But he didn’t feel the same, or he would change his mind. He’d do something more than just accept the terrible cards he and Carina had been dealt. It wasn’t as though he would fall in love with her. She sucked in a breath. What a ridiculous thought.
She shook her head. “Don’t apologize.”
She pushed open the stall door and wiped her cheek.
“Wait,” he said, his voice soft.
She didn’t look back. There was nothing to say.
She didn’t have time to be angry or ashamed of herself. She couldn’t let herself pause for a moment and examine all the emotions crashing around inside her.
What she needed was a plan, a damn good plan. A way to swap herself with Carina before the wedding and pray no one would notice, least of all the groom.
Chapter 8
December 25, 1818
Sebastian woke the day of his wedding with a lead-filled stomach. He’d tossed and turned all night, his memory of Isabella’s kiss torturing him for two days now, his sheets soaked in sweat, his bowels rumbling from agitation.
Why had she done it? Was it really only for her sister’s sake? Did she feel nothing for him? Not that she ought to. It would only hurt her, and Carina if she knew, and him. He would have to live with the guilt and without another kiss like that.
Soul-searing, that’s what that kiss was.
She’d branded him with her lips.
And he hadn’t seen her since. She must be avoiding him.
He didn’t think his letters had been that fascinating, but the way she’d talked about them, as if his words, his thoughts had somehow been special to her. It made him feel like for once someone understood him.
He scraped a hand over his face, his eyeballs raw and gritty, and stared at the ormolu clock on his mantle until his vision cleared.
A quarter past six. Why hadn’t any one woken him? They were to marry promptly at eight in the Drummond Hall rectory and share a Christmas wedding breakfast as a combined family. He closed his eyes and fell back against the pillows.
Family.
He’d dreamed of family.
He vaguely remembered sitting on a rug, some wooden object in his hand, and tiny little people crawling all over him.
Children.
He rubbed his eyes, the dream coming back in fractured bits, and tried to piece together the pieces. He could recall feeling warm, filled with joy, and the sounds of children squealing with laughter. But there was more to it.
A woman in a chair, smiling over them as they rolled on the floor. A braid of dark hair draped down her shoulder, a baby cradled in her lap.
He tried to focus, but the dream was still too hazy and fading by the second. He’d said something to her. He could hear the rumble of his own words in his mind like distant thunder, too far to decipher.
He rubbed his temples and forced himself to move. He’d either remember or forget.
His body protested as he came to his feet, his muscles and bones aching as though he’d succumbed to a rousing bout of drinking the night before.
But that wasn’t the case.
He’d gone straight to bed, his mind churning with thoughts. Sleep had not come until the early morning hours.
He hated this sickness.
This weakness inside him.
Perhaps he ought to become a drunk. Drink himself to death. At least then, he’d have something to blame for feeling like a mud puddle under a carriage wheel.
His valet entered, and Sebastian forced himself to his feet, his legs like saplings and wanting to bow under his weight.
He lay back in the chair by the fire, resting his eyes as his valet, Wendel, draped a hot damp towel over his face to soften his whiskers. Sebastian breathed in the hot moist air, fragrant with the lavender oil Wendel had added.
His mind settled, the fragrance filling his nostrils and quieting his frayed nerves. He liked to imagine them like ropes on a ship, made brittle by the sun and sea, splintering in places and slick in others where rough hands had gripped them tightly over and over. Time wore on him in a way it didn’t for others. It was like being around people sapped his strength, poisoned his system. He could end an evening feeling fine, like he’d at last beaten this invisible disease, but then as soon as he lay down, the torment would start within him.
He frequently thought the only cure would be to eschew society altogether, but it just wasn’t possible. He was expected to attend social events—no, not expected, it was his duty, his father liked to remind him.
Duty.
“You didn’t sleep well, did you, sir?”
“No, Wendel.” He couldn’t hide his ailment from Wendel, the poor man. But he never asked questions. He likely thought Sebastian a drunkard too.
“I had a lovely dream, though. I dreamt of my future children.”
“How fortuitous for you and Miss Bright.”
Sebastian envisioned the woman. She seemed to be surrounded by a fuzzy glow, but yes, it would be Miss Bright. That made sense and yet…
In his gut, he knew it wasn’t Carina. The woman in his dream radiated life, warmth.
It abruptly came to him. He heard his own words clear as a bell. In the dream, he’d said, “Put him down, Bella. He wants to play with his sisters.”
Sebastian opened his eyes. Suddenly it was all very clear.
He wanted her. Two days ago, she’d offered herself in place of her sister, and he’d been too stupid, too afraid to take the offer.
Why the devil hadn’t he’d listened to his own heart, his damn instincts had been screaming at him this whole time.
The stark difference between them should have been a clue. Isabella was a ray of sunshine, all fire and spark. She stirred him up inside but in a different way. He admired her bravery, her conviction. She was willing to do anything for her sister, and well, it made him want to be better, to be a man worthy of her regard.
A man who wouldn’t fail her.
But he’d already had. Could he make it up to her? Could he somehow prove he was willing to champion her sister too?
But it wouldn’t change the outcome. He was still bound to the marriage.
If he outright refused, he would shame all of them, leaving their reputations in tatters. And would another man be willing to see to Carina’s welfare?
If he married her, it would have to be a marriage in name only. He couldn’t imagine taking her to bed, which meant no heirs. He’d disappoint his father no matter what he did, but somehow, that no longer stung quite like it used to.
Miss Bright had seemed subdued and wan last night at dinner, and Isabella was absent. Lady Holden claimed she’d caught a minor cold. Miss Bright had said little, pushing her food around her plate as the seven-course dinner his mother orchestrated had been prolonged to an uncomfortable degree.
Lady Holden had taken Miss Bright home immediately after and sent the carriage back for Lord Holden. There was something about Miss Bright that seemed so…resigned.
He expected a bride in her situation to be nervous, perhaps a bit jittery, not necessarily blushing because she was happy, but just something. Something more than the fragile drudgery she’d exuded last night. It made Sebastian feel like she was unwilling, and that had been the beginning of his spiraling anxiety into the night. To think he was marrying an unwilling woman, that he'd be taking to bed an unwilling woman…
Sebastian couldn't block out the words echoing in his mind.
The seed had taken root since the moment he'd returned at his father's bidding, and speaking with Isabella, discovering the truth, had only helped it grow.
He didn't want to marry her. He didn't want to marry a woman he hardly knew, least of all a woman who was so disenchanted by the thought of marrying him, she could hardly eat. It was the way of the social elite, but damn it, it was bloody awful to be in this position. If he had the chance to get out of it, he would.
Isabella had come to him, offering to take her sister's place, and with a pang of regret, he realized he should've accepted it. He s
hould've ignored his father’s threats and at the very least marry woman who had made the choice to marry him—albeit under duress. Her motives to marry him to save her sister, while not exactly romantic, were at least admirable. And if he helped her then… Then what? She’d be grateful? She’d look at him with hope and a gleam of admiration in her eye as she’d done before?
Before he’d crushed her hopes, as if his father had been standing right there manipulating him like a puppet.
He was a coward.
And that gleam of admiration had evaporated like the snow falling onto the torch that had lit the terrace. For some ungodly reason she’d put her faith in him, and he'd failed her.
Wendell had brought a tray with him into the room, and after he finished wiping the last of the soap from Sebastian's jaw, he pulled the table near to Sebastian and uncovered a breakfast tray.
Sebastian nearly gagged.
He couldn't eat. Not yet, not ever, certainly not today. His emotions were eating him up inside.
Wendell helped him dress without comment about the untouched food, and by the time he was finished tying his own cravat, Wendell had removed the tray and set it outside. Sebastian looked at himself in the mirror, and his reflection stared back at him with sallow cheeks and purple half-moons under his eyes. Frown lines etched the corners of his mouth.
He’d aged overnight. He was anything but an elated groom, which only added to the misery of what should be a joyful Christmas day and wedding.
But it wasn't.
Nothing felt right about this moment. He wasn't sure what a groom was supposed to feel on his wedding day, but it certainly shouldn't be this. One glance at the clock told him time was inching ever closer to a wedding that felt more like an execution, only he wasn't the one being executed.
He was holding the ax.
Chapter 9
Bella pulled the covers higher as the maid entered, humming to herself, the rattle of dishes filling the room as she set the tray down on the table beside the bed and reached out to touch Bella’s shoulder, giving it a gentle shake.
“Happy Christmas, Miss Bright! You must wake. It's time to dress for your wedding.”
Bella’s plan had begun easily enough. She picked the lock in her room, no great feat, and she had Carina move to her bed.
Bella stayed up half the night painting her face with Carina's paints to make her skin pale and shadowed under her eyes. Watching Carina work had taught her how to use darker colors to make some of her features appear more prominent, like her cheekbones and her jaw.
Her goal was to make herself look thinner in the face like Carina. She practiced speaking like Carina and moving in Carina's graceful, slow way, and when she couldn't hold her eyelids open anymore, she'd gone to sleep, only to wake early again to reapply the paints to her face.
But now was the true test.
Carina's maid was here to help her dress and get ready for the wedding.
She bustled about the room as Bella sat up and feigned a stretch. Her heart pounded as she let the coverlet fall from her face and the maid turned to her with a squeak.
“Miss Carina…” Her hands shook as she covered her mouth. “You look ghastly.”
Bella slumped. That wasn't good. She meant to look sickly not dead.
“I feel better than I must look,” Bella said.
Belinda cocked her head to the side. “Are you ill? Your voice is deeper than usual.” Bollocks.
She coughed and cleared her throat. “You mustn't tell Mother, but I think I've caught a cold.”
Belinda gasped again. “We must hurry and get you dressed and your veil on before your mother sees you. It will be my head if you don't look your absolute best.” Belinda winced as she turned away.
Wonderful. Not only had Bella fooled Carina’s maid, she’d convinced the women she was nearing death's door. Bella slid from the bed and did a careful, slow walk to the dressing table. Belinda brushed out her braid, and Bella stared at her own reflection. She didn't think she looked so terrible but perhaps she'd used a bit too much of the white paint and a bit too much black under her eyes. A tub was brought into the room and Bella had to hide her surprise. Of course they would expect Carina to take a bath the morning of her wedding.
In preparation for her wedding night.
Bella cursed herself for not thinking of it sooner. She should've told Carina to bathe the evening before so that it was already done. She thought up a quick excuse.
“I wish to be alone for my bath,” she blurted.
Belinda froze. “I beg your pardon, ma’am?”
“I want to bathe myself, please. I need time alone to reflect.”
Belinda nodded and hurried the other maid out.
Left alone with the steaming tub of water, Bella undressed and sank into the heavenly liquid with a sigh of bliss.
She hadn't had a good long soak in weeks. Bella wanted to stay here until the water cooled, but she needed to be out and her makeup reapplied before Belinda returned. Grudgingly, Bella hastily scrubbed, including her hair and face, and toweled herself off. Wrapped in Carina’s robe, she sat before the dressing table, reapplying her makeup but this time not quite so heavy.
She used a bit of the brown underneath the white to shade certain places on her face to give her cheeks and chin a narrower appearance like Carina. This time she used a bit of purple and blue under her eyes for a more natural shadow. Bella surveyed her work in the mirror, the hair on her arms standing on end as she fooled her own eyes, convincing herself that it was Carina who stared back at her.
This would work. But only if no one bothered to look too closely at her face.
She rang for Belinda to return and watched Belinda carefully in the mirror as she dressed her hair. Not a blink of suspicion crossed Belinda's features as she helped Bella into the gown and pinned the veil to her elaborate coiffure. Bella gawked at her reflection, her stomach erupting with butterflies. The enormity of her plan crashed down on her as she took in the icy blue silk gown, beaded with pearls and crystals to give a frosted look, as if winter itself had touched her and left hand prints of delicate snowflakes.
She was getting married.
To her sister’s groom.
Would he notice the wrong woman stood before him?
She swallowed, a ball of trepidation choking her throat. She forced her lungs to expand, drawing in a deep breath.
Her bedroom door opened, and Bella yanked the veil down over her face. She began to pace. If she didn't stop moving, her mother couldn’t get a good look at her. Lady Holden grabbed her shoulders and turned her back to the mirror.
“Let me inspect the dress, dear.”
Dear, how dare you use endearments with me—or rather with Carina.
She stood, not having to fake her short sharp breathing. Panic breathed down her neck like an icy draft.
Her mother fussed, picking away invisible bits of lint and smoothing pretended wrinkles. All the while, she never once looked at Bella’s face, asked her daughter how she felt, what she needed on this momentous morning.
“Happy Christmas, Mother,” Bella murmured through clenched teeth.
“Happy Christmas,” her mother returned without even peering up to meet her gaze. Bella’s resolve intensified. Her mother’s lack of concern couldn’t be made any clearer.
“I daresay you've gained some weight. The cooking here at the Burrow must be agreeing with you.”
Bella didn’t answer; her mother’s comments rarely required a reply. Her mother turned toward the mantle clock and squeaked. “Goodness! We’re running behind. I tried to look in on your sister but she was still in bed, though we needn't worry about that recalcitrant girl. Today is your day, Carina. Your day to shine and welcome the rest of your life.”
Bella scowled at her mother's back. How dare the woman be so cheerful on the day she destined her daughter to die in childbirth. She could have prevented this. She could have done something to save Carina. Bella stood straighter, righteous fury giving her
strength.
“I'm ready.”
Her mother swept from the room, an ostrich feather bobbing over her head, and Bella followed, more slowly, of course. She still had to pretend to be Carina even though her mother hadn’t paid the slightest bit of attention. At the bottom of the stairs, the staff had gathered around to watch her climb into the carriage. Her father presented his arm, and Bella barely touched his sleeve as the door was swept open and her father escorted her to the carriage.
Bella squinted her eyes to see through the lacy veil. Was that snow falling? Little flurries of white fluff gently fell, too delicate to remain on the ground. The world was so still and quiet except for them. Bella hardly remembered the short journey to the Drummond Hall rectory. She felt like she was in a dream, the world eerie and off kilter.
The church bells had stopped ringing, and they were before the doors of the rectory. Her mother went inside ahead of them, blowing Bella a kiss and disappearing behind the large wooden doors carved with a scene of followers kneeling before a cross. Bella began to shiver, her thin silk cloak no defense against the chill in the air. The echoing voice of an organ filled the silence. The footman put his hand to the door handle, heavy rod iron, delicately twisted, and awaited her father's order.
“Are you ready, my dear?” her father asked.
No, she wasn't. Not in the least.
Bella tried to take a deep breath, but her lungs were tight, and her head felt like it was light enough to float away. She hung on her father's arm, and he gave her a little shake. “All we have to do is make it to the altar. Father Bart will do the rest. You may even have a chair if you need it.”
Bella couldn’t respond. He gave the order and the door opened. A wave of organ music blasted her like a stiff wind. Everything was blurry beyond her veil, and she relied on her father to guide her down the aisle toward the shape of Sir Sebastian. Father Bart was easy to spot, dressed in large white robes.
Her father took her hand from his sleeve and placed it in Sir Sebastian’s.
At once the calamity inside her, the anger, hate, the cold resentment quieted. His hand radiated warmth to hers, and she could breathe again.
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