Chapter Fourteen
Bland organ music threaded through the air as the chapel began to fill with guests.
Or, at least, one side of the chapel.
Apart from Charles’s valet, the groom’s side remained empty. Embarrassingly so—or it would have been if Charles cared about such things.
On the bride’s side were all manner of folk, from the highest to the lowest, weaving among the pews before taking their seats.
A handful of genteel creatures took the frontmost pews—Duchess Whitcombe accompanied an elderly matriarch, engulfed in a riot of black lace, whose cane tap-tapped across the flagstones on the aisle, pausing momentarily as she stepped onto a stone carved with a series of letters—a eulogy to one of the late dukes, perhaps?
The second pew was occupied by a smattering of gentility that Charles recognized from London—the duchess’s sister Lady Staines and her husband, together with a lone young woman with soft chestnut curls and wide hazel eyes in her pale, sickly complexion.
The remainder of the guests were of a different class altogether—men, women, and children bedecked in their shabby Sunday best.
Since when did a duke invite servants and tenants to his sister’s wedding? Of course, the girl was a natural child who perhaps had been brought up among these people, but any young women in her position, about to become a countess, would surely want to shun such connections.
Charles glanced at John, who grinned and gestured with his hands.
Anyone would think we’re attending a funeral.
A volley of whispers broke out, followed by silence. Then a louder whisper came from the back of the church, a soft voice filled with fear accompanied by a deeper one, and the skin on the back of Charles’s neck tightened.
The bride had arrived.
The vicar nodded to John, who rose to stand beside Charles. The moment of surrender had come.
Then a fanfare began as the organist gave vent to his joy—the kind of joy that made a rational man want to expel his breakfast—and the congregation stood in unison.
Firm, steady footsteps drew near, accompanied by a lighter, more hesitant tread. Unable to stop himself, Charles stole a glance over his shoulder.
Whitcombe bore his usual dominant, determined attitude, his expression as dark as his suit. The only light on his form was the reflection of the sunlight off his jacket buttons and the decorative stitching around the cuffs.
The young woman on his arm carried a simple posy of wildflowers and grasses, perhaps gleaned from a nearby hedgerow.
She wore a plain white gown trimmed with the minimum amount of lace and a pale-green sash.
Hardly the attire of a duke’s sister, but thrift in a wife was preferable to extravagance.
Perhaps she’d manage Charles’s household with equal economy.
Assuming she knew how to manage a household. A village girl would know nothing of such things, and, by her own admission, she was more comfortable baking biscuits in the kitchen than directing a body of staff.
But she was not without wits. The spark of intelligence in her eyes when he’d taken her in his arms the night of the ball had told him that. And, of course, she was intelligent enough to fear him.
That fear shimmered in the air around her now, as she took each faltering step toward the altar.
She wore no veil—evidence, if needed, of her lack of chasteness.
Her hair was fashioned into a simple style, but wisps were already breaking free, forming a halo around her head, illuminated in the sunlight.
He might have mistaken her for an angel, graceful and divine in her serenity. But, with her mouth downturned, face flushed, eyes bright with moisture, and quivering lips, she looked as miserable a creature as Charles had ever seen.
Imagine what Father would have made of her!
With his elevated opinion of himself and the Devereaux name that had driven Charles’s mother to despair, Father would have suffered a fit of apoplexy had Charles brought home a by-blow as a bride—but then, according to his father, Charles had always been “the very worst son a man could have.”
He lifted his eyes to the ceiling and sent up a prayer.
I hope you’re satisfied now, you old bastard.
At that moment, the bride, who had been studying the floor, lifted her gaze to his.
She tensed, like a mouse before a predator, and her eyes widened.
She glanced at her brother, but he continued along the aisle, and she almost tripped in an effort to keep up.
Whitcombe glanced at her, frowning, and she tightened her grip on his sleeve until they reached the altar, where Whitcombe released her and stepped aside.
The vicar cleared his throat, opened the book in his hands, and began to speak.
Charles stole a glimpse at his bride. She stared straight ahead, clinging to the grasses, their fronds moving slightly as she trembled.
Devil’s breeches, he might as well have been standing before a gibbet awaiting execution.
Charles exhaled sharply and his bride stiffened and turned her gaze to him, before resuming her attention on the vicar.
Fuck.
He couldn’t let the poor girl suffer a lifetime with him. She was the least objectionable woman he’d encountered. By virtue of that, she deserved to be free.
The vicar droned on, his voice carrying an undertone of superciliousness and lacking any variation. It was a wonder the congregation remained awake, though Charles was sure he could discern a snore or two from the front pew.
He gestured to John, who shuffled closer. Ignoring the vicar’s raised eyebrow, he motioned with his hands.
For the love of the Almighty, tell the girl she’s at liberty to call a stop to the wedding.
John stared at Charles’s hands. His mouth formed a firm line, and he shook his head.
Tell her, Charles repeated.
John raised his hands. You tell her.
Damn you! You know I cannot. Tell her or I’ll have you dismissed.
John met his gaze, resolve in his eyes. Dismiss me and be damned. I won’t see her publicly humiliated.
You think humiliation today is worse than a lifetime with me?
“Ahem.”
Whitcombe cleared his throat. John let out a snort and gestured again. Your future brother-in-law likes you not.
Charles frowned at his valet, but John continued.
Will she be delivered of a child within eight months of the wedding, or sooner?
Charles smacked his fist into his palm then made a crude gesture.
Fuck you, John.
“Devereaux!”
Whitcombe’s voice, clear and cold, cut through the air.
Charles glanced up to see the vicar staring at him.
“Proceed,” Whitcombe said.
“Therefore, I ask all of you here,” the vicar said, “that if any of you know of any lawful impediment to the union of this man and this woman, you should declare it now.”
Silence fell, punctuated by a baby’s crying, which was quickly shushed.
Whitcombe touched the bride’s elbow in a gesture of unexpected tenderness and raised his eyebrows.
The anger in his eyes morphed into love—the love of an adoring brother who wished his sister to be happy.
It was the love that families shared—a love that Charles had never experienced, nor had he believed existed until this very moment.
Whitcombe, despite his insistence on propriety, was offering his sister, at the brink of placing the noose around her neck, release from her obligation. He leaned toward her and whispered in her ear, his voice inaudible, but the movement of his lips conveyed the words.
Speak now and you can be released, Olivia. I love you no matter what. Do you wish to proceed?
The vicar opened his mouth to resume and Whitcombe raised his hand.
“A moment, reverend.”
The bride glanced at Charles, moisture gleaming in her eyes.
Then she resumed her attention on her brother.
Charles caught his breath, his rational mind willing her to release herself, despite the whisperings of his heart, and the yearning in his body that had tightened his breeches the moment he caught her soft scent.
Then, slowly, she nodded.
The vicar continued, and John proclaimed the vows at Charles’s direction, followed by the bride, who spoke in her clear voice, flinching as she pledged her vow of obedience. At length, the vicar closed his Bible shut with a snap and declared them man and wife.
Charles took her hand and caught his breath as his cock surged forward like a rampant stallion eager for the mare.
She lifted her gaze to his, and his ardor cooled at the intensity of the fear in her eyes.
But the need to take her as his, to declare his ownership by claiming her mouth, was too strong, and he lowered his head as she tilted hers back, parting her lips in anticipation.
What the fuck am I doing?
The fear in her eyes was so sharp, so potent, that he could not, in good conscience, make such a brutal declaration of ownership in front of the people she knew and loved. If she had given herself to another already then perhaps she wished it were him, instead of Charles, who claimed her today.
Like any beast, Charles was ready to surrender to the primal need to obliterate all trace of him who had gone before, as savagely as any rutting stag.
But he could not be assured that he’d be able to restrain himself.
Though she now belonged to him, body and soul, in the eyes of the law and of the church, he doubted that Whitcombe would stand by and do nothing while Charles rutted his bride in the middle of the chapel.
Conquering the yearning in his body, he withdrew his hand. There would be plenty of time to take her as he pleased, to satisfy the beast growling in his soul, as soon as they were alone.