Chapter Twenty-Nine
A mockingbird trilled.
Josephine’s hand clenched into a fist as the last rays of sunrise filtered through the palm trees. Damn the bird. Damn destiny. Damn all of it. She stared into the pink-hued sky, eyes tight and dry. She’d already spilled all the tears she held. Now, only a bitter emptiness remained.
This morning, her life would be upended.
Mrs. Wentworth.
She shuddered at the thought. They’d arrived too late last night for her to meet her intended. Which meant she would have to face him for the first time at the altar. She pressed trembling fingers to her lips, as if she could hold in the rising panic.
The trip back had been spent locked in her cabin. Torture filled each day as she replayed all that had happened. Of Isaac’s hands on her flesh. The way he’s said her name, rough and reverent all at once. How he’d sent her soaring to heights she’d never known existed.
But mostly, the look in his eyes as the carriage left the drive. How they burned with quiet torment—a raw ache that tore through her chest even now. She hadn’t even gotten to say goodbye.
If only her father had come before. Before she went to Isaac’s room. Before he’d washed away all her anger and hurt with two simple words. I lied. Her fists curled in the morning air. If she hadn’t gone to say thank you, she would still be upset.
And this wouldn’t hurt so damn much.
She glanced down at the dark-haired head below and a fresh wave of indignation swept through her. Her father had the nerve to post a guard under her window. As if there were anywhere she could escape to on this God-forsaken island.
There was no space here for rebellion, no space for hope. She drew in a shuddering breath. If only she could go back in time. But she couldn’t. The rest of her life, she’d be trapped by choices made for her. A hot trail crept down her cheek. She’d been wrong—there were more tears after all.
With an angry swipe of her hand, she stalked back into her room. Two crates lay open, packed with her belongings. Apparently, Mr. Wentworth had decided they would leave straight-away following the wedding. Her throat tightened. She didn’t even know where he lived.
With everything she owned packed away, the room seemed hollow and bare. Her gaze settled on the empty cage in the corner and her heart squeezed. Her father had refused to bring Lola back with him. Said a respectable woman should never be allowed to own a parrot.
A soft knock came from her door and she spun. Colette stood there, arms crossed. “Looking awfully glum for a bride on her wedding day.”
Bride. Josephine glanced at the dress laid across her bed and a stab of resentment shot through her. “How should I look? This is the worst day of my life.”
With a cluck of her tongue and a shake of her head, Colette swooped into the room. “Don’t say that. This is the very best type of marriage to have.”
Josephine stared at her. “How could you ever say such a thing?”
“He’s wealthy, yes?” When she nodded, Colette grinned. “See, you’ll be well provided for and have everything you wish for.”
Not everything.
Copper brows arched. “Won’t you?”
Josephine gave a sad shake of her head and hugged her arms around herself. “But what about passion?”
“Ah, so you did find passion with your lieutenant?” Colette slanted a sly look at her.
Heat flamed to her cheeks and her friend gave a deep-throated laugh. “Your new husband will spend most of his time at sea. Which means you will have the freedom to do as you wish—no overbearing eyes on you. You’ll find passion again, I promise you.”
Josephine pressed her eyes closed. “That’s not how I picture being married.”
Colette picked up the dress and fluffed it out.
“Josephine, the hard truth is, marriage isn’t usually what you might have imagined.
You can still find your own kind of freedom in a loveless match, and you should find no shame in it.
I guarantee you, a man with his status has a woman in every port.
It’s how the world works, and it doesn’t mean your happiness has to suffer because of it. ”
As usual Colette was only trying to make her feel better. But Josephine’s insides twisted. There was only one person she wanted passion with. And she would never see him again.
“Come now, let’s get you ready.”
Josephine remained silent, only half listening to Colette as she went on about how to navigate the new life she was being forced into.
Time passed in a blur of unshed tears and hollow words.
She barely registered getting undressed, didn’t feel the sharp tugs as Colette did her hair.
Her mind was far away, lost in the hopelessness of it all.
“The most beautiful girl on the island.” Colette’s smile was wide and genuine when she pinned the last curl in place. “I sure will miss you.”
A pang shot through Josephine’s chest. She would likely never see Colette again. Despite the circumstances, she was glad to have her there.
“Thank you. For everything you’ve done for me. All of it.” Her voice cracked.
Colette pushed a tendril of hair back with a smile. “You’ve been like a daughter to me. Have faith in me when I say I know you will find happiness.”
Josephine couldn’t answer. Not when her entire body ached with despair.
So, she turned down the stairs. Outside, the sun already beat down.
They walked down the street to the little stone church on the hill.
Any other day, she would smile at how picturesque it was, overlooking the azure sea. Today, it may as well be a prison.
Colette squeezed her hand as they walked through the door. “Go on now. Keep your chin up.”
Mr. Wentworth stood next to her father, wearing a fine frock coat. Deep lines etched across his weathered face, his sparse hair combed over in a sad attempt to cover the balding crown of his head. Her stomach turned.
His eyes raked over her, sharp and greedy. Like she was a prized object he’d secured from a trading deal. “My dear Josephine, you look exquisite.”
Her father smiled. “Ah, yes. That dress was her mother’s. I knew it would suit her.”
Father Bouchard stepped from behind the altar, beaming at her. “Our dear Josephine, finally all grown up and starting a new life. We’re so proud of you.”
He waved her forward and she approached with leaden feet.
The scent of melted wax mingled with the cold, damp stone that surrounded her, pressing in from every side, suffocating.
Her fingers itched to pull at the tight bodice of the gown, as if loosening the fabric might free the breath locked in her chest. The silk clung to her skin, every thread a reminder of the captivity she was about to be locked into.
Wentworth joined her, standing only inches away, his paunch pressing against the straining buttons of his coat.
His fingers, heavy with rings, twitched as if itching to claim her already.
Her skin prickled, not from the chill of the stone chapel, but from the sheer nearness of him.
She kept her gaze fixed straight ahead, jaw clenched, but her body betrayed her.
Her shoulders curled, angling herself away from him as her hands trembled at her sides, knuckles bloodless with tension.
Father Bouchard cleared his throat as he gave a worried look between them, the warm smile on his face faltering ever so slightly. His voice, too loud and too high, rang out across the silence, trying to fill the space with a sense of normalcy. “Dearly beloved…”
A vise tightened around her ribs with each word, until breathing became a struggle.
She dared not glance at the open window, where the sea shimmered like a promise out of reach.
A drop of sweat slid coldly down her spine.
Her fingers twitched, grasping for something—anything—to hold herself together.
Father Bouchard’s voice had become distant, distorted, as if from underwater.
The Latin echoes of his prayer rolled over her like surf on stone, grinding her down with every syllable.
The room swam, flickering candlelight blurring into halos, carved saints along the nave bending into hollow-eyed spectators.
Her knees weakened and she swayed, just enough for the priest to falter mid-phrase and glance up.
“Miss Montclair, are you quite alright?” His whisper barely penetrated the muffled roar rising in her ears.
“She’ll be fine.” Mr. Wentworth frowned. “I’m sure it’s only nerves.”
Her father gave a sharp nod from his seat in the front row.
A silent command. Father Bouchard straightened and continued, his voice ringing through the chapel like a hammer striking cold iron.
“If any among you know just cause why these two should not be lawfully joined together, let him speak now, or else forever hold his peace.”
Mr. Wentworth kept his gaze fixed on Father Bouchard, but his hand, warm and heavy, slowly drifted toward hers.
Josephine’s breath caught in her throat as he closed the distance between them, his fingers curling around hers with eager possessiveness.
She didn’t dare look at him, her gaze fixed firmly on the floor, willing herself not to tremble under the weight of his touch.
Father Bouchard took one last glance over his spectacles at the quiet crowd and gave a satisfied grunt before turning back to them. “Now, let us proceed with the vow—”
Bang!
The door flew open, slamming against the wall. Everyone twisted and a flurry of gasps echoed through the room as a figure strode into the room. Tight breeches, a deeply cut blouse, and hair the color of fire.
Josephine blinked. “Samantha?”
Her friend met her gaze. “We’re not too late, are we?”
A shadow fell across the floor and Josephine’s heart seized. A pair of polished boots clicked across the stone as her eyes flew over his form. Could it be? No. A strangled laugh bubbled in her chest, bitter and soundless. Now her eyes were playing cruel tricks on her.