Theo turned toward her, but she did not meet his gaze.
“And do you both understand the sanctity and weight of the vows you will speak before God, family and community?”
“I believe so,” Hetty said, her voice a shade softer.
“As do I,” Theo replied. “Though I daresay I shall be reminded often, should I forget.”
The vicar gave a brisk nod and reached for his well-thumbed little notebook, making a careful notation in what looked like minuscule, pious handwriting. “Then I am satisfied,” he said at last, shutting the book with a decisive thump. And that, apparently, was that.
They rose and left the room with formal pleasantries. After closing the door behind them, Theo offered his arm, and after the briefest hesitation, Hetty placed her gloved hand upon it. They walked slowly through the stone-flagged passage, his steps still cautious from injury,her posture unyieldingly straight, like a governess about to deliver a scolding.
From somewhere near the adjoining chapel, Lady Tolliver’s voice floated down the corrido, rising over a discussion about embroidery patterns, the phrase “scalloped hemstitch” echoing with menace.
Theo paused just outside the door leading to the side aisle, reluctant to open it and thereby relinquish Hetty’s arm. “Well,” he said at last, “that was delightfully awkward.”
“I imagine it could have been worse,” Hetty replied.
“We might have burst into tears.”
“Or run off separately in opposite directions.”
Theo smiled. “Or confessed before God and Reverend Peters that neither of us has the faintest notion what we are doing.”
Hetty hesitated. “Don’t you?”
“Know what I am doing?”
She gave a small nod.
“I haven’t the slightest idea,” he admitted. “This is rather not what we planned, is it? And yet… I find I do not mind the notion of marrying you nearly so much as I ought.”
That made her look up, sharp and searching.
“And you?” he asked gently.
“I do not mind it,” she murmured. “Not nearly as much as I imagined I would.”
“We are in rather deep now, aren’t we?”
Hetty sighed. “Dreadfully.”
“Shall we keep pretending not to enjoy it?”
Hetty’s lips twitched. “Is that not the foundation of every well-bred courtship?”
“Oh, certainly,” he said. “Suppress all genuine sentiment, maintain an air of studied detachment, and never, under any circumstances, admit to being fond of one another.”
“It sounds perfectly dreadful when put like that.”
“Precisely why I prefer our version. Clandestine kisses beneath the wisteria, duels at dawn, near-death experiences conducted with flair. So much more diverting.”
She shot him a look of mock disapproval. “You make our courtship sound like the plot of a particularly lurid novel.”
“I should be deeply offended,” he said, “were it not so entirely accurate.”
“Oh dear,” said Hetty, making a face. “I rather called this a courtship, didn’t I?”
He glanced down at her with a smile. “Well, I should say we’ve rather earnt the term. Unless you would rather call it a travelling circus?”
