by Tanya Wilde
But she did want a particular kind of love: the kind that lasted forever, the kind that only grew fiercer with time, and the kind that required a husband. So, when the opportunity to secure a husband without prancing before hordes of gentlemen, hoping they took notice, and then having to endure a lengthy courtship appeared, Willow had seized it.
Her desire for a child was finally within her grasp.
And she would be a duchess. There were worse things in the world.
“What on God’s green earth are you doing?” An angry voice echoed through the church.
A hush fell over the ceremony like a heavy cloud and Willow was forced to a halt when her father stopped. Her knees almost gave out. Had she been caught out? Who did the voice belong to? Her heart skipped beat after beat, waiting.
But nothing.
Willow bit down on her lower lip and spared a nervous glance over her shoulder. When she found no enraged person, Willow let out a soft breath and nodded at her father, who led the last few steps to the duke.
St. Ives’s expression, from what she could gather behind her veil, gave nothing away. Not even the slightest fire burned in his eyes. His features were vacant, as if he were bored with the entire ordeal. Did he not care that someone might have stopped the wedding? Or was he just that arrogant?
“Dearly beloved,” the priest hastily began citing the words that would bind them together. “We are gathered together here in the sight of God...”
Doubt began to seep into her skin. She always thought her actions through. For the most part, Willow did not lunge and leap, consequences be damned. But now a nagging thought entered her mind. While she knew why she had acted impulsively, she knew nothing of why the duke wanted to be hastily wed.
It did not matter, she told herself. And it truly did not. Regardless of his reason, everyone won in the end, right?
Or so she hoped. Standing beside St. Ives, who was so tall and solid, it was hard not to feel the quiver of nerves that skittered up her spine, sending tiny bursts of sparks along her skin.
Willow was bursting with questions. Did he feel nervous too? Did he suspect she was not his chosen bride? Was he furious behind his mask of indifference?
Willow found herself further dwelling on why she ought to have waited to marry and perhaps not steal her sister’s fiancé, abandoned though he may be. His anger, for one—he was a moody, broody lord. She could have married a quiet, endearing man instead. And, according to Holly, the duke had rules that must be followed. Strict rules. Rules that involved one slice of toast. Then there was her mother-in-law—the dragon duchess.
It almost seemed like she was marrying into a bad Shakespearean play.
Willow swallowed her misgivings. There was no turning back now in any case. Assuming they completed their vows, they were in this, for better and for worse.
“...have and to hold from this day forward...”
Think about tiny baby fingers and toes.
“...if either of you knows any impediment, why ye may not be lawfully joined together in Matrimony...”
Don’t think about a bad Shakespearean play.
Willow half expected that same booming voice to call her on her deception.
No one spoke up.
“...have this woman to thy wedded wife, to live together after God's ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honor, and keep her in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all others, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?”
Willow held her breath.
Don’t say no. Don’t say no. Don’t say no.
“I will.” The firm, strong voice of St. Ives echoed.
The air whooshed from her lungs.
“Wilt thou have this man to thy wedded husband. . .” Yes! Yes! Yes! She repeated over and over until the priest finished, “. . . so long as ye both shall live?”
“I will,” she rushed to say and was pretty certain her reply had come out as a croak.
“Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?”
Her father stepped forward and the priest passed her right hand over to the duke in ceremonious custom.
Willow felt her breath catch.
For such an iron-fisted man, his touch was surprisingly gentle. Her hand trembled in his as she stared up into inscrutable eyes while he repeated his vows. I, Ambrose Jonathan Griffin, take thee Miss Middleton as my. . .
Wait a minute! He hadn’t used Holly’s name. Why hadn’t he used her name?
Willow had no time to ponder the question before it was her turn to repeat her vows. “I, Miss,”—she was not about to announce her name loud and clear if he hadn’t—“Middleton, take this man . . .” sickness and health and so forth and so forth and not obey “according to God's holy ordinance; and thereto I give thee my troth.”
His hand applied subtle pressure on hers.
Well, Willow had deliberately left out the obey part. Again, she wondered why he hadn’t announced her sister’s name.
Then he slipped the ring onto her finger—the final symbol of the fate she’d chosen—and Willow felt the touch deep in her bones.
And she realized, he knew.
Why else would he announce his name but not hers? Why else would his movements be as stiff as a stick as he slipped the ring onto her finger?
The remainder of the ceremony passed in a daze. Then, too soon—much too soon—his hands reached out to lift the veil. She’d have preferred to pass through the entire ceremony without lifting the veil, to reveal her identity in the carriage. Or after the wedding feast. Or tomorrow. But the duke had other plans.
Because he knew.
He must know.
Tension tightened in her chest as he lifted the layers of lace from her face, and she could not help holding her breath.
The moment of reckoning had arrived.
Their eyes locked.
Time stopped.
All around them, whispers of confusion rocked the church. And for the first time since Willow was introduced to the duke, a kaleidoscope of emotion—affirmation, disbelief and fury—flashed in the depths of his dark gaze.
But besides the subtle clench of his jaw, his composure remained untouched to the average observer.
Oddly, Willow felt nothing but relief. The duke was not a demon spawn, the very devil himself, bereft of any feelings. Deep, deep, so very deep down, the man possessed a heart.
Another realization followed shortly after that. They had yet to sign the registry. And even then, the marriage could still be annulled. Lord almighty, there were a thousand holes in her plan. Large holes. Holes that could ruin her entire family. And he knew it.
Obsidian eyes stared down at her.
Heat rushed to her cheeks.
Don’t you dare annul this marriage, her eyes challenged.
And then, before Willow knew what he was about, his head bent to capture her lips in a kiss. It was so unexpected, so shockingly brazen, that her hands lifted and pressed against his chest and pushed, eyes wide. Beneath her fingers, his muscles tightened, but he didn’t move an inch, didn’t draw his mouth away from hers.
It occurred to Willow then that his kiss was more than intentional. He meant for it to be a bold declaration. This is my chosen bride, the kiss seemed to imply. But merciful heaven, she felt that kiss right down to the tips of her toes, and of their own will, her lashes drifted shut. His lips were soft, such a contrast against his harder features. Her fingers gripped his jacket, anchored there, his teeth scraping her lower lip.
This was no mere peck.
The priest cleared his throat.
His lips pulled away, turbulent eyes lifting to hers. Then he leaned in, a sharp bite laced in his voice as he whispered, “Wife.”
A promise of satisfaction.
Swiftly, the duke pivoted and signed his name across the registry. When he handed her the quill there was only the slightest hesitation before she did the same. He did not so much as glance at her signature, only held out his
arm and waited for her to join him at his side.
Willow forced breath into her lungs. She had known what she was getting into, had known her actions would prompt some form of reaction from him. What she hadn’t expected was the thrill of excitement that was now racing along the edges of her backbone.
Her fingers trembled as she placed them on the sleeve of his jacket. The raw strength of him rippled beneath her hand. Suddenly nervous, she listened to the quiet conversation and rustling of movement around her as her husband led her from the church. She didn’t dare seek out Poppy or her father, not ready to face the confusion and shock of her family.
Again, she reminded herself that this was what she had wanted.
And it was. Except for one startling development.
Willow was taking notice of St. Ives in ways she hadn’t before. Not once as her sister’s betrothed had she noticed his scent or any detail about him except that he was tall, arrogant, detached, and a duke. Now, she pursed her lips together, inhaling the woody scent of her husband, drawing it deep into her lungs. It was a rich and earthy aroma, and quite pleasant. For a moment, Willow allowed herself to believe that perhaps this entire day would be as pleasant. After all, he hadn’t stormed out of the church. He’d signed the registry. They were married.
If the worst possible thing had not happened, perhaps she’d pulled it off.
Willow nearly smiled.
Nearly.
Because what happened next was entirely without warning.
The loud wail of her mother-in-law filled the church.
Chapter 2
Ambrose Brandon Jonathan Griffin, the eighth—and arguably proudest—Duke of St. Ives, waited impatiently for his bride to stroll down the aisle. He had already reminded her once the ceremony would commence in four minutes time, and it was a mark of blatant rebellion to delay any longer than that.
He caught himself glancing at his pocket watch and slowly put it away. He knew it would be the only act that betrayed his impatience, because he knew no emotion betrayed his features. His mask was in place. Everything was in place. As it ought to be.
Everything except his bride.
Who was purposefully late, he was sure.
It was no secret, at least to him, that Holly Middleton did not wish to marry him. Not anymore. Not since she had glimpsed his true temperament.
Ambrose had watched firsthand as the stars faded from her eyes. The realization of what it would truly mean to be his wife had struck her then. He had borne witness to the girl’s hopes and dreams vanish before his eyes. And any emotion welling up in his chest at the sight, like empathy, he had pressed down. Hard.
His heart had hardened a long time ago. There was nothing tender left inside of him to give. Emotion didn’t sway him. Nothing held power over him. Even if he was so inclined to provide Holly Middleton a way out of their betrothal, he couldn’t. His father’s will had seen to that.
In the end, Miss Middleton had accepted her fate and the rules he had handed her. If her sudden reluctance had been noted by her family, none made any comment of it. Not that their disapproval would have made any difference. The betrothal agreement had been signed.
It was done.
He caught one of Holly’s sisters surveying the church and had to suppress another wave of annoyance at his bride’s lack of punctuality. That same displeasure had him seeking out his pocket watch again. To hell with what anyone thought.
What the deuce was taking her so long?
Finally—after what felt like eons—the bride appeared across the aisle and the piano started up. The tension in his shoulders eased.
She wore a veil. Not uncommon, though most brides preferred to do without them. This one wasn’t particularly long, and it was layered. He could hardly make out any of her features. Did the veil hide swollen eyes from a night of weeping? Or a face flushed with misery?
But before he could ponder the matter further, Ambrose’s attention was pulled to the rousing of hushed whispers. He surveyed the snickering guests with growing unease.
Inside his belly, his innards clenched.
His eyes darted back to Holly. She appeared the perfect bride. Her gown was fit for a duchess. Only . . . What the bloody . . . Creamy pale flesh met his view when his gaze lowered to the hem of her dress. Her skin stood out in stark contrast to the blue slippers that nestled on her feet.
Ambrose fought down the urge to scowl. What had Miss Middleton done?
This was all his fault. He should have known she’d act out in some way. The Middletons usually skirted around convention effortlessly enough. She had been bound to do something. He ought to have anticipated this. But call him mad, he hadn’t expected Holly to make their wedding the spectacle of London.
Damn his father and the conditions of his will. He hadn’t been able to find a single flaw in the document, and by Jove, he had searched. And because of that search, he had waited until the last possible moment to take a wife, leading him to partake in desperate measures to secure one. And now here he stood, waiting for the ankle-displaying Middleton chit to make her way down the aisle.
Had he a choice, Ambrose would not have taken a wife at all. Let the title pass to his brother, Jonathan and his offspring. It was the perfect solution. All tied up in a neat little bow.
Except his father hadn’t agreed.
The man must be laughing in his grave this very minute.
And where was his brother anyway? He ought to have been here, beside Ambrose. Luckily no one had taken notice of his absence, compliments to his bride and her ankles.
What was Holly thinking? Did she mean to punish him? The rules were there for her well-being, to keep her healthy and strong. Was this one last attempt at defiance? Or the beginning of several?
Frustration rode him hard. Still, his mask never once slipped. Already, his brain devised a story to counteract any gossip. It would take much more than setting a new wedding trend to ruffle his proverbial feathers.
Then a booming voice called out, his words echoing off the walls of the church. At that, Ambrose admitted one little feather did ruffle. Fortunately, years of practice had awarded him with remarkable composure. He made sure that he did not move a muscle as silence stretched out like a vast ocean in response to the cry “What on God’s green earth are you doing?”
Had the little minx arranged that too?
One could almost believe the voice belonged to God, seeing as, from his position at the front of the church, the voice had no shape or form attached to it.
What a spectacle.
When no further comment followed and no one appeared, he watched as his bride once again proceeded to make her way to him.
He let out a small breath.
Soon he would be married and all the unpleasantness of the past twelve months would be laid to rest.
Except he would be leg-shackled.
Nevertheless, Ambrose could move on with his life.
He paid enough attention to the ceremony to know when his lines were, but other than that, his mind wandered—mostly to his bride. His body prickled with awareness with her standing so close to him, her head stopping just shy of his shoulder. Her scent was different today. Not the fruity tone of orange blossoms he had come to expect from Holly, but more flowery.
Jasmine.
Soft. Light. Pure.
Ambrose gritted his teeth. What was he doing? He had no business noticing her scent. Neither did his body have any business seeking to inhale deep lungfuls of her air.
He was impatient for this matter to be settled, that was all.
One would think, in this day and age, they would have discovered a more convenient way to suitably marry other than submit oneself to this stretched-out pomp.
Why should a business arrangement be celebrated, in any case?
Ambrose hated public spectacles. If he had gotten his way, they’d be married privately with only a select number of witnesses. But his mother had insisted. To keep up appearance, she had said, because of the
hasty nature of the marriage. And God help him if he did not give his mother what she wanted.
The one thing he hated more than public spectacles was a woman that wailed in his ears.
His mind drifted back to his bride. Had he not waited this long in search of an escape clause, had he just accepted his inevitable fate, he’d have taken his time in selecting a wife. A lady of demure stature. A wallflower, maybe. He would never have chosen Holly Middleton with her dreamy eyes and bleeding heart.
Ambrose could imagine those eyes, red and swollen beneath her veil. Except something about his betrothed gave him pause. It was hard to say why. The determined set of her shoulders? The blue slippers with her soft pink dress? Or perhaps it was the entire package. Something about her did not ring true. And suddenly and inexplicably, he was certain puffy eyes were not what he’d find.
His gaze flicked over her. Dread and something unnamable spread through him.
This wasn’t Holly Middleton. This wasn’t his bride.
The blue slippers did not provide for much height and Holly’s head had never quite reached his shoulder. Now, it suddenly did.
He peered down at the woman, studying her with the unwavering attention of a predator. It was a Middleton, but not the one he had agreed upon to marry.
His eyes darted to where her sister sat in the front row. He couldn’t recall the chit’s name. Something flowery. And there was a sister missing. He couldn’t recall her name either, except for the frosty looks she’d always cast him whenever he called upon Holly. The chits had always just been Miss Middleton to him.
Ambrose marveled at the lack of attention he had paid. Usually he was much more astute when it came to names. But he hadn’t bothered to take much note of his bride’s sisters—or their names. There had been matters of more importance to occupy his mind and they, well, they were just there.
A duty. An annoyance. A necessity.
Ambrose almost dragged a hand over his face then and there. He was tired. It had been a long year. Perhaps he was imagining things. This could simply not be happening to him.
Behind him, scores of eyes burned into his back. Ambrose knew that weddings were nothing but theatre where one entertained an audience with all the props of the latest fashions, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that his bride was going to give them much more than what they came for—that she’d give them a real show.
