Chapter 18 #2
Theo inclined his head with all the solemnity he could summon. “You have our undivided attention, sir.”
Hetty, seated beside him in a straight-backed chair that appeared to have been designed as an instrument of penance, gave a quick nod.
The vicar peered at them over the rim of his spectacles, which had slipped down the bridge of his nose. “Lord Langley, do you affirm your intention to marry Miss Henrietta Tolliver of your own free will, without coercion, deceit, or duress?”
“I do,” Theo replied at once, rather more easily than he might have expected. The silence that followed seemed to stretch a fraction too long, so he added, “Though I must admit, it all feels rather subdued without a pistol or a marriage-minded mama waving smelling salts in the background.”
Hetty turned sharply, fixing him with a glare capable of withering crops.
The vicar coughed and cleared his throat once more. “Ah. Yes. Well. Thank you. And now, Miss Tolliver – do you, of your own volition, consent to this union, without force or undue persuasion?”
There was a pause – not long enough to be called a hesitation, precisely, but long enough for Theo to feel something lodge in his ribs that had nothing to do with the bullet.
“I do,” Hetty said at last. “I enter into it willingly.”
Theo turned toward her, but she did not meet his gaze.
“And do you both understand the sanctity and weight of the vows you will speak before God, family and community?”
“I believe so,” Hetty said, her voice a shade softer.
“As do I,” Theo replied. “Though I daresay I shall be reminded often, should I forget.”
The vicar gave a brisk nod and reached for his well-thumbed little notebook, making a careful notation in what looked like minuscule, pious handwriting. “Then I am satisfied,” he said at last, shutting the book with a decisive thump. And that, apparently, was that.
They rose and left the room with formal pleasantries.
After closing the door behind them, Theo offered his arm, and after the briefest hesitation, Hetty placed her gloved hand upon it.
They walked slowly through the stone-flagged passage, his steps still cautious from injury, her posture unyieldingly straight, like a governess about to deliver a scolding.
From somewhere near the adjoining chapel, Lady Tolliver’s voice floated down the corrido, rising over a discussion about embroidery patterns, the phrase “scalloped hemstitch” echoing with menace.
Theo paused just outside the door leading to the side aisle, reluctant to open it and thereby relinquish Hetty’s arm. “Well,” he said at last, “that was delightfully awkward.”
“I imagine it could have been worse,” Hetty replied.
“We might have burst into tears.”
“Or run off separately in opposite directions.”
Theo smiled. “Or confessed before God and Reverend Peters that neither of us has the faintest notion what we are doing.”
Hetty hesitated. “Don’t you?”
“Know what I am doing?”
She gave a small nod.
“I haven’t the slightest idea,” he admitted. “This is rather not what we planned, is it? And yet… I find I do not mind the notion of marrying you nearly so much as I ought.”
That made her look up, sharp and searching.
“And you?” he asked gently.
“I do not mind it,” she murmured. “Not nearly as much as I imagined I would.”
“We are in rather deep now, aren’t we?”
Hetty sighed. “Dreadfully.”
“Shall we keep pretending not to enjoy it? ”
Hetty’s lips twitched. “Is that not the foundation of every well-bred courtship?”
“Oh, certainly,” he said. “Suppress all genuine sentiment, maintain an air of studied detachment, and never, under any circumstances, admit to being fond of one another.”
“It sounds perfectly dreadful when put like that.”
“Precisely why I prefer our version. Clandestine kisses beneath the wisteria, duels at dawn, near-death experiences conducted with flair. So much more diverting.”
She shot him a look of mock disapproval. “You make our courtship sound like the plot of a particularly lurid novel.”
“I should be deeply offended,” he said, “were it not so entirely accurate.”
“Oh dear,” said Hetty, making a face. “I rather called this a courtship, didn’t I?”
He glanced down at her with a smile. “Well, I should say we’ve rather earnt the term. Unless you would rather call it a travelling circus?”
“That might be the more accurate description.”
“But somewhat less romantic. And I am attempting, however poorly, to be romantic.”
“Romantic?” she echoed, and stilled completely, as though the word itself had startled her. “Why would you wish to be romantic with me?”
“Because,” he said, the lightness falling away, “if I am to be your husband, as now seems inevitable, I should like to deserve it. Not simply stumble into the role by accident or scandal, or the sheer force of your mother’s determination. ”
She was looking up at him, and those damnably kissable lips had parted in shock. “You speak as though you intend to woo me.”
“Perhaps I do,” he murmured, wondering if he should indeed kiss her again. “Or at least make a credible attempt. I must confess I –”
The door burst open with all the subtlety of a cavalry charge.
“There you are!” cried Lady Tolliver, sweeping into the corridor.
“I trust the vicar has confirmed your intentions, though Heaven knows the entire neighbourhood has already done so. Come, Henrietta – the lace samples have arrived, and I cannot make heads or tails of them without your guidance. And you, Lord Langley, must cease gallivanting about! You are still convalescing, and you shall ruin everything if you perish before Thursday.”
“Lady Tolliver, might I entreat another moment with Miss Tolliver – ”
“There will be time aplenty for that after the ceremony,” she interrupted, already turning on her heel. “Preferably in private.”
Hetty cast Theo a rueful glance as she was swept away in her mother’s wake.
Theo remained in the corridor, hand pressed gingerly to his side, biting back both a smile and a wince.
How, exactly, had he become ensnared in this ridiculous business of matrimony?
He had long valued his freedom above all else – but he found himself oddly untroubled by the prospect.
For all the chaos and absurdity of it, marrying Hetty might well prove to be the very best kind of trouble.