Chapter Nine #2
"Ophelia Jane Coleridge, wilt thou have this man to thy wedded husband, to live together after God's ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony?
Wilt thou obey him, and serve him, love, honour, and keep him in sickness and in health; and forsaking all others, keep thee only unto him, so long as ye both shall live? "
Obey, serve, love—lies, all of them.
Her stomach roiled violently. The flowers were overwhelming, and she could taste bile rising.
"I..."
Everyone leaned forward slightly.
She turned toward Alexander, perhaps seeking stability, perhaps to whisper she was ill, perhaps just to see something in those grey eyes that might make this bearable.
"I will," she managed.
But the words were barely out when her body rebelled entirely.
She had a moment's warning—just enough to turn fully toward him, reaching out as if for support. He moved slightly, perhaps to steady her, and that's when disaster struck.
She was violently, comprehensively sick all over his boots, his breeches, his beautiful coat, and the altar steps.
The church erupted in chaos.
Lady Jersey actually screamed. Someone, probably one of her brothers, cursed loudly enough to echo. Several ladies gasped, and one might have fainted.
But all Ophelia could see was Alexander's face.
For one terrible moment, she saw it all—the flash of rage in his grey eyes, the disgust that twisted his features, his lips forming words that looked suspiciously like "cursed Coleridges.
" His perfect appearance, his controlled dignity, his careful distance…
were all destroyed in one horrible instant.
Then his face changed, the anger disappearing behind his usual mask, though something harder remained in his eyes. He stood frozen, his arms slightly raised where he'd been about to catch her, now covered in the evidence of her terror.
She waited for the explosion, for him to storm out, to denounce her.
But their eyes met.
She saw him take in her face—the tears starting, the mortification, the way she was already pulling back to flee.
His hand caught her arm, not gently but not cruelly either, just firm enough to stop her escape.
"Stand still," he said quietly, his voice controlled but with an edge. Then louder, carrying through the church: "All is well."
She tried to pull away. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I..."
"Stop talking." His grip tightened slightly. "Just... stop."
"Your Grace," the vicar stammered, "perhaps we should postpone..."
"Continue," Alexander said flatly.
"But... Your Grace, you're..."
"I'm aware of my condition, vicar. Continue the ceremony."
"Alexander," Frederick's voice came from somewhere behind them. "Perhaps you should change."
"Continue," Alexander repeated, and his tone suggested arguing would be unwise. He looked at the congregation, and his expression was arctic. "Unless someone has an objection they'd like to voice?"
Dead silence.
He turned back to Ophelia, who was shaking, tears streaming down her face. "Stop crying," he said under his breath. "They're watching."
"I've ruined everything."
"Yes, you have. But we're finishing this anyway." His grey eyes held hers, cold but determined. "We're going to complete this ceremony, then walk out of here. Do you understand?"
"How can you..."
"Because I don't have a choice, and neither do you." His jaw was tight with controlled anger. "We're going to finish this now."
He nodded curtly to the vicar. "The rings."
The vicar, desperate to end this disaster, hurried through the rest. The ring exchange was a blur; Alexander's hands steady but tense as he slid the ring on her finger, hers shaking as she somehow managed to get his ring on.
"Those whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder."
Joined. They were joined now, she in her wedding dress with tears on her face and Alexander covered in vomit….both of them trapped.
"The... the kiss..." the vicar mumbled.
Alexander leaned forward and barely touched his lips to her forehead, the gesture perfunctory rather than tender.
"Can you walk?" he asked quietly, though his tone suggested she'd better be able to.
She nodded.
He offered his arm stiffly, and together they turned to face the congregation. The sea of faces ranged from horrified to fascinated and to pitying.
"Chin up," he murmured. "Don't give them the satisfaction."
She managed to lift her head slightly.
They walked down the aisle in complete silence. Someone tittered nervously, then stopped when Alexander's gaze found them.
The rain had increased to a downpour. They stood in the vestibule while carriages were brought around, Ophelia shaking, Alexander rigid with controlled fury, both of them beyond words.
"Your Grace," Carrington appeared with a cloak. "If you would..."
"Thank you." Alexander wrapped the cloak around himself, hiding the worst of the damage. "Is the second carriage ready?"
"What second carriage?" Ophelia asked.
"I brought two, anticipating rain. Though not..." He gestured curtly at himself. "This."
"You brought two carriages?"
"Fortunately, as it turns out." His tone was clipped, businesslike.
Her family had gathered, all looking quite shocked when Alexander addressed them with cold formality.
"Mrs. Coleridge, you'll ride with us to Montclaire House. Your daughter requires assistance."
"I... yes, of course."
The brothers started forward, but Alexander held up a hand. "The rest of you will follow in your own carriages."
"If you think we're leaving her alone with you..." Robert started.
"I'm covered in vomit, Coleridge. I assure you, romance is not on my mind." The blunt statement was delivered with cutting precision.
The carriage ride was excruciating. Alexander sat across from them, wrapped in his cloak, the smell permeating the enclosed space. He stared out the window with a jaw so tight it might crack. Ophelia's mother held her daughter's hand and no one spoke for several minutes.
Finally, Alexander said abruptly: "My valet informed me you were ill this morning."
Ophelia looked up. "What?"
"You were sick this morning. You could have delayed."
"Would that have changed anything?"
"It might have changed the venue of the disaster."
"But not the fact of it."
They looked at each other across the carriage, his grey eyes hard and unforgiving.
"No," he agreed coldly. "Not the fact."