olivia faced the groom.
My husband.
Montague stood behind her, the warmth from his body providing much-needed comfort. Even at the brink her brother had offered her a means of escape. But a wicked little corner of her soul had whispered of the prospect of pleasure when she saw the dark hunger in the eyes of the man to whom she now belonged.
Swallowing her fear, she tipped her face up, offering her lips for a kiss.
The moment had come. Eleanor said that the bridal kiss was the tenderest gesture a husband could make. It was the first gesture of affection after a bride uttered her vows before the Almighty, and the groom’s duty was therefore to show her, by means of a kiss, that she’d made a wise choice.
It would be the moment when all her fears dissolved, when the spark of tenderness she’d seen in Lord Devereaux’s eyes would flourish and bloom.
She held her breath while he met her gaze and lowered his head.
Then he pulled away.
The organist started to play a march, a victorious refrain that filled the chapel as the congregation stood. But there was no victory. The groom could hardly bear to look at her, let alone kiss her.
How abhorrent he must think her!
Olivia blinked and her vision blurred for a heartbeat, then it cleared, and she caught sight of Eleanor in the front pew, and beside her, Montague’s mother. When Olivia had first been presented before the dowager, the older woman had stared at her as if she were an insect that needed to be stamped out—understandable, perhaps, given that Olivia was living evidence of the late duke’s infidelity. But, in the past year, the dowager had softened a little—enough, at least, that she was not averse to kissing Olivia on both cheeks at each greeting. Her dislike of Olivia, however, could never be completely conquered.
How much more must her new husband dislike her if he couldn’t even bring himself to kiss her on the cheek?
In the second pew behind Eleanor stood her sister Juliette and her husband Earl Staines, together with Miss Lucas, whose pale, sickly complexion rendered her perhaps the only creature in the chapel more miserable than Olivia herself. The poor girl looked as if she might faint at any moment.
Olivia fingered her necklace—a simple gold chain with a pearl pendant that Eleanor had given her last night as a token of love between sisters. She ran her fingertips over the pearl, seeking comfort from its smoothness. But there was none to be had. Biting her lip to stem the tears, she caught her husband’s sleeve. He stiffened and glanced at her, then he stepped along the aisle in long, slow strides, while she hurried to keep up.
They emerged from the chapel. Olivia blinked, letting her eyes adjust to the sunlight, then a coach-and-four came into focus, bearing the Whitcombe crest. The horses stood patiently, their polished harnesses gleaming, while the coachman sat holding the reins. A footman climbed down from the back, which was already laden with trunks, and opened the carriage door.
This was it—the means by which she would be transported from everything she held dear.
The congregation gathered to wish the couple well, their merry chatter filling the air. Olivia turned to see Eleanor approaching, arms outstretched.
“A word, if you please, Devereaux,” Montague said as he emerged from the chapel accompanied by the vicar. The groom withdrew his arm and approached Montague as Eleanor ran toward Olivia.
“Oh, sister!” she cried. “I do hope you’ll be happy. Write to me often, darling, so that I may be assured of your happiness.”
“I will,” Olivia said, her throat tightening.
“And don’t merely write pleasantries,” Eleanor said. “You know I care naught for such vile niceties. I’m not the kind of correspondent who only wishes to be told how grand your new home is or how fine the furnishings are. I want—need—to know howyouare. I can only bear the thought of you leaving us if I know that you are happier with”—she faltered—“withhim…than you have been with us.”
Olivia glanced toward the chapel doors, where her brother stood beside Devereaux. Both men wore grim expressions, as if a declaration of war had been made.
Perhaps it had.
“Oh, Eleanor!” Olivia said. “If only you knew…” She trailed off as Eleanor’s sister approached, together with her husband and Miss Lucas.
“Dearest Olivia, I’m so pleased to see you happily married as you deserve.”
“And I trust that you will be,” Miss Lucas said, her voice a low rasp. “I wish—” She broke off in a fit of coughing.
“My dear, are you quite well?” Eleanor said. Miss Lucas nodded, but she looked far from healthy. In the dim light of the chapel her skin had looked pale, but in the bright sunlight it carried a sheen of moisture, as if merely existing was taking its toll on her constitution.
“I-I know that Olivia will be happy with such a fine-looking husband.”
