Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
“Did you hear a word I said, Elington?” Dominic waved a hand in front of Thomas’s face.
Thomas frowned at his cousin. It was the day of the wedding, and in truth, his mind had been on the dress his fiancée had tried to hide from him when he bumped into her on the high street.
It had been made of such a fine muslin with such a low cut that if she truly did mean it to be her wedding dress, he suspected the priest might die of shock. Still, the thought of Vivian in such a dress was not wholly unappealing.
He shook himself and took a steadying breath. “I was a million miles away. Sorry.”
“Clearly.” Dominic sighed. “I was saying that Benedict has just poked his head through the door with Samantha. Your bride has just arrived.”
Thomas’s muscles tensed. He straightened and adjusted his cravat without thinking. He had had his morning dress made just for this. They were tailored to perfection, highlighting his muscular form and height.
He could feel the eyes of the ton upon him, hear their murmurs. Music began to play, and the whispering ceased. He turned in time to see the doors open and Benedict and Samantha emerge onto the aisle.
The tension built as the wedding party emerged. First the children, then Charlotte and Andrea—he had been surprised that Vivian had asked them to be bridesmaids, but the three of them seemed to have formed a bond—and finally Vivian.
“Is that her?” someone whispered.
“Have you ever seen a dress like that?” Another voice added.
Thomas could barely hear them over the pounding of blood in his ears. If he had not been so used to school, his face, his jaw would have been on the floor.
His heart swelled as Vivian moved toward him. She was not wearing the dress she had bought that day, but that did not mean that her gown was anything less than magnificent.
The silvery-white silk glittered in the light streaming through the church windows. It gave Vivian an almost ethereal glow. She wore no veil, though her hair was done in an elegant style with beads of gold and pearls that shone even brighter against the darkness of her hair.
His mouth went dry as his eyes roved over her. The dress swayed with her movement, drawing his attention to the elegant curve of her body.
She looked like Aphrodite brought to life. She looked like the kind of woman who stole a man’s breath and made him thankful for it.
As she approached him, she gave him a shy smile that tugged at his heart so fiercely that he had taken a step toward her before he realized.
“You look beautiful,” he murmured, his voice hoarse as he leaned toward her.
“Thank you,” Vivian whispered back. “Charlotte and Andrea helped me choose it.”
“Then I owe them a great debt.” Thomas could not take his eyes off her.
“I am glad you like it.” Her eyes flashed, but before she could say another word, the priest began speaking.
Thomas was not sure if he was relieved or frustrated that the moment had been interrupted, and that unsettled him. He could barely keep his eyes off Vivian.
How does she seem to get more beautiful by the minute?
He breathed in deeply, trying to calm his raging emotions, but the smell of her was intoxicating.
“Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?” The priest’s words pulled Thomas into the present.
Beside him, the Lord Brookes took Vivian’s hand in his and placed it in the wrinkled hand of the priest. Then the priest placed Vivian’s right hand in Thomas’s.
Her skin was soft against his; her fingers were warm. He felt them tremble slightly at his touch. His heart beat faster than his eyes found Vivian’s hazel ones.
He listened to the priest, trying to focus on the words he knew he would have to say, but his eyes kept drifting across Vivian’s face.
“I, Thomas Heathcliff, Marquess of Elington, take thee Lady Vivian Willows to my wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part, according to God’s holy ordinance; and thereto I plight thee my troth. ”
He heard a faint quaver in Vivian’s voice as she began to speak.
“I, Vivian Willows, take thee, Thomas Heathcliff, Marquess of Elington, to my wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love, cherish, and to obey, till death us do part…”
Thomas thought he heard an odd catch in her voice on the word death, but perhaps he was imagining it. He felt a tug at his sleeve as Dominic handed him the ring. Carefully, Thomas took Vivian’s delicate hand in his and slipped the gold band on her finger.
It sat above the temporary engagement ring he had gotten her. “With this ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow…”
His words rang out, echoing in the church. He heard an intake of breath, but he was not sure whose it was. He could feel eyes upon them, and saw the way Vivian shifted as though she was uncomfortable beneath the weight of their gazes.
As the priest began speaking again and they kneeled together, he whispered, “Do not shrink from their stares. Hold your chin up high and be proud.”
“I do not want them to think me vain,” she answered.
“It is your wedding day, and you are my bride. Let them see how radiant you are,” he answered. “You are not arrogant; you are confident. Yes, like that, like nothing could hurt you.”
“You make it seem so easy.” She bit her lip.
“I have had a lifetime of practice,” Thomas answered.
The priest cleared his throat and began speaking more loudly. Thomas met Vivian’s gaze, saw her bite back a laugh, and found that he, too, was struggling to keep a chuckle from escaping.
What is happening to me?
He needed to be detached to keep his distance.
He had let himself indulge in her beauty, and now he had to stop.
He was so lost in his determination that he hardly noticed the rest of the ceremony.
Everything seemed like a blur; the carriage ride to the wedding breakfast was the closest thing to torture he could imagine.
Never has five minutes felt so close to hours.
By the time they had finished eating, he felt like a tightly coiled spring.
He barely noticed how many hands he shook as the mountain of his family came to wish them well. He was simply going through the motions until he felt Vivian stiffen beside him, and he looked around to see what had caused her reaction. A small, balding man was walking toward them.
“My warmest congratulations, Lady Vivian, on your marriage. You look utterly ravishing.” The balding man looked Vivian up and down, his eyes drinking her in with the hungry expression of a wolf surveying a particularly succulent bit of meat. “If I might—”
The man reached for Vivian’s hand, and that movement snapped the last of Thomas’s control. He slipped an arm around his wife, pulling her close to him and out of the stranger’s reach before he could grab her hand. Every muscle in his body tensed as the little bald man looked up at him.
“I believe it is customary to wait until a woman has granted her permission before you kiss her hand.” Thomas’s smile was nothing but daggers as she looked at the man in front of him.
“I do not believe such permission was granted. More to the point, while you seem to know my wife, I confess, I have absolutely no idea who you are.”
By the way the man recoiled, Thomas knew he had struck a chord. The man’s eyes flashed toward him, but the hostility died when he realized just how much shorter than Thomas he was.
“Forgive me, my lord, I am an old friend of Lady Vivian’s—” The man began, but Vivian interrupted.
“He is my former betrothed. The Viscount of Brixten.”
Thomas looked at the man before him and let his eyebrows raise just a fraction before he broadened his smile. He saw the man bristle at his subtle slight. Good.
“Then it would seem I owe you a debt of gratitude, Brixten.” Thomas towered over the man, and let his voice carry across the party. “For you have given me a priceless gift.”
Thomas looked at Vivian, feeling the heat of Lord Brixten’s stare on them both.
“If it were not for you, I would never have met Vivian. And I shall be eternally grateful for that. If you ever need any assistance, you must ask. After all, your choices are what have brought us together. And I do not think I could find a more amazing woman to call my own.”
“You are too kind.” The Viscount’s words were clipped as he inclined his head, and Thomas suspected that it was because his teeth were gritted so hard. “After seeing Vivian here today, you must be the envy of most men.”
“Lady Elington, Brixten,” Thomas replied, his voice dangerous and soft. “I would hate for anyone to think you were foolish enough to pay me or my wife such a slight. Besides, who knows what your own wife might think if she overhead such familiarity?”
“Where is your wife, by the way?” Vivian interjected as she leaned against Thomas, the warmth of her stealing through him.
“I am surprised she is not at your side. Did you not say that you could scarcely stand to be parted for even an hour?”
He felt Vivian rest her hand on his chest and watched as the Viscount’s face darkened. He felt a surge of satisfaction that made his own smile broaden.
You could have had her, and you let her go.
“She did not wish to draw attention from Lady Vi—Lady Elington—on her wedding day. After all, you know how the ton loves to gossip.” Lord Brixten gave him a sickly smile that Thomas suspected the man thought was magnanimous.