Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
VICKY
My wedding day dawns on an unusually bright morning for late October in England. I throw back the curtains, greeted by a cloudless sky and the merest wisp of a breeze. The last two weeks have gone by in a blur of decisions, including dress fittings for Eloise and Briony, my maids of honor, and me. The wedding planner told me it was tradition to only have one maid of honor. I told her I was having two, and that was the end of that.
This may be an arranged marriage, but marrying into the De Vil family is a one-way street, and as this is the only wedding I’ll ever have, I’m going to make it fucking count.
Even if it is to the man who I once thought I loved and now think of as my archenemy.
An enemy doesn’t come riding to your rescue when you take a punch to the face.
Quashing that inconceivable and unwelcome thought, I scan around the only bedroom I’ve ever slept in and take a mental picture. Light falls on my dressing table, reflecting off the antique mirror that belonged to my maternal grandmother, who died when I was seven. With a sigh, I check the time. Six hours to go. Briony and Eloise should be here soon. I can’t wait. Their incessant chatter will take my mind off the fact that the next time I climb into bed I’ll have Nicholas lying beside me. And something tells me that whatever he thinks of me personally, he isn’t going to live like a monk.
The low-lying muscles of my belly clench. The dichotomy I find myself in is an uncomfortable one. I still can’t bring myself to entirely forgive him for Beth’s murder, even though I know, deep down, he isn’t responsible. Nor can I forget that he chose her instead of me. Coming second might be something I’m used to, but it doesn’t mean I have to take it like a champ. Nor does it mean it hurts any less, because it doesn’t.
But the yearning I suppressed for so long knowing he was Beth’s flares to life, helped along by how he showed up at the hospital after that twat walloped me. Of course, it could have simply been because the incident occurred at a club owned by his family, but I don’t think he faked his concern, nor his barely contained rage. It’s given me a sliver of hope that this marriage won’t be as awful as I originally feared. If he didn’t care, at least on some level, he wouldn’t have shown up. He’d have left Andrew and Max to take care of me.
Acknowledging that makes me even more nervous about tonight. Me and sex… well put it this way: we’re not friends. See, the thing is, I can’t reach orgasm. Every time I get close, I freeze up. It’s like there’s this invisible wall, and once I hit it, any pleasure I feel vanishes.
Maybe sex will be different with Nicholas. Lord knows, it’s been a disaster with the two guys I’ve slept with—one was a brief fling in high school, the other a more serious boyfriend during my senior year at college. I live in hope I’m not broken just… a little dented.
And if I am incapable of climaxing, then I’ll fake it. I faked it with Matthew, especially after he got horribly impatient with me one night and asked if I was “frigid or something?” From that day on, I convinced him I was having the best time when the truth was, I couldn’t wait for it to be over. The sad part is that outside of the bedroom, I enjoyed spending time with him. He was funny, kind, and liked the same movies and music as me. We had a lot in common. Far more than Nicholas and I do.
I often wonder if Matthew hadn’t joined the military, effectively ending our relationship, whether my parents would have ever endorsed a marriage to him.
Somehow, I don’t think they would. They have loftier ambitions. Clearly.
My bedroom door bursts open at the exact moment I tug my nightgown over my head, leaving me in nothing more than a pair of granny knickers and my bed socks.
Eloise bursts out laughing. “Girl, if you’re planning to wear that outfit for your wedding night, I’m here to insist you reconsider.”
I chuck my nightgown at her. She catches it easily, tossing it on the bed.
“About time you got here. Where’s Briony?”
“About time?” She theatrically checks her watch. “Briony will be here any second, and I’m here one minute before you told me I have to be.”
“Yeah, well, I’m this close to a full-blown panic attack. I need my girls.”
Eloise cants her head, her eyes searching mine for evidence of whether I’m joking, or I really am close to a meltdown. She finds what she’s looking for, and the next thing I know, she’s hugging me. “It’s going to be fine, babe. Trust me.”
She lets me go, and I flop backward onto the bed. A T-shirt hits me in the face.
“Cover up, will you. I don’t need to be presented with your perfect titties this early in the morning.” She glances down at her flat chest, then back up at me. “I’m thinking of getting a boob job. All guys love boobs, right?”
“Not all. Some like peachy bums, too. And legs.”
“Wonder what Nicholas likes?” she murmurs. “I bet he’s a tit man.”
My stomach rolls, an entire colony of butterflies taking flight at the same time. None of my friends is aware that I held a torch for my sister’s fiancé long before he picked her as his bride.
My family have known the De Vils for years. Mum and Dad dragged me and Beth along to many a ball, most of the time under duress, but when I turned fifteen, something inside me changed. Hormones, probably. Whatever it was, the twenty-five-year-old Nicholas De Vil suddenly became a lot more interesting. Not that he’d have looked at me then and, as it turns out, he didn’t look at me when I grew up, either.
My chest pinches. If Charles De Vil hadn’t wanted Dad’s company, there wouldn’t have been a chance Nicholas would’ve agreed to marry me. But the De Vil children are nothing if not steeped in duty, which means I’m getting a man who’s marrying me under the same level of duress as I used to feel being unceremoniously dragged to another boring party at Oakleigh.
A few minutes later, Briony arrives, turning my bedroom into a hive of activity. The hours whizz by, and despite my misgivings, I get swept up in the fun of it all. I wouldn’t say I’m a girly girl, but I like a pretty dress, professionally applied makeup, and perfectly styled hair like anyone else.
By the time I slide into my wedding dress—a beautiful ivory gown in a sheath style designed to elongate my small stature—I forget I’m marrying a man who’ll never love me and stand, aghast, at my reflection in the full-length mirror. The team the wedding planner sent over has worked wonders, styling my dark hair in a way that frames my face, and applying eyeshadow that makes my hazel eyes dazzle. They’ve even managed to conceal the lingering faint bruise from the punch. I hardly recognize myself.
“Oh, Vicky.” Eloise clasps her hands to her cheeks. “Girl, you look incredible.”
Briony, with tears blooming in her eyes, points her phone at me and snaps goodness only knows how many pictures.
“I don’t scrub up too badly, do I?”
Briony screws up her nose. “Please don’t use words like ‘scrub up’. You look like an angel.”
“A fallen angel, maybe.” I hide the truth in my words with a bright smile. “I guess we should go downstairs. The cars will be here soon.”
My heart lodges in my throat as I pick my way down the stairs, convinced I’m going to trip over my dress and break my neck at any moment. But I make it to the bottom without falling and step into the living room.
Mum’s wearing a navy suit with a cream blouse and a wide-brimmed hat that’s sure to block the view of half the congregation. Dad’s dressed in a morning suit, as is customary for key male participants at high society weddings. In his lapel is a white rose, a nod to Beth’s favorite flower. Another little piece of my heart dies. He couldn’t go with my favorite, a pink peony, not even on my wedding day.
There were many occasions when, bolstered by a glass of wine or two, I’ve been tempted to ask my parents what I did that was so terrible. When push came to shove, though, I never quite found the courage. It’s one of those “do you really want to know?” questions, and evidently, the answer is no, I don’t.
“Well?” I prompt when neither of my parents say a word. Most girls would’ve had their mum helping them get ready, but mine hadn’t even asked to be a part of the preparations. If it weren’t for my friends, I’d have had no one with me other than the hired help the De Vils insisted upon.
“You look wonderful.” Dad steps forward and kisses my cheek, then stands back and smiles. “Nicholas is a lucky man.”
Tell that to my betrothed.
“Gorgeous,” Mum says, giving me a brief hug. She’s never been one for over-exuberant shows of affection. “Beth would’ve loved to see you like this.”
A dagger impales itself in my chest. “If Beth were here, I wouldn’t be doing this, now, would I?”
Mum recoils as though I’ve slapped her. She dips her chin and steps back, taking her place beside Dad.
“Well, not to Nicholas, no, but eventually, to someone, you would have.”
Regret washes over me, and I touch her arm. “I’m sorry, Mum. It’s just nerves.”
“It’s okay, darling.” She musters a small smile. “It’s a big day.”
“The cars are here,” Eloise announces.
Taking a deep breath, I nod at Dad. My friends rush forward to give me one last hug, taking care not to wrinkle my dress or muss up my hair. Mum squeezes my hand, then follows Eloise and Briony outside. We wait until their car sets off, then Dad sticks out his arm.
“Ready, love?”
“As I’ll ever be.” I trot out the expected response, the maelstrom of feelings coursing through me impossible to pin down.
“I am sorry, you know,” Dad says. “If I’d had a choice, I wouldn’t have asked you to do this. I know Nicholas isn’t your favorite person, but he’s a good man. He’ll do right by you.”
He did have a choice, and he chose himself and his business instead of me, but I don’t say that. What’s the point? It’s done, and there isn’t a thing I can do about it.
“Good?” I arch a brow and give Dad a nudge. “That’s one way of describing him.”
He says nothing more, and we make our way outside. The breeze is a little chilly, but the sun is still shining, and I try to take a grain of comfort from that.
The drive to Oakleigh takes thirty minutes, and when we arrive, my two maids of honor are outside the chapel waiting for me. Mum must’ve gone inside, and another stab of rejection pierces my heart. I know she’s seen me already, but would it have killed her to give me one final show of support?
The bridal march strikes up. Heads turn, watching as we enter the chapel. The aisle is long, and the pews packed, mostly with people the De Vils know. I do see a few familiar faces, though, and I lock onto them until they’re past me, then scan the pews for the next person I know.
As we get closer, Nicholas turns around. His eyes flare, and he slowly pans them down to my feet and back up again. My skin heats, pink blotches breaking out on my chest. Dad lets me go, and I take my place on Nicholas’s left.
“You look lovely,” Nicholas says, and this time it’s my eyes that widen. I hadn’t expected him to say anything, let alone give me a compliment.
“Thank you,” I murmur, clutching my posy of winter flowers that little bit tighter. His sleeve brushes my arm, and goosebumps spring to life, skittering over my skin. I’ve never gotten this close to him before, choosing to keep my distance almost as a self-preservation technique. There’s no keeping my distance now. In fact, I’m sure he steps a tiny bit closer to me.
The minister starts up his spiel, but I fade in and out, too busy breathing in Nicholas’s scent of sea-fresh body wash and a cologne clearly blended to make women’s ovaries weep with joy.
The second the thought crosses my mind, guilt weighs in. I have no right to be here. Beth is the one who should be standing here having hundreds of people admire how beautiful she looks and commenting on what a stunning couple they make. I barely make it through my lines, even flinching when Nicholas takes my hand to push a platinum, diamond-encrusted band on my finger. I force a smile—a pretense that I’m fine even though I’m not.
By the time the minister pronounces us husband and wife, I’m crushed by guilt, like having ten thousand boulders stacked on my chest, one on top of the other.
Nicholas takes hold of my upper arms and presses a kiss to my lips. He lingers only for a moment, then draws back. His eyes, rich and dark, lock onto mine. For a few seconds we both stand there staring at one another, only snapping back to life when polite applause breaks out.
“Ready?” he asks.
Somehow, I nod, but when I don’t make a move, he takes my hand, slides it through the crook of his arm, and leads me down the aisle.
That’s it. Done. I’m Victoria De Vil from now until the day I die.
In a moment of weakness and shame, I quiver with excitement. He may never learn to love me, but as my dad says every time he places a bet on a horse race, you’ve got to be in it to win it.