She should flee. Run out of the church and into the street. If she were lucky, a carriage might run her over. Mama would be horrified at the scandal, but Sophia would be dead, so it was unlikely to matter and—
“Ow,” she hissed as her forearm was pinched, somewhat viciously and would probably leave a bruise.
Roxboro was staring at her in irritation, the vicar with expectation.
“I’m…sorry. I didn’t—” she choked.
Another pinch.
“Stop that,” she said under her breath, causing the vicar to raise his brows in question.
“Try to pay attention,” Roxboro murmured. “This is somewhat important.”
“I do. To all of it,” Sophia said, gripping the bouquet to her chest, a shield against what was happening. The vicar droned on about the sanctity of marriage, while she took in the chiseled line of Roxboro’sjaw, the shape of his brows, the patrician nose and—
Sophia inhaled softly, the breath halting in her lungs.
There’s no freckle at the end of his nose.
Her mouth went dry.
There had to be. Possibly she couldn’t see it from this angle. Leaning forward slightly, twisting as she tried to get a good look at the end of his nose.
A soft growl came from Roxboro. “Are you having a seizure of some kind?”
Her heart beat furiously, like a bloody drum in her chest. Panic, the sort which heralds impending doom, sank into every inch of her body.
Why hadn’t she noticed before? Why—
“Do not faint. It’s unseemly at a wedding,” Roxboro said in a bored tone.
“I’m not going to faint.” She turned back to the vicar who looked more annoyed than the duke.
“Your Grace,” the vicar intoned, inclining his head in Sophia’s direction.
Roxboro dipped his chin, the green of his eyes so brilliant as he brushed his mouth rather seductively along Sophia’s own. Not a kiss. More an imitation of one.
A soft sound came from her chest. Pin pricks drew along her arms and down between her thighs. And then it was over.
Applause erupted from the pews as the guests stood and Roxboro turned Sophia, to guide her out of the church. Dozens of eyes, accusatory, she imagined, drew over her as she walked at Roxboro’s side.
No freckle.
Mama was weeping, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. Papa was at her side, patting her shoulder in a soothing manner. Mara sat to their right, her gaze fixed not on Sophia but the Marquess of Caster who sat across the aisle directly opposite her.
Lord Damon’s features were schooled into chilly politeness, that dark, flinty gaze stabbing at Sophia with dislike. Lady Violet tilted her head as Sophia passed, eyeing her with a great deal of curiosity and not the good kind. Lady Rose’s features reflected nothing but absolute boredom. Only Lady Falmouth regarded her with welcome.
Stepping outside, Sophia blinked at the sudden burst of light after the dimly lit church. Her feet dug in as she noted the crowd assembled. Roxboro’s grip on her arm remained firm as he coaxed her forward, forcing her slippered feet to move.
“We’re almost finished, Lady Salamander. You can faint once we get to the carriage.”
“I’m not going to faint. Also, I am not a reptile.”
Roxboro shrugged.
A crowd outside St. Paul’s gathered to congratulate the duke and his new duchess, jostled about, trying to get closer. Someone grabbed at the train of Sophia’s gown. Others yelled out to Roxboro. But he never stopped, nor waved. He led her straight down the steps to his waiting carriage, stumbled at the bottom step and righted himself, turning to face Sophia as he did so.
No freckle.
