Chapter 50
Prue sat stiffly in her chair near the front of the garden, spine ramrod straight, prayer book clenched between white-knuckled fingers. All around her, sin bloomed like lilacs in spring.
The manor had been in a state ever since the general stormed the tower and emerged victorious, a conquered bride in his arms and hunger burning in his eyes.
Rue had barked orders like a field marshal—requisitioning furniture, conscripting ribbon, and declaring martial law on boutonnieres.
The cook had baked an entire pyramid of apricot tarts while sobbing into the dough.
Even the war veterans had gotten involved, fashioning garlands with the same determination they’d once applied to cleaning bayonets. And now they were all here, surrounded by flowers, doves, a lace-draped tea table pretending to be an altar.
But Prue would not be swept away. She would not be intoxicated by the scent of roses, warm pastry, and a man whose calves could support siege equipment.
Prue snapped her eyes to the front, where the general stood at the makeshift altar. His uniform clung to him like temptation, the brass buttons glinting with menace. He looked calm. Dangerous. Towering. As if the next thing he planned to conquer was the bride’s soul.
“I am not here to be seduced,” she muttered. “I am here to bear witness. As a chaste, upright woman.”
And yet, her eyes—traitorous, wanton creatures—found Thomas standing near the begonias.
And her knees trembled. God help them all. The ceremony hadn’t even begun.
Graves stood beside the general as best man, stern as an obelisk and twice as immovable.
Rue was across from him in a dress that somehow managed to be both violently lilac and violently low-cut.
She had declared herself the best woman, which meant she had shouted at the seamstress, threatened to gut the tailor, and chosen the gown based on how easily she could sprint out of it, should romance require violence.
They stood side by side like carved statues of chaos and loyalty, two people who had bled in battle and now planned to bleed in the flower arrangements.
Yes, there was no denying it. Love was in the air. Thick. Cloying. Pungent as lavender steeped in wine and lust. Her breathing grew shallow. She considered stopping her breath entirely to preserve herself from further corruption, but her body refused to cooperate.
A strangled pant escaped.
Oh, such weak flesh. Her lungs were practically conspiring with her thighs at this point.
The harpist plucked a trembling chord, and everyone turned.
Lady Cecilia entered the garden, floating on a sea of white tulle and starlight.
A veil like morning mist clung to her shoulders.
Prue had outdone herself with the crown of flowers atop her lady’s head.
The bride moved like an angel descending upon temptation—and temptation was waiting for her at the end of the aisle, six feet and several inches of it.
The general did not smile. He smoldered. His gaze devoured her from hem to halo.
Prue hissed under her breath, “If this ceremony doesn’t burst into holy flame, then I question the entire theological order.”
Yet Celeste didn’t look like a sinner. She looked like joy personified.
The general took her hand.
Oh, no! He would say his vows. Prue was not ready for it and clutched the pew.
“You marched into my life like a campaign I never planned for. You turned my barracks into a ballroom, my rules into ribbons. You made color out of my discipline, music out of my silence, and a man out of a soldier.” The groom’s voice filled the garden.
“I once believed I was built only for war. But you—Celeste—taught me to want peace. I’ve conquered cities. Crossed oceans. Survived battles. But you… You were the siege that broke me. And I thank God for it.”
Chuckles and tears burst among the guests.
“From this day forward, I will be your shield when storms gather, your calm when chaos rages, your steady hand when the world spins too fast. I vow to learn the rhythm of your laughter, to cherish your tulle dreams, and to spend my life proving that this soldier—your soldier—was made not for war, but to love you.”
Chin trembling, Lady Cecilia looked at the little paper she had spent the entire afternoon writing. The speech was so pretty and talked about duty and love and lifelong promises. But she lowered the cards.
“You saw me, Alexander. You saw the Papillon I dared not show even to myself. You cradled my trembling wings and gave me back the courage to fly. I love you today, and I will love you always. If you will have me, I will give you Shakespeare’s laughter, a general’s duty, and all the love my aching heart can hold. ”
Alexander Hawkhurst, that towering monument to masculinity, looked at his bride as if every cannon in England had fired at once and blown the battlefield from beneath his boots.
Prue’s fingers tightened around her prayer book. Mercy preserve her, the man’s eyes were doing unspeakable things—soft, hungry, devoted things—and all in front of a congregation!
Then he reached for Lady Cecilia’s hands, and, bowing, he kissed them as though they were holy relics he would guard with his life.
Just as Prue was beginning to suspect she might be… moved (and therefore susceptible to wicked influence), the devil himself arrived.
Thomas slid beside her, smelling of clove, sunlight, and audacity. When his thigh brushed hers, she jerked upright like a nun touched by an apparition.
“You look ravishing today, my delicious scourge.”
Prue looked heavenward. “May the archangel Michael smite this man and his devil’s tongue.”
He chuckled, and it warmed her in extremely non-liturgical ways.
The ceremony moved forward. Prue pressed her lips together, determined to fast through it. She had already purged her emotions this morning with cold water and two psalms. Yet here she was. Eyes damp.
She dabbed them furiously. “No! Moisture is the gateway to romance. Once one weeps, one weds!”
Next to her, Thomas took her hand—took it, as if it were his. Her soul attempted to leave her body via her ears. While she was trying to yank it away, the general kissed his bride. It was not chaste. It was not holy. It was deliriously improper.
The crowd erupted in cheers. White doves flew. Othello barked. Someone wept into the wedding cake.
And Thomas kneeled. “Ten times I’ve asked, my forbidden fruit. Ten times you said no and ran away to flog yourself. I repeat my question for the eleventh time. Marry me. I can even flog you myself if you wish.”
Prue leapt to her feet, skirts tangling around her like spiritual bondage. “You foul tempter. My flesh is weak and burns, but I will not give in!”
When she spun to flee, Lady Cecilia caught her gaze. She was holding the bouquet. A mischievous smile lit up her ladyship's gaze, and then she lifted her arm and flung it at her.
It landed squarely in Prue's chest, a divine judgment wrapped in lavender ribbon.
The crowd gasped.
Thomas beamed.
Prue sank back onto the pew, defeated.
“Very well,” she breathed. “But no fiddles at the reception. Music makes me… loose.”
Thomas’s lips brushed her cheek.
Prue clutched her prayer book. “My cheek, sir! That is sacred ground!”
Groaning, Thomas made a sound in her ear that would have had her excommunicated in three dioceses. Something in her broke—perhaps, more truthfully, something burst gloriously free. The prayer book slid from her lap and thudded to the grass.
She seized his lapels, yanked him forward, and consumed his mouth like a starving nun at a forbidden feast.
“Forgive me, Saint Chastity,” she murmured between kisses, “but this is no longer a spiritual struggle. It is a siege—and I must take the fort!”