by Erica Ridley
She didn’t love him right now, of course she could not. Nor should she. At the moment, he was nothing. A man with a failing earldom, a chimera with an empty house.
It was not what anyone wanted, not her, not him. But he could become what she wanted. He would make the Carlisle estate the strongest earldom in England even if it meant no sleep for the next ten years. He would marry her again if she liked, have a thousand wedding breakfasts, a ceremony to rival a king’s. Anything she wished, he would ensure that she possessed.
“Dearly beloved,” said the vicar.
Oliver’s heart stopped. Again. He reached for Grace’s hands, then just as quickly dropped them. It wasn’t the moment yet to join hands. Soon. The ceremony was finally beginning. A shiver raced along his spine. They were almost married.
“We are gathered here in the sight of God and in the face of this congregation”—here the vicar cast a baleful eye at the motley foursome bearing witness—“to join together this man and this woman in holy matrimony.”
Oliver stopped listening. Not a-purpose, of course; these were the most important words of his life. His ears had stopped listening all on their own. His senses had simply shut down to everything that wasn’t Grace. All he could smell was the sweet scent of her hair. All he could see was her lovely pale face, her eyes so large and green, her eyelashes coal black. He was consumed with the desire to taste her, to have her. To hold her close. This was the woman he was marrying. Grace was finally going to be his.
“I require and charge you both,” said the vicar, his voice like flames upon Oliver’s skin, “as ye will answer at the dreadful day of judgment when the secrets of all hearts shall be disclosed, that if either of you know any impediment why ye may not be lawfully joined together in matrimony, ye do now confess it.”
Oliver fought a nervous chuckle at the idea. Any reason like what, that the bride didn’t truly wish to marry him? This time he did grab her hands, proper timing be damned. His fingers wouldn’t tremble so with her hands in his. For her, he had to be strong. For her, he would do anything.
“Oliver York, Lord Carlisle,” the vicar thundered.
Oliver’s throat went dry as dust, his tongue suddenly ten sizes too large. This was it. This was when they pledged themselves to each other.
“Wilt thou have this woman to be 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?”
Oliver smiled. The answer must be in his eyes, for it was already in his heart. “I will.”
The vicar turned to address the bride. “Miss Grace Halton.”
Grace flashed Oliver a tentative smile. Her eyes were huge as she stared up at him.
“Wilt thou have this man to be thy wedded husband, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony? Wilt thou obey him, and serve him, love, honor, and keep him in sickness and in health, and forsaking all others, keep thee only unto him, so long as ye both shall live?”
The ensuing silence was so complete and so terror-inducing that one could’ve heard a pin drop. In fact, Miss Fairfax’s reticule fell from her hands, spilling half the pins of England upon the wooden floor, and nobody so much as noticed. They were all leaning forward, clutching each other’s arms, looking just as concerned as Oliver was starting to feel.
If by “concerned,” one inferred a complete and utter terror that one’s bride was going to say no right in front of everyone, and he was going to lose his chance for love.
“I will,” Grace whispered, her eyes shimmering.
Were those tears? Oliver was probably holding her hands too tightly. Oh God, he’d been gripping her in mortal fear. He relaxed his fingers. What if she’d meant to say no, and he quite literally hadn’t let her get away? So be it. She wasn’t going anywhere, his countess. He would not let her. Not now.
The vicar glanced up from the altar. “Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?”
Shite. Oliver’s heart sank as he watched his bride’s dull eyes search the meager audience. There was no one to find. His hands grew clammy. For once, he would have been glad for the Mayers’ presence. Grace’s expression was stricken.
Had she not recalled until this instant that her grandparents were not there? And of course the most important person of all was also absent. She was getting married without her mother.
Poor Grace. He knew how much she’d wanted her mother to be there on her wedding day. She’d probably dreamed of it her entire life, taken it for granted that of course her mother would be at her side. And now here she was, halfway across the globe, marrying a man who’d compromised her in a library of all places, and there wasn’t one single person present to stand up on her behalf.
“I will.”
Oliver’s head jerked up to see Ravenwood rise to his ducal feet, tall and dark and arrogant, making it look for all the world as though of course he was giving away Miss Halton, they’d planned it all along, things were marching precisely as they ought. Thank God for Ravenwood. He reached her side with both speed and grace, somehow seeming to give comfort to the bride whilst lending pomp and dignity to the ceremony.
The vicar nodded as if dukes gave away American misses all the time during conspicuously sudden wedding ceremonies. He pried Oliver’s hands from Grace’s and rearranged them such that Grace’s right hand now lay facedown upon Oliver’s palm.
The ring. It was time to give her the ring!
Hands trembling only slightly, he slid the gold band out of his waistcoat pocket. As he slipped it onto her finger, he spoke his favorite lines in the entire ceremony, the ones he’d practiced every night for the past week. These words he knew by heart, because he was speaking them with his soul. He waited until her gaze lifted to his. He wanted her to see that he meant every word.
“With this ring, I thee wed,” he said, looking into her eyes. His fingers trembled, but his voice was strong and sure. “With my body, I thee worship. With all my worldly goods, I thee endow. Amen.”
Grace’s eyes once more blurred behind the sheen of tears, but this time it could not be blamed on unintentional manhandling on the part of Oliver. He could only pray that these were tears of joy, much like those that even now clogged his own throat, rather than tears of sorrow. He would die rather than cause her pain.
The vicar lay his hand atop theirs and intoned, “Those whom God hath joined together, let no man put asunder.”
Exactly so! Oliver stood even taller, pride mixing unrepentantly with pleasure. His chest puffed a little fuller. She was very nearly his.
“For as much as Grace Halton and Oliver York have consented together in holy wedlock, and have witnessed the same before God and this company, and thereto have given and pledged their troth each to the other, and have declared the same by giving and receiving of a ring, and by joining of hands, I pronounce that they be man and wife together. Amen.”
Oliver’s knees went weak, and it was all he could do not to swing his bride into his arms and abscond home with her at once. No, not just his bride—his wife. Joy swept through him. Only a few more short prayers, and they would be free to go.
“O Lord, save thy servant, and thy handmaid,” the vicar was droning now.
Oliver’s flesh thrummed with excitement. The call-and-response prayer meant they were nearing the end.
“Who put their trust in thee,” he responded automatically.
Grace said nothing.
“O Lord,” the vicar continued, “send them help from thy holy place.”
“And evermore defend them…” Oliver’s voice trailed off in concern.
Grace still hadn’t joined him in speaking the rote lines. In a blinding flash of insight, Oliver belatedly realized why.
His bride didn’t know the words. How would she? She hadn’t been raised with the Church of England.
Instead, Oliver’s deep voice
rang out alone as the vicar continued his litany. The words echoed in the vast stillness, low and naked without female accompaniment. Oliver swallowed. He tried not to feel as if he alone was pledging eternity here today. His hands still held hers, his ring upon her finger. It didn’t matter that she didn’t know the words. He would say them for both of them. Just as it didn’t signify that she hadn’t chosen him. He would love her enough for two. He would love her and honor her and cherish her until she simply could not help but love him back.
“Almighty God,” the vicar was saying now.
Oliver gave his bride’s hands a fortifying squeeze. This was the final prayer. They’d done it!
“Pour upon you the riches of his grace, sanctify and bless you, that ye may please him both in body and soul, and live together in holy love unto your lives’ end. Amen.”
Amen.
This time, he did give in to temptation. He grabbed up his new wife and swung her in a very small (but still wholly improper) joyous little circle.
Bart and Xavier made their way up front to do their duty as witnesses. Sarah and Ravenwood—two of the most sentimental romantics of Oliver’s acquaintance—rushed up to compliment Oliver and Grace on a splendid ceremony. Ravenwood shook Oliver’s hand and kissed Grace’s cheek. Sarah hugged both of them as best she could with her belly in the way. The moment they finished signing the contract, Bart nudged Sarah out of the way to have his turn shaking Oliver’s hand and kissing Grace’s cheek.
Oliver never stopped grinning. Not until they stepped outside. Then his joy shattered.
The bride and groom traditionally left together after the ceremony. His carriage was right where he’d left it, with warming bricks and plenty of blankets inside should they need them on their way back home.
But right next to his carriage, the one in which he’d planned to give his new wife her first hundred or so married kisses, was an ominous hired hack. Oliver’s head swam, his heart beating much too quickly. No. She would not leave him. Not when money could be sent to her mother. He was leaping to conclusions.
His fingers loosened about her hand. “You prefer to follow me home in your own carriage?”
She did not meet his eye. “I have errands I must attend to at once.”
At once. Before consummating the marriage. Without even waiting for their guests to disperse. He nodded dumbly. He would not stand in the way of anything that made her happy.
Chapter 17
Grace stared at the dark-haired pawnbroker in horror. “What do you mean, you sold the Black Prince to someone else?”
“Pawnbroking is a business, miss. I got a better price.” He lifted a careless shoulder. “End of story.”
“A better price than a thousand pounds for a seven-hundred-pound painting?” she asked in disbelief.
“Two thousand. I’m letting that gift horse keep its teeth.”
“Who on earth—”
“Sorry, miss. If there’s not something else I can interest you in, I’m going to close up shop for the day. Maybe take the missus on a little holiday.”
“Do you mean to say this just happened? Somebody bought it earlier today?”
“About half an hour ago. Can’t tell you how glad I am that you were running late. An extra thousand pounds ain’t nothing to sniff at.”
“I wasn’t late. I was getting ma—” Grace broke off her explanation and tried to fight the creeping powerlessness weighing down her limbs.
What use was explaining that she’d been at her wedding, which she’d been obligated to complete before coming into possession of the one thousand pounds she did have? Minus the passenger ticket in her reticule. The next boat left at eight o’clock the following morning, and she would be on it. Oliver would be disappointed when she told him, but too much time had passed to send a surrogate. She had to see her mother for herself.
She invited the pawnbroker to review the contents of her trunks. The hack she’d hired was still at the berm, the coachman wearily unloading her crates of gowns. She would sell whatever the pawnbroker would accept, and give as much of her dowry as possible back to Oliver.
Her shoulders slumped. Never had success felt so much like failure.
It was late afternoon by the time she rolled up to Carlisle Manor with what was left of her belongings. She swallowed. Just one night. And then, come what may, she would have to find a way to say good-bye.
As the hired hack slowed, the great carved doors to the manor house flew open wide.
Oliver burst out onto the step. He paused only briefly to shade his eyes from the sun. Upon recognizing the hack as hers, he flew off the front steps and tore across the lawn. She bit her lower lip. He reached the carriage in seconds. Without bothering to allow the driver to dismount, Oliver tossed the coachman a coin and flung open the carriage door to hand her out himself.
Before she could think of anything that might explain her long absence without causing him undue pain, she found herself whisked off the squab and wrapped tight in his arms. If the winter wind was still sharp and icy, she could not tell. All she could feel was the solid warmth of his chest, the slight tremble to his powerful arms, his smooth cheek against the top of her head as he held her close.
He pressed a gentle kiss to her temple. “You’re back.”
“I’m…here.” For tonight. Lord, was she going to miss him. “I have to go back to America. For my mother. I don’t even know if she’s alive.”
His gaze lost its focus. “Let’s discuss it tomorrow. I was worried you had already…” He swallowed. “I went to the bank. They said you’d emptied your account. So I came back home.” He flashed a wry, embarrassed smile that didn’t reach his eyes. Their golden brown depths had dulled, as if no smile would ever reflect there again. “I didn’t think you were leaving me, Grace. I thought you were already gone.”
Her cheeks flushed. “I did book passage, but I would never leave without telling you. Oliver, I…”
He covered her mouth with his, blocking out her words. Perhaps he knew this was their last night, and hoped he was wrong. Or perhaps, like her, he didn’t want to waste what time they had left with the knife of good-bye.
She opened her mouth to him. His tongue was hot. Urgent. His kiss was insistent, bruising, but she welcomed it. Wanted it. Wished she could give him everything he wanted. She’d wanted him from even before their unplanned tryst in the library. She had wanted him from the moment she’d crashed into his chest and instead of taking her to task, he’d swept her into a waltz.
But she’d always known she couldn’t have him, and it was the cruelest twist of irony for Fate to let them marry and still not let her keep him. Her tongue licked against his, tasting him. Memorizing him. The hardness of his chest, his muscles. The softness of his hair as she twisted her fingers in it. The heat of his body despite the cold bite of the wind. The way he held her as if there were nothing more precious to him in this world. And then kissed her with an intensity so carnal it nearly melted the clothes right from her body.
Panting, he lifted his mouth from hers. “I don’t care about your money, darling. I only care about you.”
It was her turn for the smile to fail to meet her eyes. “You get the dowry anyway. Most of it.”
He gripped her arms. “What?”
“It should be in your account by now. Mr. Brown promised to complete the transfer within the hour.”
“You gave it back? Then why did you—”
“I wanted to bring home the Black Prince! I know how much it meant to you. How he felt like family. I took my trunks to the pawnbroker planning to sell every stitch I own to make it happen. But I was too late. Someone had already bought it.”
“You…” He gazed at her in wonder, eyes shining as he seemed to replay her words in his mind. When he realized that although she had come back, the Black Prince never would, an edge of pain crept into his eyes. His gaze unfocused, as if his thoughts were now a thousand miles away, chasing after the missing prince. “Is he truly gone?”
She laid her palm against his cheek. “I’m so sorry.”
He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. His presence disappeared from the moment I took the painting off the wall.” His eyes snapped back into focus and narrowed on her face. “Why the devil would you toss away everything you own on that, when there are so many better uses for your money?”
“Because I love you,” she blurted. “That painting is the thing you cherish most and I want you to have it!”
“I have the thing I cherish most.” He swept her off her feet and cradled her to his chest. “You. Right here in my arms. If we weren’t standing on my front lawn, right now I’d be loving you with my body as much as I love you with my heart.”
Her breath caught as warmth suffused her. She curled her arms about his neck and brushed her lips against his ear. “Then why are we still on the lawn?”
With a dangerous smile, he tightened his grip about her and marched into his house and up to his bedchamber.
All the huge room contained was several square windows, a small table with a pitcher and bowl, and the largest bed Grace had ever laid eyes on. She supposed that was all they really needed. The bed was certainly all she was interested in at the moment.
She squealed with delight as he tossed her right into the middle of the soft mattress and pounced on top of her with a wolfish grin. As she reached up to pull him to her, her stomach fluttered. They were about to make love. If they did this—when they did this—they would have consummated their marriage.
Her fingers dug into his hair as her tongue sought his. Her breath came faster. The thought of him pledging his life, his body, to someone else enraged and terrified her. He was hers. Every kiss told her so. And yet, she could not guarantee when or if she might return. Everything depended on her mother’s health. What if her mother never got well enough for a transatlantic journey? Or what if she did, but it took years to regain enough strength to do so?
Grace wrapped her arms about him tightly. She would have to let him go. If she loved him, it was the only choice. But nor could she ignore this passion between them. She could not deny him—or herself—the joining of their bodies. Just this once.
