Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“Do try to smile, Miss,” the maid said gently, her brush pausing mid-stroke. “Are you not pleased? It is your wedding day, after all.”
Joan sat before the looking glass in one of the guest chambers at her brother’s London townhouse, watching as the lady’s maid, a woman borrowed from a neighboring household, carefully applied rouge to her pale cheeks.
The wedding gown rustled with every breath she took, a confection of white silk and lace that Julian had insisted upon.
It was beautiful, she supposed, in an impersonal sort of way.
Joan forced her lips to curve upward, a mechanical gesture that felt nothing like genuine happiness.
The maid’s expression shifted to something like pity, though she tried to hide it.
“I must confess, I am quite surprised. After all the talk about the Earl and his… situation… I did not think any respectable family would consent to an alliance with him. Especially yours, Miss, given your family’s reputation for propriety. ”
Joan’s smile remained fixed in place. “The Earl has always held my deepest affection. I am honored to finally become his wife.”
The lie tasted like ash on her tongue, but she delivered it with perfect conviction.
The maid looked at her with unmistakable pity now, but she wisely said nothing more. She finished applying the rouge and stepped back to survey her work.
A knock at the door interrupted the uncomfortable silence. The maid curtsied and left quickly, as though grateful for an excuse to escape.
Damian entered, and Joan felt her carefully constructed composure threaten to crack. Her brother looked haggard, his eyes red-rimmed, his face drawn with exhaustion and grief. He wore his finest evening clothes, but they hung on him as though he’d lost weight in the past week.
He crossed to where Joan sat and carefully tucked a small white flower into her elaborately arranged hair. His hands trembled slightly as he adjusted it.
“Your wedding gown is very beautiful,” he said quietly.
Joan smiled up at him. “Thank you.”
Damian met her eyes in the mirror. “We can still run. Right now. This very moment.” His voice dropped to an urgent whisper.
“I can take you away from here. I have spoken with several officials who are growing impatient with Julian’s conduct.
You and Victoria and I, we can leave London tonight.
Disappear somewhere he cannot reach us.”
Joan felt something twist painfully in her chest. “If you attempt to ruin my wedding, I shall have you removed from the premises immediately.”
“Joan, ”
“I mean it, Damian.”
Her brother was silent for a long moment. Then he said, very softly, “What about the Duke?”
Joan’s hands clenched in her lap, hidden beneath the folds of her gown.
“I do not care about the Duke. Why should I harbor hopes for a love so far above my station? He is a duke, Damian. He could have his pick of accomplished women who would strengthen his political connections and enhance his social standing. Why should I dream of such an impossible match? Whatever passed between us was merely a… a passing fancy. Nothing more.”
“You’re lying.”
Joan looked at her brother in the mirror and said nothing.
Damian turned her chair so she faced him directly. He knelt before her, taking her cold hands in his warm ones. “You like him. Don’t you?”
Joan opened her mouth to deny it. To dismiss the question with the same cold indifference she’d shown everyone else.
But this was Damian. Her brother who had become a man. Who had shouldered responsibilities too heavy for his years. Who deserved at least one honest answer from her.
“I do,” she whispered.
“Then why?” Damian’s voice cracked. “Why love one man and marry another? What honor is there in that, dear sister?”
“Feelings change.”
“No.” Damian shook his head firmly. “Some feelings don’t change. You have loved Victoria and me since we were children. That love has never wavered, not even when we gave you every reason to resent us for the burdens we placed upon you.”
Joan tried to pull her hands free, but Damian held firm.
“This wedding is for my own benefit,” she said, forcing steel into her voice. “I wish to be a countess. I desire the status and security that comes with such a position. You think me selfless, but perhaps I am merely practical. Perhaps I am even cruel.”
Please believe me, she thought desperately. Please think me selfish and ambitious so you stop trying to save me.
Damian looked at her for a long moment. Then he released her hands and stood, his expression unutterably sad.
“You have given so much to us,” he said quietly, “that you no longer recognize when it is time to keep something for yourself.” He paused, and when he spoke again, his voice was thick with unshed tears. “Mama and Papa would be heartbroken to see you do this.”
“You will keep our parents out of this discussion.”
But Damian reached forward and pulled her into a fierce embrace, crushing her elaborate gown and disturbing her carefully arranged hair. Joan felt his chest heave with suppressed sobs.
“This time,” he whispered against her hair, “I beg you, choose yourself. Please, Joan. Choose yourself.”
Joan closed her eyes and inhaled the familiar scent of her brother, leather and ink and the tobacco he’d taken to smoking when anxious. She wanted to return the embrace. Wanted to cling to him and agree that yes, they should run. They should flee this house and this city and never look back.
But she couldn’t. If she showed any weakness now, Damian would act on it. Would try to save her. And Julian would make them all pay.
So she simply stood there, passive and unresponsive in her brother’s arms, until he finally released her.
He stepped back and wiped his eyes quickly, trying to compose himself.
“How is Victoria?” Joan asked, careful to keep her voice casual despite the worry gnawing at her insides.
“She is well. Physically, at least. Though drowning in guilt.”
As I knew she would be, Joan thought. My gentle, tender-hearted Victoria.
The maid returned, bobbing a quick curtsy. She touched up Joan’s rouge where Damian’s embrace had disturbed it, then stepped back once more.
Joan looked at her brother in the mirror. “This marriage is my choice. It is for my own advancement and benefit. Do you understand?”
Damian held her gaze for a moment. Then, slowly, he nodded.
“The guests are assembled,” he said, his voice carefully neutral now. “The carriage awaits outside.”
“I will only enter the carriage that Julian has sent for me,” Joan said. “Not our own.”
“Very well.” Damian paused at the door. “May I… may I walk you down the aisle?”
Despite everything, despite the lies and the cold indifference she’d forced herself to show, Joan felt tears prick her eyes at the question.
“Yes,” she whispered. “I would like that very much.”
Damian nodded and left, closing the door softly behind him.
Joan turned back to the mirror. The woman staring back at her looked like a stranger, pale and perfect and utterly lifeless. A beautiful doll dressed for a wedding she didn’t want to a man she despised.
The maid appeared at her shoulder. “The carriage is ready, Miss. Are you prepared?”
Joan looked at her reflection one final time, at the elaborate gown, the carefully arranged hair, the rouge that gave false color to her bloodless cheeks.
This is the last moment, she thought. The last moment I belong to myself. The last moment I am simply Joan Sinclair.
In an hour, she would be the Countess of Aldridge. Julian’s wife. Bound to him for the rest of her life.
“Miss?” the maid prompted gently. “Are you ready?”
Joan took a deep breath and stood, smoothing her skirts with hands that no longer trembled.
“Yes,” she said, still looking at her reflection. “I am ready.”
Joan walked down the aisle on Damian’s arm, her feet moving automatically despite the terror freezing her insides. The church was packed with guests, London’s elite, all dressed in their finest, all watching her with expressions ranging from curiosity to barely concealed schadenfreude.
She saw Julian waiting at the altar, that self-satisfied smirk on his handsome face. He was laughing with the vicar, utterly confident that everything was proceeding according to his plan.
The whispers started immediately.
“…can’t believe she’s actually marrying him…”
“…after everything with that woman…”
“…desperate, I suppose…”
“…the Sinclairs must be in dire straits indeed…”
Joan’s hands began to shake. She gripped Damian’s arm tighter, her nails digging into the fabric of his coat.
“Joan?” Damian’s voice was concerned.
“I’m scared,” she whispered.
It was the first time she had admitted fear aloud in over a decade. The first time she had allowed herself to feel it, truly feel it, rather than pushing it down and soldiering forward.
I can’t do this, she realized with sudden clarity. I don’t want Victoria to do this, but I don’t want to do it either. I cannot marry this man. I cannot.
“Then let’s run,” Damian said immediately, his voice urgent. “Right now. We’ll leave through the side door.”
Joan stopped walking.
Her feet refused to move forward. She looked at Julian, still smirking at the altar. Then at Damian, whose eyes blazed with desperate hope. Her heart pounded so hard she could hear it in her ears, feel it in her throat. The entire church seemed to hold its breath.
What do I do? What do I do?
Julian’s smirk faded as the whispers grew louder. People were staring openly now, confused by her frozen stance halfway down the aisle.
Julian began walking toward them, his expression shifting from confidence to irritation.
“Joan,” Damian whispered urgently, tugging at her arm. “Come on. We have to go now.”
But Joan couldn’t move. Her feet might as well have been nailed to the floor.
Julian reached them and grabbed her other arm, his fingers digging in painfully. He leaned close, his breath hot against her ear.