Chapter 4
Chapter Four
IMOGEN
Many girls dream of the perfect wedding day: the dress, the flowers, the exquisite church, and horse-drawn carriage. The perfect groom with hearts in his eyes, waiting to whisk you into your new life. Children living out their fantasies by hanging pillowcases off the backs of their heads while they prance around in their mom’s shoes.
I did the same. Even though I’ve always known my future husband wouldn’t be one of my choosing, I fantasized about him being a white knight who was as excited to marry me as I was to marry him. On the few occasions my parents mentioned Alexander, which wasn’t often, they’d speak about him in reverent terms, as if he was some kind of god.
Alexander De Vil isn’t a god. He’s the Devil dressed in a sharp suit.
His cold brushoff when I interrupted him in his study on Thursday night has played on my mind. I’m mad I let him dismiss me so easily without fighting my corner, especially considering I have to make him despise me enough to want to rid himself of me. He kept true to his word, though. I haven’t seen him since, and soon, I’ll walk down the aisle to marry a stranger, who’s as reluctant for this union as I am.
I may have come here with a plan to get out of this marriage as fast as possible, but it’s going to take huge amounts of time and energy to battle constantly with my husband.
Maybe he’ll cave after a week.
I bark out a laugh. Somehow, I can’t see it.
“What are you laughing at?” Mom appears from the dressing room with my wedding dress draped over her arms—yet one more thing I didn’t get to choose. The De Vils have organized everything, with no input from me. The lack of involvement has made me feel so distanced from this charade of a marriage, and so isolated, not just from everything familiar to me, but from this new life, too. Even though I don’t want to marry Alexander, a part of me is still that little girl who dreamed of the fabulous wedding.
“My future husband.” It’s an honest answer.
“He’s not here, is he?” Mom’s head whips left and right. “Because he can’t see you before the wedding. It’s bad luck.”
I laugh again, this time with more humor than bitterness. “Mom, I’m marrying a man who doesn’t even like me. I don’t think him seeing me in my dress will make much of a difference.”
Her lips pinch, and she narrows her eyes. “Imogen, he doesn’t know you.” She plucks a strand of hair off my shoulder and lets it fall to the floor. “It was the same for me when I married your father. I didn’t know what I was getting myself into, but I’ve had twenty-four of the most wonderful years with him. My only regret is that we didn’t have more children. Still, we’ll have grandchildren soon, won’t we?”
She frames it as a question, but it isn’t one. It’s an expectation, although how I’m going to stop Alexander from having sex with me without protection isn’t something I’ve worked out yet. Maybe I’ll tell him I have syphilis or chlamydia or something. Or I’ll tell him I’m on my period and get myself to a doctor as soon as possible to organize contraception. Unless he’s into period play. I’ve read romance books that include men who like that kind of thing.
Quit it, Imogen. You’re overthinking.
“Once you’re married, everything will change,” Mom says. “Trust me.”
Yeah, things will change all right. I’ll hopefully be on my way to being a divorcee by the time I hit twenty-two in August.
“Now,” she continues when I say nothing. “Let’s get you into this dress and down the aisle.”
I can’t deny the dress is beautiful, and I look beautiful in it. A luxurious silk gown with thin shoulder straps and a cowl neckline whispers past my curves before falling to the floor with a flare. It’s sophisticated, classy, and probably the choice I would have made for myself if I had been given the chance to pick my own gown.
“Oh, Imogen.” Mom stands back and presses a hand to her chest, her eyes misting as she runs her gaze over me. “You look like an angel. Doesn’t she, Maisie?”
Maisie is the maid the De Vils assigned to me. She’s a sweet girl, but a little too formal. I’m hoping I can loosen her up a bit.
Maisie nods. “A real angel, Miss Imogen.”
An angel marrying a devil. It’d be funny if it wasn’t true.
Briony, my hair and makeup artist, approaches me with a can of hairspray. “One more spritz for the road?” She doesn’t wait for my approval before enveloping me in a haze of sickly-smelling hairspray.
I close my eyes as tiny droplets land on my shoulders. My auburn hair is piled on top of my head, with ringlets caressing my neck. I look pale, my eyes luminous, and even though it’s warm in here, my skin is covered with goosebumps.
Drawing in a deep breath, I take the bouquet of cream and red roses from Maisie and turn my attention to Mom, my heart galloping faster than a racehorse sprinting across the finish line. I’m putting on a brave face, for me as much as them, but inside, I’m scared of what’s ahead of me.
“Tell Dad I’m ready.”
Mom presses her fingertips to her lips, blows me a kiss, then goes outside to get Dad. He returns with her, and when he sees me for the first time, he freezes on the spot.
“Doesn’t she look beautiful, Scott?” Mom prompts when he doesn't say a word.
“Yes, beautiful.” His voice is husky and broken, and for a few seconds, I pretend this isn’t an arranged marriage, and that the man waiting for me at the chapel is my soul mate.
“Shall we go?” Dad sticks out his arm. “We don’t want to keep Alexander waiting.”
And just like that, reality smashes my illusion to smithereens.
“No,” I murmur. “We wouldn’t want to do that.”
My sarcasm is lost on Dad. He beams at me, ushers Mom, Maisie, and Briony from the room, then leads me into the hallway.
The chapel is on the Oakleigh estate, but it’s far enough away from the main house that there are two cars waiting outside the front entrance to drive us there. Mom gets in the one in front, and it drives away. Dad and I get into the second one. As the door closes with a thud, my heart thuds, too.
It’s not forever. It’s not forever.
Stick to the plan.
Dad squeezes my hand, and I respond with a wavering smile. Five minutes later, the car pulls up outside the chapel. It’s the first time I’ve seen it, and it’s nothing like I imagined. I’d pictured a quaint little place that might seat twenty or thirty people.
I estimate five hundred could fit in here and still leave room for more.
Swallowing, I wait for Dad to help me out of the car. God, I wish Emma was here supporting me. If we’d been given more notice, she might have been able to make it, but she’s already started her new job working for a local paper in Bakersfield. Asking for time off wouldn’t exactly endear her to her new boss. Same with my other friends. No one could make it with only five days’ notice.
My chest pangs. I should be working for Zenith now, excited to throw myself into my fledgling career. Especially as they’d told me they were going to assign me to the project team working to design and build a prototype low-cost, sustainable village in Malawi. One that, if successful, could be replicated throughout Africa. To be a part of something that aims to make the world a better place is a dream come true.
Was a dream come true, until Alexander De Vil came for me.
I’m alone here. All alone. And when Mom and Dad return to California, my isolation will be complete. Somehow, I have to make friends. I cannot spend the time I’m here without a circle of girlfriends to keep me company. Perhaps Saskia can introduce me to some of her friends. Either way, the thought of the next three months on this vast estate with no one but myself and, God help me, Alexander for company fills me with horror.
“Ready?” Dad asks as we approach the entrance.
I set the melancholic feelings aside and force a smile for my father’s benefit. “Yes.”
The music strikes up as we enter. Rows upon rows of strangers twist in their seats, craning their necks to get a look at the future Mrs. Alexander De Vil. The place is packed, and my guess of five hundred was a vast underestimation. There must be seven or eight hundred people here at least.
As I keep in time with Dad’s steps, I can’t help wondering if they all know this is a sham. I want to scream it from the rooftops, especially when people smile at me as if they know me, as if this is the best day of my life, when the truth is, it’s the worst.
My gaze falls on Alexander first and then Nicholas standing beside him as his best man. Both men are dressed in dark blue morning suits—a British tradition, I’m told—the coat tails hanging down to the backs of their knees.
Nicholas turns toward me, but Alexander continues to face away, his posture rigid as if his spine were made of steel. Nicholas nudges his brother, and his lips move, although I can’t make out what he’s saying. Whatever it is, it doesn’t change Alexander’s position in front of the altar.
Despite my bravado at our previous meetings, my knees knock as I cling to Dad’s arm, the attention of all these people making me more uncomfortable than I’ve ever been in my life.
Dad pats my hand as we approach, then leaves me standing beside Alexander, and takes a step back. I risk a glance up at my future husband, but he doesn’t afford me the same courtesy. His eyes are facing forward, and his hands are loose by his sides.
“You look… nice.” He mutters the words out of the corner of his mouth, and at first, I’m not even sure it’s him who’s spoke.
“How would you know?” I reply in a voice low enough that only he’ll hear me. “Do you have eyes in the back of your head?”
He looks at me then, and I wait for him to show some kind of emotion. I’d even take annoyance, irritation, or rage. Anything would be better than what he gives me: indifference.
“I have eyes everywhere. You’d do well to remember that.”
Facing forward once more, he nods at the minister, who takes his cue and begins his spiel.
I don’t even listen. What’s the point? Someone will nudge me when it’s my turn to say or do something. My eyes glaze over. I pretend I’m an actress—although I can’t act worth a dime—and this is a movie set. Once it’s over, I get to go home, where I belong.
Alexander’s cool fingers wrapping around mine jerks me from my daydream. My eyes widen, and I automatically tug to free myself. He grips me harder.
“Rings,” he hisses.
Oh. We’re at that part already? Does that come before the “I do” part in England? Maybe I should have read up on wedding etiquette or something. Perhaps I would have if I’d been given more of a warning.
The minister reads my vows, and I repeat them, my voice as wooden as the benches the guests are sitting on. The wedding band feels odd—heavier than I expected. While it’s silver in color, with a few diamonds set into the metal, I imagine it’s white gold, maybe platinum. I didn’t get an engagement ring, so I wasn’t able to get used to wearing something around my finger.
Alexander lets go of my hand and holds out his own. Nicholas extends a small cushion toward me, a thick silver band sitting on top.
My fingers tremble as I pick it up, and I almost drop it. I slide it onto the third finger of Alexander’s left hand, wondering if he had the same thoughts as me over the foreign object.
“I now pronounce you man and wife,” the minister says with a beaming smile. “You may kiss the bride.”
Alexander turns to me, and I raise my chin, readying myself for something dismissive, for the sake of appearances. Instead, his large hands cup my face, his thumbs angling me to his satisfaction. When his lips press against mine, I freeze. I’ve only been kissed twice before, both times in college, and my recollections are that it was wet, sloppy, and not all that enjoyable.
But Alexander’s kiss is nothing like those. It’s gentle at first, coaxing almost. My lips tingle as though I’ve eaten chili sauce, and a warmth ignites in my belly, spreading outward until my entire lower half is aglow. The scent of him surrounds me, clean and invigorating like a spring shower. I keep my mouth clamped shut until his tongue slides over my bottom lip, and as I part my lips beneath his, the warmth in my belly explodes into an inferno.
My stomach tilts, unfamiliar sensations assaulting me from left and right, every nerve ending in my body springing to life at the same moment. I may not like this man, but my body sure as hell does.
He grips my hair and makes a low growl in his throat. Oh, God. That sound. It’s so… masculine. So dominant. Butterflies swarm my abdomen, their wings flapping and sending a maelstrom of feelings coursing through me.
I’m reeling.
Disoriented.
Surprised and shocked at the instinctual reaction.
Alexander De Vil isn’t an emotionless robot; he’s impassioned. A man who’s mastered the art of kissing.
When he releases me, I waver, clutching his arm to save myself from falling. Applause breaks out through the crowd. With my thoughts scattered, I risk a glance at my new husband. After a kiss like that, surely he’ll be as confounded as I am.
He meets my stunned gaze with a blank stare, and a part of me snaps inside. He isn’t affected at all. I may as well have been a mannequin for all the impact kissing me had on him.
I take it all back. He’s worse than an emotionless robot. He’s a master manipulator.
“Close your mouth, Imogen,” he murmurs, offering his arm in the expectation I’ll slide my hand through it as custom demands. “A kiss was expected, but since I don’t intend to kiss you like that again, there’s little point in standing there hoping for another.”
My jaw drops, this time in sheer fury, but all the angry words that flow onto my tongue wither when he grabs my hand, places it inside his arm, and says in a clear, crisp voice, “Walk, or I will throw you over my shoulder, carry you out of here, and give you a good, hard spanking in the bargain.”
He sets off walking at a brisk pace, and I have no other option but to keep up, especially with his arm trapping my hand like a vise.
“You wouldn’t dare.”
It’s the first time I’ve seen Alexander smile fully. And when he does, he beams.
“Try me.”