Chapter 3
Chapter Three
The kiss was meant to be brief. Formal. A mere acknowledgment of the ritual. Yet the moment his lips met the softness of hers, he was lost.
She was warm. Softer than he had any business noticing in a church, before God and his great-aunt Cordelia and the bishop himself.
Her mouth was pliant beneath his, and there was the faintest trace of something sweet on her breath.
He noticed, with an attention that struck him as wildly inappropriate to the moment, the precise place where her upper lip curved into its small, decided bow.
There was a faint, unsteady intake of her breath against his mouth, and though she did not lean into him, she did not retreat either. She simply received him, steady and unflinching, with the same stubborn courage that had undoubtedly carried her down the aisle in another woman’s gown.
Interesting.
Very interesting.
He pulled back before the moment could linger into something inappropriate for the setting, his gaze locking onto hers once more.
There was no fear there in her warm brown eyes. Nor any semblance of regret or embarrassment.
Only a bright, stubborn certainty—and, he saw now, the smallest, treacherous flicker of something else.
Awareness. The faintest dilation of those tea-colored eyes, the slightest catch in her breathing that she had not quite managed to suppress.
So… the kiss had not been entirely without effect on her either.
He filed the observation away.
Tristan straightened, turning outward as the first murmurs rippled through the congregation—the soft, anticipatory hum of a wedding party preparing to spill from the pews into the aisle.
Somewhere to his left, his great-aunt Cordelia was already weeping in the satisfied manner of women who enjoyed weeping at weddings.
The bishop was beaming. The vicar was tucking his prayer book beneath his arm.
None of them knew. Not one of them had yet noticed his bride was not the woman he’d intended to marry.
He offered his arm.
For the briefest of moments, she hesitated. He felt rather than saw the small indrawn breath, the infinitesimal stiffening of her shoulders beneath the ivory silk.
Then she placed her hand upon his sleeve.
His fingers closed over hers—firm, unyielding, a pressure just shy of warning. Through the soft kid of her glove, he could feel the slight, betraying tremor of her fingers, hastily stilled.
“Smile,” he said under his breath, his voice smooth and dangerously quiet, pitched for her ear alone beneath the rising swell of the recessional. “You’ve just married a man who does not enjoy being made a fool.”
She drew in a long, deliberate breath beside him.
And then—infuriating, magnificent creature—she smiled. A small, radiant, perfectly convincing bridal smile, calibrated for the back row of the church, untouched by anything resembling contrition.
Tristan permitted himself the smallest answering curve of his own mouth. Let them see a duke besotted. Let them see whatever served.
There would be a reckoning. There would, in fact, be several. But it would happen on his terms, in his time, behind doors that closed firmly upon the world.
And then, with perfect composure, he led his bride down the aisle and into their waiting carriage.
He instructed the driver to take the long way back to Somerset House.
Give the guests time to arrive at the wedding breakfast and him time to come up with some manner of believable explanation.
Mentally, he made a list of the details that would need to be handled before the rumor mill caught fire, as it were.
Contact the archbishop to rectify the marriage license. Send a new announcement to the Times. Notify Mrs. Richards, his very discreet and loyal housekeeper, that she could, in turn, inform the rest of the staff.
Finally, he leveled his gaze at his new wife. Without the veil covering her face and the front of her body, he could easily see her very voluptuous cleavage. Perhaps there would be benefits to bedding this wife he had not considered when he’d been planning to wed Eliza.
“I expect an explanation before we arrive at Somerset House,” he said.
“It’s quite simple, your bride did not wish to marry you, and I needed a husband,” she said. Her manner of speaking was so casual, one might think she was offering her opinion on a bit of fabric.
“Did not wish to marry me,” he repeated. “Where, pray tell, is Miss Redding?”
“I suspect she is halfway to Gretna Green about now. Though admittedly, I do not know how long such a trip takes.”
“Gretna Green? Eloping with another man. Today has been full of surprises,” he muttered. “Now then, Imogen.”
She inhaled sharply. “I do not believe I’ve given you leave to use my Christian name.”
Tristan chuckled. “You lost the right to grant or deny that permission when you vowed to be my wife.”
Her mouth opened, then closed. A furrow appeared between her brows.
“Had not considered that, had you, Imogen. Tell me, what else did you not consider when you stole my wedding like a common thief?”