Gareth crooked a finger at his best friend, standing nearby and watching with cool gray eyes. “Perry? And you, too, Cokeham. After all, coming here was your idea.”
Cokeham grinned and, puffing his chest out with importance, swaggered forward.
Paine wasted no time. He turned and lit several candles. They flared to life, solemn points of flickering light that did little to penetrate the church’s heavy gloom. Someone coughed. Charlotte let out a complaining whimper, and Juliet, nervously hugging the baby to her, shuddered beneath the warmth of her bridegroom’s expensive, silk-lined surtout.
She stole a nervous glance at him, standing there with his weight and hand on one hip, the hand rumpling up one tail of his frock as he traded a joke or two with Perry and laughed with as much abandon as if he were at a county fair instead of his own wedding. He was perfectly at ease, shamelessly handsome. Any other woman would have been happy to be standing in her place.
“Be a good fellow, Perry old man, and be my looking glass!” he quipped, as he tried to arrange the frills of his cravat around the sapphire brooch pinned in its center. “Do I look as well as I should?”
“You look a sight, Gareth,” called Audlett, smirking.
“A sight, indeed,” added a grinning Chilcot.
Perry, the only one of the lot whose eyes reflected the misgivings that Juliet herself felt, merely gave a thin smile and flicked his fingers over Gareth’s cravat. “You could do with a shave,” he murmured, dryly.
“No time for that,” Paine interrupted, directing Perry to stand on Gareth’s right. “Someone please take the infant so we can get on with this.”
Wordlessly, Juliet turned to Sir Hugh, whose smiling face went suddenly blank with horror. He froze as the baby was placed in his arms, not daring to even breathe.
“Right.” Paine stood before them. “Are we ready, then?”
Juliet shrugged out of Gareth’s coat and placed it on the pew behind her. The chill hit her immediately. She took her place beside her tall and smiling bridegroom. He was romantic, handsome, splendid, a man that any breathing female would be happy and proud to take as her husband.
Anyone but me. Guilt crashed over her, and tears rose in her eyes.
Paine, the Book of Common Prayer in his hands, adjusted his spectacles and cleared his throat. Gareth was positively glowing with excitement, beaming up at the vicar as though this was the moment he’d waited for all of his life.
“Dearly beloved. We are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of this congregation, to join together this man and this woman in holy matrimony; which is an honorable estate, instituted of God in the time of man’s innocence and therefore is not by any to be enterprised, nor taken in hand, unadvisedly, lightly, or wantonly”
Unadvisedly. Lightly. Juliet gulped and squeezed her eyes shut as the timeless words washed over her.
“It was ordained for the procreation of children it was ordained for a remedy against sin, and to avoid fornication it was ordained for the mutual society, help, and comfort that the one ought to have of the other, both in prosperity and adversity. Therefore if any man can show any just cause why they may not lawfully be joined together, let him now speak or else hereafter forever hold his peace.”
Nobody moved.
The church rose still and silent all around them while outside, carriages passed on the cobbled street.
Paine shot a nervous glance once, twice at the door, as though expecting the Duke of Blackheath to come storming in to put a stop to the absurdity.
He didn’t, of course. And Juliet stood on feet she could no longer feel, listening to words she could no longer hear, existing in a body she no longer inhabited. She was merely an observer watching a terrible drama unfold. She felt no joy in what she was doing. And—oh God help her—here came the tears, collecting in the back of her aching throat, in her burning sinuses and way up in her nose.
“Wilt thou 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, humor, and keep her in sickness and in health; and forsaking all other, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?”
“I will,” the man beside her proclaimed loudly.
And then the vicar was turning his attention to her, frowning above his spectacles as he saw her face, as gray as the tombstones in the floor behind her.
“Wilt though have this man to thy wedded husband. Wilt thou obey him and serve him, love, honor, and keep him in sickness and in health so long as ye both shall live?”
She bit her lip to stall the tears, blinked back the stinging, salty mist, and through it saw that Gareth’s grin had frozen in place, his eyes darkening with sudden alarm as he stared down at her.
She looked down at her feet. “I will,” she whispered.
She glanced up at him then and saw that she had wounded him. That he did not understand. His fair de Montforte brows were drawn tight in confusion as the minister placed his right hand over hers, the excitement fading from his eyes as he felt the ice-cold clamminess of her skin and the tremors that shook her hand.
“Repeat after me,” Paine instructed. “I, Gareth, take thee Juliet to be 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 do us part, according to God’s holy ordinance; and thereto I plight thee my troth.”
She heard him repeat the words but something was missing now, and she felt sick with shame as she realized she’d killed the thing in his heart that had been singing, the music that had now fallen silent and still. Paine repositioned their hands, and she dully repeated the words in like manner.
“The ring, please.”
She watched as Gareth bent his head and worked the heavy gold signet from his finger. She already knew what it would look like, that heavy chunk of gold emblazoned with the de Montforte arms and engraved with the family motto: Valour, Virtue, and Victory. She knew exactly what it would look like because she already wore the exact same ring—
God help her, she’d forgotten to remove it!
Too late. Gareth took her hand—and went dead-still as he realized somebody else’s ring was already there where his was supposed to go. Somebody else’s that looked exactly like his, right down to the shape, the motto, the de Montforte crest that stared back at him with mocking cruelty.
Charles’s.
The others saw it too; she heard Perry’s quick inhalation of breath, Chilcot’s surprised curse, and the low murmur that coursed through the rest of the little group. Gareth looked up, his face stricken, unsure of what to do; but there was nothing he could do that wouldn’t embarrass her, and so he slid his own ring partway down her finger and began to say the words that would unite them forever:
“With this ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow: in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”
A horrible silence hung over everything. Juliet wanted to die. She suspected her bridegroom wanted to, as well. Instead, with a little desperate smile, he leaned down and murmured, “For me to put this in place, you must first take the other off, my dear.”
She blinked back the sudden tears, and with a jerky nod she offered her hand because she knew she could never find the heart to take Charles’s ring off herself. As Gareth’s fingers closed over hers, she lifted her gaze to look at him—I’m sorry; so, so sorry—knowing there were no words that could ever make up for what she had just done to him. But his eyes were downcast, his expression strained, and in that moment, Juliet knew he had finally grasped the truth of the situation.
That she was still in love with Charles.
Wordlessly, he pulled his dead brother’s ring from her finger. His hand tightened around it, and for one long, awful moment Juliet thought he was going to hurl the thing across the room to send it clink, clink, clinking beyond the far pews. But no. Inst
ead, he bent his head and in a gesture so humble, so selflessly noble that it brought a single tear pooling in her eye, he quietly slid Charles’s ring onto her right forefinger—and put his own on her left ring finger, where it belonged.
The tear slid down Juliet’s cheek.
Her husband looked at her then, cupped a hand to her face to shield that single tear from the others, and in his eyes she read his heart: I know I’m not Charles, but I’ll do the best I can, Juliet. I promise.
She squeezed his hand in acknowledgement, totally undone by his intuition, his selflessness, his generosity: And I, too, will do the best that I can. After all, we’re in this together now.
She barely heard Paine directing them both to kneel, felt only the strength of her new husband’s hand beneath hers as those final, binding words poured over their bowed heads.
“Those whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder For as much as Gareth and Juliet have consented together in holy wedlock and have given and pledged their troth either to other I pronounce that they be man and wife together, in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”
Gareth lowered his head to hers, thumbed away that single tear, and kissed her gently on the lips.
It was done.
Chapter Fourteen
Chilcot gave a sudden whoop, and everyone rushed forward to congratulate them, as though over-exuberance could somehow erase the awkwardness and embarrassment of that terrible moment with the ring. Thank God for Charlotte, who was a distraction in herself. Still in Hugh’s arms, she let out a loud, piercing wail that shattered the din, screwing up her face and beating her fists in the air. Hugh paled. He turned desperately to Juliet, who knuckled the tears from her eyes and hurried forward to rescue the two of them from each other.
“I don’t know much about babies,” Hugh stammered, red-faced, as he gratefully thrust the infant into her mother’s arms. “I hope I didn’t upset her.”
“With a face like yours, who could blame her?” Chilcot called, laughing.
“Aye, talk about making the ladies weep!”
The Den members guffawed, and poor Hugh flushed scarlet.
“You did just fine, Sir Hugh,” Juliet murmured, holding the squalling baby against her. “She just needs changing, that’s all.”
“Er, yes.” He made a face. “I know.”
Everyone laughed. So did Gareth, pumping the vicar’s hand while his friends congratulated him and clapped him heartily on the back. But his easy manner was nothing but a mask. Beneath their veil of golden-brown lashes, the eyes with which he perused his bride were sharp.
No, not his bride.
Charles’s bride.
Pain wrung his heart. So, then, it was to be the same in death as it had always been in life. He concealed the bitter ache, pretending to laugh at something Chilcot was going on about. It was inevitable that during all those years they were growing up, people had compared him and Charles with each other. After all, they’d both been so close in age, so similar in looks and build. But in the eyes of those adults around them—adults who behaved as though neither child had ears nor feelings—Charles had been the golden boy—the Beloved One. Gareth’s carefree, devil-may-care nature had never stood a chance against Charles’s serious-minded ambition, his dogged pursuit of perfection at whatever he did. It was Charles who had the keener wit, the better brain, the more serious mind. It was Charles who’d make a magnificent MP or glittering ambassador in some faraway post, Charles who was a credit to his family, Charles, Charles, Charles—while he, Gareth well, God and the devil only knew what would become of poor Gareth.
Charles had never been one to gloat or rub it in. Indeed, he’d resented the inevitable comparisons far more than Gareth, who laughingly pretended to accept them and then did his best to live down to what people expected of him. And why not? He had nothing to prove, no expectations to aspire to. Besides, he hadn’t envied Charles. Not really. While Charles had been groomed to succeed to the dukedom should Lucien die without issue, he, Gareth, had been having the time of his life—running wild over Berkshire, over Eton, and most recently, over Oxford. Never in his twenty-three years, had he allowed himself to feel any envy or resentment toward his perfect, incomparable older brother.
Until now—when he found himself wanting the one thing Charles had owned that he himself did not have: the love of Juliet Paige.
He looked at her now, standing off by herself with her head bent over Charlotte as she tried to soothe her. The child was screaming loudly enough to make the dead throw off their tombstones and rise up in protest, but her mother remained calm, holding the little girl against her bosom and patting her back. Gareth watched them, feeling excluded.
Charles’s bride.
Charles’s daughter.
God help me.
He knew he was staring at them with the desperation of one confined to hell and looking wistfully toward heaven. He thought of his wife’s face when he’d taken Charles’s ring off and put it on her other finger, the guilty gratitude in her eyes at this noble act of generosity that had cost him so little but had obviously meant so much to her. What could he do to deserve such a look of unabashed worship again? Why, she was looking at me as she must have looked at Charles.
She still loved his brother. Everyone had loved his brother. He could only wonder what it might take to make her love him.
But it’s not me she wants. It’s him. ’Sdeath. I could never compete with Charles when he was alive. How can I compete with him now?
Lucien’s cold judgment of the previous morning rang in his head: You are lazy, feckless, dissolute, useless.
He took a deep breath, and stared up through the great stained glass windows.
You are an embarrassment to this family—and especially to me.
He was second-best. Second choice.
Perry was suddenly there, clapping him on the back and shaking his hand. “Congratulations, old boy!” he said loudly, before curving his arm around Gareth’s shoulders and drawing him aside. He jerked his head to indicate Juliet, still standing by herself. “She all right?”
Gareth instantly recovered himself, his smile too quick, too wide, and far too bright as he tried to convince Perry that all was as it should be. “Don’t be silly, of course she’s all right. Bridal jitters, ’tis all. Nothing to look so damned worried about. Ours is not the first marriage of convenience, nor will it be the last. We’ll work things out.” He grinned and lightly punched Perry’s shoulder. “Hell, maybe I’ll even come to love the girl in time.”
Perry only eyed him narrowly. Plucking his surtout from the pew, Gareth left him to reclaim his bride before his friend could delve deeper.
Hell, maybe I’ll even come to love the girl in time.
Indeed.
The thing is, will she come to love me?
They signed the register, thanked the vicar, and as a group emerged from the church, talking, laughing and blinking in the mid-morning sunlight. It was a beautiful day, with fluffy clouds of dove gray and mauve scudding briskly across a hard, cobalt blue sky. The breeze drove bits of loose straw and debris across the cobbles, and horses, carriages, and pedestrians hurried past in both directions. They stood there on the pavement, buffeted by the wind, as Chilcot and Audlett went to get the horses.
Nobody mentioned that horrible moment when Gareth had tried to slip his ring on Juliet’s finger, though Juliet knew it was on all of their minds.
“You made a right beautiful bride, if I do say so myself, Lady Gareth!”
She smiled, gamely. Lady Gareth. How strange it sounded. “Thank you, Sir Hugh. Though I’m sure the gloom of that church hid all my flaws.”
“What?” piped up Chilcot. “Listen to her! Flaws!” He yanked out a quizzing glass, pretending to scrutinize her from top to toe until she smiled and turned pink with embarrassment. “I see no flaws. Do you see any flaws, Perry?”
“Not a one.”
“Really,” Juliet said, embarrassed.
“Leave her alone,” grumbled her husband, shading his eyes from the sun. “You’re overwhelming her, all of you.”
He moved close to her, his arm slipping possessively around her waist. Instinctively, Juliet moved closer to him, but there was a polite formality to his gesture, nothing more, and she knew then that things could never be the same as they’d been in these last two weeks at Blackheath—when he had been her easy-going, carefree friend.
To top everything off, Charlotte was starting to cry again.
“Here, I’ll take her,” her husband said. He scooped the baby from Juliet’s arms and cradled her to his chest. Immediately the whimpering stopped. Charlotte stared at him in wide-eyed fascination.
Juliet watched a passing carriage, too ashamed of herself, and her conflicting feelings, to meet Gareth’s blue, blue eyes. “She’s wet,” she warned.
“Ah, well, we’ve got more important things to worry about than that, don’t we, Charlotte?” he said lightly, adjusting the baby’s frilly bonnet around her tiny face. Juliet caught the double meaning and the tension in his words, knowing well what he meant. She threw him a quick, guilty glance, but Gareth didn’t see it. He was too busy ignoring her, playing with the baby, swinging her high over his head and laughing as she broke out in a smile as bright as the sunshine blazing down from above. Juliet looked on a little wistfully. What she wouldn’t give to be so happy, so carefree; what she wouldn’t give to be able to take back that terrible moment in the church when he’d discovered Charles’s ring still on her finger. Why hadn’t she removed it once and for all this morning?
She had hurt him—deeply. And she felt sick about it.
“Like that, do you?”
Charlotte chortled in glee.
“Here, let’s do it again,” he said cheerfully, and out of the corner of her eye, Juliet saw that Perry was watching him with those cool gray eyes of his that didn’t miss a trick. Perry knew that all was not right here, and Juliet suspected he knew Lord Gareth’s sudden silliness with the baby was just a cover for the pain he had to be feeling. And now her husband was swinging Charlotte up and over his head once more, making foolish faces and even more foolish noises at her until he had her shrieking in delight.
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