Chapter 9 #2
Compelled, he wound his hungry focus to the modest line of her laced bodice, the cut of fabric dipped enough to reveal the clean, regal line of her collarbone.
The deep hollows above those butterfly wings begged for a man’s mouth—his lips, tongue, teeth all required in the conquest of that unchartered territory.
Argyll’s.
His breathing grew shallower, and he stopped his roguish examination. She belonged to him this night, and every one thereafter.
He traced his path lower to where her black satin gown pulled the eye invitingly to a sleek, taut midriff.
Lusting after your own bride, a voice needled. How vulgar.
“Argyll?”
Nerves frayed, Argyll backed away quick.
Lyon caught him before he tripped on his feet. “Whoa, there.”
Argyll rolled his shoulder away from his bloody chaplain. “If you say anything about me being ready to run, Lyon,” he snarled, “I’ll be hiring a new man of the cloth to perform your bloody burial services.”
“You think I’d mention you jilting your bride during your wedding ceremony?” Even the bloody irreverent Lyon drew up in affront. “I wouldn’t offend your bride so, Your Grace.” As you just did.
Unspoken, the charge hovered damningly.
Argyll’s posture stiffened.
He flickered his gaze back to Daria.
Her features were so opaque he might have conjured her transformative joy from his own magic. He’d erased her smile. Not Lyon. Not anyone else—Argyll himself.
What a…detestable feeling for a rake like himself.
Daria, for her part, embodied poise, with but one tiny tell.
Argyll caught the way she turned the nail of her shooting finger into a weapon against the soft pad of her thumb.
Something twisted beneath his sternum.
Daria followed his focus downwards. She swiftly flattened her hands at her sides.
He cleared his throat. “Apologies.” A week of many, many firsts.
“To me or Lord Lyon?”
“Lord Lyon? Pfft. He can go straight to the devil, and will, based on his sorry existence.”
Daria took that in. “He is headed for hell and did us the favor of stopping to perform our marriage?” She smiled. “Efficient.”
Argyll paused a beat. His solemn bride making a joke.
He barked with laughter.
Once it passed, his slender but formidable bride signaled for Lyon to resume. “As you were, Lord Lyon.”
“First, it was ordained for the procreation of children, to be brought up in the fear and nurture of the Lord, and to the praise of his holy Name…”
Argyll leaned and spoke in lower tones. “I wasn’t.”
“I know.”
“Secondly, it was ordained for a remedy against sin, and to avoid fornication; that such persons as have not the gift of continency might marry…”
She couldn’t possibly. “What is it you know, little raven?” he asked, a small smile curving his mouth.
“You were trying to assure me you will not leave me at the altar.”
He started.
“Not an altar,” she blurted, “in the figurative sense. Were you not?” Her eyes narrowed slightly in concentration. “Unless you are having second thoughts?”
Second, third, fourth, and fifth.
“In which case, we should let Lord Lyon know.” Daria slid regret-filled eyes toward the officiant. She nibbled at the corner of her index finger. “Soon.”
Goodness. The baffling creature was not much of a conversationalist, yet she managed quite well with herself.
“Though it would be remiss if I did not remind you—”
“Our fates are entwined?” His mouth tipped wryly.
“Exactly.” Daria paused. “Was that what you were going to say?”
“Which part?” he asked, deadpan.
She crinkled her pert nose.
Argyll swallowed back another unexpected laugh.
Taking mercy on his befuddled bride, he said, “Yes, Daria, I was, in fact, looking to assure you I’ve no intention of running. My feet are firmly fixed to the floor. A man mustn’t stand in fate’s way and all that.”
“…one ought to have of the other, both in prosperity and adversity… and—”
“I thought so!” For the way she beamed, she might as well have declared checkmate.
And Argyll might have handed Daria the Hope diamond for the adoring glow she tendered him like a rare jewel. The fact he’d been speaking sarcastically was a secret meant for the grave—one she spoke of with unsettling enthusiasm.
Argyll didn’t have the heart to point out his sarcasm.
In fairness, he didn’t have a heart.
“Where the hell was I?” Lyon flipped violently through the Book of Prayers. “Prosperity and adversity…” he muttered.
Rip.
Rip.
The quiet tear of pages underscored the absurdity of their wedding.
“I’m sorry,” Argyll said quietly.
Daria blinked confused eyes. “Gregory?”
Argyll gestured to Lyon, who’d finally located his place. “I’m certain this isn’t what you imagined for your wedding.”
How could it be?
“Oh.” His enigmatic bride shrugged. “I didn’t imagine a wedding.”
So accustomed to prevarication in all the company he kept, he actually found himself increasingly welcoming a woman who didn’t engage in word play, saying one thing when meaning the exact opposite.
“To me?” Argyll gave a slow wink meant to melt.
Daria’s composure remained uncracked. “To anyone.” She devoted all her attention to Lyon’s miserable ministering attempts.
“Anyone?” The corner of his mouth quirked up. “All ladies dream about marriage.”
“…Into which holy estate these two persons present come now to be joined….”
“Not me. I know I’m going to die.”
He’d begun to tire of her constant talk of death. “And so you chose me…why?”
“I know you will not care when I’m gone.”
A muscle jumped in Argyll’s jaw and he set the bone. He wouldn’t care.
Unbidden, his gaze halted on her face.
Something about her calm needled him.
“Ahem—”
Argyll turned all his annoyance on Lyon. “What the hell do you want now?”
From the front seat she’d made amongst the hastily gathered chairs, Daria’s sister made herself plainly heard. “The sooner to effect and surer bind this knot.”
This knot.
As in the parson’s mousetrap.
Argyll’s stomach churned.
Lyon spoke in a ludicrously loud whisper. “The vows, Argyll.”
The vows.
Two words.
Two syllables.
Seven letters.
Argyll stared over the top of Daria’s dark hair.
Sweat dampened his palms as the primal flight of bachelorhood at last reared. His feet twitched. His mouth went drier than the cheapest gin in London making a recitation of vows impossible.
Soft fingers found their way into his right palm.
Argyll stiffened.
Daria stared up with luminous eyes, no words spoken. No words required.
It is all right.
She nodded.
Argyll flinched. Bloody hell. Overnight he’d become one of those fellows who lost track of his tongue.
Not even married, chap, and your wits are failing you.
Daria’s lips eased into a gentle smile. “Do not worry, Gregory. It will not be a long—”
His teeth hit hard. Grabbing her by the wrists, he whipped her around so the breadth of his body shielded her.
“By God, Daria,” he whispered, “if you mention dying one more time, I swear I’m going to kiss you until you don’t have a breath in your body, and then you’ll really be dead.
” Anything to get her to stop with all that ominous prescience his bride insisted she possessed.
She met him with wide-eyed silence.
He shook her lightly. “Have I made myself clear?”
Daria nodded slowly.
Argyll released her fast.
He took a controlled breath. “Unless you have any objections, bride, it is time to recite our vows.”
The tiniest smile, elusive like the sun attempting to peak through storm clouds, wavered on her lips.
The rest of their ceremony continued without another hiccough. He and Daria completed their vows without faltering or interruption, and then Lyon finished the remainder of the ceremony.
It is done.
“Lord, have mercy upon us,” Lyon concluded.