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Anthony ignored him, too fixated on his bride to look away for a single moment.
Where her gowns were usually plain and conservative, high-collared and long-sleeved, this one was positively daring: capped sleeves and a curved neckline, a dulled bronze sash accentuating her waist. Yet, where skin might have shown, there was a gauzy material, a kind of gossamer muslin in a periwinkle blue. It covered the space between her sleeves and the top of her long, silky gloves, while the same fabric formed a sort of flimsy fichu at her neck and chest.
To hide her scars, he realized, though he had no notion of the extent of them.
In no time at all, she stood before him.
Her uncle, tears trailing down his cheeks, took her hand and placed it in Anthony’s. “Take care of her, Your Grace. Treat her well and cherish her.” He hiccupped. “If you cannot do that, then send her back to me.”
A flicker of guilt caught Anthony in the stomach, seeing the man’s hopes while knowing he could not promise everything he had asked.
“I will,” he said anyway, for at least he could ensure the first two. “She will want for nothing.”
Her uncle whipped out a handkerchief and dabbed at his eyes. With a tender, quavering smile, he leaned in and kissed Marina’s brow, taking her bouquet of flowers from her before retreating to the pews. It made for a rather mournful image: the old man alone on the front row, quietly sobbing, holding a spray of pretty blooms.
Indeed, there were far fewer people on Marina’s side of the church, just her uncle and a few servants.
“You chose well,” Anthony said.
Marina’s throat bobbed, her voice a croak as she replied, “Pardon?”
“Your gown. You chose well.”
“Oh… Thank you.” She put on a smile that did not reach her eyes. “It was your grandmother’s doing. I would have been hopeless without her.”
“She likes to spend,” he said, meaning it in jest, but he was not even certain Marina was listening.
She seemed distracted, her gaze flitting anxiously to the larger crowd of guests on his side of the church: Harriet, William, Malcolm, Octavia and the children; then Octavia’s brother Hugo and his wife Evelyn, which of course meant that their cousin Dominic and his wife, Frances, were in attendance. Then, there were Anthony’s friends from Eton and their wives, plus Doctor Stanforth who sat with the housekeeper, the butler, and the small handful of staff who had come to bear witness.
“My flowers,” she whispered, her voice cracking.
Anthony frowned. “Your bouquet?”
“I… have not yet thanked you for sending them,” she said stiffly. “They were a lovely surprise.”
His frown deepened. “Miss Longman, I did not send them.”
“Pardon?”
“My son did,” he explained. “He wanted to wish you good luck and congratulations. Was there no note?”
For a moment, she looked like she might faint, her pale skin blanching a shade lighter. “Oh, of course. That was… um… my mistake. There was a note, but no sender.” She drew in a shaky breath. “Your son has good taste.”
Her gaze returned to the crowd on his side, her breaths sawing in and out, too short and shallow to fill up her lungs. Following her line of sight, he realized she was staring at his grandmother, who was looking back at her with a meaningful expression. One that he could not decipher.
Just then, he noticed that his bride’s hands were shaking in his, a faint sheen of sweat adding to her ethereal glow, her entire demeanor that of a spooked creature about to bolt.
He took a half step closer to her and squeezed her hands in reassurance, as he said softly, “Just look at me, Miss Longman.” She met his gaze, and he smiled. “Just keep your eyes on me.”
The priest welcomed the congregation and asked them to be seated, before moving swiftly into the ceremony.
Throughout the sermon and the vows that followed, Marina reciting to Anthony and Anthony reciting to her, she did not look away once. And as the priest declared them to be man and wife, the Duke and Duchess of Knotgill, he found he had memorized every fleck of gold, every shift of blue in her eyes, knowing the precise number of the thick, dark eyelashes that surrounded them.
Had he been any sort of artist, he could have painted her eyes exactly and called it a masterpiece: the most beautiful work of art that he had ever beheld.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Why is he looking at me like that?
