Chapter Ten
WHITHER-GO-YE. A wife: wives being sometimes apt to
question their husbands whither they are going. (Grose 1811)
The aisle loomed ahead, an elongated path of fraught unease and enormity.
And at the end of it stood her spouse-to-be. Or rather the back of him, as although guests had twisted for a glimpse of her, Rakecombe remained unperturbed.
How typical.
Mr Beckford patted her hand and cast a questioning glance, to which she responded with a smile. She herself had agreed to this wedding and a Quinlan never backed down, so grasping his hand firmly, too firmly judging by his grimace, the two of them meandered down the aisle as though they’d all the time in the world.
Amongst the guests, Sophie fluttered her hand from a pew to the left and Jack winked from the right. Mrs Beckford cast a watery grin and Meghan positively beamed.
Rakecombe still remained unperturbed.
Finally, as her skirts rustled against his leg and Kelmarsh nudged him with an elbow, he tipped his head in her direction.
It would almost have been a disappointment if he had smiled, a cliché. Firm lips held their place, cool eyes inspected and nostrils flared, so she merely raised a brow and then faced the man of God about to marry them.
For the entire ceremony, the Duke of Restraint reigned supreme, his bearing officious and unbending as though a blade prodded his spine, skin like ice when their hands were joined in holy matrimony.
And no warmth entered his eyes as he held out his arm for them to depart the church as husband and wife, although his gaze did linger on the violets in her hair.
A part of her wished he’d show some slight contentment at marrying her, but then again, his solemn countenance had given credence in this life-binding ceremony and she’d felt a certain comfort in his firm avowals to care for her always, in sickness and in health.
But the fact remained, he’d resembled an icicle.
Indeed, an icicle might have been preferable – at least they melted in spring.
∞∞∞
“I am going out. I will not return for dinner.”
The stern voice, not requiring of reply, interrupted her thoughts, and she eyed her husband of barely one hour across the celebratory wedding table, guests and family chatting around her with inebriated enthusiasm.
He hadn’t melted during the carriage ride to the Rakecombe residence. Instead, he’d grown yet more tense, more aloof, and the only saving grace to all this starchiness were his clothes. A bottle-green tailcoat, an emerald waistcoat, black breeches, and an amethyst stickpin which matched her dress.
The damn bug looked utterly splendid, but had he attempted to brighten up his attire for her benefit or–
“Glad to see my togs fit you, Rakehell,” boomed Lord Winterbourne as he plonked himself on the seat next to her husband.
That would be a no, then. Jack had persuaded him.
How very…disenchanting. And now he was going out. On their wedding day.
Yes, their marriage had been forced, but surely he liked her well enough to spend a few hours with her?
But perhaps he didn’t. Perhaps a certain desire was all he felt, and the surly shabbaroon had tired of their banter already.
She looked away, not wishing him to see the hurt, but ended up clashing eyes with Jack – who saw all too well, she realised.
“You look divine, Aideen. Perfect,” the rogue flattered. “Has Rakeshame also told you that? Or is he being coy?”
Abruptly, she straightened her spine. She was a Quinlan…and now a Rakecombe. The combination appeared heady. “No, Jack, he hasn’t. To be sure, he has been most solemn and inaudible. One would think he is not happy withhischoice.”
“Perhaps, Your Gracefulness,” Jack countered, “he just needs a little encouragement. What say you, Rakeshame, how do you find your bride?”
