Chapter Five
The wedding took place at St. George’s, Hanover Square, as so many marriages of the ton did. The duke had procured a license, and all that remained was for Christiana to attend the church at half past ten on the agreed-upon day.
Christiana and Laura stood outside in the warm July sun, arm in arm. Inside stood the duke and her future, whatever he decided it should be. Depending on his choices, and hers, the remainder of her life would be either pleasant or miserable.
She had, largely, been joking about the fire poker, but she was also determined to do whatever she must to protect her interests and self-respect.
Hopefully, it would never come to that.
“It’s not too late,” Laura said, squeezing her arm. “I can cause a distraction while you flee.”
“Then what would happen to you?”
Laura sent her an amused glance. “They’re men, dearest. All I need do is pretend to faint—they will think I cannot help being a swooning lady, and no blame will be laid at my door. Take note. If you are ever afraid of being taken poorly, all you need do is collapse, and all will be forgiven.”
“I hardly think I’m the swooning type,” Christiana said dryly.
The door opened and a bespectacled man emerged, blinking owlishly in the sunlight. “Ladies,” he said. “Miss Nightingale, I presume? Mr. Harding, at your service.” He gave a distracted bow.
“I am Christiana Nightingale,” she said. “And this is Miss Laura Crawford.”
“A pleasure,” Mr. Harding said, giving her an absent yet charming smile. He produced a small nosegay for Christiana. “Come along, then.”
With those unromantic words, they all entered the church, whereupon the duke was waiting for them, along with a bishop in preparation to conduct the wedding.
Christiana experienced a frisson of nerves once again as she approached the duke.
He wore his mask, white once more, covering the disfigured side of his face, and she wished she could remove it to better read his expression.
“You look well,” he said when she reached him.
She looked down at the peach gown Laura had brought and insisted she wear. Instead of her usual plain, almost utilitarian style, it was frilly and lacy, two things Christiana detested. There were flounces all down the skirt, and the sleeves were loose and airy, barely serving as sleeves at all.
There was also the fact that Laura was rather a different shape, and there hadn’t been any time to bring the dress in, so Christiana’s lack of curves was set into rather stark contrast.
“Thank you,” she said, trying not to sound stiff. “I trust all the arrangements are in place?”
“They are. Once we’ve got this over and done with, we’ll travel down to Wiltshire.”
“How long is the journey, Your Grace?”
“Three days’ travel.”
She nodded. Three days in close confines with a stranger. Uncomfortable, no doubt, but it could hardly be helped.
“Are you ready?” he asked, and she gave the church one last glance. Laura and Mr. Harding were standing in the pews, and the priest was prepared to marry them. This was it.
Christiana stared into the dark-brown eyes of her future husband and did her best to smile. “I am.”
“Then let us marry.” The duke turned to the priest and gave a curt nod.
The wedding began.
To Christiana’s relief, everything went smoothly. The duke produced a small wedding band, which he slipped on her third finger. His gloves remained on, she noticed, but as he seemed perfectly dexterous, she made no comment on it.
Once the service was over, and they were declared man and wife, the duke offered her his left arm and they walked down the aisle together. United, in a manner of speaking.
“Good luck,” Laura whispered as they passed, squeezing her arm briefly but fiercely.
A coach waited outside the church for them; instead of the traditional wedding breakfast, they were leaving immediately for Wiltshire.
“I apologize for the rush,” he said as he handed her into the carriage. “I find traveling uncomfortable, and I would rather get it over and done with. The longer we dally, the more unpleasant the anticipation.”
Christiana folded her hands in her lap and wondered how best to ask her question. Eventually, she opted for directness. “Because of your burns?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“They must be extensive.”
“They are,” he said shortly. “And painful.”
“Then I’m sorry for it.”
He glanced at her, as though surprised. Underneath the mask, she thought he frowned. “Thank you. Do you mind if I remove the mask while we journey? It grows uncomfortable after some time.”
“Of course.” She gestured for him to go ahead, and he untied the strings holding the mask in place. For the first time, she saw his face in daylight. Terrible, yes, in the way that any display of pain was terrible, but although it was shocking, she already felt herself growing accustomed to it.
After all, what right had she to put weight on one’s appearance? She would not make a handsome wife; she could hardly expect a handsome husband.
“I want us both to be as comfortable within this marriage as we can be,” she said. “Under the circumstances.”
“The circumstances,” he said. “Yes.”
“I’m afraid I do not have experience running a large or extensive household,” she said. “My father owns some land but let most of it go to ruin.” And she had been forced to dismiss most of the servants, doing their tasks herself. “But I will do my best to learn quickly, Your Grace.”
“Hugh, please.” He ran a hand through his dark hair. “I don’t think I can endure my wife calling me ‘Your Grace.’”
“Then you must call me Chris.”
His brows drew together. “Not Christiana?”
“Oh, well.” She cleared her throat. “You may if you prefer it.”
“Do you prefer Chris?”
“It’s more practical.” With her gloved hands, she twitched at her skirts. “My mother, when she named me, hoped I would be the ton’s next darling, but…” She gestured at herself.
“Due to no fault of your own, of course,” he said politely.
She wished they would just abandon artifice.
No one would look at her, uncomfortable in this fashionable dress, with her spectacles and plain bun, and think that she had the potential to be anything but a dowd.
She would not have been offended if he’d said so; she’d never found offense in the truth, if it was delivered without malice.
Yet here they were, skirting around their true feelings with polite observations that meant nothing.
What else did you expect? a small voice demanded in the back of her head. This was never anything but a marriage of convenience.
Perhaps she only disliked it so much because her father had never been polite to her.
Discomfited, she turned to the window and watched as the countryside passed by. Every so often, the duke hissed a breath that sounded very much like pain, but out of politeness—how much she detested the word—she drew no attention to it.
They did not speak for the remainder of the journey.