Benedict was a landowner.
“…It was ordained for a remedy against sin…”
He was on familiar terms with the Duke of Wildeforde.
“Both in prosperity and adversity…”
He had enough money to warrant a man of business in London.
“…if any man can show any just cause why they may not lawfully be joined together, let him now speak, or else hereafter forever hold his peace…”
Tears pricked her eyes, but that was where they stopped. Weakness was for lesser women, and she would not cry.
She was not without wealth. She had jewels. It would break her heart to sell them, but she could rent a small house in London or escape to the continent until the gossip died down.
She closed her eyes, pressing her lips together. Her nails bit into the silk of her gloves.
Large hands covered hers, warm even through two layers of fabric. They teased at her fingers, loosening her death grip, unlacing them until she no longer held tightly to herself but to him. She looked up. His expression was unexpectedly kind.
“I take thee, Lady Amelia Elizabeth Crofton, to be my wedded wife, to have and to hold…”
Goodness, were they up to this part already?
Her heart began to pound. The ringing in her ears reached a crescendo.
Benedict looked at her intently.
Was it her turn? What was she supposed to say?
The priest repeated himself.
She took a deep breath. “I take thee, Benedict Asterly, to be my wedded husband. To love, cherish, and to obey…”
A handful of words only—choked out. And inside, beyond the walls that kept her safe, something shattered.
Chapter4
At the pub on your wedding night? Your choices have been interesting lately.” Edwina slid another pitcher of ale toward Benedict with more force than usual. The drink sloshed over the lip, adding to the sticky layer on top of the chipped and marred wood.
The barmaid’s words had the same edge all his conversations tonight rested on. Even the men he worked with were stiff, their playful teasing forced.
“Their blood is blue for a reason, Ben. They’re ice cold,” one said.
His foreman, Oliver, dug an elbow into Benedict’s side. “From what I heard, there was nothing cold about the way they were found. On dis-hab-ill, as the French say.”
The men around him laughed, the sound lost in the general din of men talking. It seemed his marriage was the most amusing thing to happen in Abingdale for years, but he couldn’t find anything funny in their teasing.
“You didn’t lose anything that night, did you? And that’s why you’re here instead of there, you know—” The blacksmith made an explicit gesture with his fingers.
“Ben took Wildeforde’s fiancée; maybe the duke took something in return?”
The mention of Wildeforde made Benedict’s blood boil even more than the mention of his damned wife. The whole damned debacle was his fault.
Benedict pushed back from the bar. “Excuse me if I choose to enjoy my own company tonight, boys.”
He walked away from the group, but not before one last, loaded comment reached him. “That’s what you get for marrying out of your class.”
The blow hit so hard he almost stumbled. He’d known marrying her highness was going to lay waste to his life at home, but he’d been naïvely hoping the problem would remain confined to his property and not follow him here.
